“I . . . um . . .” I’m not great at lying, even little white social lies. “It’s well done, but it’s a bit . . .”
“Disturbing? It’s supposed to be.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Art isn’t only about beauty, you know. It’s about making people see what they can’t necessarily see with their own eyes.”
He was right about one thing: The painting made me feel something more than just a simple response to a fabricated scene.
“Is that your work as well?” I asked, pointing toward the black, gray, and white canvases.
“My old stuff. But it seems so tedious now. I’ve been working like crazy lately, going in a whole new direction,” Walker said, a feverish look in his eye. “It’s so exciting; it feels like a blur when I paint it. I’m so absorbed in the work, I hardly notice the time going by.”
“What does Andromeda think of it?”
“Andi? She poses for me when she can. Her story—actually the story of her name—inspires me. Do you know the myth?”
“I do, yes.” I nodded, turning away from the disturbing paintings. I wasn’t sure I was up for a long monologue about Walker Landau’s artistic process. “Andromeda seems to be a popular model. Luc mentioned using her for a sculpture, as well.”
“Who are you, again?” Walker asked.
“I’m Lily Ivory,” I said, realizing I hadn’t introduced myself. I held out my hand to shake, but he held up his paint-spattered one and declined. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Jerry Becker. Did you know him well?”
“As well as anyone, I guess,” Landau said as he began cleaning his brushes in mineral spirits, then wiping them with a rag that used to be a white T-shirt. “He wasn’t the kind to let people get close. But when his daughter enrolled here, he started coming around more often. He was very supportive of my painting.”
As Landau spoke, I concentrated, not so much on his words as on his aura. His vibrations were sincere, but confused. My mind flashed on those sociopaths who can fool lie detectors because they genuinely don’t feel guilt, or shame, or other emotions that make us healthy human beings. But Landau was no sociopath; just a nerdy artist wrapped up in himself and his art.
“Yes, I was with Jerry right before . . . before he was killed, but so were a lot of other people.” A petulant note crept into Landau’s voice. “And there must have been two dozen people who heard that fight between Jerry and Luc last night. Why aren’t they going after him?”
“I think the police are talking to a lot of people,” I said. “It’s standard to speak to anyone who might have been with the victim in the time before death.”
“They’ve got it in for me.”
“Have they said anything to make you think you’re a person of interest?”
“Not in so many words. But I can tell by the way they look at me. You know, I’ve always been socially awkward, an outcast. Sometimes my reactions . . . well, they’re misunderstood.”
My heart went out to him. True, there was something off-putting about Walker Landau, but I of all people understood what it meant to be an outsider. It became a Catch-22: The more you tried to fit in, the more awkward everything became. Social misfits were doomed before the first school bell rang in the morning.
“Walker, why were you asking Susan Rogers about the bell tower?”
“I found her book, and I thought she might be able to cast some light on the history of the building. This is going to sound crazy, but there’s something inspirational about the bell tower. Whenever I get stuck, I go climb those stairs—it’s also part of the new get-fit program Todd’s been helping me with.”
It was beyond me why anyone would climb indoors when San Francisco’s famous hills—not to mention the steep, scenic stairs to Coit Tower—beckoned right outside the school’s doors.
“That explains the pull-up bar,” I said, gesturing to the chrome bar suspended in an archway.
Walker curled one arm as though to show me his biceps, an amusing but unfortunate gesture that reminded me of the old cartoon about a ninety-eight-pound weakling . . . in this case writ very tall.
“Anyway, the kids say the bell tower’s haunted,” Walker said. “That’s crazy, isn’t it? But I started hearing things myself, and wondered. Besides, I wanted to know the story; thought it might inspire my work even more. So I looked into it.”
“And do you think the stairs are haunted?”
He shrugged. “They’ve brought me nothing but luck, personally.”
“Luck with your painting?”
“That and . . . other things as well.”
“Walker, is it true that Jerry Becker wanted you and Andromeda to get together?”
He blushed. “Yes, you see, that’s another point in my favor. Unlike a lot of people, I wanted him to live—he was in favor of my marrying Andromeda.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but ... why would he want you to marry his daughter, in particular?”
“Why not?” he asked, sounding defensive.
“I don’t mean to suggest she shouldn’t. But were you two . . . involved?”
He blushed again. “Not really.”
“This is the modern world, Walker. Fathers don’t arrange their daughters’ marriages anymore.”
“Jerry wasn’t your average father. He knew what was best for him, and for his daughter. And if you don’t believe me, talk to Andromeda yourself.”
He ripped a corner off a sketch and wrote down a number and address. “She lives on Russian Hill, not far away. Ask her. She’ll back me up on this.”
By the time I left Landau’s studio, I was feeling a lot like Alice down the rabbit hole. What did a group of turn-of-the-last-century nuns—and the supernatural assault on the closet upstairs—have to do with a suicidal ghost on the bell tower stairs? And should I presume said ghost killed Jerry Becker, who was trying to force his talented and pretty young daughter to marry a not particularly successful artist fifteen years her senior?
Maybe Andromeda was right—a situation this convoluted sounded as if it grew out of some kind of ancient-cemetery curse. It was enough to make a witch consider recommending razing this historic building and starting from scratch.
Snap out of it, I scolded myself. If I was ready to run away, imagine how everyone else must feel.
After all, there was a death to consider. If an evil spirit had pushed Becker to his death, and the students were bickering and hearing noises . . . could things be ratcheting up to an all-out slaughter of innocents?
One thing was sure: However talented and wise SFPD Inspectors Romero and Nordstrom might be, they weren’t half ready for something like that.
Despite my pledge to steer clear of the murder scene, I wanted to take another look at the bell tower stairs. I descended to the main floor and made my way down the corridor, turning right at the T where our ghost-hunting quartet had encountered Andromeda last night. I felt mounting trepidation as I approached, but that was normal. Scenes of trauma are difficult for anyone, normal or witchy.
Another right turn, then straight ahead.
A line of A-frame signs, meant to signal the presence of a wet floor, formed a symbolic barrier, their black silhouettes of a person falling making subtle parody of last night’s tragedy. Bright yellow crime scene tape also cordoned off the scene. I ducked under the police tape, crouched, and laid my hand on the stone within the chalk outline, trying to feel something more than I had last night.
I heard a noise and swung around.
Todd Jacobs was leaning up against the stone wall, hands deep in his pockets, looking at the same time younger than, yet older than his twentysomething years. In the dim amber light, framed by the medieval- inspired architecture, he looked like a tortured, romantic version of a surfer-dude boy toy.
“Needed another look?” Todd asked.
I nodded.
“Even though I didn’t like the guy, it’s still a tragedy,” Todd continued. “It’s been pretty traumatic f
or everyone, Marlene especially. And Ginny.”
“Ginny?” I hadn’t seen her since she was taken aside for an interview by the police last night. She had been pretty upset at the sight of the body, but I didn’t have the impression she would care much about Becker.
“She’s been beside herself.”
“I thought she had some good news about her art.”
“Yes, she called earlier. It’s a great opportunity. But last night her mother had to put her to bed with chamomile tea and a sleeping pill, she was so upset. She was still asleep when we left about noon.”
“She lives with you?”
He nodded. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I doubted that.
“How does Ginny deal with living with a stepfather only two years older than she is?”
Okay, he did know what I was thinking.
“Rent around here is killer, and when Marlene and I got together . . . well, the last thing I wanted to do was displace Ginny. The relationship between Marley and me is unusual, I know.” He pushed away from the wall and walked slowly toward me. “We’re both artistic, so maybe it’s easier for us to think outside the box. All I know is that when true love comes along, it’s awfully hard to say no, no matter what package it comes in.”
“I suppose that’s true.” I had spent much of my life being unfairly judged by others, and now I found it a struggle not to judge others with the same vehemence. It was a lesson I needed to learn over and over, it seemed. “But why would Ginny be so upset about Jerry Becker? I didn’t get the sense she was fond of him.”
“I would imagine it was the drama of the scene, more than the identity of the victim himself.”
We both fell silent for a moment, eyes on the chalk outline.
“Did you hear about the suicide here back in the early sixties?” Todd asked. “Some poor schmuck was so in love that he threw himself down these same stairs.”
“I’ve heard the tale.”
“Sad what love will make people do.”
“You’re not suggesting Becker threw himself down the stairs, are you?” I asked. That Becker’s death might be a suicide had never occurred to me.
Apparently Todd shared my opinion. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine someone like Jerry Becker feeling any emotion that strongly, least of all love. He struck me as more destructive than self-destructive.”
We fell silent again, looking at the bleak scene.
“Hey, did you find the clothes upstairs?” Todd asked.
“I did, thanks.”
“Need help carrying them out to your car?”
I had considered not taking the clothes at all, given what-all had gone on tonight in that closet. But my curiosity was almost as strong as my magical abilities; I wanted to take the garments into a more controlled situation and see whether they could tell me anything further. Besides, I had the perfect cleansing spell to cast out whatever evil might lurk within.
“If you don’t mind, that would be great,” I answered.
“Luc offered as well, but with all three of us, we could make short work of it. Thank you.”
“The closet’s directly up the tower stairs here,” Todd said, gazing up toward the curve in the steps . . . beyond which lay a mystery. “But to tell the truth, I usually take the stairs on the other end of the building. Call me superstitious.”
“I’m right there with you,” I said.
I needed some face-time with the supernatural entity, but not with a civilian at my side. I would come back and explore the bell tower stairwell armed with more knowledge about what I was dealing with, some spells at the ready, and maybe even some ghost-busting equipment.
Todd and I walked the maze to the other side of the building and climbed the more utilitarian, less-haunted stairs.
“About Marley’s reaction earlier . . . She’s not trying to be obstructionist,” Todd said as we started climbing. “It’s just that she’s so wrapped up in this school, it’s as if something happened to one of her children. First the talk of ghosts, and now Becker’s death . . . It’s been a really tough week.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “Todd, do you know anything about Walker Landau and Andromeda Becker?”
“Anything . . . like what?”
“I don’t know. Did she take a lot of classes with him, anything like that?”
Todd hesitated so long, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, as we mounted the last flight of stairs, he spoke.
“He’s a little—what’s the word? ‘Obsessed’ is a little strong. It’s not like he’s a stalker or anything, but his studio is full of paintings of her. She poses for him, but my overall impression is that she doesn’t return his interest.”
“Any idea what Jerry Becker thought of it?”
“Yeah, that part was weird. He actually seemed in favor of the two of them getting together, was even sort of pressuring Andromeda to spend time with Walker. Or at least it seemed like it, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t like to spend much time around Becker.”
“I hear he was a bit overbearing.”
“That, and I didn’t like the way he treated his daughter.”
“Andromeda? How did he treat her?”
We walked down the hallway toward Luc’s open office door.
“Same way he treated everyone, but . . . she was his daughter, after all. Shouldn’t you treat your own daughter like a princess?”
We reached Luc’s office. He and Todd shook hands.
“Looks like you and I are on moving duty tonight,” Todd said.
“We live to serve,” Luc said solemnly.
Together the two men wrestled the big black trunk down two flights of stairs and out to my van at the loading dock, while I followed with Hefty bags I’d filled with clothes from the chest of drawers. Oscar stuck close to me on the stairs, nearly treading on my heels, his snout banging into the backs of my calves every time I slowed down. After one more trip up and back down the stairs with wooden boxes full of miscellaneous frilly underthings, we were good to go.
I gave each of the men one of the new business cards I had made up for Aunt Cora’s Closet, thanked them, and invited them to come by the store anytime. Oscar jumped into the cab, eager to leave this haunted academy. I joined him with a similar sense of relief.
Todd banged the side of the van and gave us a little wave as we drove off.
Chapter 8
As soon as we rounded the corner, Oscar reverted to his natural form—a goblin with an overactive voice box. He started jumping back and forth over the seats, recounting our adventure in the closet.
“What in the heck happened back there? I totally thought we were goners when the light flashed and the noise and the cold . . .”
“Could you tell what it was?”
“Scary as heck is what it was.”
“But was it a ghost, or a demon, or some sort of angry spirit?”
Big, glass green eyes stared at me. “Yup.”
“Which one?”
“All of ’em.”
“All of them?”
He nodded vigorously, his talisman thudding against the tough scales on his chest.
“Any specifics—male, female, anything?”
“Most demons do both, mistress. They’re androwhatchamacallit.”
“Androgynous?”
“Red—light—means—stop!”
I braked for the light on Columbus Avenue and let Oscar’s words sink in. I had been hoping I was wrong.
“So you’re sure there was a demon,” I said.
He looked over at me with an incredulous look on his face. “D—”
“Stop right there.” I held out a finger to him. “Do not say, ‘Duh’ and roll your eyes at me, young man. I am not in the mood.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“And don’t sigh and be petulant, either.”
“Yes, mistress,” he said with a petulant sigh. Oscar turned to look out the window, then breathed heavily on the glass, idly drawing
a pentagram on the fogged surface.
“So tell me again, just to be sure: demon?”
“Demon.”
“Do you know who? Do you know its name?”
“No, mistress.”
“Any distinguishing characteristics?”
“No, mistress.”
I signaled to make a U-turn toward Fisherman’s Wharf. “I need to talk to Aidan.”
“Can’t. Out of town.”
“And you know this how?” If Aidan had a phone number, I was not privy to it, but somehow Oscar always knew about Aidan’s comings and goings. A suspicious witch might think a certain gnomish critter wasn’t being entirely forthcoming.
“Um . . .” Oscar continued. “That Sailor guy ought to be able to help.”
“Sailor guy?”
“Didn’t Aidan give you Sailor’s name and tell you to speak to him about the school?”
“Oh. Right. Some faceless guy in a bar is my best hope. Great.”
“The bar’s right around the corner,” Oscar pointed out.
We pulled up to another stoplight and I studied my wide-eyed familiar. I felt a lot of unexpected—for me—affection for the porcine guy, but we had only been together a short time, and I was still figuring out how much to trust him and his take on the supernatural. Besides, though he called me “mistress,” he had a connection to Aidan Rhodes, powerful male witch. I just had no idea why Aidan would want Oscar to spy on me, much less whether Aidan was working for good or for evil . . . or simply for the highest bidder.
Oscar shivered. I could feel his vibrations: excited but fearful. I pulled him over to my side and gave him a quick squeeze. The little goblin was undeniably helpful to have nearby when I was brewing potions—he seemed to facilitate my powers sliding through the otherworldly portals, helping me to focus my intentions—but I made a mental note to leave him at home, where he would be safe and safely out of my way, whenever I might be going toe to toe with anything frightening in the future.
That included anything scary of the human variety.
And that reminded me: The first time I met Andromeda in the shop, I sensed she was frightened of someone—a human someone. Could it have been her father? Or Walker? I found Walker Landau’s paintings of her disturbing at best, but then again he himself suggested I speak to Andromeda to support his claims about Jerry Becker. Would he have done that if he were menacing her?
A Cast-Off Coven Page 9