Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “How is he?”

  “Well.”

  I glanced around the room again. “Is he . . . here today?”

  “Nope, he’s freelance so you never know when he’ll be stopping by. You should give him a call.”

  “I might just do that. I don’t suppose you’d have a copy of that article he wrote about the botanicas, do you?”

  “Sure, it’s in the archives. I’ll print it out for you,” he said with a grunt as he leaned forward over his keyboard, typed something, and his desktop printer started up. He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest, and fixed me with a look. “But something tells me you didn’t come all the way over here just to ask for a reprint of an article. What’s up?”

  “What can you tell me about Patience Blix?”

  “She’s a knockout.”

  “So I’ve noticed. I was hoping to have a slightly more elevated discussion, perhaps about what she’s like as a person.”

  He grinned. “Well, there’s no evidence she’s been bilking anyone. From what I can tell, she’s taking over for Renna as the informal head of the local fortune-tellers. She appears to be a smart businesswoman, doesn’t want any part of bujo cons.”

  “What’s a bujo con?”

  “It originally referred to a way to scam people out of money. Bujo means ‘bag,’ and refers to the bag of money people are told to bring to the con artist so as to remove a curse. The con artist substitutes the bag with the real money for an identical one containing worthless paper. The victim is told not to open the bag until a specified period of time, giving the con artist time to get away. Nowadays bujo refers to any kind of scam to wring money out of the wallets of idiots. I mean, to steal from gullible, vulnerable citizens.”

  “What prompted the mayor to launch his recent crusade?”

  “As long as the fortune-tellers didn’t get greedy, and the victims were mostly tourists, City Hall didn’t care. But recently a few high-profile victims started raising holy hell when they realized they’d been snookered. Rule number one in running a con: Don’t target someone who can fight back.”

  “They were victimized by bujo scams?”

  “Those, as well as a number of others, such as conning the elderly into leaving all their worldly goods to Madame Sees-the-Future. Hey, if the fortune-tellers were legit, why didn’t they predict that their victims were about to go toes-up?”

  “Maybe they did. Maybe that’s how they knew whom to target.”

  Nigel’s eyebrows shot up. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “What about the owners of botanicas, like those in the Mission? Why is the mayor targeting them?”

  “Same reason. Disgruntled customers with connections in high places.”

  “Any specific cases?”

  He shrugged and glanced at a glassed-in private office. “We can’t talk about a lot of the cases at this point. But there are one or two . . . Why are you asking?”

  “Have you heard of Nicky Utley?”

  “Killed herself, right? And now the DA’s charged that woman from El Pajarito. That’s why you’re interested in Max’s article?”

  I nodded. “What can you tell me about that case?”

  “Not much. Don’t see how the DA will be able to make the charges stick. Can you imagine trying to explain that to a jury? Dollars to donuts a judge’ll toss the case soon enough. Shame about the dead woman, though. Her bad luck that the Golden Gate Guardian didn’t spot her in time.”

  “Is that like the Bridge Troll?”

  Nigel laughed. “No, the Golden Gate Guardian’s an actual person. You never heard of him?”

  I shook my head. “Who is he?”

  “Guy who monitors the bridge. They say he’s talked dozens of people out of jumping. True hero, in my book.”

  I agreed, but since, as Nigel pointed out, he had not been on guard when Nicky jumped, I didn’t suppose it was particularly relevant. I asked the next question on my mental list.

  “What about the woman at El Pajarito named Lupita? Her photo was included with Max’s article. Someone told me she volunteered to bring a reporter to the shop.”

  “You gonna make me do some work? Hold on.” Nigel rummaged through his messy desk, pulled out an old notebook, and started flipping through it. “Let me see here. . . . Yeah, here it is. You know, that was odd. One Lupita Rodriguez came in, proposed the story. That doesn’t happen often with people from that community. That’s why I jumped at the chance, and pitched the idea to my editor for a series of articles about supernatural issues.”

  “Do you have an extra copy of the article?”

  He passed one over. I skimmed it: Max had interviewed several of the same shop owners Aidan and I had visited, including Ursula Moreno. The article described their shops, the merchandise, and the services offered in a flowing prose that sometimes bordered on the poetic. Max also described the need fulfilled by such shops: that people who were too poor or alienated by “modern” medical services looked to these curanderas for culturally relevant solace and hope. His sympathy was obvious, but so was his academic skepticism.

  “Did Lupita ask to get paid, do you know?” I asked.

  “She did, as a matter of fact,” said Nigel. “But we don’t pay for stories.”

  “So what was in it for her?”

  “Not sure, to tell you the truth. She seemed pretty happy with the article though, called to thank me. I remember she said her fiancé got a real kick out of it.”

  “Do you have a phone number for her, or an address? Any contact information?”

  He shook his head. “She always came to me, and when I insisted I needed a number she gave me the one for the store, El Pajarito. But when I tried calling to fact-check something, the woman who answered said Lupita was almost never there, and was surprised she had given me that number.”

  “So, what’s the next article in the series going to focus on?”

  “Haunted houses.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Believe it or not. I got the idea from Max’s article, the bit about limpias, or spiritual housecleaning. I’ll be interviewing some folks who claim to be able to see ghosts, but mostly the article will focus on how rumors of hauntings affect real estate values. Because, you know, I’m a serious journalist. Did you know in California real estate deals a seller has to disclose any death that occurred at a home, because so many people won’t buy a house where a death occurred?”

  “Really? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Good. That’s what makes it news.”

  “Well, I should let you get back to work. So,” I said, hoping to sound casual. “You don’t expect to see Max anytime soon?”

  “Matter of fact”—he thumbed through a dog-eared agenda—“looks like he’s supposed to come in for a four-thirty meeting. Want to stick around?”

  “Oh, no. Thank you, though.”

  “Want me to tell him you were looking for him?”

  “No. No, I . . . actually, yes. Thank you. Here’s my card.”

  “I imagine he remembers the number.”

  “Maybe. Thanks, Nigel.”

  “Good to see you, Lily. You take care, now.”

  “You too. And good luck with the remodel.”

  He rolled his eyes and snorted. “‘His and hers’ sinks. You believe that?”

  * * *

  Early that evening, in my apartment, I placed my Book of Shadows on the counter and flipped through it until I found the section on fertility spells.

  I had never worked much with these kinds of spells because I didn’t feel comfortable with such weighty magic. My grandmother did, though; she was also an experienced partera—midwife—as were many traditional curanderas.

  Fertility spells were among the most difficult magic because they were meant to bring forth life. What could be more profound, more complicated, and more difficult than that?

  How easily life can be taken away compared to how difficult it was to bestow, I thought. And that, I realized
, was another reason to be suspicious of Ursula: A practitioner should not be so casual with fertility spells. On the other hand, I supposed she was right; perhaps conception sometimes involved emotions and belief as well as straightforward biology.

  “Watcha doin’?” asked Oscar.

  I was almost certain his question was the preamble to asking when he could expect his dinner. But I chose to take it at face value.

  “Studying up on fertility spells.”

  Oscar’s huge green eyes got even larger and more luminous, and he spoke in an awed, fierce whisper. “Mistress is going to have a baby? I thought I noticed you putting on weight!”

  I stood up straighter and glanced down at my stomach. Was it pooching out? Was I looking pregnant now?

  “Mistress is! Mistress is going to have a baby! Is it Sailor’s?”

  “Who else’s would it be?” I said, momentarily distracted from the ridiculousness of our conversation by the notion that I could be pregnant with another man’s baby.

  Oscar started hopping around, but I couldn’t tell whether it was out of agitation, or excitement, or both. He scampered up to his cubby over the refrigerator and disappeared within.

  Belatedly, I realized I had misled him.

  “No, Oscar. I’m not going to have a baby, not with Sailor or with anyone else. Apparently I need to cut back on the red velvet cake, though. Come down from there—are you hiding?”

  He crawled out of his cubby and jumped down to the kitchen floor.

  “This isn’t about me,” I continued. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to a woman who went to Ursula Moreno for help with fertility.”

  “Oh.” Oscar looked crestfallen. Then I realized he was hiding something behind his back.

  “What are you hiding?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “So what’s in your hand?”

  “In what hand?”

  “The one behind your back.”

  “Nothin’.” He shrugged. “I’ll put it back.”

  I craned my neck to see. It looked like a bit of cloth of some sort, covered in a hodgepodge of lace and ribbons and dried flowers.

  “Oscar, what is that?”

  He shrugged again and kicked his taloned feet. “It’s a Ruerymplegandling cloth.”

  “A what, now?”

  “A Ruerymplegandling cloth.”

  “A rue . . . ?”

  With exaggerated patience, Oscar enunciated slowly: “Rue. Rymple. Gandling. Cloth.”

  At my blank expression, he gasped. “You tellin’ me you’ve never heard of a Ruerymplegandling cloth?”

  “I can’t say as I have. What is it? May I see it?”

  He hesitated.

  “Please?”

  Oscar laid the item on the kitchen counter. It was a scrap of cloth, a bit of broadloomed raw silk into which had been woven colored ribbons and feathers, lace, and long-dead flowers. There were even two powdery old butterfly wings attached to one side.

  He gazed at it and caressed it gently with one oversized, scaly hand.

  “Oscar, does this belong to you?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you have it before you met me?”

  He nodded again. “For the longest time. You wear it when you’re introduced to the faerie court. So’s the Good People of the woods don’t try to eat you, or whatever.”

  “Well, that seems useful.”

  “My mother gave it to me. She brought me to the ceremony right before she had to change back.”

  Oscar’s mother suffered under a curse that turned her into stone. Anytime we came across gargoyles, Oscar searched for her, looking for her face among the carved countenances.

  I stared first at the Ruerymplegandling cloth, then back at my familiar. “And you were going to give it to me?”

  “To your baby. Not to you,” he said, laughing so hard he began to snort. “I know you want to be introduced to the woodsfolk, but a Ruerymplegandling cloth is for helpless little babies, not grown-up witches!”

  He cackled some more at the absurdity of a witch my age appropriating a Ruerymplegandling cloth.

  “That’s very sweet of you, Oscar. Thank you for thinking of it.”

  He shrugged. “Weren’t nothin’.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I was looking at fertility spells because I was trying to understand what happened to Nicky Utley, the woman who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I think she may not have made that decision of her own free will.”

  “Well, duh. Hey! I have an idea! Let’s have mac-and-cheese for dinner!”

  “In a minute. What do you mean by ‘duh’?”

  “She was on the bridge because of the spell, right?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Fertility conjures involve tossing the charged charm into a mystical body of water. The Golden Gate Bridge is built over some pretty mystical waters.”

  The Golden Gate Bridge was not only a gorgeous example of classic Art Deco architecture; it had also been constructed in an enchanted spot. The bridge spanned the site where the ferocious Pacific Ocean met the serene San Francisco Bay, and connected urban San Francisco to the wilds of the Marin Headlands. I had tossed charged charms from the bridge on more than once occasion, myself.

  “Why didn’t I think of that? Oscar, you’re a genius.”

  “Aw, go on,” he said and ducked his head. “You would have come up with mac-and-cheese eventually.”

  “I meant about the bridge, not dinner. So maybe Nicky Utley went to the middle of the bridge to toss a fertility charm over the railing into the water below,” I thought aloud. “And then what? She became so overwhelmed by emotion that she threw herself over as well?”

  “But why would you go through the trouble of casting a fertility spell if you’re just gonna kill yourself?” Oscar pointed out.

  “That’s true. Maybe—”

  The phone rang. Few people have my home number, and since I had a form of witchy caller ID I knew it was Sailor before I even picked up.

  I wasn’t surprised, either, when he told me he was canceling our date for dinner, citing more training with Patience.

  I blew out an exasperated breath.

  “Everything okay?” Sailor asked.

  “Not really, no.” I wasn’t in the best frame of mind, having spent all day running around speaking with Knox, and Patience, and Nigel. What was worse, I still didn’t feel any closer to finding Selena, or Lupita, much less figuring out what was going on in Ursula’s shop or how it fit in with the death of Nicky Utley.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Sailor. “Do you need me?”

  “No, it’s just that . . . I have something I want to ask you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “It’s . . . I mean, it’s probably silly. I just, I don’t even know . . . oh, never mind.”

  He chuckled. “Is this a question better asked in person?”

  “Probably.” I tried to stop there, but for some reason kept talking. “It’s just . . . you and Patience.”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s . . . I mean, I saw the article about her today in the paper. And . . . she’s gorgeous.”

  Silence.

  “I mean . . .” Having started this, I might as well finish. “What do you two do, all that time together?”

  “We’re training, Lily. You know that.”

  “What kind of training?”

  “Tell me what’s really going on.”

  “I stopped by to see her today.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I was hoping she could find the missing girl, Selena.”

  “Find her how?”

  “Aidan said she’s pretty skilled with the crystal ball.”

  “You saw Aidan? When was this?”

  “He was at Hervé’s shop when I went by.”

  “Did he try anything? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. He acted like nothing had hap
pened, more or less.”

  “Huh. I hate to say it, but that’s worrying. Aidan’s not the type to let something like this go.”

  “I know. He made it clear that I owe him, but for the moment I think we’re working together. He’s trying to find Selena, too.”

  “I’ll just bet he is.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You told me everyone thinks this girl is powerful, right? Aidan likes to keep powerful people right where he wants them.”

  “Maybe, but he seems genuinely worried about her welfare.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. After a long pause, Sailor said, “That might be. But if and when you find the girl, keep her out of Aidan’s clutches. If you can.”

  “You think he’s really that bad?”

  “You’re seriously asking me that?”

  “I . . . Listen, I’d like to ask Patience to look for Selena again, and maybe speak with her more about fortune-telling scams.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it may be relevant.”

  “Is that really why?”

  I bit my lip and didn’t reply.

  “Tell you what, I should be done about midnight. Meet me at my place,” Sailor suggested. “We’ll talk more about Patience in person, if that’s what you’d like.”

  My heart lifted. “Okay. See you then.”

  “Good. Can’t wait.”

  I hung up with a smile. And then made a decision. If Sailor wasn’t coming over, I could spend the evening checking something out. I bustled around the kitchen gathering items to place in my satchel: a small Mason jar of all-purpose shielding brew, a bag of salts, another of mixed herbs. My medicine bag was tied around my waist, as usual, but under the circumstances I thought it wise to take some extra protection.

  Oscar watched me, concern in his big green eyes. “Does this mean no mac-and-cheese?”

  “’Fraid so. But there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge. Why don’t you make yourself a nice dinner? With cake after, not before.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “I’m going to the Golden Gate Bridge, and I doubt pigs are allowed. I’ve never even seen a dog on the bridge.”

  “I’m no dog,” Oscar said, annoyed. He was a proud little guy. By and large, Oscar was pleased with his piggy guise, but he hated being compared to a dog. I had tried to explain to him that I was a dog person, that they were a human’s best friend, examples of loyalty and devotion and all that. He remained unimpressed.