A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (12 page)

This grand proclamation seemed to silence even Carlos.

“So . . .” I said in an effort to break the tension, “have you ever considered selling the contents of
your
closet?”

* * *

As we left Parmelee Riesling’s workroom and descended the stairs toward the museum’s main hall, I could feel the heat of Carlos’s eyes on me.

“Interesting woman,” I said. “Very . . . intense.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t make fun. She oversaw the biggest
textile bath in the world.” His voice rose and he used a falsetto with a decidedly clipped British accent: “And she has
personally
seen to Queen Victoria’s frilly underthings.”

I laughed.

“Funny, though,” Carlos added, “about whatever golden velvet thingee disappeared from the trunk.”

“Yeah. Hard to say what was in there, when. It’s an awfully old trunk.”

“Mmm.”

In the lobby, a big group of children on a field trip laughed and ran after one another while their teacher tried to settle them down. I noticed what looked like a fascinating museum gift shop and longed to go in; I’m not much of a shopper, with the exception of garage sales, thrift stores, flea markets . . . and museum gift shops.

But I had the distinct impression Inspector Suspicious here wasn’t up for a side trip. Besides, something else occurred to me.

“So, Carlos, did you really expect Riesling to find something among those crumbling items so valuable it would provide the motive for Sebastian Crowley’s murder?”

“Not especially,” he said as we exited the building. The surprisingly austere plaza in front of City Hall was filled with homeless people, tourists, and men and women in business suits. Government workers spilled out of the nearby federal, state, and city buildings, as well as Hastings Law School, and lined up at food trucks and coffee carts for lunch. “But I thought it might be interesting for your investigation into his death.”

“
My
investigation?” I blushed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know something odd is going on,” said Carlos. “The way he was murdered, brought there under the tree . . . It
makes no sense. We thought maybe he’d buried something at the base of the tree, but all they found was a rotted old box. Empty.”

“Rotted old box? What did it look like?”

“Nowhere near the size of the trunk. About the size of a shoe box.”

“What was in it?”

“Nothing. It had fallen apart, wasn’t even a box anymore, so if there had been something in it, it was long since lost.”

“Were there insignia on it, any markings?”

Carlos looked at me oddly and nodded slowly. He took his phone out of his pocket, brought up his photos, and showed me a picture.

I blew it up as far as I could to see the detail: strange little symbols. Carlos was right; it was disintegrating so there were only shards left. But unless I was very much mistaken, it was the box I had seen in my vision.

“You recognize it?” Carlos asked.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll have to look into it. I might . . . I might recognize it. I’m not sure. I have no idea what the symbols mean, though.”

“Want me to forward the photo to your phone?”

“Yes, but I don’t have a cell phone.”

“What do you mean you don’t have a cell phone?”

“Just that: I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Huh. This to do with the witchy thing?”

“I guess you could say that, yes. Cell phones mess with my vibrations.”

“Huh.”

“Not
everyone
has to have a cell phone, you know. It’s not a requirement for being human.”

“You sure about that?”

“Not really. You’re right; I’m feeling more and more
like a freak. Witchcraft is one thing, but not having a cell phone? That’s just plain bizarre.”

Carlos smiled, and I responded in kind.

“Could you send it to my e-mail? I’ll ask Maya to get it out of my machine for me.”

“Sure. So, do you know anyone who could help with this?” Carlos asked. “Riesling mentioned calling in a historian of some sort, a witchcraft expert. If you don’t know this history, do you know anyone who might?”

“Maybe. Actually, I met a man the other day. . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to mention I met Professor Williston Chambers at the house of the man who owned the trunk of clothes. Carlos probably wouldn’t have appreciated me talking to Bartholomew Woolsey on my own initiative; while he asked for my help from time to time, it really irked him when I “ran around talking to his suspects.”

“A man?” He roused me from my thoughts.

“Yes. A professor over at UC Berkeley. He researches the history of religious settlements, including, I would imagine, places like Salem.”

“Sounds fascinating. Probably worth your while to go talk to him.”

Our eyes met and held for a long moment. “So, you think this is a case of witchcraft?”

“Maybe. Maybe someone who
thinks
they’re performing witchcraft. You know as well as I do, people can come up with all sorts of excuses for crazy behavior.”

“So . . . you set up this meeting with Parmelee Riesling just for me?”

He shrugged again and squinted in the sun, looked off up Larkin Street.

“You see that corner?” he asked, pointing toward Larkin and McAllister, where there was now a flourishing community garden. “Years ago, a homeless guy was knifed right there, in broad daylight. His throat slit by
another homeless guy, who was under the illusion that his victim was the incarnation of the devil. Rookie beat cop wasn’t more than ten feet away, but wasn’t able to stop it in time. There was . . . blood everywhere.” Carlos paused for a moment and cleared his throat. “Hard to imagine a human body contains that much blood. Poor guy died before he got to the hospital.”

“And the rookie cop?” I asked gently.

“He was never the same.” He looked back at me. “Witchcraft or no, crazy or not . . . I just want the killing to stop. Go talk to this professor. Here, use my phone.”

“I . . . As a matter of fact, I already have an appointment with him this afternoon. Want to join me?”

Carlos blew out a long breath and shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m already skirting the boundaries of what’s decent; if I push this too far, I really will be the department’s official woo-woo guy. Just let me know what he says.”

“Will do.”

As Carlos drove me back to Aunt Cora’s Closet, he said: “About that oak tree in Golden Gate Park, the one the body was found under . . .”

“Yes?”

“I thought I would mention that the Parks Department has it slated for removal.”

“What?
When?
”

“As soon as the SFPD releases the crime scene, I would imagine.”

“Can you stop it? Carlos, it’s very important that the tree not be cut down. Not yet, anyway.”

He fixed me with his laser cop look. “Why?”

“It’s . . . This is one of those situations you’re always curious about but that, in the end, you might rather not know about.”

“Try me.”

“There’s . . . There might be something trapped in the tree.”

“I take it you’re not talking about a little kitten that can’t get down.”

“If only it were that simple.” Oscar might well be with the woodsfolk, as Aidan had suggested. But if not . . . “It’s something that might be trapped in the essence of the tree. It’s a little hard to explain . . . but I need some time to figure it out. If the tree’s cut down . . .” My voice faltered.
Oscar
. I cleared my throat. “If the tree’s cut
down, it could be too late. It might kill some . . . body. Something. Somebody.”

We had stopped for a light at an intersection, and Carlos stared at me with his dispassionate cop expression on his face.

“The tree will kill somebody?”

“No . . . Cutting it down might kill somebody. Maybe.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why are you looking at me that way?” I demanded, irked. “You just told me two seconds ago that you think there might be more to this case, that there might be something occult going on.”

“I realize that. I wasn’t looking at you thinking you were crazy. I was thinking . . . I was thinking that you must get tired of dealing with this crap. You’re not even getting paid for it.”

Our eyes held and locked for a long moment. Finally, I nodded.

“Yes, it can be a little . . . overwhelming.”

“Don’t forget to take some time for yourself or you’ll burn out. It’s important.”

Good advice, but just about now I didn’t have a lot of time. If Oscar was in the tree and Ms. Quercus was scheduled to be razed, I—
Oscar
, really—was under the gun.

“You can drop me here,” I said when we got to the Haight, in front of Coffee to the People. I wasn’t wild about the folks at Aunt Cora’s Closet seeing me climbing out of an SFPD car, even an unmarked one. It made Conrad nervous, and with everything else going on, it made sense to play it cool. Besides that, I was starving. I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat since last night. And I was suddenly desperate for coffee.

“Don’t want to be seen with a cop?”

“Just caffeine deprivation,” I assured him, wondering whether it ever hurt his feelings. He was so sure of
himself, but one never knew. “So, about the tree, please promise me you’ll get them to wait. It’s essential it not be taken down yet. Just for a little while, until I figure this out.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I can only come up with so many reasons for them not getting down to business. I’ll claim we’re still collecting evidence or some such. With outdoor crime scenes, things can go on for a while.”

“Thank you, Carlos.”

“Here to serve. Here to serve,” he said. “Now, hand over that ledger.”

I did so. He flipped through it, his dark eyes intent. Then he looked back at me. “What’s it mean?”

Time to fess up.

“I don’t understand the symbols myself. But there are some names there. . . . I talked to Bartholomew Woolsey. He’s the one who sold the trunk to Sebastian. And look.” I pointed to the notation for the sale of the trunk. “He wrote down Aunt
Flora’s
Closet instead of Aunt Cora’s. I think . . . I think that’s what happened. Someone must have read it.”

“You’re telling me you’ve spoken to the source of this trunk without letting me know you knew?” His voice rose the tiniest bit—which, in someone as calm and steady as Carlos, had an alarming effect. “You are coming very close to interfering with a homicide investigation, Lily. You should know better. I could haul you in for something like this.”

“I thought . . . I thought I might be able to figure out the ledger, to see if there were clues that the SFPD might not notice. And Woolsey didn’t really tell me much—just that it was a trunk from his family, that it came over with a wagon train during the Gold Rush.” But Carlos was right. I should have handed it over immediately. “I screwed up. I apologize.”

Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Um . . . I really hate to ask this,” I said. “Especially under the circumstances, but I intended to photocopy the book before giving it to you. But this morning . . . well, it’s been a crazy morning, and I didn’t get a chance. Do you suppose . . . ?”

I trailed off as I realized Carlos was looking at me with a mixture of disdain, amazement, and anger.

“I wouldn’t ask,” I said, now growing peeved myself at his response. “But I still might be able to figure things out. I could still try to read it. What could it hurt? You know as well as I do that I’m often able to—”

“All right. All right. I’ll scan it and e-mail it to you along with the photos of the box. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Ivory?”

“I guess that’s about it for now. Thanks, Carlos.”

He grunted but did not meet my eyes. I climbed out of the car and waved good-bye, feeling guilty and frustrated.

* * *

Coffee to the People was such a quirky mix of past and present that it reminded me of San Francisco itself. Posters of Nelson Mandela, Harriet Tubman, and Mahatma Gandhi blended with calls to action against wars and notices of music gigs. The two regular baristas, Wendy and Xander, were behind the counter today, as on most days. Wendy was a large woman who styled her dyed black hair in severe bangs, à la Bettie Page, and tended to wear slips and lingerie as outer garments. She had a heck of a time looking through our merchandise at Aunt Cora’s Closet, and she also happened to be a priestess in Bronwyn’s friendly Welcome coven. Her fellow barista, Xander, was tall and lanky and always reminded me a little of a German skinhead, except that he was all sweetness and light, belying his outer appearance of painful-looking piercings and metal studs.

The café was so crowded today I wondered whether
they were hosting a poetry slam or an acoustic guitarist, as they often did.

“Lily!” cried Xander, holding up a poster. “Look!”

The hand-lettered sign included a cartoonish drawing of a pink miniature potbellied pig and read:
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PIGGY? HELP H
IM FIND HIS WAY HOME
! ANSWERS TO “OSCAR.”

Xander had it set up on a special little side table with a huge jar that was already filled halfway with coins and a handful of dollar bills. A stack of bright pink flyers were there for the taking.

“Jiminy Cricket, this is amazing,” I said. I’d been gone only a couple of hours and they’d already made up a flyer?

Unfortunately, unless I missed my guess, it wasn’t going to help Oscar come home, of course. None of this would. But still, what a wonderful outpouring of support.

“The store’s kicking in fifty bucks,” said Wendy. “And then we’ll add the contributions, and that will be a nice reward. I take it you haven’t heard anything new? No progress?”

I shook my head, concentrating on keeping a lid on my emotions. “I haven’t been back to the store for a couple of hours, but . . . I don’t think so. I have some friends looking into it.”

“Good. That’s good,” said Wendy. She seemed like she was holding back. “Um, one thing occurred to me: Are you sure it’s strictly legal to have a pig in the city limits?”

“I don’t . . .”

“Not that
I
care, of course. Or any of us. And he’s already been in the paper and all, so probably if it were an issue, it would have come up already. I just wanted to be sure he hadn’t been nabbed by the cops. . . .”

“A pig caught by the pigs!” Xander said with a bright smile, apparently pleased with his own joke.

“Please don’t refer to police officers that way,” I said.
I found dealing with the authorities sometimes difficult, even panic-inducing, but now that I knew a few personally, I couldn’t easily jump on the police-bashing bandwagon.

“I thought it was funny,” said Xander. He looked around Wendy at a few customers standing nearby. “Wasn’t it funny?”

They shrugged and nodded.

“I get it,” I said. “I’m just saying . . .”

“Anyway,”
said Wendy. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. You want your regular latte, or is it time for chocolate therapy?”

“
Chocolate
. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” I said.

A few minutes later she handed me a mocha and a bagel, my typical order. I remembered when I first started coming to Coffee to the People, back when I was still new to the neighborhood. I had gotten such a thrill out of finally gaining status as a “regular” here at the café. And now these people were going out of their way to try to help me and Oscar, rallying around, putting up posters, and contributing money to the cause. My heart swelled.

“Thanks, y’all, for everything,” I said. “I really don’t know how to thank you. I’ll let you know just as soon as we hear anything.”

I walked the few blocks back to Aunt Cora’s Closet, hoping with every step, every footfall, that Oscar would be there when I arrived. Knowing him, it was still possible he had been playing a joke of some sort, and would sashay back to the store, flaunting his porcine strut as though nothing had happened. I would kill him. Hug him, then kill him. Or . . . like Aidan said, I supposed it was possible he was in some other magical dimension, as with the woodsfolk, and his sense of time had been lost. Perhaps that was all. Aidan would make contact with them, and Oscar would be home by suppertime.
Provided he hadn’t eaten anything. I could feel the panic surging again and took another deep breath.

As I neared the shop, I started to chant:
Oh please, oh please, oh please
. Not very effective as an incantation, but it was all that came to me.

The flurry of activity at Aunt Cora’s Closet made Coffee to the People’s missing pig project seem understated. There were helium balloons on either side of the door, with a big banner featuring a blown-up photo of Oscar taken from the long-ago newspaper article. And in huge red letters:
HAVE YOU SEEN
THIS LITTLE PIGGY?
Conrad stood outside on the sidewalk, handing bright pink flyers to passersby and explaining the situation.

Inside, there were at least half a dozen of Bronwyn’s coven sisters mingling with a group of art students in paint-splattered clothing. Plus, the entire Jackson clan: Maya’s parents, sister, and several cousins. Her mother, Lucille, came running over to give me a big hug.

“We came over just as soon as we heard,” she said. “We’re going to hand out flyers. Maya’s got a direct line to animal control and the pound, and my niece has an in at a local radio station, so she’s trying to get it mentioned on-air.”

Again, I let my heart swell with the love and caring of my friends and friends of friends. All these people trying to help. If Oscar found out about this, there would be no living with him.

If only it could actually help find him.

On the other hand . . . though I was sure Oscar was being held by some sort of magical force, all this energy and good karma might serve for something. Like the power of prayer, the focused intentions of a large group of people could make a difference—tip the supernatural scales, as it were.

“Conrad, it’s important to keep the pressure on the Parks Department not to take down that tree. Maybe
while you’re handing out missing pig flyers, you could talk about that too?”

“Okay. Good idea.”

“How did the effort to save the tree begin in the first place?” I asked.

“The tree lady came by with those other scientist dudes.”

“The ones who were there when Sebastian was killed.”

“Right. They came by before, and the tree lady looked at the tree and taught us a little about it. And then that one dude, with the big eyes, he stopped by all the time and helped us understand why it shouldn’t be taken down.”

Just then the bell rang over the front door, and I was surprised to see Bart Woolsey walk in. He paused in the doorway and looked around, as most people did when they first stepped into Aunt Cora’s Closet. Often I tried to study the place with fresh eyes, to see it the way newcomers did. The crowded shelves, the racks of clothing, the hat stands. Brilliant with color and bathed in a soft golden light at this time of early evening, the place always smelled of fresh laundry and sachets.

But today there was also a chaotic, partylike feeling, a table along one wall laden with tofu dippers and oatmeal-carob cookies—courtesy of the café and members of the Welcome coven—and the table set up specifically for the Great Piggy Search.

Bart’s tired-looking, rheumy eyes fell on me, and he raised one hand in a little salute. Just then, a rack of dresses fell over as the crowd pressed in. Bart crouched down to help Maya right the rod. Clumsily, he tried to replace a trio of dresses that had fallen; their hangers stuck out helter-skelter at crooked angles from the rod.

“This isn’t . . . I mean, is it always like this?” Bart asked as he came to stand near me. “It’s not quite what I imagined of a vintage clothing store.”

“I’m sorry; it’s unusually hectic right now. I lost my pet pig,” I said.

“A pig?”

“A miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig,” interrupted Bronwyn, shoving a flyer into Bart’s hands. “They’re very intelligent and affectionate. . . .” Her eyes filled with tears, and Duke put his arm around her.

Bart glanced back at me, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I know it’s unusual, but they’re really a lot like dogs,” I said, feeling disloyal even as I said so. Oscar hated being likened to a dog, but it was the only way to explain my attachment to what appeared as livestock to most people.

“Oh, I’m . . . sorry to hear that. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“I would appreciate that,” I said. I had a sense I knew why Bart was here, but I had learned long ago not to put words into people’s mouths—or ideas into their heads. Better by far to allow them to speak for themselves. He might be looking for a new smoking jacket, for all I knew. “Is there something I can help you with?”