Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  Outside a siren blared, grew unbearably loud, then passed. Someone shouted the name “Carrie” repeatedly. Drunken laughter. Smells of marijuana smoke, fried foods, and car exhaust wafted in through the open window. Sailor and I shared a look. Despite my earlier bravado, I was very glad to have him standing guard.

  “What kind of research do you do?”

  “Antiaging, mostly. The secret to longevity.”

  “Have you found it?”

  “The secret?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Not quite. I’m afraid there’s no magic potion. We’re investigating regimens of hormones and vitamins, different sorts of medications.”

  “You work at Michael Perkins’s company, Perkins Laboratories?”

  “Mike Perkins. Yeah.”

  The eternal search for youth. I thought about the botanicals I knew that helped people stay younger longer: angelica and cinnamon oil, to name just a couple. But they were mostly about maintaining vitality and health, not just surface beauty. I imagined anyone who came near to inventing such a product would make a fortune.

  “Do you think this ‘curse’ you appear to be under has to do with Malachi’s dinners?”

  “Six months ago I would have laughed at the very idea. But I’m beginning to wonder whether you can really tempt fate like that and not pay for it eventually.”

  “So you believe? In the bad luck symbols?”

  “I’m a scientist. I believe in things that are proven, and provable. But contrary to popular belief, that doesn’t mean I’m closed to the idea of something . . . well . . . things that we don’t know about yet.”

  It made sense. Scientists deal with outlandish ideas all the time—just look at the inspired lunacy of Galileo. They were among the more open-minded people I’d ever met when it came to magical systems. All they asked for was proof.

  “For instance, say Joe from down the hall comes to me and tells me aliens have just landed down at the corner,” Gregory continued. “He wants to bet me a hundred dollars. I wouldn’t take the bet, but I’d sure go down and check out the corner, just in case.”

  “Tell me what happened with Malachi, why the police would be suspicious of you.”

  “It was right before dinner Saturday night. I arrived early to speak with Malachi. Oliver came in and overheard us arguing. I guess he told the police.” He shook his head. “Oliver Huffman. Of all people.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “We’ve known each other for years, since high school. I just can’t believe he’d accuse me.”

  “He told the police you killed Malachi?”

  “Not in so many words. He said he overheard me arguing with Malachi. Said I threatened to kill him.”

  “And did you?”

  “I may have. I don’t really remember . . . I was upset.” His jaw set tight, the muscles in his neck drew taut, as though he remained seated through sheer force of will. He clenched his fists. “I just wanted him to stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “All of it. To lift the curse.”

  “You really think Malachi cursed you?”

  To me, that was a serious accusation. As my grandmother Graciela would say, Words have power, m’hija, las palabras son poderosas. I would never curse a person without cause. But then, I knew what my power could do, and I was careful with it. Could Malachi have been a beginner, or worse, someone who used magical powers for his whims?

  “He must have cursed me. Why else would all of this be happening?”

  “Even if that’s true . . . Why? What motivation would Malachi have to do such a thing? Were you and he enemies?”

  “No, no, not really. We’ve known each other forever, since school. But we were both angry that night, and I may have lost it. I guess maybe I did threaten him. And Oliver heard me, and he told the police, and now they think I’m the killer.”

  “Gregory, talking to you about an argument is not the same as pressing charges. I think you should try to relax and not assume the worst will happen.”

  He just sighed.

  “Think carefully. Was there anything different about that last night at Malachi’s place? With the dinner, or how any of the guests were acting?”

  He shook his head, ran his hand through his thin hair. “I can’t think of anything. Except . . .” He shrugged.

  “Anything at all.”

  “There was a different guest there. Since Ellen was hospitalized, we needed a new woman.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Lots of hair . . . Dora? No, Doura. And she insisted we play a bunch of ridiculous parlor games. Like the Ouija board, that sort of thing.”

  “And you all did that on Saturday night? What did you ask the board?”

  “It’s just a stupid game. You probably played it when you were a girl, at slumber parties.”

  I was never invited to slumber parties when I was a girl, and even if I had been, I sure as heck wouldn’t have “played” with a Ouija board. Those things scare me.

  “Tell me, though. What did you ask the board . . . and what did it reply?”

  “Someone must have been pushing the pointer. It spelled out “d-e-a-t-h.” Everybody seemed pretty shaken up, but you know the whole point was not to believe in such nonsense.”

  “And yet I’m getting the distinct impression that you do believe.”

  “I never used to. But now . . . that’s not all. Want to hear the really weird thing?”

  “Sure.” I took a deep breath.

  “I . . .” He swallowed and looked around. I smelled the acrid scent of fear. “I thought I saw him.”

  “Him who?”

  “Malachi.”

  “When?”

  “Today. This morning.”

  “Is this the part where you bet me a hundred bucks?”

  “I know it sounds crazy, and it probably is. But I haven’t had a drink for a week.”

  Unbidden, my eyes slewed to the bottle on the nightstand. Gregory reached over, grabbed it, and handed it tome.

  “Check out the seal. Unbroken.”

  I nodded.

  “I think Malachi’s coming after me. From the grave.”

  Chapter 10

  This was one scientist who was a whole lot more than open-minded. As my mama would say: He’d done gone round the bend and lost his way.

  “Why would you think Malachi’s coming after you?”

  “I saw him—I thought I saw him. All wrapped up in scarves, wearing a hat and sunglasses like he always did when he was outside.”

  “So it could have been anyone, right? Did you see his face?”

  “No. But Doura said . . . over that stupid Ouija game she said that death was coming for Malachi, but that he would escape it.”

  “What else did she say? How did she act?”

  “She and Malachi went way back, she said, though he didn’t really seem all that happy to see her, to tell you the truth.”

  “Can you remember anything else she might have said? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did she arrive alone, or was she with somebody?”

  “Actually, she came with Mike Perkins. I guess she knew him, but that goes for just about everybody in San Francisco. I’ve seen her at Perkins Laboratories a couple of times.”

  “Did you tell the police that she was at the dinner?”

  “I don’t think I remembered to mention it.”

  I brought out the manila envelope Nigel had given me and extracted the photos. “Do you see her in any of the photos?”

  “Where’d you get those?” Gregory looked up at me, surprise in his pretty hazel eyes. But then he shook his head. “I don’t think she was in the official group photo, though . . . I can’t really be sure. I think I drank too much, I can’t really remember what happened after we played with the Ouija board. But I got home before two—Rebecca vouched for me.”

  “What about the other members? Who were they?”

  He listed a few names I already knew: Ellen Chamb
ers, Mike Perkins, Oliver Huffman, his sister Nichol. I noted them on the back of the picture.

  “Did you notice Oliver’s face is turned away in the photo?” I asked. “Do you think there’s any significance to that? Did he not want to be associated with the dinners?”

  Gregory shook his head. “He’s always been in them before. Everyone knows we’re all friends with Malachi.” His voice dropped. “Or were friends with Malachi. I swear I don’t know what’s happening to me. Even my hair’s falling out.”

  I took a moment to examine him. He was pale, his eyes red. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were losing weight, unable to sleep. Common symptoms of anxiety and misery.

  I don’t usually offer help that hasn’t been asked of me. But in this case, the despondent, ill-looking man in front of me was Bronwyn’s son-in-law, and Imogen’s daddy. He wasn’t destined to be one of my favorite people, but he was important to Bronwyn’s daughter, and even more so to her grandchildren.

  “Gregory, if I mix you a tonic, would you take it?”

  “Like a gin and tonic? I’m trying to cut back.”

  “No—this is the kind of tonic you’ll have to trust me on. A brew made of botanicals.”

  He looked me up and down, really seeing me for the first time since I’d arrived. There was a dawning realization in his lovely eyes. They narrowed, marred now with doubt and a sort of disgusted loathing, as though he had just discovered something slick and rancid on the bottom of his shoe.

  “Wait a minute—you said you work with my mother-in-law?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh . . . Okay. Now I get it. Look, lady, no offense, but please. I don’t truck with that stuff.”

  “And yet you believe you’re suffering under a curse?”

  “All I need is to get back to work, get my family back, and get everything back to normal. You know, my own parents were never there for me. I respect Rebecca’s wishes for the interim, but I want to be there for my kids, one way or the other, no matter what.”

  The thrumming was back, dank and funereal.

  I reached out and grabbed his hands, holding them lightly in mine. I had to ask.

  “Gregory,” I said, fixing him with a steady gaze. “Did you kill Malachi Zazi? Accidentally, maybe? Or in a rage, maybe it wasn’t your fault?”

  “No. I swear I didn’t.”

  “And the only reason the police were questioning you is because of the testimony of your friend Oliver, who overheard the argument?”

  He nodded.

  I wished I could believe him one hundred percent, but my witchy lie detector abilities weren’t all that accurate. I had been fooled before, and probably would be again. Still, Gregory gave off waves of fear and anxiety, but I sensed no deep, soul-wrenching guilt.

  I glanced over at Sailor, who gave me a quick shake of his head.

  I sighed. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “I need you to take me to see this Oliver person. Your old school buddy. Your accuser.”

  “I don’t see why we’re doing this,” whined Gregory as we drove across town toward Oliver Huffman’s house, which, according to Gregory, was part of a “family compound” out by the Legion of Honor. “Why are you even involved in this?”

  “I just am.”

  “But—”

  Sailor kicked at the back of Gregory’s seat. “Accept what’s being offered with good grace, pal.”

  I smiled at Sailor’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

  “Oliver won’t even talk to us, probably,” Gregory continued, seemingly on the edge of tears. His whippedvictim act was making me much more annoyed than sympathetic.

  Clearly he was not at his best, I thought, attempting to be charitable. Still, I didn’t have a lot of patience for folks who go through life with a sense of entitlement, as though the world owes them something, and then fall apart at the first sign of difficulty.

  “That’s why we didn’t call ahead,” I said. “We’ll stand a better chance face-to-face. Why don’t you tell me about him as we drive.”

  “We were good friends in high school. A bunch of us were. His father’s a politician. A U.S. senator, a very big name. But lately he hasn’t been doing all that well, either. I’m telling you, we’ve all felt the aftereffects of those dinners.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror again. Sailor was slumped in the backseat, scowling. Oscar was cowed by Sailor’s mere presence, but the cat kept trying to win him over. I smiled as I watched the animal nudge Sailor’s elbow with staunch feline persistence.

  At Gregory’s instruction, I turned off the main drag and into a pristine maze of neat, manicured, Mediterranean-style homes. Between the houses I caught fleeting glimpses of the Pacific. I imagined the residents had enviable, multimillion-dollar views of the sea.

  Finally we pulled up to an elaborate gate with a security kiosk. The elegant white stucco, tile-roofed home looked like something straight out of the heyday of Hollywood. I half expected Cary Grant to come strolling out the ornately carved front door and down the driveway.

  The security guard approached the passenger-side window and asked who we were. Gregory hesitated.

  I leaned over him: “We’re here to see Oliver Huffman?”

  “Your name?”

  “It’s Gregory Petrovic and friends.”

  “One moment.” The man consulted a clipboard, went into his little kiosk, made a phone call, nodded, then opened the gate and waved us through.

  Gravel popped and crunched as I pulled ahead into the elegant circular driveway, with the main house ahead of us and several cottages and outbuildings on each side. A well-tended lawn, a fountain, and clipped menagerie hedges made up the front yard. This would be quite a spread anywhere, but in a town like San Francisco I imagined it was almost unheard of. Stuck as it is on a thumb of land surrounded by water on three sides, the City by the Bay has no room to grow, and land is at a premium.

  If this was the sort of privilege Oliver, Gregory, and Malachi had been raised in, they clearly were the movers and shakers—or at least the children of the movers and shakers—of this town.

  “I’ll stay with the . . . livestock,” Sailor said, jerking his thumb toward the animals in the back.

  “Fine, thanks,” I said, handing him the keys, just in case. “We shouldn’t be too long.”

  As Gregory and I got out of the car we were greeted by a muscular young man with an earpiece and a shaved head. He wore a pink polo shirt and white pants, adding to the Hollywood vibe of the place. His dark skin gleamed in the afternoon sun.

  “Follow me,” said the man.

  Our footsteps crunched on the crushed granite driveway as we trailed him to one of the charming stucco cottages on the grounds, right past a tiny, lush, perfectly green lawn ringed with roses, lavender, and paperwhites.

  Inside, the place was decorated in a chic but impersonal style, rather like a posh hotel. Over the mantel was a huge family portrait that had been taken on the beach with the Golden Gate in the background; to a person they were blond and affluent-looking, wearing spotless white tennis outfits.

  A dozen or so people, with name tags affixed to their chests, stood and sat in the small living room. Everyone seemed to be arranged around, and looking expectantly at, one man on the couch.

  Could this be Oliver Huffman, the “venture capitalist,” as Rebecca had referred to him? Blond and good-looking, he was nervous, twitching. I recognized the signs from Conrad and a lot of the other street kids in the Haight: Oliver Huffman had been too long on too many drugs. Even young, otherwise healthy bodies fight back. The vibrations of an addict are of a very specific sort—they ricochet, out of control, mostly out of reach. The energy called up by the drug quickly disperses, leaving a void, a nothingness. Nature abhors a vacuum, so negative forces rush in, take up residence. The only immediate relief is more narcotics. It must be horrific.

  “Come in, come in. I’m Senator Jonathan Huffman. You’re welcome here,” said a man in his la
te sixties, with a booming, commanding voice.

  He was hale and hearty, a ruddy glow under an expensive haircut. Dressed in a navy blue jacket over khaki pants, he wore an honest-to-gosh ascot at his throat. He exuded wealth and privilege, innate confidence. And an overanxious need to be liked. He had one arm wrapped around a woman similar in age, who was fragile and birdlike, almost lost in her Nancy Reagan–style bright red ensemble. She nodded at us and smiled.

  “You’re friends of Oliver’s, I presume?” asked the senator.

  “Oh, hey, Gregory,” said Oliver with a lift of his chin, his voice quavering slightly. “Dad, you remember. These are some friends from high school. Gregory Petrovic, and . . .” His voice trailed off as he realized he didn’t recognize me.

  All eyes focused on me. Suddenly I wished Sailor were here.

  “I’m Lily Ivory,” I said. “I’m sorry. Are we intruding?”

  “Aren’t you here for the intervention?”

  “Intervention?”

  “I think they may have stumbled into this accidentally, Dad,” said a well-groomed man as he stood to talk with us. He looked like a less good-looking, slightly older version of Oliver. Though his comments were directed to us, he met Oliver’s eyes as he spoke. “I’m Oliver’s brother, Atticus. Oliver has a substance-abuse problem, and we’re gathered here today to let him know that his friends and family, while we love and support him, are no longer willing to support him in his habits.”

  “Right, right you are, son,” the senator said. “We don’t want to see anything happen to Oliver here.”

  I searched the room for a therapist running things. There were no likely candidates, no one speaking up. Most of the attendees seemed enthralled with their watches, or their hems, or the view from the large multipaned windows that looked out over the lush seaside garden. There was another blond woman who bore a striking resemblance to Oliver, a couple of men his age, a few teenagers, and several aging women who might be relatives. None of them wanted to be here, all of them sending out waves of embarrassment and discomfiture.