Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “All right.”

  While Selena was showering, Oscar sat on the counter and glowered as I prepared a breakfast burrito for Conrad. Then I went through Selena’s discarded clothes, but the sensations were the same as last night: scattered, unfocused energy, and plenty of it. I hoped the talisman would help address that.

  Oscar followed me around the whole time, scowling and muttering, and emitting an occasional harrumph.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Oscar,” I said firmly. “Selena’s a young girl who needs our help. End of story.”

  “I doubt it’s the end of the story, Mistress. She’s trouble, is what she is.”

  “She is troubled, that much is true. Which is why she needs friends, now more than ever. Her grandmother’s in jail.”

  “Prob’ly runs in the family,” he snorted.

  “Oscar, I would really appreciate your help with her.”

  “Mistress! I know just the thing. Have you heard of the Lomax-Rhody hex?”

  “That is not what I meant. She needs us, Oscar.”

  “I don’t need her.”

  “Oscar, seriously, I would really appreciate your help on this one. I can’t be around to watch her all the time. Would you stick with her, make sure she doesn’t take off, or do something that could hurt someone?”

  He grumbled.

  “I’d consider it a favor.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll understand if you aren’t up to the challenge. After all, she’s pretty strong.”

  He perked up immediately, inflating his green scaly chest. “She’s not stronger than the likes of yours truly.”

  “No? You’re sure? She could be a real challenge.”

  He blew out a dismissive breath. “Please.”

  “Then you’ll help me? I’d really appreciate it. I made her a Gutta Cavat Lapidem talisman, which should help focus her energies.”

  Oscar leaped off the counter and stomped into the living room, grumbling something about not needing “. . . no stinkin’ teardrop talisman to keep the likes of her in line.”

  Selena emerged from the steam-filled bathroom freshly scrubbed and clad in an embroidered cotton bathrobe, her long dark hair hanging wet down her back. We headed downstairs to Aunt Cora’s Closet, which didn’t open for another half hour. Oscar followed us down, transformed into his pig guise halfway down the stairs, and curled up on his purple silk pillow for his after-breakfast nap.

  “What suits your fancy?” I asked Selena.

  “I want to wear something of Betty’s.”

  “Hmm. That might not work out. Not only do the clothes need to be laundered first, but I don’t think they’ll fit you. Betty was a grown woman.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Tell you what: Why don’t you pick out something else for the time being, and I’ll see what I can do about finding something of Betty’s that might suit you? I’ll get it laundered, and if need be Lucille, the seamstress, can take it in. Deal?”

  She nodded begrudgingly.

  Selena wandered around the store aisles at first halfheartedly, then with growing interest. Twenty minutes later she chose an early-sixties sundress that reminded me of the style I liked for myself. It had deep pockets on a wide skirt, handy for carrying pouches and bits of herbs and plants. Even though it was tailored for the petite dimensions of a former generation, it was still too big for her, so I put a pink thin belt around her waist to cinch it in.

  “That’s just lovely on you,” I said. “Come over here and take a look.”

  Selena stood back and admired herself in the three-way mirror. The reflection caught the pair of us: both wearing vintage sundresses, with long dark hair and a slightly haunted look in our eyes.

  “Now don’t you look pretty,” I said, and felt a wave of something new from Selena—something like hope. “Hey, check us out—we could be sisters.”

  She stared at our reflection, her face blank.

  “Would you like me to braid your hair for you? Or would you rather leave it down?”

  Our eyes met in the mirror. Her gaze shifted to my hair.

  “Ponytail, like yours.”

  “Sure. Then we’ll really look like sisters,” I said with a smile. I retrieved a brush and an elastic hair band from behind the counter and pulled her still-damp hair into a high ponytail.

  Selena took a seat on the stool behind the counter and, without saying a word, watched closely as I performed my morning ritual of cleansing and smudging and lighting a protective candle.

  I was bringing Conrad his breakfast and trying to introduce him to the sullen, silent Selena, when Bronwyn showed up for work. I was so relieved to see her I gave her an enthusiastic hug.

  “My goddess, what’s got into you this morning?” she said with some concern, patting my back. Bronwyn knew I wasn’t much of a hugger. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, very much so.” I gave her a significant look. “Look who’s here!”

  “Well, hello there!” said Bronwyn. Purple gauzy coat fluttering behind her, I caught whiffs of cinnamon and cloves as she hurried over to Selena. “Selena, I’m Bronwyn. Do you remember me from El Pajarito? I used to buy herbs from your grandmother.”

  Selena nodded solemnly. “Epazote and juniper berries. Turmeric root. Sometimes rose hips when you didn’t have enough from your garden.”

  “Just so,” said Bronwyn with a warm smile. “What a memory!”

  “Selena’s going to be staying with me and Oscar for a little while.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful! Selena, my granddaughter’s out of town, but when she gets back, perhaps you’d like to meet her. She’s younger than you, but quite mature for her age.”

  Selena, now studying the jewelry inside the glass display case, didn’t answer.

  “Speaking of which,” Bronwyn continued, “Lily, Beowulf’s staying with me for a few days while they’re on vacation, but I hate to leave her home alone. Would it be all right if I brought her in? I know you worry about fur on the merchandise . . .”

  “By all means, bring her in,” I said. Bronwyn—you’re a genius, I thought.

  When Bronwyn returned a few minutes later with Beowulf—Oscar had named her this, despite the fact that she was female—the usually standoffish feline made a beeline for Selena.

  A smile broke out across the girl’s thin face. She scooped the cat up and cradled her, crooning off-key.

  Bronwyn and I exchanged glances, then both got back to work: I started tagging new inventory, while she filled unbleached cheesecloth teabags with her special mixtures of dried herbs and roots.

  The bell over the door chimed as shoppers began to stop by, many of whom were looking to put together outfits for the Summer of Love Festival. The phone rang, and I could hear Bronwyn answering with her typical singsong: “Aunt Cora’s closet, it’s not old, it’s vintage! How may I help you?”

  Selena watched silently, still cuddling Beowulf, while I found a peasant blouse and Indian-print skirt for a customer, pairing the skirt with a wide leather belt that had a big brass O for a buckle. A few love beads, a pair of brown suede boots, and a headband to hold back her curly hair, and she was good to go.

  One of the great things about costume-based festivals was that they brought a whole new clientele into Aunt Cora’s Closet. Once we nailed down her costume, the customer wondered whether there might be any vintage dresses that would fit her. I found two sundresses in her size, sixteen, which was quite a coup because most vintage clothing was not sized for today’s women. This was why Maya’s mother, Lucille, our talented shop seamstress, had started creating reproductions of vintage clothing sized to fit our clientele and made of fabrics that were machine-washable.

  As I rang up the woman’s purchase, I realized Bronwyn was still on the phone.

  “Well, it has been such a joy to hear from you, Max. Don’t be a stranger!” she said. “Here she is now, I’ll hand you to her.”

  Bronwyn covered the
speaker and whispered loudly: “It’s Max.”

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching for the phone.

  “Max Carmichael,” Bronwyn added. As though I might be confused.

  “Thank you, Bronwyn,” I repeated. I could feel my face burning.

  “Um, hi,” was the best I could come up with.

  “Lily.” At the sound of Max’s voice I was instantly brought back to the time we were together. Max Carmichael was an attractive man, but it was his voice that slayed me. I swear, the man should be a radio announcer. I’d happily listen to him narrate my entire Book of Shadows.

  There was a long pause. I wondered if Max felt as awkward as I did.

  “Nigel said you stopped by the Chronicle, and wanted to talk to me,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you for returning my call.” This was good, I thought. It was all business.

  “Is this something we can discuss over the phone, or would you prefer to meet?”

  “Actually, if you have the time I would love to talk face-to-face.”

  He chuckled. “I suspected as much. I remember your aversion to the telephone.”

  As a witch, I rely on vibrations and body language to provide insight into others. The telephone masks these extrasensory sensations, at least for me. Or maybe it was the humming of the electronic wires that threw me off. Either way, I avoided telephones whenever possible.

  “How about I take you to lunch?” I asked.

  “I’d love that. I have to be in North Beach for an interview this afternoon. We could meet at Mona Lisa’s, how about noon?”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  I hung up but rested my hand on the receiver for a few seconds, pondering. After a moment I could feel Bronwyn’s interested gaze.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “How’s Max?”

  “You would know better than I. You spoke to him much longer.”

  Bronwyn started humming, and returned to her tea blends.

  “I asked him to meet me for lunch,” I explained. “I need to talk to him about an article he wrote for the paper.”

  Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose. “Well, now, doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go,” I said quietly, glancing at Selena, who had finally released Beowulf but remained focused on the jewelry in the cabinet.

  “Nonsense,” said Bronwyn. “You scoot. Selena and I will be fine. She can help me put together my tea bags, right, Selena?”

  Selena started tsking and shaking her head. “These silver pieces are very tarnished. Can I go upstairs for some ketchup?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She ducked through the brocade curtain. Oscar let out a long-suffering porcine sigh as he hoisted himself up off his pillow and followed her.

  “Ketchup?” Bronwyn asked.

  “She says it takes the tarnish off.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I have no idea. But as long as it keeps her busy, I say let her at it. What could it hurt? Bronwyn, are you sure you can handle things until I get back? I need to pick up a few supplies in Chinatown while I’m in the neighborhood.”

  “We’ll be just fine. Duke will be coming by later, Conrad is right outside, and after all, Selena is just one girl.”

  One very special girl, I thought.

  * * *

  North Beach is surrounded by Chinatown, the financial district, Jackson Square, and Cannery Row. Originally settled by Italian immigrants, the neighborhood’s ethnic flavor is reflected in its many restaurants, shops, and cafés, as well as the beautiful Saints Peter and Paul Catholic church that crowns Washington Square. Tourists swarm to North Beach, but it’s also a favorite of locals in search of a good meal, an espresso, or Italian pastries. At night the vicinity is full of music and nightlife, and is the destination for folks seeking strip shows and the like.

  It’s a hopping place, even on a Tuesday in the middle of the day. I found a parking space within walking distance of Chinatown, and after stopping at my favorite Chinese apothecary for herbs and roots to replenish my supplies, I walked the several city blocks to Mona Lisa Ristorante.

  Max was seated at an outdoor table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, studying the menu. With his dark hair and complexion, he could have been a local lounging at a café in Florence.

  As I approached, he looked up. Max had startling, light gray eyes, like pinpoints of light. They were sad eyes, and once upon a time I had hoped to bring them joy.

  I reached for my medicine bag to steel myself against old yearnings. What I was feeling towards Max wasn’t romantic; Sailor was so much better for me than Max ever was, or could be. But even though I knew that, a part of me longed for a different life, the sort I had once thought was possible with someone like Max. A normal life, the kind that had always been denied me.

  I recalled what Knox said about yearning for a “regular” home while he trailed his military father around the globe. Maybe it wasn’t just witches who yearned for such things. But when it came right down to it, was anyone’s upbringing “normal”?

  “Lily,” Max said as he rose to greet me. “Good to see you.”

  He leaned in to give me a hug but I stepped back.

  “Sorry,” said Max.

  “No, no. I’m the sorry one. In more ways than one,” I said with a smile. “It’s just . . . I don’t . . . I’m just . . .”

  “It’s fine, Lily,” Max said, his light gaze sweeping over me. “It really is. I understand. It’s just good to see you. You look wonderful, by the way. I take it life is treating you well?”

  “As they say in Texas, I could complain, but then so could the devil.”

  He chuckled. “And what does that mean exactly?”

  “I really have no idea,” I said, joining him in a laugh. “Sometimes I think these sayings serve to fill a gap in the conversation when you don’t know what else to say.”

  “That sounds like a good enough reason to me. Please.” He gestured to the seat across from him at the small iron café table.

  The waiter took my order for an iced tea and Max and I perused our menus, a move inspired, on my part, more by the desire to do something than from interest. We exchanged a few polite remarks, me commenting on a pasta dish, Max pointing out the tiramisu.

  Our drinks arrived, accompanied by a basket of warm sourdough bread and a dish of olive oil sporting a few flakes of chili and sea salt. After our waiter left with our meal orders, Max asked me what I had wanted to talk to him about.

  “Ursula Moreno owns a shop called El Pajarito that you included in a story on the botanicas in the Mission. Do you remember your interview with her?”

  He nodded. “That was a while ago. But yes, I remember.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about that interview? Anything unusual that didn’t wind up in the article?”

  He pushed his chin out slightly, as though trying to remember. “I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary, other than the fact that some local witch doctors are using so-called magic to try to cure cancer, or some such nonsense.”

  I felt myself tightening up. This was good, I thought. This was the disdainful side of Max, the cynical skeptic who couldn’t deal with my powers. It was useful to be reminded.

  “Did Ursula claim to be able to cure cancer with magic?” I asked.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember exactly who said what. I interviewed a number of shop owners for that story. But I gave all my research to Nigel—it was his series, I just stepped in when he couldn’t do those first interviews. He wrote a recent article following up on some of those types of scams.”

  “Yes, thanks. I read that one, as well as yours. But I noticed the photo in the article that you wrote. It was a picture of Ursula Moreno, a girl named Selena, and another woman named Lupita Rodriguez. Was Lupita your initial contact?”

  Max sat back in his seat and nodded. “Yes, she was.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “She approached N
igel, said she could introduce him to some people.”

  “So she just came to the newspaper offices out of the blue?”

  “If I recall correctly, she was hoping for compensation.”

  “Nigel told me y’all don’t pay for stories at the Chronicle.”

  “We don’t. She probably thought the publicity would bring more business into the shop.”

  According to Ursula, Lupita wasn’t involved in the running of the shop. So how would she have benefited from more customers? On the other hand, maybe Ursula had lied, or misled me for some reason.

  “Do you remember a young teenager there, a girl named Selena?”

  “I do.”

  “What were your impressions of her?”

  “She was quiet. Seemed intelligent. A little we—” He cut himself off.

  “Weird? You can say it.”

  “She was different. Clearly something was going on there, though whether she was somehow disturbed, or simply far too intelligent for her age, I wasn’t sure. Our interaction wasn’t that extensive. Why do you ask?”

  “I think she’s a lot like me. Or the way I was when I was her age.”

  Just then the waiter appeared with our meals. Pasta carbonara for Max, eggplant parmesan for me. My mouth watered at the sight of the generous mound of eggplant slathered in melted cheese and a fragrant tomato sauce, and I belatedly remembered Oscar’s comment about my putting on weight. Maybe I should have ordered a salad. Still, as the delectable aromas wafted up from my plate I was glad I hadn’t, and nodded when the waiter offered to sprinkle more parmesan on top of my meal.

  I’ll have yogurt for dinner, I promised myself, and dug in.

  I was on my second mouthful when I realized Max wasn’t eating. When I met his eyes, he asked, “What do you mean, she’s a lot like you were when you were her age?”

  “A freak of nature.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  “Yes, frankly, I do.” I sat back with a smile. “But the good news is that I’m coming to terms with it. Maybe nature needs a few freaks to balance out all the normal folks. In any case, in the words of the immortal Popeye, ‘I yam what I yam.’”

  “You’re an incredible woman, Lily,” Max said softly. “And much, much more attractive than Popeye.”