Hexes and Hemlines (34 page)

“It’s
not
funny.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I know what it is not to fit in.” Once when I took Oscar to the cemetery, he had hopped up on a crypt and tried to scare the passersby. I guessed it made a certain kind of sense that he had gargoyle-ness in his genes.

“Now I look for my mother’s face whenever I see gargoyles. I don’t know where she ended up, but gargoyles live just about forever, so I think that she might be out there somewhere. I keep looking for her.”

“I never really knew my dad, either.”

“Do you look for him, too?”

“Not really. It’s not exactly the same kind of relationship. I did meet him once, but . . . he’s not someone I want in my life. I reckon if I did see him, I’d end up running the other way.”

We rode in companionable silence for a moment. Then I sneezed.

“Gesundheit.”

“Thanks. And, Oscar, thank you for being there for me on the roof.”

“I disobeyed you.”

“That’s true. But you and I don’t exactly have a traditional witch-familiar relationship. I think we should just accept that about ourselves.”

Oscar gave me his version of a smile, which looked a lot like a grimace.

“Awesome,”
he said.

“Dudettes, there’s, like . . . a bird in a cage out here on the stoop,” said Conrad.

Two days had passed since that nightmarish evening up on Malachi Zazi’s rooftop. Carlos had informed me that Doura had gotten to the hospital in time, was given an antivenin serum, and then left against medical advice. Atticus, still shaky from his experience, had given inspectors a full confession. Nichol was nowhere to be found.

Mike Perkins had also fled town, with the results of a few crucial experiments disappearing along with him. Carlos had confided in me that even if they could track him down, they might not have any actual charges that would stick. They had no proof that he’d done anything wrong.

“Well, what do you know?” I said as we all came out to look at the ornate cage sitting outside of the front door of Aunt Cora’s Closet. “Tracy came through after all.”

I opened the little wire door. The sparrow chirped, flitted up to my shoulder, then flew away.

“Aw.w.w-ah,” Imogen said, disappointed. “Why’d you let it go?”

“When a sparrow’s not where it’s supposed to be, it’s a bad sign. An omen. But when it’s out in the wild, it’s a sign of hope.”

“Duuude, that’s like a . . . whaddayacallit? A metaphor. Yeah.” Conrad returned to take his seat on the curb.

The rest of us—Sailor, Maya, Bronwyn, Imogen and her brother James, and Claudia—trooped back into the store. I carried the cage with me, figuring we could decorate it and use it for a store display.

Sailor took up his position as reluctant bodyguard, arms crossed over his chest as he shared the velvet bench with James. Apparently Aidan had told Sailor to keep an eye on me for a few more days, to make sure Doura was willing to play ball and there weren’t any other renegade folks out there trying to dissolve the pact among paranormals. As he explained it to me, I was a supernatural magnet for trouble.

“So I just stopped by to tell you that it looks like the ball is definitely on, after all,” Claudia said. “They found a new keynote speaker, and everything seems to be coming together well, finally. Lily, I really hope you’re coming.”

“I intend to. I have a dress picked out, and an escort, and everything.”

“That reminds me,” said Maya. “Mom brought your dress over, it’s all set. You should try it on for us. Give us a little fashion show.”

I glanced over at Sailor and felt suddenly shy. “Maybe a little later. Also, I need to find a man’s outfit that’s suitable for the dance. Suppose we could find something that coordinates with my dress, by any miracle?”

“Usually it’s just a tuxedo for the men. He could rent one, presuming he doesn’t own one,” said Claudia.

“So Max is taking you after all?” Maya asked with a grin. “I figured, after that kiss . . .”

Sailor made a rude noise.

“Oh, I . . . uh . . .” My cheeks burned. Every pair of eyes was on me. “Not exactly. Actually, Aidan Rhodes is taking me.”

Sailor made an even ruder noise and held his head in his hands.

“Aidan? He’s back in the picture?” said Bronwyn with a smile as she straightened the jars on her shelves, turning all the neat little labels out so they were easy to read. “Your love life’s hard to keep up with—you know that?”

“Thank you for coming back to work, Bronwyn,” I said. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure you’d ever be back after I went against your wishes like that.”

“Oh please, Lily, I would never stop being your friend simply because I was upset with you. Don’t you know that?” She gave me a warm smile, then lifted her eyebrows and teased: “I never thought I’d be accusing
you
of being a drama queen.”

I just shrugged and blushed, unable to speak.

“Among other things, that GED is waiting for you. You might be running around the city, getting involved in murder investigations and what all, but that’s no reason to avoid working on your algebra.”

“This part’s easy, Lily,” said Imogen. “I can show you how if you want.”

An eight-year-old was outdoing me in math. I groaned and looked at my feet. Today’s Keds were white, but they had been adorned with painted flowers and glitter by Imogen and her brother James, as a special gift to me—a thank-you for their new black cat, Beowulf. Rebecca, reunited with her husband and thankful that their nightmare seemed to be coming to a close, had relented on her no-pets policy. She also seemed more willing to let the kids come by the shop to spend time with their grandmother.

James brought a book to read in the corner, but Imogen was already something of a vintage-clothes horse and enjoyed folding scarves and trying on every outfit even remotely in her small size. Better vintage than new, I always said.

“Hey, Maya, what’s this?” I asked as I noticed a cardboard box full of baby clothes sitting at one end of the sales counter.

“Oh, this woman came in with a baby on her hip, and she seemed so desperate . . . I just couldn’t say no,” said Maya. “I know we don’t carry children’s items, so it wasn’t a wise business decision . . . but she really seemed to need help.”

“That’s all right,” I said as I started pawing through the box. I didn’t get far before realizing that there was something dreadfully wrong. I held up an adorable little red-and-white-striped outfit, complete with footies, and concentrated on it. The vibrations were off.

I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. Cases involving children were always the most difficult to deal with. But deal with it, I would. And not by myself.

Back when I roamed the world, looking for a place I might fit in, part of me never really believed I would find it. Or even if I did, by some miracle, I never thought I would have a true home. But now, looking around Aunt Cora’s Closet at Bronwyn and the kids, calm, loyal Maya, my “pet” Oscar, and even sullen Sailor, I knew I had stumbled upon more than just a safe harbor peopled by good friends. I was becoming part of a family.

And as I looked down at the suspicious clothing in my hands, there was one thing of which I was absolutely sure: Life in San Francisco would never grow dull.

Read on for a preview of the first book in the Haunted Home Renovation series by Juliet Blackwell,

IF WALLS COULD TALK

Available now from Obsidian.

 

This was one pitiful-looking mansion.

As I pushed open the heavy front door, an empty beer can rolled across the dusty oak floor, its metallic rattle echoing off bashed-in walls and broken bookcases. More cans, wine bottles, and an impressive assortment of power tools lay strewn about the floor. Half-filled cups spoiled the once-shiny black lacquer of the grand piano and littered the graceful sweep of the circular stairs leading off the octagonal foyer. A damp, salty bay breeze blew in through a broken casement window. I tried clicking on the overhead chandelier to shed some light on the dim interior, but either the fuse had blown or the electricity had been cut.

My former client lay sprawled on a worn black leather couch, a gash between his eyebrows still oozing blood.

I had warned him.

Long freckled fingers gripped a half-empty bottle of a local favorite: passion fruit–infused Hangar One vodka, brewed in an abandoned navy airplane hangar just on the other side of the San Francisco Bay. At least the fool had taste, if not sense.

I pried the bottle from his hand.

With a snort, Matt Addax opened red-rimmed bright blue eyes.

“Wha . . . Mel? What’re you doin’ here?” he asked in a British-accented slur.

“Your son called me,” I said. “He was afraid that last night’s ‘Do-It-Yourself’ remodeling party might have gotten out of hand.”

“The lad’s wise beyond his years.”

“Mmm.” I kicked at a stray piece of old molding, lying rusty nail side up, with the steel toe of my work boot. “What happened to your face?”

He sat up and raised a hand to probe the cut between his eyes. “Ah,
bloody hell
, I’ve got a photo shoot tomorrow. A piece of wood snapped off—the stuff that they used to put old plaster onto. What’s that called?”

“Lath?”

“Yeah. I was prying off some lath and it snapped and beaned me. I loathe lath.” He smiled. “Try saying that five times fast.”

“You promised me you’d wear safety glasses.”

He shrugged, looked me up and down, and lifted his eyebrows. “You always look like you’re on the way to a fancy-dress party. Don’t the boys tease you?”

“Not if they want their paychecks signed, they don’t.”

Provided I wore the proper footwear—my everpresent work boots—and knew my single-bevel miter saws from my random orbital sanders, the construction workers in my employ didn’t much care how I dressed. Today I was wearing a multicolored spangled shift dress under a leather bomber jacket I had borrowed from my dad’s closet as a concession to modesty and the weather. The carnival nature of the dress was a little over-the-top for a woman just a couple years shy of forty, and strangers on the street frequently mistook me for a Madonna groupie, but after years of wearing the “proper” facultywife wardrobe, I had sworn never to hold myself back. Besides, even in progressive California, people were so surprised to see a woman running a construction company, I figured the clothes gave us all something tangible to fixate on.

I sank onto the sofa next to Matt, held my hand out for the vodka, and took a little swig. It was barely noon, but the havoc that forty or so drunken amateurs had managed to wreak on this formerly gorgeous, if down-at-the-heels, Pacific Heights mansion was motivation enough for a quick drink an hour or three before happy hour.

Matt leaned his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his broad musician’s hands, his thinning sandy hair sprouting between his fingers. Looking over at him—and at the once-elegant mansion falling apart around us—I could feel my resolve melting away.

I had sworn I wouldn’t get involved with Matt’s scheme to flip upscale houses, trading on his celebrity and social connections to market to an exclusive clientele. But I liked Matt, and it wouldn’t take that much for me to help him out. After all, remodeling historic homes is my business.

A lot of rich and famous people wind up growing abnormally close to their contractors. We camp out in their homes for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. We have no particular stake in their wealth or celebrity—though our rates might spike when we enter the poshest neighborhoods. But aside from obvious budget considerations, ripping the toilet out of a crumbling Victorian in humble West Oakland is essentially the same as ripping one out of the fanciest Pacific Heights Beaux-Arts mansion.

The very banality of this interaction can transform a good general contractor into a client’s trusted confidante. There’s nothing quite like a protracted remodel project to devastate a marriage or threaten family harmony, and since taking over my dad’s construction business two years ago, I’ve mediated more than my fair share of domestic disputes. I respond to panicky calls about leaky faucets in the middle of the night and find myself hearing much more than I want to know about unfaithful spouses, shady corporate deals, and murky political alliances. I’m like a confessor to some of these people.

Matt Addax—whose long-haired, blue-jean-jacketed, guitar-playing image had adorned my bedroom wall in my teenage years—was one of those people.

“Anybody else get hurt?” I asked.

“I don’t remember much past the . . .” He held his hand up toward the jagged shards of glass remaining in the smashed window frame and trailed off with a defeated shake of his head. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Ya know that remodel show on cable, where they do their own demo?” Matt asked, his voice recovering its familiar upbeat tone. “Like Kenneth said, it always seems like a blast. He arranged to have a photog here from the
Chronicle
to document the whole thing. He thought it’d make a brilliant human interest story.”

“Why am I not surprised that Kenneth was involved?”

“He means well.”

I found that hard to believe. But as my mother used to say, if you can’t say something nice, change the subject.

“I’m pretty sure that on TV they don’t encourage participants to drink while using power tools,” I pointed out, passing the bottle back to Max. “They also have professionals running things.”

“You’re right. I’m an idiot. I should have hired you to supervise.”

“You called and asked me to, remember? I refused, because I’m smart.”

“Right. Now I remember.”

“Besides, Kenneth doesn’t like me.”

“He just doesn’t like your rates.”

“Believe me, he doesn’t like
me
.”

And the feeling was mutual. Kenneth had acted as project manager on Matt’s kitchen renovation in Sausalito, but he kept insisting on cutting corners and fudging on little things like code requirements. I had finally walked off the job after an incident involving threatening words concerning the creative use of a jackhammer.