Hexes and Hemlines
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Teaser chapter
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JULIET BLACKWELL
THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES
A Cast-off Coven
“If you like your mysteries with a side of spell casting and demon vanquishing, you’ll enjoy the second title in Blackwell’s Witchcraft mysteries.”
—Romantic Times
“This awesome paranormal mystery stars a terrific heroine.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
Secondhand Spirits
“Juliet Blackwell provides a terrific urban fantasy with the opening of the Witchcraft Mystery series.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor, creating a cozy that is a must read for anyone with an interest in literature with paranormal elements.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”
—The Herald News (MA)
THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION SERIES
If Walls Could Talk
“This book is filled with quick wit and chuckles throughout, and is one of the best cozy reads out there.”
—Suspense Magazine
“This is the first entry in the Haunted Home Renovation series, and it promises to be a load of fun.”
—Romantic Times (four stars)
THE ART LOVER’S MYSTERIES BY JULIET BLACKWELL WRITING AS HAILEY LIND
Brush with Death
“Lind deftly combines a smart and witty sleuth with entertaining characters who are all engaged in a fascinating new adventure.”
—Romantic Times
Shooting Gallery
“If you enjoy Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum books, Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy series, or Ian Pears’s art history mysteries . . . then you will enjoy Shooting Gallery .”
—Gumshoe
“An artfully crafted new mystery series!”
—Tim Myers, Agatha Award–nominated author of
A Mold for Murder
“The art world is murder in this witty and entertaining mystery!”
—Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of
Holiday Grind
Feint of Art
“Annie Kincaid is a wonderful cozy heroine.... It’s a rollicking good read.”
—Mystery News
ALSO IN THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERY SERIES
Secondhand Spirits
A Cast-off Coven
THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERY SERIES
If Walls Could Talk
OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, June 2011
Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2011
eISBN : 978-1-101-51549-5
Excerpt from If Walls Could Talk © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2010
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To Jane Lawes
Thank you for the magic—
I miss you so.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my wonderful editor, Kerry Donovan—and congratulations on the new human, Reed! And to my literary agent, Kristin Lindstrom, who is unflagging in her support.
Special thanks to R.G. for allowing me to witness your spell casting and to glimpse a bit of your world. And to Renna Santini for answering my numerous (and no doubt obnoxious) questions about the Rom and traditional healing spells. Muchísimas gracias a Cathy Romero por enseñarme en las tradiciones mexicanas.
We authors require many supportive shoulders on which to lean, and ears in which to whine. . . . I couldn’t manage without my fellow writers. Many thanks to my fellow Pens Fatales (www.pensfatales.com). To Mario Acevedo, Rachael Herron, Nicole Peeler, Cornelia Read, Steve Hockensmith, and so many more for promoting my witchy ways. And to Sophie Littlefield for putting up with all my secret nastiness . . . and making it seem like a feature rather than a failing. You are amazing.
And to the long list of friends and neighbors that I thank in almost every book—you know who you are, and you all serve to make this life an adventure. I am privileged to know you, and it’s no exaggeration to say I could never be what I am without your love and support . . . and cocktails! You are my family.
To my mother, Jane, and father, Bob, and sisters, Susan and Carolyn. Thank you for giving me the kind of start in life that everyone should be lucky enough to have. And for continuing to be there for me, even wh
en I’m crazed. Your support means more than you know.
To Jace, for making me laugh just about every day—and for whipping the next generation of schoolchildren into shape. And to my guy, Sergio . . . you are, were, and always will be an inspiration to me.
And finally to Oscar, my neighbor’s little black cat . . . I put “smoked ham” on the grocery list.
’Tis the night—the night
Of the grave’s delight,
And the warlocks are at their play;
Ye think that without
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they—it is they.
—ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE
Chapter 1
It didn’t take a witch to figure out something was very, very wrong on the thirteenth floor of the Doppler Building.
It wasn’t called the thirteenth floor, of course. It was the penthouse, and Malachi Zazi lived there. Or . . . used to live there. At the moment his body was splayed atop a long banquet table, a jagged shard from a shattered mirror protruding from his chest. Deep red blood spatter created a gruesome Rorschach pattern on the snowy white Belgian lace tablecloth.
I took a deep breath and concentrated on not losing my lunch.
Most days I deal in vintage clothing, not corpses. I may be a natural-born witch, but I’m no more comfortable around violent death than any other mortal merchant on Haight Street.
I was here only because SFPD inspector Carlos Romero had asked for my help. I now understood why.
“When was he found?” I asked.
“This morning,” said Inspector Romero. “By his housekeeper.”
“Time of death?”
“Medical examiner hasn’t determined that, but the victim had guests for a midnight supper. The last ones apparently left around two thirty.”
“The body hasn’t been moved? The legs were pointed toward the door like this?”
The inspector nodded. “Everything’s as it was found. Including the bird.”
“What bird?”
As if on cue, a small brown sparrow swooped past me and landed on the table near the corpse. It chirped and hopped about, then flew away. I jumped when a black cat sprang onto the tabletop and gave chase. Feather and fur disappeared into the bedroom.
I clutched my medicine bag and whispered a quick protective chant.
Romero scoffed. “I didn’t think witches were scared of black cats.”
“I’m not. But a sparrow trapped in the house is a sign of death at hand.”
“Yeah, well, we got a dead guy on the table.”
“But the bird . . .” I shook my head. “Death is still lurking. It’s a bad sign.”
“That’s nothing,” the inspector snorted. “So far we’ve got a ladder positioned in front of the door to walk under in order to pass into the room. There’s a broken mirror over the fireplace, an open umbrella in the corner, and a black cat. Even I know these are alleged signs of bad luck.”
“Don’t forget the thirteen chairs at the table,” I mused. No point in mentioning that lying atop a table is considered bad luck, and lying down with one’s feet pointed toward the door is referred to as the corpse position. “And we’re on the thirteenth floor. Not that there’s anything unlucky about the number thirteen; quite the opposite. But a lot of people seem to think it’s cursed.”
I wasn’t yet ready to take a close look at the victim. Both because he was dead and what all . . . and because there was something decidedly wrong with the body.
Even from a distance, I could sense that there was something different about Malachi Zazi.
I took a moment to look around the apartment, sidestepping the emergency personnel, who were dusting for prints and photographing possible evidence. Besides occasional staccato camera flashes, the only light in the room was a dim amber glow from hand-blown sconces. The apartment reeked of cigar smoke and carried the slight aroma of last night’s dinner. Tall windows were covered by heavy gold-tasseled red velvet drapes that blocked the afternoon sun; muted Oriental rugs covered generous sections of the dark wood floor; vivid oil paintings lined the paneled walls; and plush leather armchairs invited weary visitors to linger by the massive carved fireplace. There were vases of lilies as well as bright orange marigolds—both were flowers of death: the lilies in many Western cultures, the marigolds in Mexico for Day of the Dead. The whole apartment looked like a stage set for a Victorian play—for some convoluted murder mystery, to be precise.
“Officially, we’re on the fourteenth floor,” Romero mentioned as he trailed after me. “Not the thirteenth.”
“Only because otherwise rational men and women pretend there’s no thirteenth floor when they build buildings. It’s such a holdover from another time. . . . It’s almost charming.”
“Charming or not, a man was in here with all these bad luck signs, and now he’s dead. Stabbed in the heart. Look, Lily,” the inspector continued with a half-embarrassed, half-weary look on his face. “You know it pains me to ask for your help, but I thought you might be able to offer certain . . . insights into this case. Can you tell me anything?”
I thought for a moment.
“You already know about the bad luck signs. But those are mostly superstitions—except for the mirror, and the ladder. Oh, and the poor bird. But even if they were potent, they wouldn’t lead to murder. Bad luck omens are more subtle than that, and they tend to work on a bit of a time delay.”
“So he was just an eccentric guy who liked signs of bad luck? You don’t . . . ‘feel’ anything?”
I took a deep breath and approached the body. “May I touch him?”
“Go ahead.”
I reached out and laid the fingertips of my left hand on Zazi’s cold, waxy forehead. He looked only a little older than I, maybe early thirties. Despite the grayish tone of his skin, it was clear he had once been good-looking. Dark hair and delicate wings of eyebrows set off even, romantic features.
Closing my eyes, I concentrated on filtering out the static caused by all the people in the apartment; their nervous energy bounced off the walls and filled the available air. I focused my powers, subsumed my conscious self, and allowed myself to be a conduit.
Nothing.
People—normal people—give off sensations, even several hours after death.
Malachi’s hands were soft, no calluses or signs of a man who worked with his hands. He wore a ring, a tarnished silver snake that wound around his left finger. Turning his hand palm up, I looked for the faint lines of fingerprints, the markings common to most every normal human on the earth.
The skin was slick, almost shiny. Even the palm showed no lifelines; nothing.
“Could someone roll him for prints?” I asked Carlos.
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t think he’ll have any.”
“What, you mean like you?”
“Like me.”
Our eyes met.
Some of us are born without fingerprints. There is a documented, albeit rare, medical condition associated with the lack of such lines. Still, I sometimes wondered whether there was something metaphysical about it, as though certain folk are meant to go through life without leaving a trace . . . but then I’d decided I was just strange.
Apparently, so was Malachi Zazi.
“Maybe you should check out his DNA,” I mentioned.
“What for?”
“Make sure he’s human.”
Romero glanced around at the crowd, took me gently by the upper arm, and hustled me into the bedroom. Our sudden entrance startled the cat, which ran under the bed.
His hand still on the door, as though holding it closed by force, Romero blew out a frustrated breath and fixed me with his skeptical cop gaze.
“What are you insinuating?”
“I just think it would be helpful to know for sure what we’re dealing with.”
“If he’s not human, then . . .” He swore under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “What would he be? Please tell
me we’re not talking about . . . a demon?”
I flinched. In my world, people don’t go around casually invoking the names of demons.
“Of course not,” I said. The inspector visibly relaxed. Until I added: “I mean, I doubt it. Could be anything, really.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“A doppelganger, a changeling . . . or maybe just odd, like me.”
Avoiding Romero’s eyes, I started poking around the bedroom. It was a masculine room, full of polished antiques like the rest of the apartment. My interest was immediately caught by an ornate cherry armoire, its doors open to reveal a bonanza of silks and satins—ladies’ gowns and gentlemen’s suits from another era. The late 1800s, I would say offhand. The clothes were gorgeous, and incredibly rare in such good condition.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“I don’t know, and I don’t particularly care, if it doesn’t have to do with the vic’s murder.”
I reached into the closet, hugged several of the items to my chest, and concentrated on the garments.
Clothes were usually an easy read for me. They hummed, alive with the energy and whispered traces of the people they had adorned. But not these. These clothes were as soulless as the dead man on the table.
I recoiled, as disturbed as a normal person would have been to suddenly feel vibrations coming from their T-shirt and cargo pants.
“What’s wrong?” Romero asked.
I just shook my head. I didn’t know what to make of it all. “Could I . . . would it be possible for me to have these?”