Secondhand Spirits (19 page)

Speaking of loose morals, I noticed Oscar kept slipping under the curtains while women were trying on clothes. He claimed he was trying to curtail shoplifting, but such theft wasn't much of a problem for me. Before opening Aunt Cora's Closet to the public, I had filled a red bag with caraway seeds and three old keys, charged it with an incantation, then hung it over the door. That kept the problem at bay. Many was the time I had watched a customer on the way out stop in the doorway as though they'd forgotten something, turn around, and come back into the store, then surreptitiously take something out from underneath their shirt and put it back before leaving. That little red bag might not stop evildoers in their tracks, but it gave people something to think about. And upon reflection, a lot of would-be shoplifters opted, wisely, against developing bad karma.

When not helping customers to find just the right size or style, or chasing Oscar, I spent my time making minor repairs on newly laundered items—sewing up fallen hems or replacing missing buttons. I enjoyed these moments, watching people try on hats and scarves and dresses of all kinds, making small talk, soaking in the laughter and high spirits. And among other things, the rush didn't give me much time to dwell on recent events. Still, my eyes kept glazing over as I tried to sew up the hem on a newly acquired pink satin nightgown.

“Lily, why don't you go upstairs and take a break?” Bronwyn said. “You look like death warmed over.”

“I haven't been sleeping well lately.” The understatement of the year.

“Go on. I can take it from here,” she said as she moved toward the main counter.

“I
am
a bit tuckered out,” I said. “I guess I could use a quick nap.”

I trudged up the back stairs, washed my face, then lay down on my still-made bed. I closed my eyes, hoping to drop off and get some rest, but I kept thinking about Max. Before the fear and anxiety of the night rushed back to me this morning, there had been one instant of sweetness, waking up next to a man. A really good-smelling man, despite the drama we had shared.

On the other hand, he had stormed out without a backward glance when I tried to tell him the truth about what happened. Funny to be disbelieved when I was finally being honest about myself.

I sighed and rolled over, willing myself to put the man out of my mind. But rather than falling asleep, I started thinking about last night's discovery.

Why in the world would Frances set up an altar in her home? It seemed so very out of character. Or could I be making unfair assumptions about the altar? Voodoo—or vodou, as it is sometimes called—is a religion just as legitimate as any other. I had no way of knowing whether the altar was simply for worship, or protection, or something actively evil. Obviously there were spirits who didn't want us there, but they could have been acting independently, or could have been the result of a powerful protection spell run amok.

On the other hand, someone had lit those candles recently. . . .

That reminded me—I still had Max's camera from the other night, the digital one with the photos of the altar. I remembered sticking it in my backpack in the flurry of activity when Max was injured. I got up and retrieved my woven backpack from the sofa, where I had dropped it last night. I opened it and remembered the strange handlike candleholder I had shoved in there as well.

Pushing it aside for now, I found the camera at the very bottom of the pack. Turning it over in my hands, I studied the various knobs and dials. It looked expensive. I tried to see the images on the screen, but the pictures were tiny and the images hard to make out.

Finally admitting there was no way I was going to sleep, I went into the kitchen and made myself a snack of toast with huckleberry jam and a mug of peppermint tea. I flipped through my Book of Shadows, reading some of the quotes and observations I had collected over the years, words of peace and reflection that always brought me comfort. Today I found solace from an unexpected source, Helen Keller. She said: “Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”

This from a woman who was blind and deaf. Maybe I needed an attitude shift. So life was dangerous; it was also a daring adventure.

Ten minutes later, I went back downstairs to the still-bustling shop.

“Bronwyn, do you know how to work these things?” I asked after she finished ringing up twin sisters who were thrilled to have found matching 1960s sundresses.

“New camera?” Bronwyn asked as she studied it. “Looks like a nice one.”

“It's not actually mine; I'm just borrowing it. I need to get access to the photos, but I don't have the cord thingy to attach it to the computer.”

“Cord thingy?”

“I think you need the thingy to get the photos out.”

“Oh, right,” said Bronwyn, who was about as technologically savvy as I was. “That's too bad.”

“Just take the memory card out,” said a voice from behind us.

We turned to see that Maya had arrived. She smiled and dumped several copies of the
San Francisco Chronicle
on the counter, then took the camera from Bronwyn and extracted the tiny memory card, holding it up like exhibit A.

“By the way, great article in the paper this morning. I bought a few extra copies in case you wanted to send them around to anyone.”

“Thank you, Maya, that was thoughtful.”

“No problem. Um, Lily, do you have a minute? Could I talk to you in private?”

“Of course,” I said as I led the way to the back room.

“I assume the police came to tell you about Frances,” she said as we sat at the table. “Can you believe that happened? Right after we were there?”

“It's so sad.”

“They were asking me a lot of weird questions about you.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Like what you knew about poisonous plants . . . and witchcraft.”

Our eyes met.

“Lily, I have the sense something's going on here, something more than murder and a child's kidnapping, and it seems like they're related. Can you tell me what it is?”

I wasn't sure how Maya felt about the whole magical-herbs thing, much less the witch thing. I knew she had been raised in the Baptist church, and her mother was still active there. As far as I knew, there really wasn't too much about the Wiccan religion that was at odds with her church, except of course for the whole God/Goddess dispute. And concepts of heaven and hell, and the religious hierarchy and . . . Okay, I guess there were a few areas of disagreement. But both believed in helping one's community and being kind and good, and that seemed like a lot to build on.

But how would I explain my own version of witchcraft? I took Maya's hand in mine. She was calm and warm, and not the type to fly off the handle at the first sign of something unexpected. Maybe coming out to my friends—and an occasional police inspector—was just one more daunting step in settling down and becoming part of a community. I had to take the risk.

“I do have some abilities that are . . .”

“Magic?” she offered, looking doubtful.

“I was going to say freakish.”

She frowned at me, dark eyes questioning.

“It's pretty hard to explain, but I can sometimes sense things. And if I concentrate, I can affect things.”

“Uh-huh. Things like . . . ?”

“All sorts of things. I don't do it very often.” Or at least, I tried not to.

“Why do the police think you're involved with Frances's death?”

“Because they don't understand what they found. Frances's body was found in—”

“A pentagram. The cops asked me about that. I've noticed you guys have some of those around. I assumed they had to do with Bronwyn's Wicca group.”

“They do; that is, they're a common sign of protection.”

Maya nodded. “I even looked them up on the Internet, because at first I thought they were some sort of satanic something or other. But it said they were for protection, too. Sort of like the swastika being taken over by the Nazis, right? It used to be a Buddhist symbol of peace.”

“Something like that, yes.”

She nodded and squeezed my hand. “Well, I trust you, Lily. I don't really understand you, but I trust you.”

“Thanks, Maya.”

Her eyes shifted over my shoulder. “Bronwyn's got a line at the register; looks like you should get back out there. Hey, why don't I take the camera's memory card down the street to get the pictures developed?”

“That would be great, if you wouldn't mind.”

“Nah, I'm at loose ends. I'm supposed to be looking for a job, but it hasn't been easy to find one that fits in with my school schedule.”

We walked back toward the register.

“You know, I was actually thinking you should just come work for me officially,” I offered on impulse.

“Work here?”

“We could use a third person to run errands, and to cover us when we're not here. Besides, we like having you around, right, Bronwyn?”

“Especially if it stays this busy.” Bronwyn nodded with an enthusiastic smile. “We'll need you. But you have to promise—no more jokes about ‘the other white meat.' ”

She laughed. “I promise, no more jokes. I'd love to work here!”

She may have regretted her eager acceptance when she returned with the photos half an hour later. Maya's head was bent low over the pictures, and she was grimacing.

Chapter 12

“What
is
all this?”

The photos brought the horror of last night back to me in living color. At the time I had been involved and concentrating, operating on a different level. That was one reason I wasn't watching out for Max, intent only on what I was doing. But now, the animal sacrifice seemed even more gruesome when taken out of context. The blood, the candles, the blackened bones, the dirt and stones . . . it was all just plain old creepy.

“It's . . . pretty bad, right? I found that altar . . . It's kind of hard to explain.”

She handed them over with two fingers, as though they were a noxious item, or a snake. “Better you than me; that's all I can say.”

Suddenly an odd sensation came over me: I didn't want to be alone tonight. Having never had friends before, I didn't quite know how to ask Bronwyn and Maya to stay. So I just blurted it out.

“Bronwyn, Maya, would y'all hang out with me tonight?” I felt myself blush.

“Sure,” said Maya. “What do you want to do?”

“I'm free,” said Bronwyn. “My granddaughter can't make our movie night; she's at a sleepover with some friends.”

And it was as simple as that. After closing the store at seven, we ordered Chinese food to be delivered and I grabbed a bottle from the collection of California wines I was slowly acquiring. This one was a zinfandel from Seghesio Winery. The man at the wine shop couldn't stop raving about it. One of these days, I promised myself, when I wasn't so swamped with all this demon business, I was going to take a day trip up to the Napa and Sonoma valleys to go wine tasting. I heard it was just like Tuscany.

Once the food arrived we brought everything up to my apartment, lit some candles, and sat in the living room around the coffee table. Oscar had trotted upstairs with us, and since he couldn't transform in front of Maya and Bronwyn, I made him a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and put them on a plate for him on the kitchen floor.

I brewed a pot of loose-leaf green tea to go with the Kung Pao tofu and gluten-based mock Mongolian beef—which tasted much better than it sounded—and then Bronwyn volunteered to read our tea leaves. We giggled over her outrageously incorrect readings, and then I started making the leaves form funny shapes, which led to some rather obscene interpretations. We laughed some more.

“Why do women's private discussions always devolve into sex talk?” Bronwyn said, wiping her eyes.

“You think men's don't?” asked Maya, smiling. She was lying on her stomach on the rug, her feet waving in the air, her chin on an orange satin pillow. “I've got brothers; I
know
how bad they can get. Okay, so we know that Bronwyn has a million guys in love with her, most of them half her age.”

“Not in love,” Bronwyn clarified. “More like in lust.”

“I tell you what, Bronwyn, you give fiftysomething a good name.” I laughed.

She gave us a cat-and-the-canary smile. “You get to be my age, and like men as much as I do, you learn a few tricks. When I was younger I always worried about how I looked, or what the man was thinking. Now I just have fun.”

“So, Lily, what's your story?” Maya said, turning to me. “Tell us about your love life.”

“I . . . uh . . .”

Oscar trotted in and gazed at me. This was his kind of gabfest.

“There's not much to tell, I'm afraid. I've moved around a lot,” I evaded. I heard an electronic sound. “Oh, Bronwyn, isn't that your cell phone ringing?”

Her phone made the sound of the music that accompanied the Wicked Witch from
The Wizard of Oz
. I hoped I would soon be able to lighten up enough to find it funny.

“Oh! I guess it is. . . .” She pawed through her satchel until she unearthed the phone, then chatted for a moment.

“That was my friend Casey. He tends bar down at the Lucky Star. He says there's a great estate auction going on right down the street from him.”

“At ten o'clock at night?” I asked.

“He says it's been going since noon, and they're closing at midnight no matter what, even if they have to give the stuff away for free.”