Secondhand Spirits (10 page)

“I guess that's it for now. If you remember anything else, call me.” Reaching into the breast pocket of his black leather jacket, he pulled out a business card and handed it to me.
Inspector Carlos Manuel Romero, SFPD Homicide
.

“Oh, and Ms. Ivory?” he said over the roof of the car as he opened the driver's-side door. “Don't plan any trips in the near future. I imagine we'll need to contact you again.”

He took the seat behind the wheel, slammed the door, and took off down Haight Street, turning toward Golden Gate Park.

I stood outside on the sidewalk for a long while after they left, gazing down at the inspector's card and concentrating on breathing. My hand again reached for my absent medicine bundle, which was no doubt already sitting, discarded, on the floor of Mythbuster Max's car.

Why had I given such a precious item to someone who so clearly refused to believe? How could I have been so impulsive?

Was the lapse of judgment signaling some sort of shift in my powers . . . and could this have anything to do with my failure to protect Frances?

Frances's death was horrifying enough, but right on its tail came self-doubt. My magical talents had never before fallen short. On the contrary: Throughout my life my challenge had been to control my gifts, not to let them overwhelm me or those around me. Had I misjudged the situation with Frances? For that matter, why hadn't I sensed any foreshadowing of danger when I saw little Jessica yesterday? Could I be suffering under a black spell, conjured by someone more powerful than me? My mind cast back to the invisible force I felt and heard in Frances's house last night. What could it have been? Who—

Something rubbed at my ankles. I glanced down to see Oscar looking up at me with pink piggy eyes, the expression on his face eager and adorable. As reluctant as I was to admit it, it felt good to have someone—or some
thing
—on my side. I gestured to Oscar with my head and he obediently trotted back into the store. Locking the door behind us, I kept the Closed sign up in the window, then opened the glass case, where I had a number of consecrated protective talismans and amulets on display.

Every full moon, I fashioned the medallions from polished disks of wood in various sizes cut from the branch of a fruit tree, in this case apple. I carved ancient protective symbols upon them, hung them on leather straps, then charged and named each one in a symbol of rebirth by air and water, earth and fire. They hummed with protective energy. I grabbed one, hung it around my neck, and was about to close the case when, on second thought, I grabbed another.

Leading the way into the rear storage room, I sank into a vinyl chair at a jade green linoleum-and-chrome dinette set, circa 1962. I had grown up with a table just like this one in my mother's kitchen, but she never thought of it as cute or vintage. To her it was plain old ugly junk, a constant reminder that we couldn't afford better.

Which reminded me . . . I jotted down a note to myself on the back of an invoice book:
Send Mom money
.

Oscar shifted into his natural form and perched on the chair next to mine.

“This is for you,” I said as I slipped the extra talisman over his head.

His eyes got huge as he looked down at the pendant hanging on his crusty chest. “For me?” he breathed.

“It's consecrated. It will help to keep you safe. I think you should wear it until I can figure out what's going on.”

Tears welled up in his bottle green eyes. “Mistress is very, very good.”

“You act as though no one's ever given you a present before.”

He just shook his large head and repeated, “Mistress is very good.”

I wondered about Oscar's background. I had known a few gnomes and goblins in my time, but I had never delved into their private lives. Where did he come from? Did he have a home? A mother? How did that work exactly? I should have some personal talks with the ugly little fellow. He was growing on me.

But for now, I had some vital issues to attend to.

“Something's going on, Oscar.” I sighed and sat back in my chair. “Something not good. First a child goes missing, practically right in front of me, and then the spell I brewed—you saw me do it—fails. Frances . . . Mrs. Potts . . . she died anyway. How is that possible?”

“I'm supposed ta make things better, not worse.” He shook his head. “Maybe it's my fault.”

“It's not you. Do you think someone could be casting against me?”

“You know what you should do? Talk to Master Rhodes. He knows everything.”

“Aidan the male witch? Are you saying he's involved in this somehow?”

“
No
, no. But he knows everything. He's in charge—” Oscar cut himself off and looked up at me guiltily.

“In charge?”

“He just knows everything.”

I pondered that for a moment, then nodded.

“Good idea.” I had hoped to stay clear of local witchy politics, but perhaps it wasn't possible. If there was another sorcerer casting against me, Aidan Rhodes might be the one to know about it.

I got up and retrieved Aidan's card from the top drawer of a cherry dresser that served as a catchall for my business papers. There was a Jefferson Street address embossed on the fine linen card, but no phone number.

“Do you know his number, by any chance?” I asked.

“He likes to talk face-to-face. Ooh, or you could check out his awesome new Web site!”

“In person is better, thanks.” I had Internet access and a notebook computer, but cyberspace made me nervous. All those bits of code jumping around, unattended . . . In some ways I'm a pretty old-fashioned witch.

I considered calling Graciela for advice, but lost my nerve. I hadn't spoken to her, my mother, or anyone else from my hometown for several years. When it became clear I had to leave town before my training was finished, my grandmother sent me to study with a talented
curandera
friend of hers in Chiapas, but I went instead on an ill-fated quest to find my father . . . despite all her admonitions to the contrary. Not only was Graciela afraid of what I might encounter should I find my father, but she also knew that with a power like mine, not to be in complete control was dangerous. Of which I had plenty of proof. I rarely lost my temper, but I wasn't safe to be around when I did.

Over the years I had mailed Graciela presents and letters and money from various parts of the world, but she never responded. Now I was flat-out too chicken just to call her out of the blue.

“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” Bronwyn's voice rang out from the front door. “Lily? Is everything okay? Why are we closed?”

Smoothing my hair and taking a deep breath, I emerged from the back room. Little piggy Oscar trotted along at my heels as I hurried over to help Bronwyn with her many packages.

“Sorry about that,” I said as I hoisted two “save a tree” cloth shopping bags onto the counter. “We had some unexpected visitors and I needed a moment to regroup.”

Bronwyn put down her other bags and turned toward me.

“What's wrong?” she demanded.

“Nothing, really. I—”

“Don't tell me that. You look as though you've seen a ghost.”

I laughed.

“It's not that. I—” I appalled myself by ending my protestation with a little hiccup.

Bronwyn turned and enveloped me in her plump arms. She was solid and good, full of warm vibrations and simple, straightforward compassion. I let myself sink into her tenderness for a moment.

“Lily, are you sure everything is okay?” she asked, stroking my hair. “Does this have to do with your being a witch?”

Chapter 7

I pulled away so quickly that I knocked over the hat stand.

“
Witch?
” I asked as we both crouched to gather up sundry caps and bonnets.

Bronwyn was aware that I had a working knowledge of herbs and the craft, but I had kept the truth from her, in part because I didn't want to be looked at as different, and in part because I was afraid she would be
too
welcoming.

Bronwyn belonged to an entirely unthreatening coven of women who practiced the genial religion of Wicca. In their version, at least, this essentially meant that they pledged to harm no one, to judge no one, and to learn about herbs and the ancient rituals surrounding the equinox and solstice. I let them have their meeting at the store during the last full moon, and from the little I witnessed from the back room, they burned a lot of candles and incense, cast a circle of women, chanted a few invocations, paid homage to the goddesses, and then visited over Bundt cake and herbal tea. Sort of like a Halloween-themed Tupperware party.

“You know I'm Wiccan, Lily. Why do you feel like you have to hide what you are?”

“I don't . . . I mean I—”

“I've seen you purifying widdershins every morning, then smudging deosil. That's Basic Site Cleansing 101. You think I didn't notice?”

I looked up into her soft brown eyes. From the moment of meeting Bronwyn I had been dismissive of her because of her lack of magical talent, but perhaps she represented something better, and even rarer: an endless supply of love and understanding. And I accused
non
witchy humans of being prejudiced.

“Thanks,” I said with a loud sniff. “It's just that I've always felt—”

“Different? We all have.”

But my version of
different
, I was sure, was slightly more dramatic than hers. For instance, she probably hadn't been run out of her hometown on a rail.

“Lily, sweetie, why don't you join our coven? We're open to all of goodwill.”

However much power Bronwyn's coven might or might not have, I hesitated. I had no idea what my magic would be like added to that of thirteen or so believers, whether or not they had true supernatural abilities. The sad truth was that, as Graciela had warned me so long ago, I was not in complete control of my powers. The last thing I wanted to do was endanger a group of welcoming, well-meaning women.

“Thank you, Bronwyn. I'll think about it. But right now what I need is to get ready for the wedding party, which is supposed to be here in”—I checked my watch—“oh, jeez, less than twenty minutes.”

“Relax, Lily. I brought plenty of champagne and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I guarantee you, get these girls downing mimosas in that communal dressing room, and all the little details will take care of themselves.”

 

The bridal party arrived in two shiny black stretch limousines, which was enough to cause a minor outrage on relatively narrow Haight Street. A handful of street kids poked loud fun, a few homeless men approached to ask for spare change, and the trendy folk just wanted to see who the celebrities were. When they realized that there were no famous faces in the giggling assemblage, they walked on by with poorly concealed disdain.

Still, there was so much gawking and street clogging that Conrad felt duty-bound to step in and direct traffic. I gave him an old pair of orange mittens, and he carried out his duties with great flair. A couple of punk rockers stood behind and mimicked him, and a bearded, white-haired, self-anointed New Age priest blessed the limo and its inhabitants with the power of a pyramid made of Tinkertoys. All in all, the whole scene suited the carni valesque quality of the Haight.

Twenty-three years old and only recently graduated from college, the bride, Natalie, bounced out of the limo looking more like a contender for the Oakland Raiders cheerleaders than a woman about to be married. Her sweatpants hung low on her narrow hips, giving us all peeks at her perfectly smooth, taut stomach. A cropped sweatshirt proclaimed her loyalty to her alma mater, USC, and her shiny, well-brushed auburn hair fell long and loose about her shoulders.

Her friends dressed in kind. All wore sweatpants or gym shorts, and all gleamed with health, wealth, and leisure. Several were clearly also USC girls; one wore shorts emblazoned with the name UC Santa Barbara, while the others wore T-shirts that recalled spring breaks on sun-drenched Caribbean islands.

The twelve young women burst into the shop and started flipping through dresses and blouses with the high-spirited abandon of experienced shoppers. They squealed and cooed when they discovered Oscar, who led a couple of them on a merry chase through the racks of dresses and skirts until I caught his eye and gave him a Look, after which he stopped and allowed himself to be petted and adored.

Once their fascination for him waned, Oscar kept bumping around their ankles, trying his best to look adorable. I imagined he was hoping to be picked up, but since his pig form probably weighed nearly half what the gals did, his chances looked about as slim as their hips. Still, he enjoyed himself by sneaking under the dressing room curtain whenever I wasn't watching.

I took Bronwyn's advice and began pouring mimosas right away, handing each woman in the group a crystal champagne flute as they started to peruse the special rack of bridesmaids' dresses I had put out near the communal dressing room, which was essentially an alcove cut off from the rest of the store by heavy burgundy velvet drapes. Since I carry solely women's clothes, I have only two small private dressing nooks. Most people use the big communal space; even with strangers, once women get over their initial shyness, it becomes like a sorority party in there. Or so I imagined a sorority party to be.

This assembly didn't need much encouragement to make the try-on sessions a celebration. Bronwyn and I pushed the entire rack of gowns into the dressing room and they went to town, oohing and ahhing, laughing and giggling as they held dresses in front of themselves and their friends. The dresses ranged in age and style from the twenties to the sixties; I even had two gowns from the late 1800s, but these I kept on a special display behind the counter. The antique fabric was far too delicate to be tried on repeatedly.