Hexes and Hemlines (10 page)

“The love charm wasn’t enough?”

“So far that part is great, but . . . this is going to sound weird, but I went to this dinner last month and I feel like I’ve had bad luck ever since. And now I’m helping set up the Art Deco Ball and our toastmaster was”—her voice dropped—“he was found
murdered
yesterday.”

Maya gasped. “Murdered? That’s terrible. What happened? Who was it?”

I’m no mind reader, but I already knew. San Francisco was a marvelous environment for coincidences, at least when it came to me and mine.

“Malachi Zazi.”

“They found him in his apartment,” said Claudia. “I don’t know any details—I only know that much because I live in his building. Sort of. I’m just apartment and pet sitting—I could never afford that area normally. But anyway, that’s how I got involved with the Art Deco Society; Malachi told me about it.”

“I thought you wrote the newsletter,” I said.

“I do. In fact, that’s how I found your store, from a newspaper article your friend Wendy sent us. But Malachi’s the one who got me the newsletter gig in the first place.”

“Zazi’s part of the Art Deco Society?”

“Oh, yes. He had a love of historical things—his apartment’s like a museum. His stuff’s earlier than Art Deco. That’s for sure. More like Victoriana, but I guess he enjoyed a lot of different things.”

“Sounds like you knew him pretty well.”

“I wouldn’t go that far; I attended one of his dinners last month, but that was enough for me. It kind of weirded me out.”

“In what way?”

“I thought it was just a kind of historical reenactment or something—we all wore clothing from the era, and the dinner was quite ornate. But here’s where it gets weird: I guess Malachi was trying to poke fun about bad luck symbols or something. There was a broken mirror, and an open umbrella, a ladder to walk under . . . I never really thought of myself as superstitious before, but it really started to bother me.”

“And you feel like you’ve had bad luck since then?”

“It’s probably my imagination, right? But I always figure, why tempt fate?”

Why indeed?

“Could you tell me anything else about him? Was he the kind of guy with a lot of enemies, anything like that?”

Claudia smiled. “Now you sound like a cop. They already came by and asked me a million questions yesterday. Besides the Art Deco stuff and the dinner stuff, he pretty much kept to himself, never went out during the day.” She paused. “Why are you asking? Did you know him?”

“Not exactly.” Carlos Romero hadn’t sworn me to silence, but I didn’t suppose he’d want me to broadcast that he’d brought in a civilian to give him witchcraft advice on a crime scene. “He was sort of an associate of a friend of mine.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

The bell over the main door rang as several new people wandered into the store. A young couple headed straight for the lingerie section. A man with a goatee entered with two women, one a redhead, the other with an overabundance of curly blond hair. They already looked as though they were in costume, and indeed, they made a beeline for the costume corner.

I liked to let people wander the aisles without being bothered, so after a friendly nod of welcome I continued my conversation with Claudia.

“I’m on the board of the animal shelter, and a while back Malachi asked me to keep an eye out for a black cat. He adopted one not long ago. And now this. How sad is that?”

“Did he go down to the shelter to pick out his cat?”

“No, to tell you the truth, I went against regulations . . . I’ve never done so before. But I happened to know we had a black cat, which was his only stipulation. He didn’t care about age or gender. We have so many cats, and they all need homes . . . anyway, I brought the cat to him. He reimbursed me for all the fees.”

“Weren’t you at all concerned about the cat’s welfare?” I knew shelters had to be especially careful with black cats around Halloween. There were crazy folk who took the poor felines to be used in dark ceremonies and the like.

“I know it was against regulations, but . . . Malachi seemed so . . . gallant? I guess that’s the word. Sort of courtly and old-fashioned. I just felt sure he wouldn’t harm the cat . . . he was such a sweet soul.”

“Despite his penchant for bad luck charms.”

“Yeah, I guess that was sort of odd.”

“I don’t suppose you could take the cat back to the shelter?” I said, looking around for the feline.

“The cat? Malachi’s cat? I didn’t think to ask what happened to it. Do the police have it?”

“Actually,
I
do.”

“You mean
Zazi’s
black cat? How did you get it?”

“It’s a long story. It’s around here somewhere. Would you be willing to take it back?”

“Of course, we can take it back at the shelter. I can’t take it myself because I’m apartment sitting and they already have two dogs.”

“If the cat goes back to the shelter . . . ?”

“We’re a no-kill facility,” Claudia hastened to say. “But I can’t guarantee we’ll find it a home. It’s a little older than most people like. And as strange as it is to say, there’s a prejudice against black animals among adopters. I guess they’re associated with bad luck, still, in a lot of people’s minds. Black dogs are even worse, interestingly enough. Something about them being devil’s creatures. . . . It never ceases to amaze me how mean people can be.”

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll try to find it a home.”

Claudia thanked us again for our help with her dress for the ball and left. The bell over the door tinkled when she let herself out, and I watched her walk down the street until she was out of sight.

Claudia was apartment sitting in Malachi Zazi’s building
. She came into the store for her dress and love potion last week, long before I had ever been called in to consult on a crime scene, or heard of anyone named Zazi. Could it truly be a coincidence, or was there some sort of link? Could Malachi have known about me—had he been some sort of supernatural practitioner himself? That would help explain the strange lack of vibrations from his garment collection, as well as the whole apartment seemingly wiped down for psychic prints.

On the other hand, Claudia mentioned seeing the write-up of Aunt Cora’s Closet in the Art Deco newsletter. So maybe it was just that simple. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot of “simple” in my life.

“Poor Claudia,” said Maya as she changed the paper roll on the register. “You’re still planning on going to the dance, though, right? Even if Max isn’t back?”

Talk about a lack of “simple.” Flying solo was not a new concept for me. But not long ago I’d met a journalist, Max Carmichael, and I was intrigued at the idea of actually having an escort to the Art Deco Ball. Unfortunately he was back east on assignment . . . and while he was there, he was trying to figure out how he felt about me. As I said to Aidan earlier: I wasn’t willing to explain myself. Max had a hard time with my powers, and I wasn’t about to deny them or hide them for his comfort.

But all my bravado aside, I was hoping he’d find the strength to deal with what was, for him, a whole new magical world.

“Have you heard anything from him?” Maya continued.

“He’s called a couple of times.”

That was almost an exaggeration. Max had called once on the store phone, but I wasn’t alone and our conversation unfolded like one of distant friends:
How are you? How’s Oscar? How’s business?
He also called and left a message on my home machine, marginally better:
I’ve been thinking of you.
I was embarrassed to admit I kept the message and had already replayed it twice. Still, I hadn’t heard from him again, and there had been plenty of opportunity. Every night before bed I thought maybe he’d call,
hoped
he’d call. But he hadn’t. I was tempted to cast a spell to force his hand, but I stopped myself. I might have a certain moral flexibility when it came to using my powers, but I was above forcing a man into wanting me.

Obviously, as a twenty-first-century woman,
I
could call
him
; but he was three hours ahead, and under the circumstances of our parting . . . it felt like I should let Max come to me when he was ready, rather than push him.

In the old days—the burning times—men who loved witches were considered pawns of the devil’s handmaidens, and were often condemned to death by hanging, drowning, or burning, just as were their mothers, wives, daughters. Thousands, maybe millions had died alongside their womenfolk.

These days the immediate consequences for being close to someone like me weren’t nearly so dramatic or so gruesome, but there was still a cost. No matter that I was finding a supportive community; I wasn’t the kind of woman an ordinary man would be proud to bring home to meet the parents.

I was still weird, still frightening. Still Other.

So I was hurt. But I understood. It wasn’t easy to love a witch.

A tingle of awareness yanked my attention from my thoughts.

Time slowed, elongated.

One of the recently arrived customers walked toward me with a hips-first, runway-model stride, her kinky dishwater blond hair falling in a mass around her face and down her back. She was backed up by her two companions: a petite but chubby woman who cut her auburn hair short, like a pixie, with green eyes and freckles; and an older man, goateed, with hair dyed a sooty, fakelooking black.

The blonde was not nearly as young as her hair, bright makeup, and gauzy costume might imply; I would guess in her early fifties. She was tall and thin, more striking than pretty. Her bright blue-green eyes were abnormally shiny, fixated upon me.

“I’m Doura,” she said in a quiet, high-pitched, almost baby-doll voice.

I looked around, but I could feel myself moving as though in slow motion, or underwater. The other customers, and Maya, were still moving and talking, but time had slowed. They appeared not to hear us.

Doura held something in her hand. Was it a power stick of some sort? No, a plain old pen.
My
pen, the one I had left on the counter. The one I had been holding only seconds ago. The one I had absentmindedly put to my mouth as I wrote out Claudia’s care instructions for her new ball gown.

“Leave this matter alone,” Doura said. “Walk away.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” My voice sounded deep and distorted, as though it were in slow motion as well. It was a nightmarish sensation.

“Walk away. Malachi is no concern of yours. Consider this your warning.”

She gave me a wicked, sickly smile as she deliberately set the pen back down on the counter.

I stroked the medicine bag hanging on the braided belt around my waist, closed my eyes, and mumbled a protective spell.

“Speaking of the Art Deco Ball,” said Maya, bringing me back to reality. Time seemed to normalize. “Mom says she’ll have the alterations on your dress done by tomorrow, but she wants to do one more fitting with you.”

“Great. Thanks,” I said, looking around for the woman. She and her companions had disappeared. “Maya, did you see . . . did you notice the blonde who was in here? She was with another woman and a man with a goatee . . . ?”

“Not really. Is something wrong?”

“I . . . no, everything’s fine.” Except it wasn’t so fine. Unless I was very much mistaken, I had just been visited by some sort of witch. A powerful witch.

Could Aidan have sent her? Would he have stooped so low? Doura didn’t scare me much with her witchy parlor tricks, but she certainly got my attention. Anyone who could muck with time, like weather, garnered a lot of respect in my book. Besides, to be perfectly honest, I felt a little twinge of . . . something. Aidan and I might not see eye to eye, and it was true that we were on the outs at the moment, but I still thought we had a special sort of connection. As though I was his only female witch.

Now that I thought about it, I realized that despite his reputation for running the local witchy contingent, I had never seen him with other witches before . . . much less another woman.

I left the shop in Maya’s capable hands, and went off in search of answers.

Only heaven knew what kind of trouble Oscar might get into today with the new cat, so I put a couple of blankets, a few snacks, and a jug of water in the back of my purple work van and packed up both animals.

Then I headed for the offices of the
San Francisco Chronicle
, at the corner of Fifth and Mission.

I’m probably the last soul under the age of eighty without a cell phone. As an outcast, I rely on my assessments of people to survive; as a witch, I could feel their vibrations, note their eyes, their hands, their twitches. So rather than call ahead, I just stopped by in the hopes that I might find a disinterested source. Nigel Thorne was at the top of that list.

As I rode the elevator up from the parking garage, I couldn’t help but think about the last time I was here. Max Carmichael had challenged me, belittled me, then wound up following me on a visit to a voodoo priest. And asking me out on a date.

The good old days.

The offices were essentially one big room of cubicles, ringed by glassed-in offices. Under the fluorescent lights the writers and staff looked, to a person, gray-faced and hassled. Nigel fit right in. Today he wore khaki pants, a light blue button-up shirt, and a brown tweed jacket. He had a coffee stain on his shirt, right where his paunch strained at the buttons. His graying brown hair frizzed out from the side of his head, and his eyebrows were hawklike and overgrown, giving him a demanding air that was betrayed by the gentleness in his voice.

Nigel Thorne’s vibrations were warm, with an edge of cynicism I wasn’t surprised to find in a man who spent much of his time investigating and reporting on crime and criminals.

“Good to see you, Lily.”