Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (18 page)

Well,
that
was a depressing line of thought.

I heard a commotion on the other side of the curtain. “Sounds like customers. We should go help Bronwyn.”

And then there was a terrible sound, like someone stifling a scream.

Selena’s hands were clapped over her mouth, and she was making muffled grunting noises, like a small animal.

“Selena, what is it? Are you okay?” I demanded.

“That’s
wrong
.”

“
What’s
wrong?”

She pointed to an ugly wax doll lying on the floor. It looked like the poppet Maya and I had found at Betty’s house, but this time there was no photo attached.

“Where did you find that?” I asked.

“In . . . the . . . pocket,” she said. Her voice quavered as she held up a quilted pink housecoat, one of several we had bought from Betty’s estate.

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

“My fault,” Maya said. “I brought a bag of Betty’s clothes from the workroom to the counter to sort through when things got quiet. The housecoat must have been in that bag.”

Just then, a trio of teenage girls entered the store, laughing and chatting.

Selena whirled around in surprise. Two hats flew off a
nearby shelf, a vase of sunflowers crashed to the floor, and an umbrella hopped out of a metal holder.

Oscar careened across the shop toward the teenagers. Excited to see a pet pig, the girls giggled and squealed and fussed over him, oblivious to the unfolding mayhem in the store.

My piggy familiar was a first-rate decoy.

I used the pink housecoat to pick up the doll, grabbed Selena by the wrist, and pulled her through the back room and upstairs to my apartment, locking the door behind us.

“Calm down
,” I said. “You have to get hold of yourself.”

“But . . . that’s from Ursula’s shop.”

“I thought your grandmother didn’t deal in dolls like this.” I placed the ugly thing on the steamer trunk, and surrounded it with protective stones as I’d done for its twin.

“Not the doll, the
wax
. It’s not the right wax, can’t you feel it?”

“So someone used the wrong wax? But the wax is from Ursula’s store?”

“It isn’t meant for dolls. Never for dolls, Ursula says. Can’t you feel it? It’s not right.”

Confused, I took a calming breath, centered myself, and studied the doll. It was crudely molded, but without a photo attached it didn’t feel as sinister as the first one we had found. On the other hand . . . I held my hand over it. Was it humming? Maybe Selena was right; maybe it was “wrong” somehow. Perhaps the doll was charged. The beige wax might well hold hair or fingernails or something else belonging to the target—something much stronger than a photograph of a painting.

The sound of hooves on the landing told me Oscar
had arrived. I got up to let him in. Before I’d even closed the door he transformed to his natural form.

“I’m tellin’ ya, she’s—”

I put my finger to my lips, cutting him off.

“So, Selena, are you saying this doll made Betty sick?”

No answer. She just stared at me with that strange lack of affect.

“Selena, I want you to tell me about Lupita. She used to take you to Betty’s house, right?”

“She was nice.”

“Did she . . . could she have brought the doll there?”

Selena shook her head vehemently.

“Did she do any other sort of magic at Betty’s?”

Another head shake.

I reached out and stroked her head. She didn’t pull away.

“Sugar pie, did you ever do magic there?”

“What kind of magic?”

“Any kind?”

“Not really. Lupita said I shouldn’t waste my powers. She said they were too important.”

“Don’t you have any idea where Lupita is now? Do you know where she lives? Or how about her fiancé? It’s very important that I speak with her.”

She shook her head, and her lower lip trembled, and it dawned on me that in the past few weeks, Selena had been torn away from everything and everyone that was familiar to her: Ursula, Lupita, Betty.

I remembered her asking:
“Do you ever wish you could cry?”

In a shoebox I kept a lump of red wax that I used to make conjure balls. I divided it in half and handed one chunk to Selena, then started playing with mine. The wax became pliable under the warmth of my hands, and the
sensation of rolling it between my palms was calming, centering.

Selena soon followed suit and began to knead her wax.

Finally, after several minutes of silence, Selena ventured, “Lupita said Nicky was only hanging around because she wanted Betty’s money. Is that true?”

What could I say? I honestly didn’t know.

“I don’t think so, sugar. I think Nicky didn’t grow up with her mom, but once she was an adult, and a mother herself, she wanted to change that, to get to know her mother.”

As I spoke the words stabbed at my heart. Would I ever know my
own
mother?

“Is it true that Emma’s dad killed Nicky?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Why would you think that?”

“I heard you talking to that man last night. The policeman.”

I hesitated, not sure what to say. As gently as I could, I said, “We don’t know what happened with Emma’s mom.”

“I don’t think she killed herself.”

“You don’t? What makes you think that?”

“Emma’s mom came to Ursula looking for magic. She wanted to have a baby. Ursula said she was doing well. Why would she quit?”

Good question.

“I was thinking, if Emma’s dad hurt her mom, he’ll go to jail, right?” Selena said. “Then Emma won’t have a mother
or
a father to take care of her. She’ll be like me.”

Her sensitivity surprised me. I searched her face but she still seemed impassive, playing with the wax, molding and grooming it, rolling it into little balls, then mushing them together and starting over.

“That’s true,” I said.

“But Emma’s lucky, she has an uncle, and maybe other people, too, to take care of her.”

“Your grandmother should be coming home soon, Selena. And if not, for whatever reason, you can stay here with me.”

Her hands stopped their incessant movement. Still tightened her grip so hard her knuckles turned white and the wax squeezed out between her fingers.

“Selena?”

Her gaze met mine for an instant before returning to the worktable in front of her.

“I can stay here?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes.”

“With Beowulf?”

“Actually, Beowulf lives with Bronwyn’s daughter’s family most of the time. And I’m sorry to say I’m allergic to cats, so I won’t be adopting one. But, I was thinking . . . Maya has gotten to know some of the people over at the Humane Society. What if we looked into a volunteer job over there for you?”

She shrugged.

“They need people to help with some basics, like washing and brushing the animals. And even more importantly, to socialize them so they’re more adoptable. To take them for walks, and play with them, and pet them.”

“To love them.”

I had to clear my throat. “Yes, exactly.”

She started kneading the wax again, stacking up little balls and figures she had molded. After a moment, she nodded.

“I want to do that. Work at the Humane Society.”

“Let’s ask Maya to help us arrange it.”

“And if Ursula doesn’t get out of jail, I’ll stay here with you.”

“With me and Oscar,” I corrected. “This is his home, too. But yes, you’ll have a home.”

“Okay.”

Oscar dropped his head in his big hands and groaned.

*   *   *

Way too early the next morning, I was awakened from a deep sleep by a puff of pizza breath. Oscar was perched on my brass headboard, leaning so far over that I opened my eyes to the disconcerting sight of an upside-down gobgoyle face mere inches from mine.

“What’s up?” I croaked, glancing at the clock: 4:27 a.m.

“You’d better come see.”

I followed him downstairs and through the workroom. He halted at the brocade curtains that separated the area from the shop floor.

Cautiously, I nudged the drapes open.

Chaos.

A parasol skittered down one aisle. Several pairs of gloves, attached at the wrists, fluttered in the air like white cotton butterflies. An Hermès scarf—a real find—wrapped and unwrapped itself around a mannequin’s head. Racks of frothy dresses had been knocked over and the sparkly contents of the junk jewelry trunk lay scattered across the floor.

I caught a pink satin cocktail dress in midair.

“What did I tell ya?” Oscar looked at me with reproach. “This is what happens when you let strangers sleep on your couch.”

“Is it a . . . ?”

“Poltergeist,”
Oscar said in a sinister whisper.

I held up my hand, palm-out, releasing an orangey red light. I walked the perimeter of the store, tripping over crumpled dresses and stumbling through piles of
accessories, but my words did not falter. In a loud, commanding voice, I repeated: “
What is dark be filled with light, remove these spirits from my sight. Powers of protection, powers that clear, remove all those who don’t belong here. I call on my energies from history deep; we are entitled to sweet sleep.”

By the time I walked around the store twice, things settled. The gloves lay lifeless on their shelf, nothing flung itself at us. I looked around the mess and sighed.

“That should do it for now,” I mumbled. “But I don’t understand. That talisman should have kept Selena from accidentally calling a poltergeist.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re here in the shop, and not bothering
her
. She’s upstairs, sleeping like a baby. Like I should be.”

“I suppose you’re right. Maybe it’s displaced energy. Still, it seems strange.”

“Or maybe your magic is compromised.”

“Excuse me?”

“What?” said Oscar.

“What did you just say?”

“Um . . . that your magic is compromised?”

“Why would my magic be compromised?”

“On account of you’re jealous.”

“What are you talking about? What do I have to be jealous of?”

Oscar had a deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Oscar, do you know something you’re not telling me?”

He shook his head, slowly.

Oscar had an infuriating way of keeping his mouth shut just when he had something useful to say. Unfortunately, I knew he would not speak until he was ready. Oscar supplied information strictly on a need-to-know basis as defined by some obscure goblin code of ethics.

I let out a sigh. “Let’s go try to calm things down with Selena, make sure she’s safe. We’ll deal with this mess in the morning.”

“It’s already morning,” Oscar pointed out.

“True, but . . . I can’t deal without coffee. Let’s have some breakfast, and then will you help me clean up before Bronwyn gets here?”

“Cheesy eggs and home fries?”

“Sure,” I said with a smile. If a person has to wake up to a poltergeist, it was nice to have a gobgoyle by her side. Cheesy eggs and home fries seemed a small price to pay for such loyalty.

Upstairs, Selena was indeed sleeping like a baby. She didn’t stir at the clatter of cooking or the smell of food, so Oscar and I ate, and then went back downstairs to clean up the mess.

“So,” I said, hanging up yet another prom dress, “you think I’m jealous, do you? Why would I be jealous?”

Oscar shrugged. He was sweeping up scattered herbs. “’Cause of Patience being a real looker.”

“I’m not
jealous
, Oscar. I trust Sailor. He would never do anything like that to me.” I paused but couldn’t seem to let this subject drop. “And besides, they’re cousins.”

“Yeah, cousins,
heh
,” Oscar said. He moved aside a rack of negligees to sweep under it. “Cute.”

“What’s cute?”

“You are.”

“Meaning?”

“The Rom call
everybody
cousin,” said Oscar.

That brought me up short. “What?”

“
What
, what?”

“The Rom call everybody cousin?”

“Well, maybe not all the Rom. I don’t know ’em all. There are lots of different groups: the Irish Travelers, the
Cygarie in Poland and the Zingerie in Italy. But Sailor’s Rom all call each other cousin.”

I stared at him.

“Like in Spanish, right?” Oscar continued, suddenly an expert on kinship systems. “You call older friends
tio
and
tia
, even though they’re not really your aunt and uncle. And people your age are
primo
, like ‘cousin,’ more a term of affection than blood relation per se.”

“Wait, wait,
wait
. Sailor and Patience aren’t actually
cousins
?”

Oscar’s huge eyes widened as he realized he’d said the wrong thing.

My heart pounded and my cheeks blazed. A mason jar of dried peppermint fell from the shelf, and a honey-jar spell imploded, its golden contents oozing across the counter.

“Um . . .” Oscar said, clearly debating his next move, “Mistress?”

The broom yanked out of his hands and rocketed like a missile across the shop floor.

“Let me fix you a cup of tea. Or maybe a shot of tequila?” Oscar offered, heading for the cupboard in the back room. This was a big deal for my familiar; he wasn’t great with the nurturing.

I fell, more than sat, in a chair at the workroom table and tried to rein in my emotions.
Jealousy
, I thought. Fangs sunk deep into my gut and twisted. I’d never truly experienced it before, not like this. Not this ghastly, deep-down, nauseating sensation of rage and fear and self-doubt.

I put my head down on the table.

Oscar placed a cup of tea at my side. It must have been half booze; I could smell the alcohol wafting into the air.

Oscar transformed into his piggy guise when Bronwyn came into the shop.

“Tough morning?” she asked, picking up the tea cup and wrinkling her nose. Then she took in the state of the shop and asked, “Did you do this?”

“No, not most of it. We had a poltergeist last night,” I said with a long sigh, lifting my head. “But it’s a little bit me. I’m sorry. Are things a mess out on the floor?”

“The rack of prom dresses fell over. Easily fixed.” She took a seat across from me. “What’s wrong?”

“I just found out that Patience and Sailor aren’t really cousins.”

“They aren’t? How do you know?”

“I . . . actually, I guess I don’t know for sure. But apparently in Sailor’s family everybody’s called cousin, whether they’re a blood relative or not.”

“And?”

“Have you
seen
her?” I grabbed the day-old newspaper off the stack of recyclables and slammed it on the table.

Bronwyn glanced at the photo of Patience and smiled. “You’re lovely, too, Lily.”

“Thanks. But you’re my friend so you have to think that. We both know I don’t hold a candle to her. She’s . . . gorgeous.”

“And you assume Sailor will be swayed by her physical attributes, even though he’s in love with you?”

I shrugged, still concentrating on reining in my emotions lest I accidentally lay waste to my store. “He’s a man. And he has eyes.”

“You know, just to play devil’s advocate here, you
spend time with some pretty good-looking men, as well. Carlos has a very attractive way about him. And Aidan has stopped many a woman in her tracks.”

“Those . . . relationships, or whatever you want to call it, aren’t romantic.”

“I know that, and you know that, but from the outside it could be looked at another way. And didn’t you have lunch with Max, just yesterday? Sailor understood, didn’t he?”

“I . . . might not have mentioned it. But anyway, it wasn’t like that. I would never go behind Sailor’s back.”

Bronwyn nodded, sympathy shining in her soft brown eyes. “And you don’t think Sailor’s capable of the same kind of consideration?”

I gave her a grudging nod. “I guess you’re right. But I’m just saying, if Duke was spending his days—and some
nights
—with the delectable Patience Blix, you might be singing a different tune.”

“Jealousy isn’t about another person, Lily. It’s about yourself.”

“Which means?”

She chuckled. “It’s normal to worry about losing something you value. But you should talk to Sailor about what you’re feeling, not make assumptions. Besides, you know nothing about this Patience woman—for all you know, she could be married and madly in love with her husband. Or her romantic interests may lie in an entirely different direction. You never know.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Now, why don’t we get this place straightened up and ready for customers, and then you can go talk to Sailor?”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Nonsense. These kinds of feelings tend to fester, and
no good ever came of that. The sooner you get it out in the open, the better. I’ll keep an eye on Selena.”

“Fine,”
I said, wishing she weren’t right.

*   *   *

A faint floral fragrance hung over Hang Ah Alley, a lingering scent from a long-ago German perfume maker who used to have a factory here. The scent mixed with other spices used not only in the food, but also in the healing arts of Chinatown, lending the alley a distinctive aroma.

I climbed the stairs to Sailor’s apartment and tried to ignore the ghostly sensation on the landing outside his door. I knocked softly, half hoping he wasn’t home.

My heart fluttered when I heard noises from within.

But the moment Sailor opened the door, I was happy to see him. As always. The top button of his Levi’s was undone, and his shirt hung open. Sailor’s broad chest was lean but muscled, and its black hair invited my touch. Just the sight of him made me feel warm and shivery and calm and excited, all at the same time.

“I was just thinking about you,” Sailor said, taking me into his arms and kissing me.

After a long moment, I pulled back. “We need to talk.”

“This is more fun,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

“I agree. But we really do need to talk.”

At this last, his mood shifted and he released me. “All right,” he said as we stepped into the apartment and he closed the door. “What’s up?”

Sailor’s apartment smelled even more strongly of pleasant spices. I knew he didn’t cook, so I wasn’t sure where the scent came from—perhaps it was Sailor himself. I couldn’t get enough of his scent.

The apartment was small: a galley kitchen, a living
room just big enough for a table and an upholstered armchair under a reading light, a stack of books sitting on the floor beside it. There were piles of papers and books everywhere, but no bookshelves. The bedroom consisted of a bed—also strewn with books and papers—and a closet, with a tiny bathroom attached. That was about it.

I took a seat at the table, and he sat backwards on the chair opposite me, his arms crossed over the back. It was a posture simultaneously defensive and aggressive.

He searched my face, unsmiling. I felt tendrils of energy reaching out, trying to worm their way into my thoughts.

“Are you trying to read my mind?” I demanded, stroking my medicine bag and slamming shut the gates to my thoughts.

He shrugged. “Thought it might help.”

I didn’t know how to be in a romantic relationship in the first place, much less one wherein my partner knew my every thought. Everyone has secrets, private corners of their soul and their mind that they don’t allow anyone to access. But among magical folks, secrecy is almost a religion.

Sailor had never been able to read my mind, which was a great relief to me. Had his training with Patience made him so much stronger that he could now push past my defenses? Was that even possible? And if so, did I need to protect myself against
Sailor
?

This did not bode well for our relationship.

“Unfortunately,” said Sailor, “I can’t read a damned thing. So you’ll have to tell me. What’s going on?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Patience?” I blurted out.

He cocked his head as though trying to understand what I was saying. “What
about
Patience?”

“She’s . . . gorgeous. And she’s not your cousin.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “She
is
my cousin.”

“I’m not going to argue the definition of cousin with you.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“Almost never. But speaking of relationships, you and Max have a nice time yesterday?”

“I
thought
I saw you ride by.”

He just waited.

“I had to talk to him about an article he wrote about
El Pajarito
and Ursula Moreno.”

“Uh huh,” he grunted, sounding unconvinced. “You could’ve asked me to come along. I like having lunch in North Beach bistros.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do if you’re having lunch in a North Beach bistro with another man.”

“It wasn’t like that, Sailor. You know that.”

“Do I? It seems to me you and Max were pretty hot and heavy there for a while. The way he looks at you . . . No, I
don’t
know what it’s like between you two.”

“You have nothing to worry about, Sailor. I promise.”

“And neither do you.”

“And . . . there’s something else. Selena is going to be a challenge, I can tell. Taking on a teenager would be a lot to ask of a boyfriend, but a teenager with special needs is even tougher. You didn’t sign up for something like that.”

He stared at me with his beautiful, unreadable eyes.

“And you
did
?”

“No, not exactly, but . . . Well, yes, I guess I did. I did when I told Ursula I would look after her, and then I told Selena if Ursula didn’t get out, she could stay with me.”

“And you think I wouldn’t be willing to do the same?”

“I’m . . . I don’t mean to put words in your mouth, Sailor. But I can never tell what you’re thinking. If Graciela hadn’t stepped in to help me back in the day, when I was just a little younger than Selena, I’d be . . . I don’t know what I’d be. Toast, probably. So I feel an obligation to pass it on, as they say.”

“Let me get this straight: You are committing to help raise this little witch, Selena, and you’re letting me go?”

Tears stung the back of my eyes. As a witch, I can’t cry. But as a woman, I often felt the desire to do so.

“You don’t think very much of me, do you?” he asked.

“I think a great deal of you, Sailor. And maybe now, with Patience—”

“
Enough about Patience
!” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t
want
her, Lily.”

“She’s just so freaking gorgeous.”

“Yes, she is. But she’s not my type.”

“Gorgeous, sexy Rom women aren’t your type?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not? Aren’t you human?”

He rose from the chair and came around the table; I stood to face him. He stopped in front of me, so close I felt the warmth of his body, only inches from mine.

“I guess I prefer nosy, stubborn, Southern women.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But . . . what about Selena?”

“If I can handle a grown-up witch like you, I’m certainly not going to be frightened off by a teenage version. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m made of pretty stern stuff.”

I took a deep breath, remembering what Bronwyn had counseled me. I willed myself to believe that he was telling me the truth about Patience. And that he was
enough of a man to take on not only me, but possibly my guardianship of Selena, and all that might entail.

“So, you really prefer nosy, stubborn Southern witches to unencumbered gypsy sexpots?”

He nodded, moved closer to me, and gave me a slow smile.

“Well, now,” I said with an exaggerated Texas twang, tilting my head and batting my eyelashes. “Y’all got yourself one of them li’l fillies right here.”

“Don’t I just? Now, can we get back to the kissing?”

*   *   *

Selena was sitting on the floor near the register at Aunt Cora’s Closet, wearing a pair of white cotton gloves. She appeared intent on repairing and cleaning every piece of jewelry in the shop. Her single-minded industriousness made me feel a little like I was running a sweatshop, but I was glad to see her occupied.

“Did you know,” asked Bronwyn, “Selena has a knack for memorizing every herbal blend I can come up with? She can repeat complicated orders from yesterday morning without blinking an eye. Watch: Selena, what did I mix for Susan Rogers?”

Without looking up from her task, Selena recited: “Two parts echinacea, one part black-eyed Susan, mix with ground rose hips, shredded ginger root, add turmeric for color and anti-inflammatory properties. Combine with dried orange peel and bergamot to taste. Only sunflower honey for sweetening.”

“You see? She’s like an herbal recipe tape recorder.”

“That’s amazing.” With a memory like that, why hadn’t she told me every nuanced detail of what she had done at Betty’s house? Was she afraid to tell me? Or could loyalty to someone be keeping her mute?

Why, oh why, couldn’t
mind-reading
be one of my skills
? I wondered if Sailor might be able to read her.
Would it be ethical to ask him to try without Selena’s knowledge and consent? Would the all-powerful Patience allow him to “dissipate his powers” in the attempt?

Or . . . now that I knew what I did about some of Ursula’s “wrong” wax being made into poppets and placed in Betty’s house, and about Lupita, I wanted another peek at
El Pajarito
. Preferably without an impatient homicide inspector looking over my shoulder.

I glanced at the human tape recorder sitting quietly and cleaning jewelry. Should I bring Selena along? She might be able to tell me something about what was happening in the shop, and maybe even make the connection to what had happened to Nicky. It was her home, after all. Or at least it
had
been. Would it be too sad for her, or might it be good for her to go back?

I decided to just come out and ask her. She was so small that it was easy to think of her as a child, but she was fourteen years old. At that age, I had known my own mind.

“Selena, would you like to go with me to
El Pajarito
?”

She jumped up and grabbed her sweater.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I murmured, then turned to Bronwyn. “Can you handle things here?”

“Of course, Sunday afternoons are slow. But”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“are you allowed to go back there? I thought it was a crime scene?”

“No, not at all,” I stretched the truth. “There’s not even crime scene tape across the door. It’s just a mess, is all. No worries.”

Besides, I could protect myself and Selena easily enough; we would wear our talismans, and there wouldn’t be scary people there, just out-of-control store supplies.

That Bad Luck spray had no chance against yours truly. Not to toot my own horn, but I wasn’t that easily cowed.