Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  He shot me an alarmed look. “That’s very bad.”

  I nodded and blew out a breath.

  “I don’t want you to be pressed, mistress.”

  “Thank you, Oscar. I’d just as soon avoid it myself.”

  I dropped a pat of butter in the iron pan. It sizzled a little.

  “That smells good.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “Mistress?”

  “Hmm?”

  “About the pressing. . . . Demons don’t play that way. The fires and all, sure. Demons like fire. And they like to scare people and make them crazy.”

  “I know.”

  “But . . . demons are all about having fun in the moment. He might try to play with a witch, but killing one would end the fun. Killing her, especially like that . . . that’s the sort of thing cowans do.”

  I nodded. “Cowan” is a derogatory word for nonwitchy humans, and usually I tried to avoid its use. But in this case, the dangerous narrow-mindedness implied by the term seemed apt for the situation.

  The pan was heated and ready. I arranged the pieces of bread, placed the cheese on them, and added slices of ripe red tomatoes grown in my garden, reveling in their rich scent. I would sprinkle Parmesan and a little garlic salt on the outside of the bread so it browned on the iron skillet. A gourmet grilled cheese.

  My movements were rote, familiar, and evocative of another time in my life. I remembered my mother’s kitchen was fragrant with the spices used in recipes handed down through her mother and grandmother. Most of their Cajun customs had been lost after the family relocated from New Orleans to west Texas, but tradition lived on through the food: gumbo and dirty rice, jambalaya and salmon croquettes, red velvet cake and peach cobbler and apple brown Betty. I had a strained relationship with my mother and was rarely nostalgic for her company, but the act of cooking—even something as simple as a grilled-cheese sandwich—bound me to her nonetheless.

  As the sandwiches browned, I pondered. It had been months since I’d dealt with a demon, and weeks since I’d been embroiled in a murder investigation. I had been fostering a tiny flame of hope that things might have settled down in this beautiful city by the bay, but the longer I lived in San Francisco the more I realized my decision to move here may not have been entirely my own. It seemed I was needed here. There were crimes in these parts that only a powerful, hereditary witch like me had the skills to address.

  After we polished off dinner—I was still full of pad Thai, so I gave Oscar most of my sandwich and made him another after he claimed he was still peckish, despite consuming a large glass of sweet tea, two Pink Lady apples, and three chocolate chip cookies—my familiar groused about helping me wash up, then curled up in his nest of blankets on top of the refrigerator. He was snoring in three seconds flat.

  I poured myself a glass of nice Bordeaux and stepped out onto the terrace to enjoy a warm San Francisco night. Unlike in West Texas, where the temperature on a “warm night” might not dip below ninety-five and the humidity remained in the high double digits, here in the city by the bay a tropical evening meant the marine layer remained at sea rather than blanketing the city with nature’s version of air-conditioning. It had been unusually hot lately, the temperature hovering in the eighties for days on end. The locals were wilting, accustomed as they were to the traditional foggy San Francisco summer.

  But I thought the evening perfect.

  And the plants loved it. The flowers and herbs I grew were useful and often essential to my spells: witch’s thimbles—also known as foxglove—could be mixed with devil’s nettle, yarrow, and fool’s parsley to create a potent poultice; cumin and verbena might be ground together for use in love potions; the spiky purple blooms of monkshood were brewed with cinquefoil and belladonna and water parsnips for a concoction that helped to open oneself to the spirits on the other side.

  The garden, the cooking, spending time with new friends and old clothes . . . all of these things brought comfort to my life. But tonight I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen today.

  Poor Griselda. Pressed, then stabbed.

  The Malleus Malificarum, the handbook for European witch hunters, outlined the method of pressing a witch. Maybe I should look it up, just in case . . . but I refused to keep a copy of the vile tome in my apartment. My neighbor Sandra had one; I could ask to borrow it. But if I did that, she would have lots of questions, and I didn’t want to have to deal with her. Then I reminded myself that I lived in the twenty-first century. A copy of the Malleus would no doubt be available online. I would look it up tomorrow, surrounded by the vibrant shop activity. It would be too much for me tonight, alone.

  I picked up my gardening shears and started deadheading roses, then pruned the dwarf cherry. Next were the small containers of herbs and flowers, one for each astrological sign: chrysanthemums, heather, and pink rose thorns gave a person temporary influence over a Scorpio. Historically a lot of folks believed that a witch’s “influence” insinuated an evil plan, but it was often a method used to cure someone. If an Aquarius took ill, a brew including foxglove and snowdrops could be especially effective. And the judicious use of henbane helped with afflictions common to Pisces—though poisonous in large doses, tiny amounts of henbane used to be added in the brewing of many traditional German beers.

  Germany. I hadn’t been lying when I told Lloyd I had family there—as far as I knew, my father still resided in the remote Bavarian village where I had tracked him down when I was seventeen. Could there be a connection between my estranged father and Griselda? Possible, but it wasn’t as though all the magical folk in Germany knew one another, any more than we do here. Still, an old friend had called the shop a few weeks ago to tell me my father might be coming to town. For a while I had been on guard, but when nothing came of it I figured she had been mistaken. But maybe there was more to it then I’d thought.

  If someone believed Griselda possessed something valuable, ransacked her room, and killed her, but still hadn’t found it . . . it seemed to me there were a finite number of places it could have ended up. Either I had that something among the things she had sold me, or it was still with her things from the show, or she had gotten it to someone else or put it into a secret hiding place.

  And just where had Johannes gotten to?

  I needed some help and advice. One person fit the bill: the local witchy godfather, Aidan Rhodes. I had been livid with Aidan since he banished my—what should I call him? “Boyfriend” sounded adolescent; “lover” seemed an overstatement, considering we’d spent a grand total of one night together. My . . . friend, Sailor.

  I could also use Sailor right now, in more ways than one. I missed him with a wrenching sense of loss in my gut; his absence—and the lack of news from or about him—made me believe I was an abject failure at romance. But right now I needed him for more practical reasons. With his psychic abilities he would be able read the jewelry I’d acquired from Griselda, I felt sure. Perhaps he would be able to tell me if I had a prized piece, and maybe even figure out what was so special about it that people were willing to kill for it.

  I glanced at the stars high overhead. It was late, but I couldn’t sleep. Instead I trekked downstairs to the shop to examine the loot from the Gem Faire once more. Perhaps alone at night, when the vibrations were calm, I could sense something.

  Spreading all the jewelry we had gathered on the glass display counter, I prepared myself as though I were scrying in my crystal ball—which I still sucked at, despite all my efforts. But I forced such negativity from my mind. I stroked my medicine bag to center myself, blew out a long breath, mumbled an incantation, and slowly opened my eyes. I held my hands out over the mixed necklaces, brooches, and rings, and tried to open myself to any whisper of sensation.

  Nothing. Not one darned pulse. No vibrations; no humming.

  It was another exercise in frustration, not helped by the fact that I was tired. Feeling defeated, I shoved my hands in the deep pockets of my skirt—only to hit
something small and solid.

  The cuff link. It was still in my pocket from earlier today.

  I shouldn’t have left the crime scene; I should have stayed and spoken with the authorities when they arrived to investigate Griselda’s death. I had been afraid, though I didn’t know of what exactly. Now shame washed over me. How often had I heard Inspector Romero say, “Tell me anything at all, even if it seems like it’s not important.”

  I owed Carlos a phone call in the morning. I really didn’t know what I could offer, but it was only right to try.

  Still, something was holding me back, and I knew what it was: Oscar’s words had not been reassuring. Before I talked to Carlos I wished I could be certain whether we were dealing with a demon, some sort of murderous witch, or simply a homicidal human. Though Carlos and I had a decent relationship, it was fragile.

  And any murder involving demons—even tangentially—was guaranteed to get tricky fast.

  • • •

  Early the next morning, bleary with the lack of sleep, I grabbed my Brazilian shopping basket to head down Haight Street to Coffee to the People, my favorite neighborhood café. Even at this hour, the weather was warm and unusually muggy, reminding me of Texas.

  On the curb outside my store sat a skinny, sleepy-looking young man. Conrad was one of the dozens of street kids who hung out on Haight Street, scrounging for spare change. He spent his nights in nearby Golden Gate Park, but spent most of his days outside my shop. Conrad and I had bonded not long after I opened Aunt Cora’s Closet; two social misfits who somehow fit together. He did the occasional odd job for me and watched over Aunt Cora’s Closet, and in return I did my best to make sure he had at least one decent meal each day.

  “Yo, dudette! How’re things?”

  I smiled at his use of the feminine form of his favorite word, “dude.”

  “Hanging in there,” I answered, thinking how complicated an honest answer to that simple question would be. “How about you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Keepin’ an eye out for strangers.”

  “I thought there were no strangers in the Haight, only friends you haven’t met yet.”

  “Dude?” Conrad tried to focus, confusion in his red-rimmed eyes.

  I longed for the day Conrad would take me up on my offer to help him get off whatever he was on. My concern for his well-being had been solidified not long ago when he’d risked his own safety to protect Aunt Cora’s Closet from intruders. He was a good guy, and I was certain he would have a lot to offer once he got himself together. I had been tempted, more than once, to use my powers to force him into rehab, but such a spell would never last. The human will was powerful indeed, capable at times of frustrating even powerful magic. For the transformation from addict to sobriety to last, the subject had to embrace it. Conrad was not there yet, and I could only hope I would be around when that day came.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I was just joking. Are you worried about strangers?”

  “Hey, did you hear about the fire dancing in the park?”

  Conversations with Conrad were often a little disjointed. But he was my friend, so I played along. “Actually, I saw some posters about fire dancing just yesterday. And I think Maya mentioned something about dancing in the park. What is it, exactly?”

  “It’s awesome, is what it is. It’s, like, people coming together as brothers and sisters to make art, dude. Like the fire is alive. Duuuude. You should check it out.”

  “I will. Shall I get you the usual from the café?”

  “Don’t look now, but those two guys in the old Ford Scout?” Conrad lifted his chin in the direction of the hat store across the street. “Those are the strangers I was talking about.”

  I glanced over but saw nothing but a big, mint green truck.

  “I said, ‘Don’t look’!” he whispered.

  “Oka-a-ay.” I played along. “What about them?”

  Conrad frowned.

  Despite urging me toward subtlety, Conrad slewed his eyes across the street at the old truck again, and frowned.

  “Been there since I arrived. I think those two dudes spent the night there.”

  I nodded and waited. In this part of town—and given rents in San Francisco—spending the night in a vehicle wasn’t all that unusual. After all, Conrad and his friends slept wherever they could—in door fronts, nooks under stairs, or nearby Golden Gate Park.

  “Want me to go talk to them?”

  “No. Dude.”

  “All righty, then,” I said, not sure what Conrad wanted from me. “I’m headed to the café. Unless you tell me different, I’ll bring you a bagel and a Flower Power.”

  Flower Power was a drink that was a proprietary recipe at Coffee to the People and was an homage to the days when the flower children came to the Haight from all over with the dream of building a society of peace, love, and understanding. If only they had succeeded.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep an eye on ’em. Want me to sweep the sidewalk? Make it less obvious I’m, you know, watchin’ ’em.”

  “You’re a born covert operative, Conrad.”

  “Duuude.”

  I returned twenty minutes later with breakfast and hot drinks for both of us, plus a jalapeno-avocado-garlic bagel for Oscar.

  But Conrad had disappeared, and so had the truck.

  Unfortunately, in their place was an SFPD radio car. Double-parked, right in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  I didn’t need the gift of sight to know that this did not bode well.

  Chapter 6

  In the past when I’d dealt with the San Francisco Police Department, it had been in the form of Inspector Carlos Romero, and he’d always come to interrogate me at my store. Such drop-by visits had seemed rather fraught, but now they seemed downright civilized in comparison.

  It was decidedly less friendly to be brought down to the station by a uniformed cop I didn’t know. My heart pounded as I followed the young man through a maze of corridors and desks.

  Sorry to say this wasn’t my first visit to a jailhouse. The first time was years ago, in my hometown of Jarod, where the two-room police department and jail were eerily similar to that of Sheriff Andy Taylor’s in the old television series The Andy Griffith Show. The second time was not long ago, when I’d been busted for trespassing in Oakland’s Paramount Theater. Oakland’s jail is the real deal, and I’d spent an unpleasant few hours in custody before Carlos pulled some strings and got me released. (The charges, I am happy to say, were dropped.) Apart from these two experiences, my understanding of the underbelly of law enforcement was based on snatches of TV shows and movies. So when the uniformed officer drove me to the station I rather expected to find myself chained to a table and interrogated in an isolated room outfitted with a two-way mirror.

  Instead I had been escorted to a large room jammed with desks, many arranged in pairs facing one another. The desks were occupied by dozens of men—and a few women—dressed in neat pants and shirts, filling out paperwork, flipping through case files, or talking on the phone. The officer who had brought me in led me to one such desk, behind which sat a compact man, physically fit and clad in chinos and a black leather hip-length jacket. Homicide Inspector Carlos Romero, SFPD.

  “Thank you for coming in,” he said, standing as I approached. Carlos had dramatic, dark features, a somber but intelligent air, and a way of carrying himself that radiated authority. Though he wasn’t a physically imposing man, Carlos had a way of making me feel safe, as though he had everything under control.

  He waved me into the beige office chair facing his.

  “Of course. What’s going on?”

  He looked at me for a long moment before speaking. This wasn’t unusual for Carlos, who, I was almost sure, was more perceptive about people than was strictly normal. Loudly ringing telephones, the low murmur of cops chatting, and people coming and going created a wall of ambient noise that gave our conversation a semblance of privacy. Still, the setting wasn’t nearly as official as I had expecte
d it to be.

  “A woman was killed yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I volunteered nothing further. I had intended to call Carlos today to tell him what little I knew about Griselda’s death, but the fact that he’d brought me down to the station was a sign that something big was afoot, and I should be careful what I said.

  One of Carlos’s interrogation techniques was to make a statement, then fall silent, waiting for the other person to fill the void with whatever information he or she had. Even when you knew it was happening it was a surprisingly hard technique to resist. But resist I did.

  And so we sat in silence. After several minutes, Carlos apparently realized I was not falling for his trick.

  “It’s not even my case,” he said. “But I felt like I should talk to you about it.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “The way the woman died is unusual.”

  He was trying again to get me talking, but I still wasn’t falling for it. I would answer his questions—as fully and honestly as I could—but I would not take the lead.

  “I remembered reading something about the method used to kill her. So I looked it up.” He leaned across his desk, pulled a library book from beneath a stack of papers, opened it to a marked page, and read:

  “Throughout the witch hunts various methods were used with particular success by the church-led inquisitors: there was the strapatto, in which the accused’s hands were tied behind her back and then lifted into the air, resulting in the dislocation of the shoulders; and the indicium aquae, or ordeal of swimming, in which drowning constituted innocence; as well as pressing, in which the accused was sandwiched between two boards and slowly crushed by the weight of stone upon stone.”

  Again with the staring. I was sure I looked white as a sheet. Even hearing the descriptions of those torments made me sick to my stomach. I caressed my medicine bag. Some things chill me to the core, which I can only assume are primordial memories or fears passed down from my witch ancestors, across the generations and through time.