Secondhand Spirits (21 page)

My cuckoo clock struck one, making me realize I had been staring at the books for nearly an hour.

Before retiring to bed I poured a small circle of salt on the coffee table and drew a pentagram within it, laid out two white candles, one blue candle, one red, one yellow, and one green, all of which had been dressed with olive oil. I combined two drops of rosemary oil, three of frankincense, and one-fourth teaspoon of dragon's blood resin in my oil censer, and set out stones of red jasper and Apache tears. Then I chanted a protection charm, asking for strength and clarity.

As I laid out a white cloth for the stones, I remembered: I still had Frances's wedding dresses! Why hadn't I thought of them before? Maybe they could tell me something. I ran down the stairs to the back room of the store, flicked on the overhead light, and opened the storage closet. I had stashed the gowns here shortly after the police confiscated the other clothes from Frances's house.

They weren't in the closet.

I checked all the changing rooms, out on the floor, behind the counter. Plenty of wedding dresses, but none were the ones I was looking for.

Frances's wedding gowns were gone.

Chapter 13

The next morning I dressed in another recently acquired vintage outfit, this one bought from a charming widow who lived in a palatial French-château style home in the hills of Piedmont, overlooking Oakland and the bay. On a clear day, the woman told me, one could see the Golden Gate Bridge and all the way through to the open ocean. When I had arrived for the clothes, she invited me to stay for lunch and proceeded to launch into a series of risqué stories about her many romantic escapades.

The garment was called a “wiggle dress” because it fit close to the body down to the knee-length ruffled hem, and, I could only presume, looked best when one wiggled as one walked. It was rather ridiculous, a black background with hot pink polka dots, but I felt the need for a little absurdity lately. More important, its vibrations were brash and gutsy. I wore a short pink jacket over the spaghetti straps for the sake of modesty and the cool, cloudy day.

About noon I looked up to see Frances's lawyer, Delores Keener, walking into the store. She paused and looked around briefly, then smiled warmly when she saw me.

“Lily, how
are
you? I would have come earlier, but I've been a bit under the weather,” she said. She was beautifully dressed in a charcoal pantsuit, but her color was off, slightly grayish green, like those kids after the ill-fated camping trip so many years ago. “Can you
believe
what happened with poor Frances? I begged her to leave that neighborhood, but she said she'd never think of selling that house.”

“I was just thinking about you yesterday,” I said. Her unexpected presence in my store made me wonder if I had accidentally summoned her. “I saw the article in the paper about you running for the DA's office.”

“Can you believe it? Me, district attorney?”

“I'm sure you'd be great.”

“Speaking of such things, have the police spoken to you about the other day? They seem quite curious about you.”

I looked around to see if anyone could overhear our conversation. The store was full of folks meandering through the aisles, laughing while they tried on hats and jackets. They seemed absorbed in their own business. Still, I decided to change the subject.

“I'm sorry to hear you've been sick,” I said. “Are you feeling better?”

She waved it off. “Must have been something I ate. I could stand to lose a few pounds, anyway,” she said with the conspiratorial smile known to women who understand the slimming potential of the stomach flu. “Speaking of newspaper articles, I saw the big spread about your store.”

“I think everyone must have. The place has been jammed.”

“Lily, this might not be the time and place for this, but we have some business we need to discuss,” Delores said, her tone suddenly serious. “Would you prefer to come to my office, or do you have a minute now to talk privately?”

“Oh, of course,” I said. I told Bronwyn I was stepping into the back room for a moment and led the way through the heavy velvet curtain to the old green table. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Juice?”

“No, thank you.” She collapsed into a high-backed faded purple velvet chair. “Ahh, it feels good just to sit down. I love these shoes, but they sure don't love my feet.”

Delores was wearing the kind of sophisticated high-heeled pumps I could never get used to, though I admired the look. One thing I liked about my vintage outfits was that so many of them looked good, in a funky way, with comfy shoes like Keds and sandals. Footwear that let me sell clothes on my feet all day, and outrun the occasional spirit at night. All in a day's work.

“I'll cut right to the chase,” Delores said, leaning forward and fixing me with her soft brown eyes. “Frances Potts amended her will the night before she died. She left everything to you.”

“I'm sorry?”

“She left you her entire estate.”

“But . . . that doesn't make any sense. I don't want her estate.”

“All I can do is make sure it goes to you. Afterward, it's yours to do whatever you like with.” Delores shrugged and brought a slim file out of her maroon leather portfolio, handing it to me. “If you want to give it to that sad-looking man sitting on the curb outside your store, be my guest.”

“How is this even possible? I only met Frances once, on the night she died.”

“Technically it was the night before she died—the medical examiner placed the time of death at sometime around dawn the next day. Not that it matters. The night you and Maya visited, Frances and I had dinner. She asked me to change it at that time. It was a simple enough thing to do, a one-page document I printed off and had her sign right then and there.”

I opened the file and read the paper, noting Frances's wobbly signature at the bottom of the page. Had I unconsciously influenced her somehow?

“I still don't understand. Why would she do such a thing?”

“She was quite impressed by you. She said something about your financing Maya's oral history project, doing something worthwhile with the money.” She studied me for a moment, then gave me a quizzical smile. “Most people are happy to hear they've inherited. Does it matter why?”

“Yes, it matters. If Frances wanted Maya to have money for her project, why not give it to her directly? And what about her own daughter? She mentioned grandchildren, as well.”

Delores shrugged. “Her daughter Katherine is . . . an interesting character. She's the one who found her mother, you know, poor thing. I feel terrible—I called Katherine after I left that night, suggesting that she drop by. First time she visits in years, and . . .” She shrugged. “Anyway, now she won't talk to me. Perhaps you'll have better luck. Here's her information.” She handed me a piece of notepaper with Katherine Airey's phone number and address.

“You mean she lives right here in San Francisco?”

“Didn't you know?”

“I guess I assumed she lived farther away, and that's why she wasn't around more.”

Delores just shook her head and sorted through a few other papers in her attaché case.

“Do you know anything about a redevelopment plan in the neighborhood?” I asked.

“All I know is, Frances didn't want to sell. One of your neighbors here in the Haight, Sandra Schmidt, met with her about it several times. She even came to me once.”

“Why do you think she wanted it so badly?”

“She's involved in a neighborhood association nearby that's working with the city on a broad redevelopment plan for that whole area. As I'm sure you've noticed, it could use the help.”

“And Sandra wanted the house?”

“I believe she wanted to tear it down, use the property for a park or some such. I didn't get into the details—Frances said no, so I relayed that to Schmidt.”

“Could I ask . . . why are you representing Frances? What with running for office and all, it seems rather small potatoes for you.”

“She and my mother were close,” she said, gathering her papers and tucking them back in her briefcase. “I do a certain amount of pro bono work, and a lot of older folks have a hard time finding lawyers they feel comfortable with. Plus, I love a home-cooked meal from time to time. Slim-Fast shakes can only take a person so far.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I added. “I forgot she was an old family friend.”

“Oh, by the way, Frances was very explicit about her burial in her will. She already had a plot picked out, so presuming the police release her body in time, the funeral will be tomorrow at eleven, in case you'd like to attend. Please invite your young friend Maya as well.”

She took the notepaper back and wrote the name and address of the cemetery, the date, and the time. It was an Oakland address.

As we stood, I asked, “Have you heard anything more about Jessica?”

“Who?”

How could she have forgotten? “Little Jessica, Frances's neighbor?”

A pained expression passed across her face. She seemed so sad that I pushed aside my momentary misgivings. “
Jessica
. No, nothing. I grieve so for her family.”

Delores told me she'd be sending me some more papers to sign within the week, and let herself out.

I stayed behind at the table for a moment, thinking. Why in the world would Frances change her will after meeting me? Had I somehow influenced her unconsciously?
Great.
Now I not only had opportunity for her murder, but I had clear motive. I wondered how long it would be before Inspector Romero came knocking on my door . . . this time with handcuffs.

This was ridiculous. I didn't need the Potts estate; I didn't
want
the Potts estate. I would give it back, as simple as that.

I picked up the phone extension and dialed the number Delores had given me.

A man answered the phone with a distinct Eastern European accent.

“This is Lily Ivory; I was hoping I could speak to Katherine Airey.”

“Is this a telemarketer?”

“No, I—”

“What is the business you are calling about?” he asked.

“Her mother's lawyer gave me her number. It's about her mother's estate.”

“One moment, please.”

I heard a dog barking in the background, a large one by the deep, gruff sound of it. I immediately felt better about Katherine Airey. You had to like someone who liked dogs.

The man came back on the line.

“She has already receive the papers from the lawyer. This is no problem.”

“It's not that there's a problem, exactly. . . . Could I speak directly with Ms. Airey? It's really a personal matter.”

“What is your name?”

“Lily Ivory.”

“One moment, please.”

He set the handset down again. I heard a woman's voice in the distance, and though I could not make out the words, I thought I heard a cold tone in her voice. I could only imagine what she thought of me, a complete stranger who had just inherited her mother's estate. Not only was she grieving the violent death of her mother, but she probably thought I was a fortune-hunting scam artist who managed to worm her way into an old woman's heart.

Still, she relayed a message through the man on the phone: I was welcome to come by anytime this afternoon after two. He gave me an address on Vallejo Street. I jotted it down and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

After pondering for another moment, I got up and rechecked the storage closet for Frances's wedding gowns. The older I got, the more I had to look repeatedly in the same place to find things. I liked to blame the borrower imps, but it was probably nothing more supernatural than my own distracted mind.

Still no wedding dresses in the closet.

“Bronwyn, have you seen Frances Potts's wedding dresses anywhere?” I asked as I returned to the front of the store.

“I thought you put them in the storage closet.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. They're missing.”

Just then Maya walked in, ready to begin her first day at work.

“Hi, Maya,” I said. “You haven't happened to see Frances's wedding gowns anywhere, have you?”

She shook her head.

“Who would abscond with two old wedding dresses?” Bronwyn wondered.

“They're not old; they're vintage,” intoned Maya, reciting the store's slogan.

I smiled. “She's got you there. But either way, they're still missing. Let me know if they turn up, will you?”

In between helping customers, I showed Maya how to operate the register, and started to train her on my rather intricate inventory-control system. I kept track of what eras and styles were most popular, and liked to keep a record of where we were getting the clothes from. She caught on quickly. I watched while she checked out several customers and was impressed with her ease and efficiency. I should have hired her weeks ago.

Two hours later the shop was empty of customers and we spent our time clearing the dressing rooms and straightening the hanging clothes and the always messy scarf shelves. I kept thinking ahead to my meeting with Frances's daughter Katherine. What should I say, exactly? I would tell her I was giving the estate back . . . but there was more: I was hoping she could tell me something about her mother, or the house, or the neighborhood that would help to explain some of what was going on.

Maybe setting up gruesome voodoo altars was an old family pastime, for example, and Katherine had stopped by to light the candles, and quite accidentally set off a chain of events that almost killed Max with a sacrificial knife. You never know.