Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (17 page)

I recalled what Knox said about yearning for a “regular” home while he trailed his military father around the globe. Maybe it wasn’t just witches who yearned for such things. But when it came right down to it, was anyone’s upbringing “normal”?

“Lily,” Max said as he rose to greet me. “Good to see you.”

He leaned in to give me a hug but I stepped back.

“Sorry,” said Max.

“
No
, no.
I’m
the sorry one. In more ways than one,” I said with a smile. “It’s just . . . I don’t . . . I’m just . . .”

“It’s fine, Lily,” Max said, his light gaze sweeping over me. “It really is. I understand. It’s just good to see you. You look wonderful, by the way. I take it life is treating you well?”

“As they say in Texas, I could complain, but then so could the devil.”

He chuckled. “And what does that mean exactly?”

“I really have no idea,” I said, joining him in a laugh. “Sometimes I think these sayings serve to fill a gap in the conversation when you don’t know what else to say.”

“That sounds like a good enough reason to me. Please.” He gestured to the seat across from him at the small iron café table.

The waiter took my order for an iced tea and Max and I perused our menus, a move inspired, on my part, more by the desire to do something than from interest. We exchanged a few polite remarks, me commenting on a pasta dish, Max pointing out the tiramisu.

Our drinks arrived, accompanied by a basket of warm sourdough bread and a dish of olive oil sporting a few
flakes of chili and sea salt. After our waiter left with our meal orders, Max asked me what I had wanted to talk to him about.

“Ursula Moreno owns a shop called
El Pajarito
that you included in a story on the
botanicas
in the Mission. Do you remember your interview with her?”

He nodded. “That was a while ago. But yes, I remember.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about that interview? Anything unusual that didn’t wind up in the article?”

He pushed his chin out slightly, as though trying to remember. “I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary, other than the fact that some local witch doctors are using so-called magic to try to cure cancer, or some such nonsense.”

I felt myself tightening up.
This was good
, I thought. This was the disdainful side of Max, the cynical skeptic who couldn’t deal with my powers. It was useful to be reminded.

“Did Ursula claim to be able to cure cancer with magic?” I asked.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember exactly who said what. I interviewed a number of shop owners for that story. But I gave all my research to Nigel—it was his series, I just stepped in when he couldn’t do those first interviews. He wrote a recent article following up on some of those types of scams.”

“Yes, thanks. I read that one, as well as yours. But I noticed the photo in the article that you wrote. It was a picture of Ursula Moreno, a girl named Selena, and another woman named Lupita Rodriguez. Was Lupita your initial contact?”

Max sat back in his seat and nodded. “Yes, she was.”

“How did you meet her?”

“She approached Nigel, said she could introduce him to some people.”

“So she just came to the newspaper offices out of the blue?”

“If I recall correctly, she was hoping for compensation.”

“Nigel told me y’all don’t pay for stories at the Chronicle.”

“We don’t. She probably thought the publicity would bring more business into the shop.”

According to Ursula, Lupita wasn’t involved in the running of the shop. So how would she have benefited from more customers? On the other hand, maybe Ursula had lied, or misled me for some reason.

“Do you remember a young teenager there, a girl named Selena?”

“I do.”

“What were your impressions of her?”

“She was quiet. Seemed intelligent. A little we—” He cut himself off.

“Weird? You can say it.”

“She was different. Clearly something was going on there, though whether she was somehow disturbed, or simply far too intelligent for her age, I wasn’t sure. Our interaction wasn’t that extensive. Why do you ask?”

“I think she’s a lot like me. Or the way I was when I was her age.”

Just then the waiter appeared with our meals.
Pasta carbonara
for Max, eggplant parmesan for me. My mouth watered at the sight of the generous mound of eggplant slathered in melted cheese and a fragrant tomato sauce, and I belatedly remembered Oscar’s comment about my putting on weight. Maybe I should have ordered a salad. Still, as the delectable aromas wafted up from my plate I was glad I hadn’t, and nodded when the
waiter offered to sprinkle more parmesan on top of my meal.

I’ll have yogurt for dinner,
I promised myself, and dug in.

I was on my second mouthful when I realized Max wasn’t eating. When I met his eyes, he asked, “What do you mean, she’s a lot like you were when you were her age?”

“A freak of nature.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

“Yes, frankly, I do.” I sat back with a smile. “But the
good
news is that I’m coming to terms with it. Maybe nature needs a few freaks to balance out all the normal folks. In any case, in the words of the immortal Popeye, ‘I yam what I yam.’”

“You’re an incredible woman, Lily,” Max said softly. “And much,
much
more attractive than Popeye.”

“Um, thank you.” We shared a smile. “Is there anything else you can tell me about your time spent with Lupita, or in the store, or with Ursula? Anything odd, at all—besides Selena?”

He considered this. “I remember Lupita spoke a lot about her upcoming wedding, but Ursula didn’t seem impressed. Lupita told Selena she could be a bridesmaid, but again, Ursula seemed to downplay the idea, as if she was afraid to raise Selena’s hopes. It struck me because the family tension was pretty overt.”

“Did anyone mention the fiancé’s name, or anything else about him?”

“Sorry,” he said with a shake of his head. “I didn’t meet him, and it wasn’t pertinent to my story so I didn’t follow up.”

“Did Lupita or Ursula say anything about working with a woman named Betty North? Maybe doing a cleansing for an old woman?”

“I don’t remember in particular.”

“How about Nicky Utley?”

“They didn’t mention any names. In fact, that’s something I recall: that Ursula made a big deal out of the confidentiality of her clients.”

“Rats,”
I said as I sat back, frustrated. “Confidentiality doesn’t do me any good, in this instance, I fear.”

He smiled. “Sorry about that. I don’t feel like I’ve been very helpful, but to tell you the truth most of the interesting stuff made it into the article. And like I said, it was a while ago.”

“I appreciate you trying. So,” I said, changing the subject, “how’s your brother?”

“He’s doing great. He’s getting married.”

“Really? That’s wonderful news! Do you like his fiancée?”

“Very much. She’s very steady and seems to help him stay the course. Takes the pressure off of me to make sure he’s okay.”

“You are
such
an older brother,” I said, and again flashed back on my conversation with Knox. He hadn’t been able to take care of his sister, in the end. Was he beating himself up over it . . . or could he have had something to gain from Nicky’s death? I tried to shake off the thought.
This was the problem with hanging around a homicide detective,
I thought. You started to see everyone as a suspect.

“And how are you doing?” I continued. “Are you getting married anytime soon?”

He shook his head and sipped his beer, holding my gaze. “How about you?”

“I don’t think I’m the marrying kind,” I said with a nervous chuckle.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I think any man would be lucky to have you.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but had no idea what to say. Instead, I just sat for a moment and enjoyed the peculiar but undeniable intimacy of two people who had once shared something important, but realized they weren’t right for each other.

We ordered espressos, and Max insisted upon sharing a dessert of my choosing. “The crème brulée is excellent here, as is the tiramisu.”

“In my book,” I said, “it’s not dessert unless it’s chocolate.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Lily Ivory: You are a woman after my own heart.”

I ordered a double chocolate flourless cake, à la mode, and we shared bites. Dessert finished, we argued over who should pay—I insisted; lunch was my suggestion—and with the bill paid I rose to leave.

“It was great to see you, Max,” I said, holding my hand out.

He took my hand in his, and placed his other over it. “Great see you, too. I’ve missed you, Lily.”

He didn’t let go of my hand, and his gaze lingered. I looked away nervously, and blurted out, “I’m actually seeing someone.”

Max laughed, and let his hands drop. “As a matter of fact, so am I. It’s for the best, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I trust he treats you well?”

“Yes, yes, he does. And is she good to you?”

“So far, we’ve managed to do well by each other.”

“I’m really glad for you, Max. I . . . I hope we can be friends.”

“I would like that.”

I didn’t tell Max who the new man in my life was. There was bad blood between Max and Sailor, stemming
from the tragedy with Max’s wife. Besides, as nice as it had been to see Max again, I doubted we would be barbecuing together or going out on double dates.

As I walked back to my car I heard a familiar roar and looked up to see a motorcyclist turning the corner. Was that Sailor? Probably not—I was forever thinking it was him when a motorcycle went by. Still, he lived not far from here, in Chinatown. It could have been him.

Not that it would matter. Unless . . . If he saw me having lunch with Max, he might jump to the wrong conclusion. As I had recently discovered, jealousy was no respecter of logic.

I decided to take a detour and drop by Sailor’s apartment, which was on the second floor of a building on Hang Ah Alley. His motorcycle wasn’t out front, but I climbed the stairs anyway. On the landing outside his door lingered the ghost of a man killed in a gambling fight more than a century ago. Sailor claimed it didn’t bother him and that this was why the rent was so cheap, but the ghostly presence always made me feel mournful.

I knocked, but there was no response. I tore a page out of a small notebook I kept in my satchel and wrote a note:
Was in the neighborhood. Sorry about last night—I found Selena. Miss you.

My pen hovered over the paper. At last I wrote simply,
Lily
.

I used a rare pay phone to call Aunt Cora’s Closet and check in with Bronwyn. She told me all was well, so I bought a few items at my favorite Chinatown bakery and set out to make one more stop before returning.

When Sailor and I visited Fred after finding the poppet at Betty’s house, I had known very little about Betty and her family. Perhaps it was time for another chat with the elderly artist.

Fred’s place in China Basin looked exactly as it had the first time I was here, with the door standing slightly ajar. Once again there was no response to either my knock or my “
Hello
?” But in the warehouse area, I spotted Fred sitting on a stool in front of a canvas, apparently so absorbed in his painting that he hadn’t heard me.

I watched in silence as he dredged his long-handled brush through the creamy paints on his palette, then dabbed bits of color on the canvas. It was fascinating to witness the flicks of his wrist, his skill and concentration as he brought the painting to life.

Not so long ago, while helping to solve a homicide at
the San Francisco School of Fine Arts, I had felt something of a kinship with the artists. Artists were often outsiders, the “weirdos” of society—a little bit like witches. Sadly, I hadn’t had much chance to pal around with the artists at the school, because in addition to a murderer there had been a vicious demon running around, so I’d been a little busy.

“Hello, Fred?” I ventured again.

“Oh! So sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” The elderly man removed earbuds and gestured at an iPod. “My granddaughter bought me this. She loaded it up with all the greats: Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett. Can’t get enough of ’em.”

“You’re more technologically advanced than I am,” I said with a smile. “I’m still fond of LPs.”

He chuckled. “I remember you from the other day, don’t I? Sorry. My memory’s not what it used to be. I can’t remember names for the life of me . . . but you came to ask about that ugly doll you found at Betty’s house.”

“That’s right. I had a couple of other questions, if you don’t mind.” I held up the pink plastic bag. “I brought treats from Chinatown.
Char siu bau,
almond cookies, and sesame balls.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind, but unnecessary. I’m happy to have a visitor. What did you want to ask me?”

“Did you ever meet Betty’s children?”

He nodded, wiping his brush on a white rag. “In the last year or so her daughter, Nicky, had started coming around, visiting fairly regularly. It was a pretty big deal because they hadn’t been close previously. It made Betty very happy.”

“What was Nicky like?”

“Nice gal. Pretty, like her mama. I wanted to paint her, but she wouldn’t sit for me.”

“What did she and Betty talk about when they got together?” I knew I sounded pushy, but I needed to know.

“I don’t really remember,” Fred said with a shake of his head. “Just the usual mother-daughter stuff, I guess. I know she was trying to have a baby. Seemed real important to her. Mostly, though, I think she just wanted to have a relationship with her mother, and it’s a good thing too, since it turns out Betty was nearing the end. Some people thought Nicky was after Betty’s house, but I didn’t believe that.”

“Who thought that?”

“Actually . . . I guess Betty mentioned it to me herself, asked me if I thought it could be true.”

“Do you think it was?”

“Who knows what motivates people?” he said with a shrug. He crossed over to a paint-spattered utility sink and scrubbed his hands. “But I didn’t think so. I didn’t know Nicky well, but she didn’t strike me as that type. If you ask me, it was that Mexican gal who put the idea in Betty’s head. “

“You mean Lupita?”

“Right! That’s her right there.” He gestured toward the easel that held Lupita’s portrait last time I was here, but it was empty. He shook his head. “Thought it was there . . . must have misplaced it. Her fiancé commissioned it.”

“Who is her fiancé, do you know?”

“I don’t remember his name. Sorry. I met him just the one time, at Betty’s. Guess I should have asked for the money for the painting up front, huh? Live and learn.” He pulled a paper plate from under a counter and took his time arranging the pastries, then set them atop a worktable. “Mmm, I love Chinese pork buns.”

“Could you tell me what he looked like?”

“Just a regular guy. White guy. I can’t say as I remember—didn’t really pay attention. I’m a little more observant when it comes to women,” he said with a wink.

“How was it any of Lupita’s business who Betty left her house to?”

Fred waved his paintbrush in the air. “You wait and see what it feels like to grow old. Sometimes the nurses who take care of you every day feel closer to you than family.”

“What about Knox?”

“Who?”

“Betty’s son.”

“Maybe I met him, I don’t recall. But I wasn’t at Betty’s all the time; I’ve always kept my studio, and slept here often.”

“What did Betty say about her kids?”

“Not a lot. When I first met her, she said they’d run off with the military. I thought she was joking.”

He resumed painting, bringing to life a fanciful scene of dancers in North Beach.

I thought back on our conversation: Had I learned anything helpful? Not particularly. But . . . I just couldn’t imagine the old man in front of me offing Nicky and Betty.

Would Fred even have been strong enough to walk to the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge and push a woman over the rail? On the other hand . . . paintings could be used for something akin to poppet magic. Could this fellow be a secretly powerful practitioner? Hard to believe.

I watched for another long moment, wondering whether he had family. He said his granddaughter had given him the iPod, which I hoped meant he was in contact with relatives.

It occurred to me to call Max’s brother, who taught at
the San Francisco School of Fine Arts; could there be a place for Fred there? I didn’t much care for his style, but it certainly was distinctive. And he’d been around the art world a long time. I imagined he could teach young artists a thing or two.

“Well, I should leave you to your painting,” I said, then paused. “By the way, do you want the portraits you left at Betty’s house? The estate sale’s this weekend. If you don’t claim them, they might be sold.”

He waved me off. “That’s probably for the best. It’d be nice if someone wanted them enough to buy them. Maybe they’d appreciate them.”

“I think they’re a lovely tribute to Betty.”

He shrugged and placed thick swaths of blue paint on the canvas to create a background for the dancers dressed in the white, green, and red of the Italian flag.

Before I had a chance to say good-bye, he put the earbuds back in, and seemed to lose himself in his painting.

*   *   *

Back at Aunt Cora’s Closet, things were mellow. Maya had arrived and was thumbing through today’s newspaper, Bronwyn was cleaning the herb jars that lined her shelves, and Selena was sitting on the floor, diligently cleaning a small silver locket under the watchful eyes of a pig and a cat.

“Our Selena seems to have quite a knack for cleaning and repairing old jewelry,” said Bronwyn. “She also has a way with animals; neither Beowulf nor Oscar have let her out of their sight all day.”

“That’s for sure,” said Maya. “Hey, look. The ad for Betty North’s estate sale is in the paper.”

Selena’s head popped up at the sound of Betty’s name.

“That’s good,” I said, speaking as much to Selena as to Maya. “That way her things will go to good homes, to be appreciated and taken care of. What’s the ad say?”

“Let’s see . . . ‘This is a nonsmoking, no-pets home chock-full of rare collectibles. Items include an antique Chinese eight-panel screen; Karen Scholav seventeenth-century screen; Sally Kimp sculpture; bronze wall sculpture by Elis Gudmann; Waterford crystal stemware; vintage Nicholas Ungar full mink jacket; grandfather clock from Bavaria circa 1935; large antique silver-plated trays, vases, and cutlery; Hoover empower wide path vacuum; Lladros sculptures; enameled jewelry boxes; jade, ivory, and stone carvings; assorted quality costume jewelry; Swarovski crystal chandelier; Waterford, Royal Albert old country rose china; Royal Doulton character mugs; wood carved ducks; circus ephemera; Christmas decorations; free style portable oxygen concentrator Airsep.’”

Maya paused to take a deep breath.

“And the list goes on. Wow. There’s a bunch of furniture listed, too.” Maya set the newspaper on the counter with a rattle. “I knew Betty had a lot of stuff, but when you see it all listed like that, it’s kind of overwhelming.”

“I guess it could really add up,” I said, looking over her shoulder at the list. “From what I saw at the house, they aren’t pricing things cheap.”

Unlike items at a yard or garage sale, merchandise at estate sales was usually prime. A professional liquidator like Finn would winnow out the junk prior to the sale, selling most of it to dealers like me, donating what was left over to a thrift store, and throwing the rest away. What remained were the quality items which, while a bargain compared to new, would bring in a fair chunk of cash. And considering what houses in San Francisco sold
for these days, regardless of condition, Betty’s heir stood to inherit a lot of money.

“I’m sure Finn’s being fair, though. Canadians are always fair.”

I laughed. “Seriously?”

“He
is
, he told me,” put in Selena.

“You know Finn?” Maya asked her.

Selena nodded and put her head back down.

I hadn’t told my friends the exact circumstances of how I had found Selena or why she was staying with me, much less that she had been hanging out at Betty’s house, before and after Betty’s death. Given what we’d been through together, they were good about not asking me a lot of detailed questions.

“So,” I said as I hung up a couple of dresses that had been left outside the dressing room, “you’re suggesting that because of his nationality he must be fair?”

“They’re also funny. A lot of comedians are Canadian.”

Maya nodded. “Comedians and news anchors.”

“Yep,” said Bronwyn as she spritzed her counter with an organic blend of white vinegar mixed with rosemary essential oil. “Good people, the Canadians. If it weren’t for the weather . . .” Bronwyn trailed off with a wistful sigh.

“That’s their ace in the hole,” Maya said. “If the weather were nicer, the whole country would have been overrun long ago, and they wouldn’t be so polite anymore.”

“Or funny,” said Bronwyn.

“Or well-informed,” I added with a laugh. “I get it. You win.”

“You know, Finn’s sort of cute,” Bronwyn said, wiggling her eyebrows in Maya’s direction. “Might he be single, by any chance?”

Ever since Bronwyn had found happiness with Duke, she seemed determined to fix up everyone around her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she put up a sign on her herbal stand offering matchmaking services, not unlike the sign for
limpias
at Ursula’s store.

“He mentioned a wife,” said Maya in her signature dry tone. But . . . was it my imagination, or did I detect a wistful note? Bronwyn cast me a significant glance, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

Maya’s love life would have to wait, however. At the moment I had bigger fish to fry: I needed to ask Maya about a few things. But not in front of Selena.

“Bronwyn, okay with you if Maya and I go in the back room for a few minutes?”

“Of course. Selena and I can handle the ravening hordes,” she said, gesturing around the empty store.

“Thanks,” I said. “Maya, a moment?”

Maya followed me through the curtain into the work room.

“Lily, please tell me this isn’t a be-open-to-romance pep talk. Because as much as I love Bronwyn, she’s about to send me round the bend, as you would say, with her motherly advice on how to land me a boyfriend.”

“She just wants you to be happy.”

“I know,” she said with a smile, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a seat at the table. “Maybe someday I’ll walk in here with an engagement ring, make you both swoon with happiness for me. So, what’s up?”

“I was wondering about the day Betty North went to the hospital. Could you tell me what happened, exactly?”

“It was right after lunch. I went to use the bathroom, and when I came out she was on the ground. This . . . it wasn’t that unusual for her to feel dizzy or need to go to bed. She wasn’t in good health.”

“Were you alone? Just the two of you?”

“Just us for lunch, but one of the home health aides was at the house.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember her name, sorry.”

“Do you remember anything about her? Maybe her nationality, where she was from?”

“She was Latina, but from here. No accent.”

“Could it have been Lupita Rodriguez?”

“It could have been . . . but I really don’t remember.”

“You were a witness when Betty signed her will, weren’t you? Do you remember who she left her estate to?”

“No, sorry.” She shook her head. “I didn’t look at it in detail. It was a preprinted form, the kind of thing you buy at a stationery store or off the Internet, and fill in the blanks. There was a notary public there; all I did was witness Betty’s signature.”

Nigel Thorne had mentioned that houses lost value if someone died on the premises. Was it possible that Lupita did something that day to make sure Betty died in the hospital so as not to depress the home’s sale price?

That seemed a little complicated. Not to mention Maya would have called the paramedics to take Betty to the hospital whether Lupita was there or not; anyone would have.

Besides, I had no proof Lupita had brought the voodoo doll into the house, or that she had any stake in Betty’s estate. But then why would she disappear? Unless she’d already gotten what she wanted . . . Ursula had sworn Lupita didn’t have power, but what if she and Lupita were working some sort of elaborate
bujo
scam to wring Betty dry? Perhaps Lupita had already absconded with a bunch of cash and other valuables, and Ursula was planning to join her as soon as she was free, leaving the unwanted Selena in my care.