Secondhand Spirits (12 page)

“I like In-N-Out Burger,” I said.

“Thanks, Lily,” said Charles.

“Traitor,” Bronwyn said to me with a slight smile before turning back to her friend Charles. “I gave you that information on the vegan lifestyle. It is physically as well as spiritually uplifting. Did you read it?”

“Veggies don't quite do it for a guy like me.” Charles patted his generous stomach and shook his head. “Hey—what's with the limo? Is there a celebrity somewhere? I hear they like to shop in thrift stores these days.” He winked, then looked around, I imagined hoping to spy some paparazzi. Charles enjoyed getting his face in the news.

“Sorry, it's just for little old us,” said Natalie. The girls behind her giggled.

“Well, that's just grand,” he said with a smile, giving them the once-over with a look that bordered on lascivious. “Grand indeed.”

In his mid-thirties, pudgy with dark hair and a goatee, Charles had black eyebrows arched in a way that made him look eternally surprised—or as though he were spying something no one else could see, which I'm sure was the point. Originally from Arizona, he had hitchhiked to San Francisco at the age of seventeen and lived on the street for some time, scrounging for coins and food. One day he overheard someone asking which house Janice Joplin used to live in, and he started giving impromptu tours of the neighborhood to visitors, pretty much making up the stories as he went along. He soon realized that while rock-'n'-roll history had its followers, the more paranormal insinuations he made, the higher the tips. Thus his fascination with such things grew, and over the years he had transformed the pursuit of ghosts and ghost stories into a full-time gig.

Charles had an undeniable gift for storytelling, true, but so far as I could tell he didn't have the slightest sensitivity to spirits. Not so much as a haunted thimbleful.

“Charles,” I said. “I met Max Carmichael today when he came in for some protective herbs.”

“Oh, good, he came by.”

“Yes. He said you sent him. But listen, he and I started talking, and he happened to mention that he's actually a mythbuster. Did he tell you that?”

“Mythbuster?” Charles echoed, a worried look on his face.

“He's fixin' to expose you as a fraud.”

“You're kidding me.” He paused for a moment before a calculating gleam came into his eye. “I must be doing pretty well if they're sending people to discredit me, don'tcha think?”

“What I think is that you should cancel your bay cruise.”

“What am I supposed to do? He's prepaid. He's bringing a film crew.”

“Just tell him something came up and you have to cancel, and give him his money back.”

“Aw, I hate to do that. Professional reputation and all that.”

“How about taking him to the Queen Anne Hotel instead?” I suggested. “That place has a great ghost.” Several sets of eyes turned to gawk at me. “Or so I hear tell.”

The Queen Anne Hotel, built in 1890, used to be Miss Mary Lake's School for Girls. According to legend the benevolent spirit of one of the dedicated teachers—perhaps Miss Mary Lake herself—never left the building; over the years guests reported awaking on chilly mornings to find that extra blankets had been mysteriously added to the bed sometime during the night. Nobody ever got killed or disappeared or possessed. That was my kind of ghost.

“
Really?
” asked Natalie, pretty hazel eyes shining with excitement. “I wanna see a ghost!”

“Maybe you should book a room at the hotel for your wedding night,” suggested Bronwyn.

Charles was already fishing through his leather messenger's bag for a glossy ghost-hunting brochure. Handing it to the bride-to-be, he assured her of a “gen-u-ine” spirit sighting for a low, low price.

“After all,” he reminded us all, lest we forget, “I was voted number-one paranormal sleuth in the entire Bay Area, two years in a row.”

Chapter 8

After the bridal party took off in their shiny stretch limos, Bronwyn and I hung up dresses, put away hats and seamstress materials, and straightened up the store. I offered Charles the same amount Max was going to pay him, and in response much more to my financial bribe than to any professional consideration, Gosnold agreed to cancel their trip out on the bay.

The chaotic whirlwind of the dress fittings—and a couple of mimosas—had taken my mind off of Frances and Jessica, but once the crowd dispersed, their tragic fates hit me again with the force of an iron cauldron against my head. I couldn't keep from asking myself: What could have gone wrong with my spell of protection for Frances? Had I forgotten something? Was
La Llorona
much more formidable than I knew? Or was that invisible whisperer from the night before invoking against me with a magic stronger than mine? Frances had died in a pentagram, but not the one I had drawn—mine was invisible. Could it have been some sort of odd coincidence, a random break-in? As if there were a roving band of satanists just looking to break into houses and murder people.

According to Oscar, Aidan Rhodes knew everything. A nice trait in a man.

Bronwyn gave me directions to the address on Aidan's business card, mentioning that the office must be near Fisherman's Wharf. I set off in my Mustang, putting the top down to enjoy another sunny winter day. It was only as I neared my destination that I realized Rhodes's office was located smack-dab in the center of the bustling wharf area.

Aidan Rhodes must cater to the tourists, I thought to myself with some disdain.

A lot of witches use their powers to make a living, which is understandable, since so many of us are treated as lifelong freaks and outcasts, making things like college degrees and regular everyday employment difficult. In fact, some practitioners believe it wrong, across the board, to use one's powers for others without receiving any remuneration. Instead, they believe we should treat ourselves as professionals and our powers as a commodity in demand.

Still, the association of supernatural powers with circus sideshows and palm readers in carnival booths always made me feel as though these folks were selling out, cheapening things, like my neighbor Sandra with her trivialization of important vibrations.

The traffic on Jefferson Street inched along, slowed down by pedestrians and unfamiliar drivers, like me, seeking parking spaces and particular destinations.

As I pulled up to the address on the card, I realized the situation was even worse than I feared: Rhodes's office address was the same as the Wax Museum. As Bronwyn would say,
Oh. My. Goddess
.

I used my glove-box charm and a brief incantation to run a hapless Hummer owner out of a good parking spot, then stood on the opposite curb for a moment looking up at the museum and double-checking the address on the card in my hand, hoping I had made some mistake.

These kinds of places made me nervous. Very nervous. Wax models of humans, often called poppets, are too easily transmorphed into other forms; they're used a lot in voodoo and other power systems that I don't fully understand. I don't really know a lot of witches, so I'm not sure whether it's normal to be so anxious around other supernatural systems. But they do put me on edge.

Graciela always used to tell me that true courage was found in fear. I hoped to blazes she was right, because I was finding a lot of things frightening lately.

Tourists thronged the sidewalk and spilled out into the street. There were families trying to corral laughing children, young couples in love with their arms wrapped around each other, older folks with bloated plastic shopping bags hanging from their arms and cameras at the ready. I know it's common for local residents to deride tourists, but I've always been partial to the vibrations of out-of-town visitors: By and large they are excited and happy, and uncommonly open to new and unfamiliar people and places.

Half a block up the street a man hunkered down in a leafy costume that made him look like a bush. When a hapless tourist would stride by, the bush-man would stand up, follow him for a bit, and kneel down again as soon as the victim turned around. Everyone was in on the joke but for the person the bush was following.

I stopped and watched for a moment, joining in the laughter of the crowd. I was always intrigued by the credulity of normal people. What would it be like to be that way? Not seeing beyond the obvious, not noticing the danger lurking behind every shadow . . . ? Nice, I would imagine.

Okay, Lily, time to face your fears
. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and crossed the street to the Wax Museum. Posters of the wax figures studded the walls, like old-fashioned movie stars. In fact, the whole front of the museum looked a bit like an abandoned movie theater, which only ratcheted up the eerie feel of the place.

At the front ticket window a bored-looking young woman with a nose piercing and kohl-lined eyes, very Queen of the Dead, put down her dog-eared paperback romance novel and picked up the phone when I asked for Aidan Rhodes. She had a brief conversation, looked me over a couple of times—not pleased with what she saw, I thought—and then waved me in.

“He's upstairs and to the left, right past the Chamber of Horrors.”

Of course.

The modern glass-and-steel floating stairs were lined with exhibits and brief writeups of what the management referred to as the current wax “population.” I passed by Elvis Presley, Abraham Lincoln, the Mona Lisa. It was interesting to note which historical or famous characters were deemed worthy of recognition: Austin Powers was prominent, for instance, but there was no Madame Curie. In fact, other than a handful of modern actresses, females were depicted primarily in the Vixens exhibit, which featured characters like Lu crezia Borgia, Jezebel, and Mata Hari.
Hmm.
I hoped Rhodes wasn't the one deciding on the “population,” because someone had a rather twisted view of powerful women.

Two boys ran by me, excited to see a wax figure of local baseball legend Barry Bonds. Given the number of visitors milling about and enjoying themselves as they perused the exhibits, I guessed I was once again in the minority by finding the whole place much more sinister than entertaining.

When I reached the entrance to the Chamber of Horrors I peeked in. Just past faithful reproductions of an iron maiden and an electric chair, a wax figure of Drac ula was looking up, blood dripping down his chin, his apparently willing victim swooning in his arms. I had to admit to a certain fascination with vampires. I always sort of wanted to dress as one for Halloween when I was a girl, but Graciela said it was inappropriate. Bronwyn told me Halloween was a huge adult holiday in San Francisco; maybe this year I would indulge myself and dress up as a vampire, like a normal person.

Lost in thought, I jumped when a pure white, long-haired cat ran toward me and rubbed up against my ankles. I'm allergic to cats, and therefore, since they're contrary creatures, they adore me.

I looked up to see Aidan leaning on the banister beside figures of Elvira and the Texas chain-saw killer.

“Lily!” he said with a charming grin on his face. “What a wonderful surprise. You look as pretty as a picture in that dress. Or is that politically incorrect?”

“You mean for me to wear the dress, or for you to notice it?”

I hadn't meant it as a joke, but he laughed.

It struck me, once again, how devastatingly handsome he was. It was more than mere surface beauty; in addition to being physically gorgeous, he had a surprisingly vulnerable, aw-shucks quality that made him much more intriguing than your average
GQ
cover model. Mere mortals didn't stand a chance. I didn't trust him—or that little-boy look in his bright blue eyes—as far as I could throw him.

The cat finally abandoned her efforts with me and ran to leap into Aidan's arms.

“What do you think of my place?” he asked as he stroked the beautiful feline.

“Isn't there an Edgar Allan Poe story about a wax museum?” I asked.

“Is there?”

“If there isn't, there should be.”

“You don't like it?”

“It seems a little . . . I don't know . . . macabre? I thought modern-day witches were careful about being associated with such locales.”

“My clients love it. Puts them in a receptive mood.”

“You must have some interesting clients.”

“You have no idea.”

We walked down the hall to a thick mahogany door hidden behind an exhibit of European explorers. Aidan waved me into his office, closing the door behind us. Inside was a holdover from the Victorian days of the Barbary Coast: Fringed and tasseled green velvet curtains covered the windows, and a huge carved walnut desk, complete with claws for legs, dominated one end of the large room. Lots of dark wood, Oriental rugs, and upholstered club chairs. On the built-in bookshelves were tools of the trade, the stuff I usually kept out of plain sight: a crystal ball, pendulums, candles, feathers, and stones, along with a multitude of old, cracking leather-bound books on the history of witches, spells, and the craft.

“So tell me,” Aidan said as he took a seat in the plush leather chair behind the desk, gesturing toward a high-backed brocade chair for me. “To what do I owe this lovely surprise?”

“A woman was killed last night.”

He smiled and tilted his head. “By all means, get right to the point.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Lily. I know you're wary of me, but you should know that I don't take souls.”

The long-haired, pure white cat snuggled in his lap, and I watched as his long, graceful fingers caressed her. I couldn't keep from staring at him for a moment, even though I knew he was far too practiced to let me read his aura.