Secondhand Spirits (18 page)

I stopped and he walked toward me.

He looked at me for a long time, dark eyes assessing, then glanced around as though to see if anyone would overhear us. When he spoke, he kept his voice low.

“Let me ask you something straight out: Are you some kind of witch?”

“Witch?” I hesitated. Despite my recent coming-out to Bronwyn, and even Max for that matter, this wasn't the sort of thing I bandied about. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I called up the sheriff in a little town called Jarod, in west Texas. Isn't that where you're from?”

I looked away. Even the name of that town hurt my heart.

“People there sure as hell think you're a witch, or some other freak of nature.”

“Gee, thanks so much, Inspector.”

“And there was an incident. . . .”

“Those charges were dismissed and found to be baseless.”

“They were dismissed, but whether or not they were baseless is a matter of opinion. A lot of people seem to think you cast some sort of spell to change the mind of the county prosecutor.”

“I never understood how people claim not to believe in witchcraft, and then accuse witches of casting spells. How does that work, exactly?”

He shrugged. His intelligent eyes seemed to be mulling something over.

“So are you going to charge me with a decade-old crime, Inspector, or arrest me for practicing witchcraft without a license?”

“I just want to know what the hell's going on.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Ms. Ivory—”

“Please call me Lily.”

“Ms. Ivory, as far as I know it's not against the law to practice witchcraft. Just tell me: Do you consider yourself a witch?”

“A lot of people call me that. I don't know what I am, exactly.” I blew out a breath and came to a decision. “I know I have certain abilities that set me apart. I've had them since I was a child.”

“Abilities?”

“I imagine you've seen a lot of unexplainable events in your line of work, Inspector. Is it so hard to imagine there might be something more out there?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back against the brick wall of the building next to us, looking very tired. Suddenly I realized: He believed me. Who knew a homicide detective could believe in witches?

“Prior to the other night, did you have any relationship at all with Frances Potts?”

“No. I just met her.”

He nodded. “So what motivation could you have to kill her?”

“Is that why you're stalking me? Because you think I'm a witch, or you think I killed Frances, or both?”

He shrugged, looking like Mr. Innocent. “Just needed a place to sit and eat breakfast,” he said with a smile as he moved back toward the car. “No reason at all.”

 

Overnight I had become a minor celebrity at Coffee to the People. As a measure of my new status, a few students even looked up from their laptop computer screens when I walked in.

“Hey, Lily, did you see the paper yet?” asked the barista Xander. He was tall and thin and dressed in a sort of Bavarian punk style, favoring black leather, silver spikes, and so many facial piercings that I cringed when I looked at him. Still, he had sweet eyes and an appealing though frenetic energy. He reminded me of a lanky, self-mutilated puppy.

Wendy waved her copy of today's
Chronicle
.

So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that I had forgotten all about the article in the paper. Aunt Cora's Closet was right there on the front page of the Style section, with a huge color photo of Oscar ringed by lovely young women in their vintage attire. There was even a photo of yours truly helping to fit one of the bridesmaids—I'm not very photogenic, but I was happy to see that this picture wasn't bad.

I was just starting to read the article when Sandra rushed into the café, waving the newspaper section in one hand, an empty coffee mug emblazoned with,
My other car's a broom
, in the other.

“Lily! You must be just
swooning
over this,” Sandra said eagerly, wide eyes fixed on mine.

“Yeah, it's pretty amazing.”

If only I could work up the appropriate enthusiasm. I hadn't slept much for the past few nights, but truth to tell, that didn't usually affect me very much. My funk, I felt sure, had more to do with the fact that I was either losing my powers, or up against something much stronger than I was. Never before had I so regretted not finishing my training at the feet of a master. There was a tiny part of me that wondered . . . would Aidan help to train me? Could I trust him enough to learn from him?

“Where was
I
when all this was happening? You should have called me over; I could have helped,” continued Sandra, bouncing up on her toes. Her restless energy wrapped around me. “I would love to show her—what's her name? Susan Rogers?—I wanted to show her my store. Do you think you could mention it to her?”

“I'm sure I could—”

“I just think this sort of attention should be for everyone, don't you?” Sandra interrupted.

“Leave it alone, for God's sake, Sandra,” said Wendy, rolling her eyes and snorting. Wendy had wandered into Aunt Cora's Closet once or twice and always stopped to chat with Bronwyn, but hadn't shown much warmth toward me. I had the sense she was wary about new businesses in the neighborhood. Like many in the Haight, she was protective of the rare sense of camaraderie here.

“Maybe we could get the paper to do a story on the whole Haight,” I said. “All of the merchants' association members.”

“What a fabulous idea! Let's do it. Will you call her?” said Sandra.

“I'll try to mention it next time I talk to her,” I said, then ordered bagels for Conrad, and drinks for both of us. Xander asked me about Oscar, and I invited him to come over anytime to say hi. Wendy tossed a vegan cookie, on the house, into the bag before handing it to me with a smile and the directive to “have an awesome day.”

I felt a little thrill. Was I finally “in” with the Coffee to the People crowd?

“Thanks for the bagels, Wendy. Bye, Xander. Bye, Sandra.”

“I'll walk you back,” said Sandra as she shadowed me out the café door and across the street. “Could I take a look at those clothes yet?”

“Clothes?”

“You got a bunch of new stuff in, remember?”

“Oh, right.” I hesitated, not wanting to tell her the police had confiscated the whole lot. I had the sense that anything Sandra discovered, the whole world would soon know, and just as I was starting to fit in, the last thing I wanted was for the merchants' association to find out I was under suspicion of murder. “Things have been really busy lately, so I still haven't done much.”

“What is there to do? Run them through the wash? I'd be glad to give you a hand.”

I tried to swallow my annoyance. Sandra wasn't a bad person. She was just needy. And pushy. And what with a demon snatching children and people dying under my protection and Max being skewered with a ritual knife and cops breakfasting outside my store, I wasn't in the greatest mood.

“Thanks, Sandra, but as I told you before, I'll let you know when they're ready. I have my own process, and I'd like to keep it that way. I have to go now and get ready to open for business. Nice to see you; good-bye.”

I traded the little paper sack of bagels along with the Flower Power drink to Conrad in exchange for the broom, then hurried back into my store, hoping Sandra would take the hint and go away. I headed into the back room to put the broom away, but on second thought I tucked the old-fashioned straw-bristled sweeper against the wall right behind the door, then crossed over to Bronwyn's counter for a small pinch of salt. Placing the salt on the broom, I concentrated on Sandra. The next time she came into the store, the broom should keep her focused more on her own shop than on mine, and help motivate her to leave promptly. I might need to do a stronger spell to keep her at bay, but I decided to wait for a few days to see what happened. I didn't yet trust my assessments of interpersonal relationships.

Next I performed my cleansing ritual, flipped the painted wooden sign, and officially opened my door to customers. I spread the
San Francisco Chronicle
out on the counter to read the article about Aunt Cora's Closet thoroughly.

It was a glowing assessment, not only of my store and the fashion possibilities of my inventory, but of all the “green” reasons to shop vintage—who knew that textiles are the number-one filler of landfills? Simply by shopping and wearing vintage, you could show off your environmentalist stripes. I liked that.

I carefully clipped out the article and pinned it up, along with the photo, on the bulletin board behind the counter, right next to my business license. Stepping back, I assessed it with a certain thrill of pride. This was my first attempt at making a living in a legitimate business, and I had pulled it off with only a teensy bit of magic. I was feeling more normal all the time.

As I flipped through the rest of the paper, I noticed an article about Delores Keener, Frances's lawyer, announcing her candidacy for San Francisco district attorney. Funny how you could meet a person in someone's kitchen one evening, and before you know it you're friends with the district attorney. I guessed this was how a person became connected to one's community. And such an association could come in handy in the case of, say, being charged with murder, right?

Don't think that way, Lily
, I admonished myself.
You'll attract the negative.

I was almost ready to close the paper when I came across an article about the disappearance of Jessica Rodriguez. The article wasn't simply reporting the known facts; the reporter, Nigel Thorne, linked Jessica's disappearance to others that occurred in the same area over a period of years. It even mentioned Elisabeth Potts, Frances's daughter. My stomach clenched. I rubbed my temples and sighed in frustration. Despite my powers, I couldn't even keep Frances safe—or Max, for that matter—much less rescue the girl. What good was it being a witch these days?

I pulled myself together as the door opened to admit the first of the day's customers. By twenty after the hour, a steady stream of visitors began dropping by. First it was mostly Haight Street neighbors, many of whom had never taken the time to stop in or hadn't yet realized we were open. Some came simply to introduce themselves and to congratulate me on the article. A few shop owners made a point of stopping by as well to discuss the merchants' association.

And many came to visit with Oscar, who had become something of a celebrity—and knew it. He was in piggy heaven, preening before his fans like a porcine Brad Pitt.

I watched him, amused, as he strutted in front of a small crowd of shoppers.

“I hear you're the vintage fashion maven,” said a vaguely familiar woman with curly reddish blond hair and freckles. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt under faded denim overalls. Cute, but she did look a bit like a refugee from a 4-H meeting.

“If it says so in the papers, it must be true,” I answered with a smile as I straightened a display of sequined clutches. “May I help you with anything?”

“I hope so. I work at home, perfectly happy in my solitude, telecommuting into work. But now I have to show up in a command performance at a big company party, and I can't bear to set foot in the mall. I need to look decent, but I can go a little artistic, if you know what I mean.”

I felt a little thrill. I adored this kind of challenge.

As we moved through the dress racks, the woman told me her name was Daphne, that she had moved to San Francisco from a small community in California's Central Valley, and that she loved the Haight—she was a Coffee to the People regular, which explained why she seemed so familiar—and didn't mind her computer job with a big investment firm, except that she hated showing up there in person.

“I work in my pajamas most of the time,” she said as we flipped through some early 1960s swing dresses. “No matter what you're wearing, you can sound businesslike on the phone. But socializing with colleagues is a different matter altogether. . . . I don't own a single little black dress.”

As the words came from her mouth, my gaze alighted on the perfect Little Black Dress. It was a crepe rayon forties cocktail dress with beaded details at the shoulders, ruched at either side of the flattering squared neckline. Daphne, much more drawn to the bright patterns of the later-era dresses, was unsure, but I insisted she try it on.

When she emerged, she was transformed from a country mouse to a 1940s movie star. She had tucked her reddish curls behind her ears, thrust her chest out a bit, and looked sexy and artsy and strong, all at the same time.

Standing in front of the full-length mirrors, she laughed.

“Wow. Is that me?”

“It sure is.” I met her eyes in the mirror. “That dress is
you
.”

I dug up a pair of chunky-heeled 1940s shoes to complement the dress, and even found a small alligator-skin clutch to complete the outfit. By the time I was ringing up her purchases, Daphne was flushed with pleasure and confidence, and I felt a sense of deep satisfaction.

Demons be damned. At least I loved my job.

The rest of the day stayed busy, not only because so many people had seen the article, but because Mardi Gras was just around the corner. Halloween, Bronwyn informed me, was by far San Francisco's favorite holiday, but Carnaval was growing in popularity. Though San Francisco wasn't a traditionally Catholic city, like New Orleans, and relatively few actually practiced Lent, apparently the local residents grasped at any chance to dress up in costumes, overindulge in wine and song, and spill out into the streets. You had to like that in a people.