A Cast-Off Coven

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Then see them you shall.”

  He leaned in to kiss me. I felt tingly even before his lips touched mine.

  His cell phone rang out. Max took a step back, reached into his jacket pocket, glanced at the display, then looked at me with regret. “I have to take this.”

  “Of course,” I said, and walked a little farther out on the abutment to give him some privacy. Still, his voice drifted easily over to me.

  “What?” His eyes flickered over to me. “Are you sure? Yeah. Twenty minutes.”

  When he joined me a moment later, his expression was troubled.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you saw Carlos Romero last night?”

  “It didn’t occur to me. Why would it?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “Tell me now. Please.”

  I shrugged and remained mute, annoyed at this turn of events.

  “Were you planning to mention anything about knowing Jerry Becker?” Max shook his head in exasperation. “It’s been what, a whole week since you were involved in a homicide?”

  “I should get back to the store.” I turned and started up the damp concrete steps toward the street.

  “The store can wait,” he said. “I want some answers.” I paused. I felt my blood rise.

  There haven’t been a lot of men in my life. My father had walked out on my mother and me when I was a toddler, leaving no forwarding address. My second grade teacher, Mr. Sweeney, made me sit in the corner every recess for a week after I corrected his many spelling and grammar errors. My high school principal kicked me out of school when the star quarterback, who had been harassing me, developed a mysterious ailment that caused him to fumble the football whenever the team was first and goal.

  And those were some of my better experiences with men.

  So I wasn’t good at deferring to male authority, especially when—as was so often the case—it arose from a sense of entitlement, rather than from earned respect.

  A gust of wind snarled my tresses until they snaked around my head like Medusa’s locks. I felt the cold prickle of angry power gathering along my spine and coursing down to my extremities. I closed my eyes and concentrated on reining in my anger before I hurt someone. Finally, more in control, I turned to face Max.

  “I don’t guess you’re the one to make that decision, Max.”

  Our eyes held, and his expression softened. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was out of line. That phone call caught me off guard. May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes. But I may not answer it.”

  “Fair enough. What were you doing at the School of Fine Arts in the middle of the night?”

  I was torn. Should I tell him I was there looking for ghosts? Not half an hour ago I had resolved that Max would have to accept this part of me. But now I hesitated.

  I liked Max—a lot. I wanted him to return the sentiment. And I didn’t want to feel like a freak.

  “I was having coffee with Maya and a friend of hers.” I wimped out with a half-truth. “And we took a little tour of the school.”

  “And did you find the ghost?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “Give me a little credit, Lily. With your talents, it’s easy to guess that your friends wanted you to look around for the things that go bump in the night.”

  “Hey, I know what we should talk about: Why doesn’t Inspector Romero like you?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “I thought you had to get back to the store.”

  “I can be flexible. Depending on the conversation.” Max looked out over the ocean. The greenish gray of the water segued seamlessly into the ashen gray of the sky. The air was filled with the staccato caws of the gulls, the hoarse barks of the sea lions, and the rhythmic pounding of the surf. Finally, Max took a deep breath.

  “My wife—my late wife, Deborah—was Carlos Romero’s cousin.” He spoke with difficulty, as though the words came at a huge cost. “Law enforcement is a tradition in Deborah’s family. When I did a piece on corruption in the police department, it put us at odds. Carlos thought I was using the family’s connections to investigate the story.”

  “Were you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know, Lily. I’m an investigative journalist. It’s not something I can switch on and off like a lamp.”

  “You said something about your wife’s death. . . .”

  He started up the steps. “Let’s get going.”

  Max was usually a hard read, but as he passed by me on the steps, I felt sadness and rage emanating from him in waves.

  And something nastier: guilt.

  Chapter 5

  All the way home Max and I ignored important subjects. We made plans to visit the redwoods, but there was a perceptible distance between us wrought of so much that was not said. I reminded myself that I hardly knew him, after all. Maybe “we” were not meant to be.

  I was happy to return to Aunt Cora’s Closet and all the warm and welcoming elements of my new home: the scent of fresh laundry and herbal sachets, the comforting hum from my inventory, the damp snout of my miniature potbellied pig, and a plump, fiftysomething Wiccan wearing kohl eyeliner and a garland of fresh flowers twining through her fuzzy brown hair.

  “Lily! Blessed be!” Bronwyn came out from behind the herbal counter to envelop me in swaths of incense-scented gauzy purple material. I let myself sink into her embrace, savoring Bronwyn’s ability to love those around her with neither condition nor restraint.

  “Maya was just telling me what happened at the school last night.” Bronwyn pulled away, concern on her face. “Oh my Goddess! What a terrible thing!”

  “Yes. It was . . .” I trailed off, searching for how to describe finding someone moments after his life has slipped away. I could feel the frigid stillness of the body. I was only human, after all. “. . . Intense.”

  Maya snorted at my understatement. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor near the dressing room alcove, sorting through a black plastic Hefty bag full of big band-era clothes.

  “Oh, by the way, Lily,” Maya said, “Ginny Mueller called earlier to see if you still wanted to pick up those clothes from the school.”

  I had been wondering how to snoop around the school on Aidan’s behalf without seeming ghoulish. Picking up those clothes was the perfect solution. I glanced at my watch.

  “Actually, if one or both of you are willing to mind the store till closing, maybe I could go get them this afternoon.”

  “I’ll stay,” Maya volunteered, then added with a shiver, “Just don’t ask me to go back to school yet. I’m still dealing with last night.”

  “How is Ginny holding up?”

  “Actually, she’s over the moon. She was offered representation by a Union Square gallery.”

  “Wow. That’s a real honor.”

  “You’re telling me. She—”

  The bell on the front door rang as Susan Rogers, fashion editor for the San Francisco Chronicle, swept into the shop. Susan wrote a glowing article about Aunt Cora’s Closet for the newspaper’s Style section after I outfitted her niece’s entire wedding party with vintage gowns. Since then she had become a semiregular client, stopping in whenever she happened to be in the neighborhood. An über-stylish trendsetter in her fifties, Susan leaned toward sleek, all-black ensembles, had a propensity for swooning over fashionable but virtually unwearable shoes, and was capable of waxing philosophical about “the ever-changing hemline.”

  I, in contrast, knew a fair amount about the fashions of yore but next to nothing about current trends. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but respond to her ready smile and vivacious energy.

  “Lily, thank goodness you’re here. I’m a wreck!” said Susan. “I’m in desperate need of your help to find a dress to wear to my niece’s wedding. I woke up at three this morning just thinking about it. I can’t believe I’ve let it go this long!”

  I smile
d. The wedding wasn’t for another six weeks. I was lucky if I knew what I was going to wear ten minutes before I left the house . . . but I do have an advantage, owning my own clothing store and all. Besides, until recently I had never been invited to any event for which clothes were something to fret about. Most supernatural affairs are “come as you are,” while some are even “clothing optional.” So when Susan invited me to her niece’s wedding—the first such invite I’d ever received—I was excited beyond all measure.

  Susan started flicking through a rack of 1950s formal gowns, immediately exhibiting her fashionista training by studying the inside of the collar first. For the professional in the know, labels are more important than the cut or the fabric of a garment.

  “So, what are we talking about?” Susan asked no one in particular.

  Before I could stop her, Bronwyn dropped her voice to a loud whisper and said with great drama, “A man was killed last night at the San Francisco School of Fine Arts!”

  “No!” Susan whipped around to face her.

  “Yes! Maya and Lily were there!”

  “Get out!”

  A chorus of gasps filled the room. Although there was nothing funny about a man’s death, Maya met my eyes, and we shared a smile at the women’s over-the-top sense of drama.

  “Do tell,” Susan said, turning to me.

  “Unfortunately, it’s true,” I said. “Maya and I took a tour of the school last night and came across the body.”

  Another gasp. “Who was he? How was he killed? Who did it?”

  “Probably someone after an inheritance,” Maya mused.

  “We don’t know. . . . His body was at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the bell tower. He must have fallen.”

  “Who was it?” Susan repeated.

  “A benefactor to the school, a man named Jerry Becker.”

  “The Jerry Becker?”

  “You know him?”

  “I met him once, when he was in town for a symphony fund-raiser. He was going on and on about his daughter’s talent as an artist—please, like I haven’t heard that before—and, if I recall, made several deliciously inappropriate remarks to me. I was with my second husband, Bradley, at the time, so I merely enjoyed the flirtation. Anyway, anyone who’s anyone knows of Jerry Becker. He’s got scads of money.”

  “Had scads of money,” Bronwyn noted. “Can’t take it with you.”

  “He was found in the bell tower?” Susan repeated. She looked around at Maya, Bronwyn, then back at me. “I take it you’ve heard the ghost stories about that place?”

  “Ghosts?” said Bronwyn. “My friend Charles is a ghost hunter! Would you like me to call him? Maybe he could help.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. Charles Gosnold was precisely the kind of ludicrous, untalented ghost hunter I was making fun of just last night. “I think I can take care of it.”

  “There are stories about a haunting . . .” Susan went on. “There was something else, too. . . . I can’t quite remember. It just so happens I’ve done some research on the school—for a while it was one of the most prestigious institutes for clothing and textile design on the West Coast.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Maya said.

  “Oh yes, ask me anything,” Susan said. “I literally wrote the book on the local fashion history a few years ago, did you know? I’m sure Booksmith has a copy; I’ll sign one for you. Of course, the ‘real’ fashion design industry is in New York City, but San Francisco did its part. Then someone at the school decided that fashion design wasn’t ‘fine’ enough for the School of Fine Arts, and they phased it out in favor of painting and sculpture.”

  “Maybe that’s why the provost is giving me some vintage clothing from the school’s collection,” I said. “I’m picking it up this afternoon.”

  Susan’s gaze, eager and just this side of greedy, fixed on me. “What kind of items?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but the provost said she thought they were from the late Victorian era.”

  “Hmm . . . Too early for the school’s textile program,” Susan commented. “They must date back to the convent days. When are you getting them?”

  “Later this afternoon.”

  “Ooooh, could I come by tomorrow and check them out? I would love to wear the perfect Victorian gown to the wedding—can you imagine? My sister would simply die of envy.”

  “Sure. We’re closed on Mondays, but I’m usually here washing and prepping inventory, anyway. Why don’t you come by around noon and I’ll show you what I have?”

  “Don’t forget, I’ll be here, too,” Bronwyn put in. “I want to learn your trade secrets.”

  I laughed. “As if I would turn down anyone who wants to help with the wash.”

  Susan’s brow furrowed as she began to rifle through a stand of 1940s-style dress suits. “It really is interesting, your finding a body—of Jerry Becker, no less—at the bottom of the bell tower stairs. You know, a professor from the school came to see me about a month ago, asking questions. He had seen my book.”

  “What professor?” Maya asked.

  “A rather diffident, odd fellow . . . Walter, maybe?”

  “Could it have been Walker? Walker Landau?” I asked.

  “That sounds right.”

  “What was he asking about?”

  “If I knew about a death that occurred on the bell tower stairs, way back when.”

  “Awesome! Students!” said Oscar as I stood in my kitchen an hour later, preparing to go to the School of Fine Arts. “I love students. I’ll come with you.”

  “You most certainly will not.”

  “I thought you said there was something fishy going on?”

  “There is.”

  “How ya gonna know what spirits are in the building without a familiar?”

  I paused from packing an assortment of charms and talismans into my satchel. It was still light out, but given what had happened yesterday, I wanted to be prepared. I had another charm bag, more talismans, a jar of special salts, and even a small bag of dust swept from the threshold of a New Orleans prison that a recent acquaintance, Hervé LaMansec, a vodou priest, had given me.

  “You can detect spirits?” I asked.

  Oscar crossed his arms over his scrawny chest and rolled his eyes.

  A goblin just rolled his eyes at me.

  “Why do you think people bring a cat to check out a house before they buy it?” Oscar asked.

  “A cat?”

  “Cats and guys like me, we’re sensitive to such things.”

  “Who brings a cat to a house before they buy it?”

  “Everyone.”

  “I know of no one who does that.”

  “You don’t?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I’ll be doggoned.” His little brow wrinkled; he looked truly bemused. “I always wondered how people wound up living in haunted houses. Like that Amityville Horror—you ever see that movie? I guess those poor folks didn’t know enough to bring a cat. Huh. Ya live, ya learn, eh?”

  “You sense spirits? Can you communicate with them?”

  “Nah, I can’t talk to ’em, exactly.”

  “Then you won’t be much good to me, will you?”

  “But mistress! I can sense enough about them to tell what you’re up against.”

  I hesitated. Having Oscar along might take some of the guesswork out of what I had planned. Still . . .

  “Please?”

  “And you’ll stay in pig form?”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said with a sigh.

  I picked up the protective amulet I had made for him two weeks before and draped it around his neck.

  Oscar and I arrived at the school just after five. Oscar was in his porcine guise, whereas I was in an old pair of jeans and an even older sweater—not vintage, mind you, just old. I’d spent enough time in long-sealed, mildewy closets to know not to wear anything I cared to keep when rummaging through piles of old textiles.

  I parked my purple van along
side the school’s back loading dock. The graphics on the side of the van read:

  AUNT CORA’S CLOSET

  VINTAGE CLOTHING AND QUALITY ACCESSORIES

  CORNER OF HAIGHT & ASHBURY

  BUY—SELL—TRADE

  IT’S NOTOLD; IT’S VINTAGE!

  It was Sunday evening, and though there were students milling about, the school was quiet. Belatedly it dawned on me that I should have called ahead to see if Provost Marlene Mueller would be here. But I’m not at my best on the telephone. I don’t yet trust my ability to judge people, so I still rely on sensing auras and vibrations, which don’t convey through electronics and telephone wires. I was probably the last person in America under the age of eighty who didn’t have a cell phone.

  Besides, Ginny had invited me. Oscar and I set out to find her. We first peeked into the café, where a group of young men were shouting at one another about the birth of modernism, and then stuck our heads into a few of the artists’ studios, where we interrupted a couple in the middle of a loud breakup—but no one had seen Ginny. Walking down the hall, we passed a cluster of young women bickering over the relative merits of oil sticks versus traditional chalk pastels.

  Artists made for a volatile student body.

  Wherever we went, Oscar caused a sensation. He preened and snorted, lapping up the attention. Not for the first time I wondered, given that Oscar could choose to transform into anything he wanted, why he had chosen to be a pig. I’m allergic to cats, but I quite like dogs. Having a dog as a familiar would have made my life a lot simpler. Then again, I reminded myself, Oscar’s duty was to make my spell casting, not my life, easier.

  As we passed the administration offices, I noticed a light was on. A large oak door sported a sign, MARLENE MUELLER, PROVOST.

  “Wait here. Do not move,” I told Oscar, and knocked.

  There was a long pause and then scuffling sounds before a woman’s voice beckoned me to enter. When I did, I felt as though I had interrupted something. Marlene Mueller sat behind her desk, her face flushed, and a young man stood near her chair.

  “Lily, what are you doing here?” Marlene asked.

  “I hope it’s all right,” I said. “I never got a chance to look at the clothes last night.”