Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  I took a moment to survey the colorful storefront from across the broad boulevard. The windows were decorated with tropical birds and fanciful flowers, the paint flaking off as if created long ago. The store’s sign was simple and hand-lettered, black letters on a white background, painted not by a professional but by someone unconcerned with formality.

  “I wouldn’t get involved with Ursula if I were you,” said a pretty woman in her early twenties.

  The woman wore a simple white tank top and jeans. Her long, glossy hair had been dyed an unnatural shade of burgundy, and a colorful tattoo of the Virgin of Guadalupe adorned her bare shoulder.

  “Do you know her?” I asked.

  “I don’t trust her. And that shop . . .” She shook her head. “Something bad about that shop. Mal ojo. Ojo del diablo.”

  Evil eye. Eye of the devil.

  “If you need some help,” she continued, “why you don’t come inside, let my aunt pray for you?” She gestured toward the shop behind us. Much like El Pajarito, this shop’s window displayed a jumble of items: small jars of herbs, Catholic saints in various guises, a variety of small animal bones. “My aunt does cleansing, readings, tea leaves, same as Ursula but better. You can trust her.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not a customer. Actually, the police asked me to stop by.”

  “Seriously?” She fixed me with a suspicious look. “Why?”

  “Apparently something strange is going on in the shop. Have you heard anything? Do you know Selena, the girl who used to be there with Ursula?”

  She crossed herself and went into her aunt’s shop, slamming the door.

  No love lost there, I thought as I crossed the wide avenue.

  Carlos was waiting for me outside, speaking on his cell phone. As I approached he paused to tell a passerby, “The shop’s closed, indefinitely,” before resuming his conversation.

  I studied our surroundings while I waited for him to get off the phone. A bright blue bench sat in front of the store; it looked freshly painted and wasn’t even chained, which surprised me. In this neighborhood I would think anything not nailed down would disappear, and quickly.

  The windows held a wide array of candles, each with a label: WEALTH, HOMEWORK, PASSION, MARRIED LOVE, STRENGTH. There were bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling, and a huge glass container was filled with thousands of tiny metal charms in the shape of arms, legs, heads . . . whatever part of the body ails you. Laid out in wide arcs were dozens of ceramic and stone figures of pre–Columbian Aztec deities and Navajo fetishes.

  And overlooking it all was Santa Muerte, or Saint Death: a skeleton cloaked in a blue hooded robe, a scythe clutched in one bony hand, a cigarette poised between her grinning teeth. At Santa Muerte’s feet was a bottle of rum, a sacrifice to keep her happy.

  Because the store was not a crime scene there was no yellow tape across the door, and it occurred to me to wonder what the forensics team had hoped to find. Short of a deliberate poisoning, how could a curandera be held responsible for a client’s death? I could not begin to imagine how the DA would prove such a thing in a court of law; but then, I was no legal scholar. Apart from a few short stints in jail—all charges were dropped—I remained blessedly ignorant of the workings of the legal system.

  I started to turn away from the display window when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Looking back, I saw Santa Muerte tilt her head at me and raise her scythe.

  A stone mosaic frog suddenly leapt up, striking the glass with such force that it created a starburst crack.

  Chapter 4

  I jumped.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” said Carlos from behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder. “You saw that?”

  “I didn’t see anything, but I heard it. Like I said, there’s a lot of strange stuff going down at this shop.”

  He used a key to open the metal security grate, pushed it to one side, then unlocked the front door.

  “After you,” he said with a gentlemanly sweep of his hand.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, stroking the medicine bag at my waist. I entered cautiously, hands turned palm-side out, trying to open myself up to vibrations.

  Messy shelves were crammed with aerosol cans promising to cleanse homes of bad feelings, or to bestow financial luck. There were dozens of candles and tiny shrines made out of Altoids boxes. A large selection of talismans and amulets featured Catholic and pseudo-Catholic saints; a folksy, brightly painted Mano Poderoso was a splayed hand made of tin, meant to ward off evil and fill one’s home with peace, happiness, and family bonding. Multiaction protection crosses, lucky fixed horseshoes wrapped in red string, and gold bags adorned with the image of Saint Cajeton promised to help with employment problems.

  I picked up a white silk conjure bag, probably stuffed with herbs, seeds, roots, nuts, oils, and bits of bone. Weighing it in my hand, I felt its vibrations: calm, confident, capable. Whoever put these together had a touch.

  By the register was a display of matchboxes containing tiny skulls for hexing. A sign offered to cleanse homes for a modest fee. This was no ordinary housekeeping service, but a limpia, or a cleansing of evil spirits, lingering sensations, and pestering ghosts. Also for sale were love spells and fertility charms.

  Also on the counter was a stack of receipts and several colorful children’s drawings of lilies. An open bag of roasted pumpkin seeds and a half-filled coffee cup remained near the register, as though the proprietor had been dragged off in the middle of a snack. On the wall was a framed newspaper article with a photo of two women and a girl posed stiffly behind the register.

  “Is this the shop staff?” I asked Carlos.

  He nodded and pointed to the older woman. “That’s Ursula Moreno, and the girl is Selena. Not sure about the other woman.”

  The caption read: “Ursula, Lupita, and Selena, of El Pajarito.”

  A sweater was draped over the back of the chair, a lemon yellow knit with a white rose embroidered on one breast. I picked it up and hugged it to myself. It had a homey aroma: beans and rice, roasting chilies. The vibrations were peaceful, confident, powerful—perhaps overly so. But I didn’t feel the frenetic thoughts of someone intent on wickedness: no guilt or wavering resolve. If this was Ursula’s sweater, could she possibly be guilty of what the SFPD suspected?

  On the other hand, I had been misled before. I cringed to think of how often.

  “Can you tell anything from all this”—Carlos gestured at the overstocked shelves—“mess?”

  “Not really.”

  “How about that sweater you’re holding?”

  I shook my head.

  “Take your time.”

  “I will.”

  Carlos was silent for all of sixty seconds. “How about now?”

  “Could you give me a few minutes, please? Alone?”

  “I’m harshing your buzz, huh?”

  “It would make it easier for me to concentrate,” I said diplomatically.

  Carlos hesitated.

  “Forensics has already been here, right?” I continued. “And you know I don’t have any fingerprints to screw things up. What could it hurt?”

  “Sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if there’s something magical happening here, you’re not likely to be of much help anyway.”

  He squinted at me, then nodded and stepped out of the shop.

  Getting the sense of retail establishments is challenging because of the residual sensations from the people who have passed through. Add to that the fact that this store’s owner had been arrested, and it was practically impossible to ferret out the strange vibrations, to parse them from the normal spectrum of human energy.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated, gradually picking up a twinge of something . . . off.

  When I opened my eyes an aerosol can of Bad Luck fell onto its side and started spinning, spraying its contents everywhere. I wasn’t alarmed; most of t
hese sprays were nothing more than cheap air freshener in a clever package. Judging by the sickly-sweet floral scent that enveloped me, that was the case here. Besides, as a witch, I had some protection. The medicine bag at my waist included protective dust, stones, and seeds. I might have been a terrible judge of character, but I was very good at sensing danger.

  And I was not one to be intimidated by an aerosol can. Land sakes.

  The cash register began ringing, the cash drawer opening and slamming shut. A massive reference book on herbal medicine flung itself off a shelf and landed on the floor with a thud, its pages fanning the air. Brightly colored beads jumped out of the woven basket on the front counter and skittered along the floor. From the corner of my eye I spied a lit candle flying toward my head, and ducked in the nick of time.

  “Now that’s just rude!” I called out, though I’m not sure who or what I thought would be listening. “Behave yourself.”

  I hurried to extinguish the candle’s flame under the sole of my Keds, and concentrated again. I sensed something building, a mounting tension as intangible yet as real as the change in atmospheric pressure ahead of an approaching storm.

  Carlos wasn’t kidding. This merchandise was seriously deranged.

  Could there be a spirit at work? What if—

  The merchandise suddenly fell quiet, and I heard raised voices. Carlos was restraining a man at the front door. He was average looking, a little overweight, a bit jowly. Ordinary, with a countenance that would have been pleasant had it not been distorted in pain and anger, his eyes red-rimmed as though from lack of sleep.

  “Let me in—I won’t hurt anything!”

  “Gary, you shouldn’t be here,” Carlos said, his voice firm but gentle. “Go on home and rest.”

  “I just . . . I want to see . . . I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

  The man grew pale and swayed on his feet, and Carlos grabbed him by the upper arms, urging him toward the blue wooden bench on the sidewalk.

  “Easy, now,” Carlos said. “Here, have a seat for a moment. Catch your breath.”

  “Why did this happen, Carlos? How? How could she do this to me? And to Emma?”

  I went to see if I could help. Carlos crouched in front of the man, speaking to him face-to-face.

  “Why don’t I call someone to come pick you up?” Carlos asked.

  “My brother-in-law is . . . Wait. Is he still my brother-in-law?” He fixed an anguished look upon Carlos. “Now that Nicky is gone?”

  “Of course he is,” Carlos said. “You want me to call him?”

  “No, no, he’s right down the street, parking. He brought the kids over for a visit; they’re home watching a movie. We’re supposed to be picking up tacos for lunch. I . . . I just—” Gary noticed me. “Who’s this?”

  “Gary Utley, this is Lily Ivory. Lily is a civilian consultant to the department.”

  “What kind of consultant?”

  “She’s . . . it’s a little hard to explain, but she helps me to interpret unusual developments.”

  Gary’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying—she’s a witch?” He spat out the word as if it were an epithet. “Another one? Do you have any idea what that witch did to me, to my family, to my wife? First she bilks us out of thousands of dollars, and then—”

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss, Gary,” I said. “Please know that not all witchcraft is—”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” he said, surging off the bench. He shoved his way into the store, seized a jar of spiritual bath salts, and flung it across the room, where it crashed into a shelf of medicinal oils. “Not from the mouth of a damned witch!”

  “Hey!” Carlos and Gary grappled for a moment, until Carlos pulled some sort of fancy martial arts move and wound up holding Gary from the back, arms looped around his shoulders so he couldn’t move. “Simmer down. I know you’ve suffered a great shock but you have to control yourself. Gary, Lily is here to help; she’s not your enemy.”

  Gary seemed to deflate.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m really . . . I’m so sorry.”

  Carlos restrained him for another moment.

  I wanted to say something further, but hung back. I couldn’t imagine the pain Gary must be feeling right now. What would it be like to have a spouse commit suicide? To wonder if you should have been there, should have seen the signs, responded earlier, more forcefully?

  My friend Max Carmichael had gone through something similar with his wife . . . who was also Carlos’s cousin. Why hadn’t I put that together? That must be another reason why Carlos was drawn to this case.

  As we stood there—an awkward trio, Carlos holding Gary, and me not knowing what to do or say—another man appeared in the store’s open door. He wore wire-frame glasses, plaid Bermuda shorts, topsiders, and a pale yellow monogrammed polo shirt. Looking around cautiously, seeming to take in the state of the store and the way Carlos was restraining Gary, he said, “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Knox, we were just talking about you,” said Gary. His voice was subdued, and Carlos released him.

  “Good to see you again, Knox,” said Carlos.

  “Hello, Inspector. What’s going on? Did . . . did Gary do all this damage? I’ve only been gone a few minutes.”

  “No, it was like this before. Mostly. Everything’s fine,” said Carlos. “Emotions are running high, that’s all. Knox, this is Lily Ivory, a special consultant to the department in this case.”

  Gary muttered something under his breath. Carlos quelled him with a warning look and placed himself between Gary and me.

  “Pleased to meet you. Your name’s . . . Knocks?” I asked.

  “K-n-o-x.” The man spelled it out with a smile. He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “As in the fort, where they keep the gold.”

  I looked down at what looked like an old-fashioned calling card:

  Knox Saletta

  Father and Househusband.

  “I’m Gary’s brother-in-law,” he continued.

  “Nicky Utley’s brother,” Carlos said quietly.

  “Oh, I see. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Knox turned toward Gary. “Come on, Gary, you shouldn’t be here. Let’s go pick up the food. I’m sure the passel is starving. And we don’t want to leave Emma in charge of those hooligans for long.”

  Gary hesitated. “I’m . . . I just . . . I don’t know. I just wanted to see the shop again. I guess I’m trying to put it all together. There are . . . so many questions.” He turned to me. “I’m . . . sorry. I haven’t been myself lately.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “C’mon, Gary,” said Knox, slipping an arm over the man’s shoulder. “Good-bye, Inspector, ma’am.”

  Silence reigned for a long moment as we watched the men walk down the street. Knox kept his arm around Gary’s shoulders, and appeared to be speaking soothingly to him.

  “Poor man . . . and poor Knox, too,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t imagine losing a sister to suicide. Or a spouse, of course.”

  “I’m just sorry he took it out on you. He’s been through a lot.”

  “Yes, indeed. Still, you were pretty impressive there, Bruce Lee. What was that move you pulled? Jiujitsu or something?”

  “You didn’t think I could handle myself?”

  “I assumed you could, but I’ve never actually seen you in action. Besides, you have a gun, so I figured maybe you’d just brandish your weapon.”

  He gave me the ghost of a smile. “Brandishing one’s weapon is frowned upon, especially when it comes to grieving families. Departmental policy.”

  We stepped back into the disheveled store.

  “So,” Carlos continued. “Run through this for me. What are the possibilities, as you see them?”

  “If Ursula Moreno put these bags together,” I said as I weighed one of the embroidered bundles in my hand, “then she definitely has some power, some abilities. I sup
pose it’s possible she charged these items with so much energy, maybe more than even she knew she had, that they’re still vibrating. Now that she’s not here to control them, they’ve gotten a little out of hand.”

  Carlos frowned. “So if the victim bought something from Moreno, it could have harmed her with its . . . what, vibrations? Some kind of occult power?”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing, but . . .” I trailed off with a shrug. “Have you tracked down any of Moreno’s other clients? Has anything happened to them?”

  He fixed me with his grim-cop look. “Sorry to say, it has. Nothing very serious, but enough to make me wonder, at least. Like I said, the mayor’s on a bit of a rampage against fortune-tellers of all stripes, especially the unlicensed ones. I’m still checking it out.”

  A can of All-Purpose Incense Powder sailed toward us, and I batted it away. Carlos looked impressed.

  “Unlicensed ones?” I asked.

  “According to Article 17.1 of the Municipal Code, fortune-tellers and witch doctors must be licensed in San Francisco.”

  “I don’t much care for the term ‘witch doctor.’ ”

  “I don’t much care for witch doctors, period. But you ought to find this interesting: The city statute covers necromancers as well.”

  “Necromancers have to be licensed?”

  “Indeed. As well as psychics and spellcasters, if they act for gain, benefit, or advantage.”

  “What about vintage clothes dealers with ‘special’ talents?”

  “I don’t even want to think about that.”

  “So, about this place. Here’s what’s really odd,” I said, looking around at the mess. “Most practitioners I know keep a tight rein on where they expend their power—they don’t want to disperse it, send it out into the world willy-nilly.”

  “I imagine that could cause a lot of damage.”

  “Yes, but that’s not the only reason. Magical strength is hard-won. You have to give up something to get it, and it’s always in short supply. You don’t just let it fly around on its own; that’s the mark of an amateur. But for a professional like Moreno?” I shook my head. “It makes no sense. She wouldn’t have a practice for long.”