a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (7 page)

“Perhaps that’s because you are not being clear,” I said. “If spells were as easy as mixing a few items together, then anyone could cast them. But we all know that’s not the way things work in the magical world. Now, what’s this about you not being licensed?”

“I thought Ebony was just making that up!” Isadora protested.

“Oh, please,” Ebony said with scorn. “You want to be a businesswoman, learn about business.”

“Fortune-tellers and necromancers must be licensed by the city of San Francisco,” I confirmed. “Go down to City Hall and apply for a license, or else you’ll be subject to fines and possible imprisonment. Nobody wants to see that happen, now, do we?”

“Fine by me,” Ebony said. “Let her spend some time in jail. It’ll build character.”

“I can’t believe this,” Isadora said. “You must be mistaken.”

“Afraid not.” I crouched down behind the counter, opened the satchel, and brought out a copy of the licensure for necromancers. “Article 17.1 of the San Francisco Municipal Code makes fortune-telling permits available in exchange for an application and license fee. Section 1305 states says that the chief of police
‘shall grant the permit’
unless the applicant has been convicted of a felony or two or more misdemeanors relating to fraud, etc. in the past seven years.”

Isadora was avoiding my eyes and seemed to be thinking.

“Felony fraud conviction?” I asked.

“Oh, wait,
conviction
?” she repeated. “Oh, no, no. I’m good.”

By which I assumed she had, perhaps, been brought up on charges at one point. But I wasn’t going to open
that
can of worms.

“But I’m no fortune-teller,” Isadora continued. “So that stupid statute doesn’t apply to me.”

“These are civilians we’re talking about,” Ebony said. “They don’t know the difference.”

“She’s right,” I said. “The statute covers that. Listen: ‘
Fortune-telling shall mean the telling of fortunes, forecasting of futures, or reading the past by means of any occult, psychic power, faculty, force, clairvoyance, cartomancy, psychometry, phrenology, spirits, tea leaves, tarot cards, scrying, coins, sticks, dice, sand, coffee grounds, crystal gazing, or other such reading.
’” I paused to take a breath.
“‘Or through mediumship, seership, prophecy, augury, astrology, palmistry, necromancy, mind reading, telepathy, or other craft, art, science, talisman, charm, potion, magnetism, magnetized article, or substance.’”

Ebony had crossed her arms over her chest and was waggling her head in an “I told you so” gesture.

“Wait,” said Isadora. “Coffee grounds? Who
does
that?”

“It’s as legit as tea leaves,” responded Ebony.

“And that’s not all,” I continued.
“‘It shall also include effecting spells, charms, or incantations, or placing, or removing curses or advising the taking or administering of what are commonly called love powders or potions in order, for example, to get or recover property, stop bad luck, give good luck, put bad luck on a person or animal, stop or injure the business or health of a person or shorten a person’s life, obtain success in business, enterprise, speculation, and games of chance, win the affection of a person, make one person marry or divorce another, induce a person to make or alter a will, tell where money or other property is hidden, make a person to dispose of property in favor of another, or other such similar activity.’”

I put the paper down.

“Dang,” said Isadora. “They cover just about everything, don’t they?”

“Just about.”

“Are
you
licensed?” Isadora asked me, her chin jutting out stubbornly.

“Aidan takes care of all that for me.” In fact, I didn’t have a license because I didn’t need one. For me witchcraft was a way of life, not a source of income. I had vintage clothing for that, and lately the store had been doing really well.

At the mention of Aidan’s name the two women lowered their eyes and seemed less certain.

“Oh, and just in case you’re wondering, Municipal Code 1302 (b) states, ‘
fortune-telling shall also include those
pretending
to perform these actions.
’”

They both looked a little stunned.

“Just FYI,” I added.

“Okay,” Isadora said, picking up the paper and looking it over. “I’ll go register for a license. But Ebony has to get off my back about ‘stealing’ her customers. It’s a free country, after all.”

“But you’ll agree to do as Lily says, and inform
them of the difference between hiring a professional—a licensed, trained professional like me—and doing it themselves at home with your kit?” Ebony demanded.

“You honestly think they can’t figure that out for themselves?” Isadora asked. “But okay, sure. I’ll make it clearer, and then they can make up their own minds.”

“Fair enough,” Ebony said.

The women turned to stare at me. What was supposed to happen next? Acting on instinct, I reached down, grabbed the satchel, and set it on the counter. Ebony and Isadora took a step back.

“Whoa,” said Ebony.

“Yeah, what she said,” said Isadora.

Ebony met my gaze. “So we put our hands on it and swear? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” I said, though in fact I was following their lead. I was one sorry excuse for an Aidan substitute. To be fair, I hadn’t had much in the way of on-the-job training. And I knew from experience that this was Aidan’s idea of fun, to watch me flailing. Not that he was actually watching. I hoped.

The women placed their right hands on the satchel and whispered some kind of oath. Satisfied, they looked at each other, nodded, and left.

Case closed,
I thought with relief. But just as I was stowing the bag beneath the counter, another woman stormed into Aunt Cora’s Closet. Like Isadora and Ebony, she didn’t have the air of a person looking for the perfect 1970s outfit for a costume party. She was already dressed in a distinctive fashion: a colorful dashiki over bright purple leggings, with lots of chunky tribal jewelry.

“I’m in a time crunch. I need help getting some paperwork through City Hall.”

“How am I supposed to do
that
?” I said without thinking.

“If I knew the answer, I’d do it myself, wouldn’t I? Aidan always took care of it. Don’t you have the mayor’s number?”

As a matter of fact, I did. I remembered seeing it in the satchel. But was I supposed to call the mayor now? And what would I say? Offer a bribe? A veiled threat? A campaign pledge?

“Leave me your information. I’ll see what I can do,” I said, pushing a pad of paper and pen across the counter to her.

What a morning,
I thought as the woman scribbled a lengthy note.
I’m ready to call it a day and it isn’t even noon. How long is Aidan planning to be gone?

Just then the scent of roses enveloped me. I looked up to see Sailor opening the shop door, its little bell tinkling merrily.

He paused in the doorway, motorcycle helmet under his arm, hair tousled, dark eyes smoldering, a very slight smile on his face.

“
There
she is,” he said in a quiet voice.

Those few words thrilled me to my core. They made me feel as though Sailor had been searching for me his whole life and had finally found me. They made me feel wanted, and . . . loved. And, let’s face it; they made me think about things much more delicious than bureaucratic obstructions. . . .

The woman finally finished writing her saga, and I promised to look into the matter. She didn’t seem particularly satisfied, but she nodded and thanked me nonetheless. Then she paused and looked from me to Sailor and back to me. She raised her eyebrows, smiled, and left.

Sailor wrapped his arms around me, we kissed, and I lost track of the rest of the world. It took Oscar snorting and bumping our legs to remind us that we were in public and that I had a business to run. My pig didn’t approve of public displays of affection, or PDA, as he called it.

“Your visitor seemed agitated,” said Sailor when he released me. He took a sip of my now cool coffee and grimaced.

“You should have seen the pair before her. Want me to make you a fresh cup?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. No time. But tell me, what’s going on?”

“Aidan left town.”

“For good?” There was a hopeful note in his voice. Despite our recent pledge to work together if and when the need arose, Sailor and Aidan weren’t exactly buddies.

“Just temporarily. At least, I hope so.”

“Oh, well. How I shall miss his delightful company.”

“Meanwhile, he’s left me in charge.”

“In charge of
what
, exactly? He asks with trepidation . . .”

“I’m still figuring that out. Basically he gave me a satchel and told me to deal with things, then took off before I could ask him questions.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“’Fraid not.”

“Let me get this straight: You have Aidan’s satchel?
The
satchel?”

“Yes. What is it about that stupid bag? Oscar was freaked-out as well.”

“What—”

I felt a tingling on the back of my neck.

Sailor felt it, too. We glanced at each other, then turned as one to face the door.

A man and woman entered the store. He was older, probably in his early fifties; she looked to be about my age. Both wore inexpensive dark suits, and neither smiled.

“Lily Ivory?” asked the man.

Sailor planted himself between them and me. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Inspector Stinson,” the man said, pulling a leather case from his breast pocket and flashing a shiny SFPD badge. “And this is my partner, Inspector Ng.”

Since arriving in San Francisco, setting up shop, and delving into the occasional murder investigation, I had dealt with the police department a fair amount. But usually I was interrogated—sometimes on a good day even asked to help solve crimes—by Homicide Inspector Carlos Romero, who had become a friend. A crazy part of me wanted to ask whether I could request Carlos’s presence, as though a person could ask to be questioned by whatever cop she wanted.

“And who are you?” Stinson asked Sailor pointedly.

“A friend,” Sailor said, staring him down. After a moment Stinson nodded and looked around him, to me.

“We’d like to speak with you about the circumstances surrounding the death of one Autumn Jennings.”

“
Death?
Autumn . . . died?”

He gave a curt nod. Inspector Ng said, “Early this morning.”

“What happened?” I asked, shaken. “I mean, it was clear she was ill, but what did she have?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Stinson. “We’d like to get a statement from you.”

“Of course.”

I told them what Maya and I had seen when we arrived at Vintage Visions Glad Rags yesterday, trying to remember details and reconstruct the timeline. Sailor stood, silent and strong, by my side throughout. I realized I hadn’t yet filled him in on what had happened last night, but Sailor was the quiet sort; he would wait to have his questions answered.

Not long ago Aidan had cautioned me that my relationship with Sailor was doomed. He claimed witches like me couldn’t be in love without making ourselves vulnerable and therefore sacrificing our power. I had accused Aidan of being jealous, but a small part of me couldn’t deny that my life experience supported his theory. Still, I was determined to prove him wrong. Not to toot my own horn, but I was one powerful witch, and becoming more so all the time. Loving Sailor made me stronger, I was sure.

Moments such as this one reinforced that belief. I could feel Sailor’s strength humming beside me, warm and welcome, like a psychic hug.

“Nothing else?”

I shook my head. “I can’t think of anything.”

“Jennings didn’t say anything else? Just this sort of paranoid delusion?”

“All she asked was whether we were spying on her, and if we were alone. I really have no way of knowing whether it was a delusion or not, though it did seem that way.”

“Okay. We’ll need to speak with your assistant, this, uh”—he checked his notes—“Maya Jackson, as well.”

“Of course. She’ll be in this afternoon, or I can give you her contact information.”

“That would be helpful. Thank you. Tell me, why did you go to Jennings’s shop yesterday?”

“She . . .” Only then did it dawn on me that the lawsuit pending against me could be seen as a motive for murder. Of course, it wasn’t
in fact
a motive because I meant Autumn Jennings no harm, but since these officers didn’t know me the way Carlos did, they might not appreciate that. But the truth would come out one way or the other—best to face the music. “She had me served with legal papers yesterday. She was suing me for personal injury in an accident involving a pig.”

“A pig?”

“A pet pig. He’s a miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig.”

“
Huh.
Didn’t George Clooney have one of those?” said the woman. “I hear they’re real smart.”

I nodded and realized that said pig was, once again, making himself scarce. Just as well.

Inspector Stinson didn’t seem particularly interested in my pet. “What does a pig have to do with a lawsuit?”

“I’m sorry to say my pig bumped into Autumn, here at the store. She fell into some dresses and seemed fine at the time, but the lawsuit says she suffered neck and back injuries.”

His gaze drilled into me. “And you went to talk with her about this? You didn’t, maybe, call your lawyer, something like that?”

“I don’t have a lawyer,” I said. The question hung in the air:
Do I need one?
“I hoped it was a simple misunderstanding, and we could work it out, face-to-face.”

“Work it out how?”

“I really don’t know. I just . . . I believe in communication, and trying to work things out person to person rather than getting the courts and lawyers involved.”

“Hate to break it to you, but if you were served, then the courts and lawyers are already involved. The time to talk is before a lawsuit’s filed, not after.”

“I— Of course, you’re right,” I said, wondering where this line of questioning might be leading. “I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.”