“Absolutely.”
“And all your friends? Is Oscar still with you?”
“Of course he’s still with me. By choice, not forced obligation.”
He just grinned at me. “Hey, I’m the one who was trespassed against. You destroyed my marker, took a perfectly good helper out from under my influence. And do you hear me grumbling?”
Okay, maybe we were going to talk about this.
“Listen, Aidan, I’m sorry about—”
He held up one hand, palm-out, and shook his head. This was how things work in the magical community: There were no apologies, but favors and trespasses were committed on a strictly quid pro quo basis. I had known that when I stole from Aidan, but in the moment I had been so focused on saving Oscar that I hadn’t cared.
“I know I owe you,” I said quietly.
“You better believe it. But let’s put that aside for the moment and focus on the situation at hand. Unfortunately, before the Oscar debacle you also deprived me of a nicely beholden psychic. Speaking of whom, how do you suppose Sailor will feel when he finds out your old boyfriend Mack is back on the scene?”
“Max, not Mack. And Max was never really my boyfriend.”
“What do you suppose your current boyfriend will make of that?”
“None of your business.”
“So, the arrival of Mark on the scene—”
“Max, as you very well know.”
“Right, that’s what I said.”
“And he’s hardly arrived on the scene—I haven’t seen him in forever.”
“Lily, Lily, Lily.” Aidan shook his head. “I don’t have to be a fortune-teller to predict you’re going to look him up soon, given his involvement in this situation.”
I shrugged. Aidan already knew more than he should, no need to fill him in on my plans.
“And how is Sailor? I hear he’s training with Patience Blix.”
I nodded.
“That’s a bit of a coup. She’s really something.”
“So I hear.”
“I have to say, I admire your attitude. A lot of women wouldn’t be happy about their boyfriends spending time with a woman like Patience.”
“What do you mean, ‘a woman like Patience’?”
One lifted eyebrow was his only response.
“What?” I demanded.
“I take it you haven’t met her?”
I shrugged and quite literally bit my tongue in an effort to appear nonchalant. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I mean, she’s his cousin, after all.”
“Of course.”
“Right. Let’s get this conversation back to what’s important here and now. What’s the game plan— where do we go from here?”
“I’ll try to find out what’s up with the mayor, since I have it on good authority that I’m the power behind the municipal throne and all.”
I glared at him.
“And I’ll put out some more feelers and see if I can get a lead on Selena, but I’m not optimistic on that score. Say, you know who’s great at reading the crystal ball?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Patience Blix. But she’s also a master at cold reading, so keep your wits around her.”
I could feel myself doing something funny with my mouth. “Just . . . see if you can find anything. If there’s still nothing on Selena by tomorrow, I’ll see if Sailor will ask Patience to help. But to take another angle on all this: Do you know anything about the death of Nicky Utley?”
“Only that it seemed to be the catalyst for the arrest of Ursula Moreno, and thus the disappearance of Selena.”
“What’s so special about Selena? Is it just that she’s magically gifted?”
“Very much so.”
“Is that how you know about her? You keep track of such things?”
“Yes, of course,” he said dryly. “I have an Excel spreadsheet on my laptop that I update daily.”
“You know what I mean.”
“As you know very well, I try to help organize the magical community.”
I did, at that. I just could never quite figure out why. Was Aidan working for good, or for ill? Were his ambitions selfish, or for the greater good? And with a talented child like Selena . . . was he trying to protect her, or to exploit her?
Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to broach those questions with Aidan. Not that he was likely to tell me the truth, even if I did. So I asked a different question.
“Do you think Nicky Utley’s suicide was significant in some way? I mean, why jump off the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“They say the Golden Gate Bridge is the number one suicide destination in the world.”
“‘Suicide destination’? That’s a thing?”
“Apparently. Three months after opening in 1935, a veteran was the first known jumper, and since then there have been something like 1500 deaths off the bridge. And that’s just the ones that get counted.”
“Why aren’t they all counted?”
“A Coast Guard cutter fishes the bodies out of the water, but the currents are so strong there’s no guarantee they find them all. And it happens fast; it only takes about four seconds to fall from the bridge to the water. If no one’s around . . .”
“How do you know so much about this?”
He shrugged. “I fancy myself a bit of a local historian. And I’m as fascinated with the Golden Gate Bridge as the next person.”
“Doesn’t the bridge have cameras or surveillance equipment?”
“Not for most of the span. Most of the suicides occur at the middle of the bridge, which as you can imagine is the most majestic spot. Right there between San Francisco and Marin, between the wild of the Pacific Ocean and the calmness of the bay. It’s . . . iconic.”
I nodded and took a sip of my drink.
“Anyway, the only time there was a camera recording that spot was in 2004.”
“What happened in 2004?”
“A documentary film crew recorded the bridge every day for a year. I guess the parks commission thought it was granting a permit for a film about the history of the bridge, not realizing it would end up being a documentary about suicide. The footage caught images of a number of people jumping. It’s . . . chilling.”
“I’ll bet.”
A moment of silence passed.
“Funding was approved not long ago for a more effective barrier, but it will take a while to make the changes.”
“But if a suicidal person can’t kill themselves on the bridge, won’t they just go elsewhere to accomplish it?”
“Apparently it’s an attractive nuisance, offering people a romantic, inspirational place to end their lives.”
“Does anyone ever survive?”
“Sure, a few. But the few who do survive the fall and remain conscious have at most ten minutes before hypothermia sets in. If the Coast Guard reaches them in time, they’ve got a shot. There’s one well-known survivor who’s a high school teacher now. He says the moment his hands left the bridge he realized all his problems were solvable—with the notable exception of one: He had just jumped off a bridge. He’s now married, with kids. He’s very grateful for his second chance, and talks to people quite openly about suicide.”
As fascinating as this discussion was, it didn’t tell me anything useful about Nicky Utley, who had not been one of the lucky survivors.
“So, I suppose the case against Ursula Moreno must focus on an herb or something else she gave Nicky Utley that supposedly promoted her suicidal tendencies. But how could they prove a case like that?”
Aidan licked some salt off the rim of the margarita glass. “Personally, I don’t believe they’re going to be able to make the charges of gross negligence stick. I think they’re just rattling cages, trying to look good for the mayor. On the other hand, if Utley gave Moreno a lot of money, they might nail her on fraud charges. And frankly, if Ursula has been bilking people, she deserves what she gets. I’m concerned only about the girl.”
“What about
the crazed merchandise in her store?”
“I’ll make inquiries, see if there are any whispers out there about a rogue witch. The thing is, the sensations are not those of a typical practitioner.”
“Which is why you’re thinking mental illness?”
“As I said”—he smiled as he watched a friendly—but loud—rivalry break out among the men playing pool—“I think it’s possible. Either that, or it’s a magical system I’m not as familiar with, which is why I wanted to talk to your pal Hervé. But he was as clueless as the rest of us.”
“What about a woman named Betty North? Have you heard of her?”
He shook his head.
“I found a poppet in her house. I think it may have come from Ursula’s shop.”
“As far as I know, Ursula didn’t have anywhere near that kind of power. She’s decent with anointing candles and simple housekeeping spells and cleansing, but nothing more sophisticated. As I recall, she’s primarily powerless with poppets.” He smiled, as though pleased with his alliteration.
“You seem rather cheerful about the whole thing. I don’t imagine Ursula Moreno is laughing.”
“True enough. You should go speak with her.”
“She’s in jail.”
“Yes, I realize that. And unless I’m mistaken, you’re the one with friends in the SFPD. As you may know, the boys in blue are not quite as fond of me. Ask your old pal, Carlos Romero, if he can get you in to see her.”
“How come you get to have a nice martini lunch with the mayor, and I have to go hang out in a jail?”
His blue eyes sparkled. “We all play to our strengths, Lily.”
* * *
I returned to Aunt Cora’s Closet an hour before closing. The shop was so busy I was almost distracted from my fruitless tour of the Mission, a missing girl, and an out-of-control botanica.
Not to mention the as-yet-unnamed payback I owed to one very powerful witch.
But it was the missing girl that most preyed on my mind. It had been several days since Ursula Moreno was arrested, and since Selena had snuck into Hervé’s shop. I took comfort in the fact that, if I could believe the consensus of Hervé, Aidan, and the shop owners, Selena had remarkable supernatural abilities. So she was probably more able to take care of herself than the average fourteen-year-old, at least in terms of basic safety.
Mental health was another thing altogether. As Aidan had pointed out, being treated like an aberrant outsider all one’s life didn’t nurture the most stable of personalities. The only reason I had made it through my own experiences was because I had the love and support of my grandmother, Graciela.
What if Selena’s sole support was Ursula, and Ursula was sent to prison?
As I was kneeling at the foot of a customer, pinning up the skirt of a slinky satin 1940s evening dress, I realized I had forgotten to contact Carlos to tell him about the doll in Betty’s place, and that Lupita was a connection between Betty North and Ursula Moreno.
“I’ll send this to our seamstress, and we should get back to you within ten days,” I told the customer as I double-checked her measurements. There was nothing worse than making something too short. Even Maya’s mother, Lucille, our talented shop seamstress, couldn’t fix a mistake like that.
Bronwyn helped the woman change out of the pin-laden gown while I went up to my apartment to make the phone call in private. I told Carlos about Betty North’s place and the ugly little doll, and that Lupita had worked for Betty as one of her home health aides. Carlos told me they hadn’t found any new leads on Selena’s whereabouts, and still didn’t know what was going on in El Pajarito.
We were about to conclude our talk when I slipped in a request to speak with Ursula Moreno.
As usual, there was a long pause. I could hear the hum of the station behind him, someone yelling, a weary voice saying, “Give it a rest, pal, will ya?”
“You think she would tell you anything?” Carlos asked.
“It’s worth a try. She must have some idea where Selena might be, and if she’s concerned maybe she’ll confide in me. You know how we witches can be: rather clannish.”
“Don’t you mean covenish? All right, I’ll see what I can do. Let me make a few calls, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Carlos.”
* * *
I came downstairs just as Finn, the man in charge of Betty North’s estate sale, arrived to deliver the bags of clothes Maya and I had selected. Conrad was right behind him, trying to help, but Finn carried three bags in each strong hand.
“Where do you want ’em?” he asked.
“Here, in the back room, if you don’t mind.”
I opened the curtain and, with a grunt, he set the Hefty bags down in front of the washing machine.
“Clothes are heavy,” he said. “Who knew?”
“You should try them when they’re wet. I swear, laundry is the bane of every vintage clothes dealer’s existence.”
Finn grinned, stepped back out onto the shop floor, and looked around. When he spoke, his booming voice filled Aunt Cora’s Closet.
“Nice place you got here, kiddo. Real nice.”
“Thank you. We like it. Hey, could I ask you a question?”
“Sure thing. Need me to appraise something?”
“No, nothing like that. I was wondering whether you knew if anyone did a limpia at Betty’s house.”
“Excuse me?”
“A limpia—it’s a spiritual cleansing of a home.”
He smiled. “I do know what a limpia is—don’t forget, I spent a lot of time in the houses of dead people. And we’re in the Bay Area. But with regards to Betty’s place, I don’t know, to be honest. I was called in for the estate sale, but I don’t know anything about the intricacies of the house prep, anything like that. Besides, wouldn’t a limpia be done after the place is cleaned out?”
“Normally, yes.”
“I guess it wouldn’t be beyond reason, though, I gotta say . . .” He glanced around the store. “I think there might be . . . I dunno, a spirit or something in that house.”
“A spirit? Did you see something?”
“I don’t know, exactly.” He shrugged.
I reminded myself to be patient. When it came to ghosts or spirits or really anything beyond our earthly realm, most people aren’t like me. Normal people weren’t raised to believe in omens, woods creatures, or the transformational effects of a magical brew, much less the presence of spirits from beyond the veil. When nonwitchy humans confronted something unusual, it was only natural to try to explain it away: too much to drink, a trick of the light, a bad dream. Or that they were losing their minds.
“Did you sense anything out of the ordinary?” I suggested when he remained silent. “A cold spot, maybe?”
“Whispers? A breath on the back of your neck?” Bronwyn joined the discussion, a tad overeager. She had recently developed a fascination with ghosts, and was beginning to view herself as a junior ghost-buster.
“No, no, nothing like that,” said Finn. “It’s not like I think Betty’s ghost is hanging around, or anything. It’s just that I can tell things kind of . . . move around a bit.”
“You see them move?”
“I haven’t seen anything. But remember how I told you I take photos? I was going through a bunch and realized that things weren’t the way I left them. They’d been moved.”
He brought out an iPad and scrolled through pictures, showing me a before and after of one of his display tables.
“So the place wasn’t tossed,” I said, recalling the state of Ursula’s store. “But it does look as if things have been rearranged.”
“That’s why I was thinking maybe it was a ghost. I mean, it’s not like that’s the first thing that comes to mind, but if someone was after Betty’s valuables they would just grab them and run, wouldn’t they? I mean, why take the time to rearrange things?”
I thought back to yesterday, when Maya and I were at Betty North’s house. I didn’t recall any o
f the usual indications of a ghostly presence: no strange puffs of air rushing past my bare arms, no tingle at the back of my neck, no sensation of my hair being pulled.
I can’t communicate with the dead, but restless spirits are drawn to my vibrations and often try to make themselves known when I’m in their vicinity.
Still . . . If Betty was haunting her old home, perhaps seeking justice for a death hastened by someone with a voodoo doll, she might be too new to the spirit realm to know how to reach out to me. And I hadn’t thought to open myself up to the possibility because I hadn’t been thinking about ghosts. Could I have missed her attempt to communicate?
Maybe I should ask Sailor to visit Betty’s house, to see if he could communicate with whatever, or whoever, might be there. Assuming, that is, his mentor gave him permission to dissipate his power.
Then again, probably none of this had to do with ghosts. Might Lupita still have a key to the house?
“Who has access to Betty’s house, do you know?”
“Well, Maya has the key code to the lockbox. And me,” Finn said. “And of course real estate agents would. The house isn’t being shown yet, but there are usually inspectors and Realtors going in and out before a house formally goes on the market.”
“Betty hired you to sell her things, right?” I asked.
“Yup. She made the arrangements before she passed. Now that she’s gone, I ask her son if I need anything. He’s the executor of the estate.”
“He has access to the house, too, then.”
“I guess he must. But I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. He told me to take care of everything. ‘Sell it all,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to deal with it.’”
“He doesn’t even want any mementos of his mom?” Maya asked. “What about the portraits?”
“I hate to say it,” Finn said with a shrug. “But it’s not as unusual as you might think. A lot of times family members don’t want to keep anything belonging to the one who passed—except, of course, the money. That they do want. Shouldn’t complain, of course. Estate sales are my bread and butter, and if more folks cared about their families I’d be out of business. But it does make me sad. I guess you see some messed-up things, too, what with buying and selling dead people’s clothes.”
Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 9