Hexes and Hemlines (15 page)

“My whole life’s been bad luck.”

Atticus gave her a wry look.

“Okay, it’s true that I’ve had a hand in that myself. No, any bad luck I’ve had is my own fault.” She looked at Atticus and smiled. He nodded as though proud of her.

I bowed my head and concentrated on the letter from Malachi, trying to sense any emotions coming from it. I felt sadness, a deep kind of soul in darkness, as in depression. But the sensations were vague, muted partly because I couldn’t concentrate properly with all these people around, and partly because I wasn’t as sensitive to other objects as I was to clothes. Which reminded me . . .

“Did you happen to take your gown home, Nichol?”

“The gown we wore to the Serpentarius dinners? Actually, I have several of the women’s gowns here. We’d meet here first and help each other button up, that sort of thing. Those dresses are a real pain.”

“Do you think I could take them with me when I go, check them out?”

“Check them out how?” asked Gregory.

Only then did I realize it sounded like an odd request. What possible normal reason could there be for wanting to look at the dresses?

“I wanted to compare them to some of the old pictures of the original Thirteen Club, the one that the Serpentarius Society was based on,” I said. Not that it made any sense.

“Oh, okay,” said Nichol with a shrug. “Sure. They just make me sad now, anyway. Go ahead, read the letter.”

I opened the envelope. A slanted, elegant hand had written a long, emotional ode to Nichol’s beauty, grace, and smile. It was an eloquent treatise on love and devotion, and it ended:
One day it will all be as it should be, and you and I shall walk arm in arm, facing the world as a couple, walking as two should walk, never again alone.

A wave of sadness washed over me as I remembered the man in my vision, huge hourglass in his hands . . . his time running out.

“Can you believe that?” Nichol asked, staring at me, tears once again welling in her eyes. “You really think the son of a devil could write something like that?”

“The ‘son of a devil’?”

“That’s what everyone called him.”

“Back in school,” Atticus explained. “I was a couple of years older, but everyone heard the rumors. We all knew his house. Poor kid tried to be normal, but with a dad like that . . .”

“Did you know his father?” I asked.

“Only by reputation.”

“The ‘Prince’?” Gregory spoke up. “I’ve caught sight of him once or twice. But we all knew what he was about. And I guess we knew a little about what Malachi went through in that house. It couldn’t have been easy to be raised that way.”

“Do you know why his father called himself a prince?” I asked.

“Not exactly . . . I always figured he was what you’d call self-proclaimed royalty.”

“In what sense?”

“In the sense that he pretty much made himself king, or prince anyway, of his little world.”

“As in . . . Prince of Darkness?”

“Something like that.”

“Wow. No wonder his son was a little . . .”

“Screwed up? True. But he wasn’t a bad person.”

“So it was Malachi, Gregory, Nichol, and Oliver at that last dinner. Who else?”

“Mike Perkins,” said Nichol.

“I can’t believe Mike would get mixed up in that sort of thing,” said Atticus with a shake of his head. “Mike’s many things, but I wouldn’t imagine he’d be interested in the occult in any way.”

“How do you know him?” I asked.

“I used to work at Perkins Laboratories, but that was a few years ago. The money was great, but I was happy to move on. My dad was an investor in his company years ago, and Mike donated to Dad’s campaigns. I thought it might be perceived as a political problem that I worked for him, too many connections.”

“So you and Gregory both worked for Perkins? And your father was connected to him politically?”

“Sort of. Oliver worked for him for a while as well. It’s not as odd as it might sound—the man owns an important corporation, and employs people he’s known and trusted for years.”

“I think I was the first connection there,” Gregory said. “Mike recruited me as a researcher straight out of grad school. Then I got Oliver the job, though he didn’t last long. But half this city’s had dealings with Mike Perkins; even Malachi’s father, Prince High, was an investor in Perkins Laboratories.”

“I guess everyone’s looking to diversify,” said Atticus. “Even the devil himself.”

“Atticus, Nichol, do either of you know a woman named Doura?”

“There was a woman by that name at the dinner on Saturday night,” said Nichol.

“Did she say anything about herself? Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with her?”

Nichol shook her head. “She looked lovely, though. She wore a red brocade that really set off her coloring.”

I glanced at Atticus.

“I don’t know her,” he said, shaking his head.

There didn’t seem to be much more to discuss. Nichol and Atticus retrieved several plastic-shrouded antique gowns from Nichol’s cottage, and together we carried them to the van.

This perfect, precious little world seemed marred by the presence of my dusty purple van in the drive. In this glittering picture of privilege it should have been a shining Jaguar or Lexus, like in the car commercials. It was sad that despite all the outer trappings of beauty, the Huffman family was marked by difficulty, substance abuse, shoplifting. . . . Only Atticus appeared relatively unscathed, but I knew how that went: He was the perfect one, the one keeping it together because he had to hold up everyone’s end. I wondered whether, if Nichol and Oliver ever managed to pull themselves together, he would fall apart.

I thought about what Rebecca had said, that it couldn’t be easy to grow up as a senator’s child. Or like Gregory, with his wealthy but absent parents. Or certainly as the son of a man who considered himself a devilish prince.

On the other hand, Oliver and Atticus and Nichol had one another, as well as parents—however challenging—who loved them, which was a lot more than many of us could claim.

When I first encountered Malachi’s corpse on the table mere days ago, I thought he must have been orchestrating something evil, something wrong. But now, reading his letters, talking to his friends, it was hard to know what to think. They painted a different picture of the man entirely. As though he were yet another victim. Could he really have been simply trying to disprove the tenets of his father’s life, reacting to the superstitious chaos he had grown up in?

“Thank you for helping to figure things out, for finding out what happened,” Nichol said, a little hiccup in her throat. She hugged me.

I was never sure what to do in these circumstances. I’m not really a hugger. Feeling awkward, I patted her on the back. Nichol’s vibrations were young. Younger than her years. I was getting the distinct impression that most of these Serpentarians were immature and silly, rather than sinister.

I noted a bracelet on Nichol’s arm that had been covered by her sleeve earlier. It was distinctive, made of lace and worked silver links.

Last time I saw that bracelet, it was in my shop, near the display shelf of silk scarves.

“Nichol, how did you come to pass by Aunt Cora’s Closet yesterday?”

“What kind of closet?”

“It’s a vintage clothing store on Haight Street.”

“Oh! I did go by there. How did you know?”

“I own that store. My assistant mentioned that she saw you. She recognized you. She’s a fan,” I added, covering up the suspicions of shoplifting.

“When I get stressed out I shop. I know what you’re thinking,” she said to her brother. “But it’s not like that anymore . . . I just . . . the last time I was at Malachi’s apartment I saw this newsletter for the Art Deco Society and it mentioned that store had a lot of pieces from the era. That was back when I thought Malachi and I were going to go to the dance together. Before . . .”

Her voice trailed off; she looked out toward the main house, her gaze far away.

“Why is a shopkeeper looking into a murder?” Atticus asked, a quizzical expression on his face.

“It’s a little hard to explain . . . but believe me when I tell you I’m trying to help.”

Atticus took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, thoughtful sigh. Then he nodded. “We’d appreciate your keeping our family’s name out of any of this, to the extent that you can.”

“Of course,” I said. “I can’t speak for the police, of course, but if Oliver wasn’t even there after the dinner, there’s no reason his name should be mentioned in conjunction with the case.”

“Tell Oliver good-bye from me,” Gregory said to Atticus. “Tell him to give me a call when things are a little calmer.”

“I’ll let him know.”

We said our good-byes. Gregory and I climbed into the van and pulled down the driveway. My mind was racing, thinking of my next stop.

It was high time I went by the “black abode.” Not that I believed Malachi was the son of any sort of devil, but I wanted to have a little chat with Daddy Zazi.

We dropped Gregory back at his temporary dwelling, the Hotel Wharton, and watched him slump in through the front door.

“About time we got rid of that sad sack,” Sailor said. “What a
drag
.”

“So says Mr. Happy-go-lucky.”

“Hey, compared to him I’m a ray of sunshine.”

“Gregory’s got call to be sad. He thinks he’s losing his family.”

“With an attitude like that, they’re better off without him. Anyway,” he said, clapping his hands together loudly enough to make our animal companions both jump and pay attention, “is it just me, or is it well past lunchtime? I thought the least those rich folks could have done was to offer us snacks.”

Oscar snorted his approval.

“I guess I’m a might peckish as well,” I conceded. Glancing down at my watch, I saw it was after two o’clock.

“I know a great taco truck not too far from here,” said Sailor. “Best carnitas in town. Take a left on Fourteenth.”

Oscar, who had turned back into his natural form, harrumphed in the backseat. Given that he spent half his time lately as a potbellied pig, he had become sensitive on the subject of pork. I never ate it anymore myself. Or bacon . . . and I used to
adore
bacon. My mouth watered just thinking of it.

I followed Sailor’s directions to a truck that had set up business in the parking lot of an abandoned-looking drugstore. I ordered vegetarian options for me and Oscar, and chicken for the cat. Sailor, refusing to be cowed by what he called a gremlin, ordered beef and pork.

While Sailor waited for the food, I took advantage of a rare public telephone to check in at Aunt Cora’s Closet. Maya told me all was well, Bronwyn had arrived, sales were good, and then added, “Max called.”

“He did? What did he say?”

“He’s in town, I guess. He’s looking for you.”

Terrible timing. This whole Malachi Zazi thing seemed custom-tailored as the sort of supernaturally charged mess Max would not want to be mixed up in. But still . . . I was glad he called. And Maya didn’t really know what I was up to, so—

“I didn’t talk to him, Bronwyn did. They had quite a long talk. She told him all about what was going on at home, poor thing.”

“She told him everything?”

“She said you were helping out, talking to some folks. That you started by talking to that other reporter over at the paper. Hey, I’ve got a line forming. I’d better go.”

I kept my hand on the phone receiver for a moment, thinking.
Great
. Max had finally called, and now I reckoned he knew exactly what I was up to. Bronwyn told him all the details, no doubt. Would he try to talk me out of what I was doing, or mind his own business, or go after—

“Food,” Sailor said, interrupting my thoughts. He gestured at me with hands full of overstuffed tacos.

We sat on a low cinder-block wall to enjoy. I put the animals’ food on the cracked concrete sidewalk in front of us.

“So when you read Gregory’s mind, did it tell you anything?” I asked, biting into a scrumptious cheese and guacamole taco. It was so good I sighed and let out a little moan.

Sailor looked amused. “Hungry?”

I smiled. “I hadn’t realized ’til right this minute.”

He took a huge bite of taco and shook his head. “I didn’t read Gregory’s mind.”

“You didn’t? Back in the hotel room?”

He shook his head again, finishing off one of his
carne de res
tacos.

“But you gave me a little signal when I looked over at you, a little flick of your head.”

“That had nothing to do with reading his mind. It meant he was a jerk.”

“So we don’t know for sure that he’s innocent?”

“I think it’s pretty clear. I doubt a man like that is capable of murder.”

“And you know this how? Why didn’t you read his mind?”