Tarnished and Torn (12 page)

“Could that be how the fires got started?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” Maya said. “Funny, that never occurred to me. But . . . no, now that I think about it, the fire spinners had finished their show long before anything caught fire. And no one spilled or anything. Too bad you missed it.”

“Too bad I missed the fires?”

“The dancing, of course.”

“Yes, too bad. Did Gene happen to ask you about jewelry?”

“Jewelry?”

I glanced at the mirror again. The truck was still there. It wasn’t the first time I’d been followed, but neither was it the sort of thing a person got used to.

“Was he curious about what you’d bought at the fair—something along those lines? Or about Aunt Cora’s Closet, maybe?”

Maya fixed me with an odd look. “No, nothing like that. All we’ve talked about so far is fire safety, and how important it is to have confidence in your moves, so you don’t falter.”

“Sounds more like philosophy than dancing,” I muttered, hearing a cynical note in my own voice.

“Lily, what’s bothering you?”

“I . . .” I trailed off as I glanced at the truck again. What I couldn’t understand was why, if they were following me, would they choose such a distinctive vehicle?

Speaking of distinctive, I was driving a purple van with A
UNT
C
ORA’S
C
LOSET:
I
T’S
N
OT
O
LD;
I
T’S
V
INTAGE!
emblazoned on the side. So I guessed I was a pretty easy target to follow.

There were two men in the truck, both wearing sunglasses. I didn’t recognize them, at least from this distance.

I glanced at my watch. It was a little after noon. This stretch of Sacramento Street was jammed during lunchtime, and there was only one lane in each direction.

Pulling to a stop at a traffic light, I made a decision. If I was being watched and followed, it was safer to face it here, in public, than to wait until they found me somewhere alone and vulnerable.

“Don’t get out of the car. I’ll be right back,” I said to Maya as I shifted the van into park, set the parking brake, jumped out, and headed toward the truck behind me.

Horns blared as the traffic light changed to green and the cars in the lane behind us realized we weren’t going anywhere.

As I approached the mint green truck, I noticed a wooden decoration in the shape of a Maltese cross had been attached to the hood. An interesting embellishment to an otherwise faded, beat-up vehicle.

The two men in the cab gaped at me, slack-jawed. Both had dishwater blond hair, long skinny necks, and unfortunate overbites.
Shared genetics,
I thought.
Brothers or cousins, most likely.
Both wore dark sunglasses, frayed baseball caps, and dirty T-shirts.

“Hey!” I rapped on the driver’s window. “You two! Let’s talk.”

Ballcap Number One, behind the wheel, opened and shut his mouth without speaking, like a fish, while Ballcap Number Two started gesturing, apparently suggesting they go around my van.

Ballcap Number One abruptly jammed the truck into reverse and stomped on the accelerator, immediately slamming into the grille of the luxury car behind them. The molded, painted bumper of the late-model Lexus was no match for the truck’s steel bumper and crumpled with a metallic crunch. The driver of the Lexus laid on the horn and started unbuckling his seat belt, but the mint green truck was already nosing into the oncoming lane in an effort to escape. I jumped aside to get out of its way, but noted the license plate number. Horns sounded as the truck darted into oncoming traffic, then swerved back into the lane in front of my purple van, raced down the street, and careened around the corner with a screech of tires.

“What the
hell
?” shouted the driver of the Lexus, a handsome, well-groomed fellow. He looked to be about twenty-five, and was dressed in a pale yellow polo shirt and madras pants. I spied golf clubs in the backseat. “You
stopped
, in the middle of the street? What kind of idiot stops like that?
Do you see what you’ve done
?”

“I am
really
sorry this happened, but in all fairness,
I
didn’t back into you; the men in the truck did.”

“This is a
Lexus
!”

“I really am sorry.” My guilt at setting into motion the chain of events that had ruined this man’s day waned as he continued to scream at me. Fender-benders were an inevitable part of life in a big city, like it or not. “Those men in the truck were following me, and I felt I had to confront them in public for my own safety.”

“
Your
safety? What about my
car
? Look at this!”

I gave the irate driver the truck’s license plate number and my business card as well. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be considered my fault—after all, cars stall at lights all the time—but, just in case, it was best to leave all those details to the insurance professionals.

When I climbed back behind the wheel of my van, Maya was gawking at me.

“Um, Lily? What was
that
all about?”

“It was either brave or kind of stupid,” I said as the light turned red again. “I’m going to go with ‘brave.’”

“Gotta say, I’m more inclined toward ‘stupid,’” Maya said. “Why didn’t you let me come with you? I could have served as backup.”

“Which is why I asked you to wait here. If I’m going to do something brave”—I glanced at Maya—“or
stupid
, I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

“So what’d those guys do to tick you off?”

“They’ve been following us since we left Aunt Cora’s Closet,” I said as I pulled forward, putting an arm out the window and waving in apology to the traffic stacked up behind me.

“They have? You’re sure?”

I nodded.

“In that old truck? Not exactly a low-profile vehicle.”

“I was thinking that myself.”

“Not cops, then.”

“No.”

A silence.

“Are we in trouble, Lily?”

My heart swelled at my friend’s loyalty and generosity. I wasn’t used to being a part of any sort of “we.”

“You are not in trouble. Not as long as I can help it.”

“Are
you
in trouble, then?”

What should I say? Why were those men following me? Could it have something to do with my father? Or did they think I was in possession of a valuable piece of jewelry from the Gem Faire?

Something else occurred to me: If they had been watching Griselda at the Gem Faire, maybe she sold me a very obvious box in an attempt to throw them off her trail. Maybe she hoped they would follow me, as they did, and leave her alone. That would help explain why I felt nothing from the jewelry in my possession.

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“What can I do to help?”

I reached out to squeeze Maya’s arm. She was still uncomfortable with the whole witchy thing. Her mother, Lucille, was very involved in their Baptist church, and though Maya had stopped attending services she had been raised with the basic tenets of the Baptist faith and accepted them as the norm. Witchcraft didn’t fit in to her worldview. Still, unlike a lot of people I could name, she wasn’t hostile to the idea or to me, and had witnessed enough to understand that there were forces beyond the obvious at work in this world, even in such a beautiful city by the bay. She was a loyal, supportive friend who was willing to stand by me, whether or not it made her doubt her own sanity from time to time.

“Thank you, Maya. I have no idea what’s going on at this point. But I’ll be sure to let you know if you can help—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support.”

“Glad to hear it. And, by the way, the next time you decide to go
mano a mano
with a couple of yahoos, I’m helping. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

I laughed. “Thank you, I appreciate that. Hey, when’s your next fire-dancing practice?”

“Tomorrow night. Want to come?”

“I would indeed.”

“Great. Everyone’s welcome. But . . . something’s bothering you about it, isn’t it?”

Yes
. I might not be able to foretell the future, but I knew this: A woman had been killed, my father was in town, and two men were following me. The fact that Maya was suddenly all het up about fire dancing taught by a suit-clad man named Gene . . . well, I couldn’t help but see trouble. With a capital “T.” Still, what could I say to Maya without freaking her out? Gene . . . well, he seemed suspicious to me, but I had no proof that he’d actually done anything. As I’d said to Carlos, I was trying hard not to think of “odd” as a synonym for “wrong,” because I’d been on the receiving end of more than enough of that kind of thinking.

I forced a smile. “Nah. It sounds so intriguing, dancing with fire.”

“Gene says fire’s like life: you can’t be afraid of getting burned.”

I supposed that was true. Still and all . . . this Gene character was starting to tread on my last nerve.

•   •   •

Back at Aunt Cora’s Closet, we found Bronwyn and Lucille working on the alterations for the
quinceañera
dresses. They had draped the pink off-the-shoulder silk on the dressmaker’s form and were making tucks here and there. It always amazed me how the smallest little folds in just the right places made the difference between a good fit and a great fit.

Maya and I lugged in the burlap sacks and unpacked, showing off our purchases. The French maid’s outfit was the hit of the day, though after seeing Lucille’s fondness for the fine lace mantilla I made a mental note to have the tatting repaired, wash it in rosewater, and let it dry in the moonlight. Thus mended and cleansed, it would be the perfect gift for Lucille’s upcoming sixtieth birthday.

A few customers roamed the aisles, but all in all it was a mellow afternoon. I was tidying up the dressing room when the phone rang.

A slight crackle as I picked it up indicated it was long-distance. Hans.

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing good, I am sorry to say. I asked around, as you requested. I learned there was a well-known witch in the county of Baden-Württemburg, near the Black Forest, named Carlotta Hummel. Very flamboyant; described as having bright orange hair and a rather big mouth. Not a favorite among the local politicos, I’ll tell you that much.”

“And?”

“And she was found pressed to death just last week.”

I realized I was holding my breath. “That’s not good.”

“It gets worse, I’m afraid. Carlotta Hummel had a sister named Griselda. Last her neighbors heard, Griselda was headed to a jewelry fair in San Francisco.”

I looked out over my store, at the wonderfully peaceful and domestic scene. Bronwyn and Lucille chatting as they sewed, Maya helping a young woman find a top to match a colorful peasant skirt. As usual, my shop kept me grounded whenever craziness was swirling all around.

“Lily? Are you still there?”

“Sorry, yes. I’m here. I was just wondering what this all adds up to.”

“I will tell you what it adds up to: It adds up to ‘Stay away from this mess.’ One more thing: Carlotta had a connection to a pretty well-known witch who moved to San Francisco a decade ago. Aidan Rhodes. Have you heard of him?”

“I have, yes. What kind of connection did they have?”

“I don’t have many details. But when I was asking about Carlotta’s known professional contacts, his name came up. Since he’s in San Francisco now, I thought there might be a link.”

“Okay, thanks. Oh, Hans. What does
hexgeshad
mean?”

“
Hexgeshad
?” Hans repeated. “There’s no such word. Where did you hear this?”

“Someone said it at the jewelry fair,” I hedged. I’d heard Johannes mumbling something like it as he fled the Cow Palace.

Hans paused. “Could you have heard
Hexenjagd
?”

“Could be.”

“
Die Hexenjagd
means ‘witch hunt.’”

Of course. But was Johannes running
from
a witch hunt . . . or was he part of one? Could that have been blood I saw on his shirt, rather than ketchup, as I had assumed?

“Did you hear anything about a young man associated with Griselda named Johannes? Her son, perhaps?”

“
Nein
, no one mentioned a Johannes, or any children, for that matter. You want me to see if I can find out?”

“That would be great. Thank you for doing this, Hans.”

“I told you, I’m happy to learn that you are doing well. Just let’s keep it that way, all right? Be careful. Seriously.”

I hung up and glanced around the store, now empty of customers. “Where’s Maya?” I asked Bronwyn and Lucille.

“She’s in the dressing room,” Bronwyn said.

“Yes. Maya’s in the dressing room,” Lucille echoed.

It took me a second to realize what was bothering them. Unlike the rest of us—me included—Maya never tried on the store’s clothes. She was by nature a jeans-and-T-shirts kind of gal.

“Did she find something special she liked?” I asked.

Bronwyn and Lucille exchanged glances; then Bronwyn spoke in a low voice. “She’s trying on some items for a fire-dancing costume.”

“Really?” I looked at Lucille, whose face was a study in how not to look worried. “I take it you don’t like the fire-dancing idea?”

“It’s not the dancing itself,” Lucille said. “It’s that Maya seems a little . . . fixated on it. She went to one session, and now can’t stop talking about it. That’s not like her.”

“Has she been into dancing in the past?” I asked. Maya had become such an integral part of my daily life that I sometimes forgot I hadn’t actually known her for very long. In many ways it felt as though I knew her well, but I was still learning about the ins and outs of her life, her passions in life.

“Maya played softball and field hockey, but she never cared for dancing,” Lucille said as she snipped errant threads from a length of silk. “Any type of dancing.”

“She seems to like the man who’s teaching the fire dancing,” I said. “Have you met him?”

“Not yet.” She shook her head and scowled. “But she never stops talking about him. It’s ‘Gene said this’ and ‘Gene said that.’ If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had a crush on him.”

The curtains of the dressing room were flung open and Maya emerged, looking like a cross between a belly dancer and a really stylish shipwreck victim.

She wore cropped pants made of a silky magenta, slung very low on her narrow hips. A revealing paisley halter top was covered by a soft yellow overshirt so sheer that it seemed to accentuate, rather than cover up, her shoulders and arms. She had tied the tails of the shirt in a knot right under her sternum, so her midriff was completely exposed. A bright patterned scarf was wrapped in her hair. Bangles covered several inches of both wrists, anklets tinkled as she walked, and a large coin necklace pointed down toward her cleavage.

“So? What do you think?” she asked, twirling to give us the full view.

We all three—Bronwyn, Lucille and I—just stared at her. Maya had a curvy, athletic figure but she’d never been the type to don a costume, much less bare her belly with skimpy clothing. She looked gorgeous and sexy; at least as good as the fire dancers I had seen pictured on the poster at the Gem Faire. But she didn’t look much like herself.

“You look . . . great,” I said.

“Fabulous,” said Bronwyn with a surprised nod.

“You’re planning to go out in
public
like that?” asked Lucille with maternal outrage. “Where’s the
rest
of it?”

“What
ever
, Mom,” she said with an eye roll and a snort. “How lame.”

Lucille, shocked, didn’t respond.

Maya’s snide response to her mother was so surprising—so un-Maya-like—that we all continued to stare, speechless.

“What’s wrong with trying something
new
for a change? Are you all so perfect you can’t try anything different?”

“Maya, it’s not like that,” I began. “You look great, just really . . . different.”

“And since when has ‘different’ meant the same thing as ‘wrong’?”

“It’s not,” said Lucille. “But being rude, young lady, is always wrong. I’m disappointed in you, Maya.”

Maya shrugged and stalked back into the dressing room. Bronwyn put a supportive arm around Lucille and gave her a squeeze.

Our dear friend, usually so adult and reasonable, suddenly was acting like a spoiled teenager.