Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Marisela began, “This character Xolotl, like I was saying before, was the god of disease and bad luck . . .”

  “And fire,” said Shawnelle with a smile. “Mustn’t forget the fire.”

  “Right. Disease, bad luck, and fire. Anyway, Xolotl was twin brother of Quetzalcoatl. You must’ve heard of him.”

  Shawnelle shook her head.

  “Quetzalcoatl was the feathered serpent,” I answered. “Most revered god of the Aztecs.”

  “Right,” said Marisela. “He was the head honcho, the one they made human sacrifices for. In fact, when Cortés arrived, a blond on horseback—they had never seen horses before, much less light hair—the Aztecs thought maybe he was the embodiment of Quetzalcoatl, so they didn’t realize what a danger he was. Oops, sorry. That was me talking, not Abuelita.”

  The grandmother, meanwhile, had paused in her story and was waiting patiently, accustomed to the translation drill. At a nod from Marisela she started telling her story once again.

  “But, anyway, long before that, Xolotl and Quetzalcoatl were twin brothers who stole fire from the underworld and brought it to the human world. So, Abuelita says the Ojo del Fuego stone was unearthed from the very heart of the Earth, and right away the priests knew it was special, so they made a special silver setting to hold it. At dawn and midnight, the opal shows its color best. Any curandero who wore it could use it for miraculous healing, even regenerating limbs—like the salamander I was telling you about, the axolotl.”

  In European folklore, the fire elemental was associated with salamanders as well. I remembered how my grandmother laughed and said maybe they got it wrong, that in the old days when people threw logs on the fire they often saw salamanders emerge, shiny and wet, almost glowing, appearing as though sparks were coming off their skin. This led to the belief they were impervious to the fire, a living creature containing the energy of an elemental being.

  “But then Xolotl arose, bringing disease and bad luck with him. The people tried to placate him with fire dances and sacrifices, but nothing worked. Then a powerful curandera wore the ring; when she performed the proper ceremony and twisted the ring so the stone faced her palm, it emitted lights and a kind of magical fire, and she was able to send him back to the underworld.”

  “So the Ojo del Fuego was the only thing that worked against Xolotl?” asked Shawnelle, apparently interested in spite of herself.

  Marisela asked Carmen the question in Spanish, then translated her answer with a nod.

  “Yes, ever since then not just Xolotl per se, but any of his minions that are occasionally unleashed, the ones that arise from the elements, from the earth and air and fire itself.”

  “Way cool,” said Shawnelle. Then she held up her small pile of favors. “And look. I’m totally beating you guys.”

  The conversation moved on. Maya clarified a few points with Carmen and Marisela, and Rosa discussed a cousin’s new baby with a couple of the other women in the circle. The murmur of voices, the circle of women and one boy made me think of sewing circles, quilting circles, scrapbooking circles . . . all those moments throughout history when women and children come together to share tasks, making of them opportunities for socializing and community building.

  Joel sneezed. “Salud,” sounded a chorus of voices.

  “Gesundheit,” I said, using the German word without thinking. Then something dawned on me.

  “Shawnelle, I don’t suppose you have any way of getting in touch with Johannes, that guy from the Gem Faire?”

  “The cute German guy?”

  I nodded.

  Shawnelle and Marisela locked eyes and giggled.

  “Yeah, we had sort of, like, a date the other night.”

  “When was this?”

  “Tuesday, I guess. He was kind of sick, though. But he was still cute.”

  “What did you do on your date?”

  “We went and did touristy things. He’s never been here before, so he was totally into it. It was actually kind of awesome. I’ve lived here my whole life, but the only time we do stuff like the cable cars is when people are visiting from out of town. Ya know? So it was kind of cool. Why? What’s up?”

  “I’ve been looking for him, that’s all. I think he might have . . .” the sacred ring called Ojo del Fuego, meant to combat a fierce elemental demon. “I’d just like to talk with him. Any idea where he’s staying?”

  She shook her head. “He was at a youth hostel for a night or two, but I guess he found another place. He doesn’t, like, have much money, I guess. Besides, he says he doesn’t like to stay put.”

  That was interesting. Trying to keep one step ahead of the police or a demon or . . . ?

  “Does he have a cell phone? Do you have any way of getting ahold of him?”

  “No, he doesn’t have an international phone. But he’ll probably be in touch. . . . He’s supposed to be my escort to the quinceañera next Saturday. Are you coming?”

  I hated these awkward moments. I hadn’t been invited, and it seemed a little much to presume, since the extent of our interactions so far were me selling them clothes and listening to a legend about a fire opal.

  Besides, I was a creature of my childhood—I remembered too well the crushing feeling of not being invited to the party that all the other kids in town were going to. Drinking tea with Graciela in her hut on the outskirts of town, acting like nothing was wrong.

  But this wasn’t Jarod, Texas. And I wasn’t a kid. And if Johannes was going to show up, I’d love to have a little chat with him.

  “Oh, yes! You should both come!” said Marisela. “Right, Mom?”

  “Of course! The more the merrier. And you’re altering those dresses in such a hurry for us, we really appreciate it.”

  “I can’t take any credit for the alterations on the dresses—that’s all on Maya’s mom, Lucille. But . . . if you really don’t mind, I would love to come. I wouldn’t ruin your seating for the dinner, but I’d love to drop by and see the decorations and the dresses, and, of course, the full court.” Metzli beamed. “Maya, shall we go?”

  “I’d love to,” she said, gathering up her recording equipment and loading her backpack. “I’ve only been to one a long time ago. A friend from high school.”

  “That’s settled, then,” said Rosa. “Wonderful. Joel, stop eating all the kisses.”

  • • •

  As Maya and I drove home I pondered what I’d learned.

  If Johannes was involved in the murder and/or the hiding of the ring, why would he agree to show up to a quinceañera? For that matter, why was he hanging around Shawnelle at all? She couldn’t be more than seventeen, eighteen at the most, and he looked like he was in his twenties. Alone in a strange country, his boss killed . . . wouldn’t he have more pressing concerns?

  And that story of the Ojo del Fuego was still ringing in my ears. What was I thinking—that Griselda had arrived in town with a ring with which to face down a demon? And, if so, why hadn’t the demon shown itself? What was the connection to the legendary Xolotl in San Francisco? Gene was hanging around at the Gem Faire and then at the dancing in the park . . . when fires broke out on both occasions. Could he be Xolotl’s human underling?

  Carmen had also mentioned performing fire dances to placate the demon. So maybe Gene was doing what he could to appease Xolotl. And Clem and Zeke, presumably, were searching for the ring so they could destroy the magical stone so no one would be able to control Xolotl. And if I was correct when I felt their vibrations connected to those of my father’s, that would mean he was doing the same.

  And, quite frankly, I thought San Francisco already had its fair share of disease and bad luck. I couldn’t imagine what it would mean if Xolotl were allowed to act freely.

  If the ring really had been passed down through the ages, it held not only its own power but a little of each practitioner that had worn it.

  It was unique; irreplaceable.

  It was up to me to find it. I refused to give over my adopted city
to a fire demon and his sharp-dressed underling.

  • • •

  I dropped Maya off at her house, then returned to Aunt Cora’s Closet to find Bronwyn’s granddaughter, Imogen, was visiting with Beowulf the cat. In the beginning Oscar hated Beowulf, so the black cat would follow him around. Once Oscar decided he liked the feline, though, she disdained him and would walk away, tail held high and twitching. At the moment in his piggy guise, Oscar was trotting after her like a lovesick, well . . . piglet.

  I said hello to the pure black, silky cat by petting her, then sneezed. I’m allergic. Which, I supposed, was part of the reason I got stuck with a miniature potbellied pig in the first place.

  Imogen was putting together a project for the science fair, with Bronwyn’s help, about herbal medicines. She was working on a big poster board to set behind the actual samples of herbs and plants. After telling me all about it and asking me a few detailed questions, she got back to work. Lying on her stomach in a quiet corner of the store, markers scattered around her, she drew while Beowulf and Oscar vied for her attention.

  Bronwyn went to check on Imogen’s progress, and I helped a young woman looking for a dress for a swing-dancing competition. As I was ringing her up, I looked up to see a well-groomed, nice-looking man in his twenties walk into the store. He was carrying a briefcase and wore a gray suit and red tie. Alarm bells went off.

  A suit and tie in this part of the city? Could he be working with Gene?

  I kept an eye on him while I wrapped the full-skirted dress in tissue paper and put it in a recycled paper bag with AUNT CORA’S CLOSET written on the side along with our slogan: IT’S NOT OLD; IT’S VINTAGE!

  As the customer turned to leave, the man approached the counter.

  “Hi. I’m Spade.” He handed me his card. “Sam Spade.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I received a note saying you wanted to speak with me? I’m a private detective, er, investigator. I’m a private investigator.”

  “You guys . . .” I smiled and glanced over at Bronwyn and Imogen. Bronwyn was now lying on the floor next to her granddaughter, kicking her feet in the air. She was the best grandma ever. “Very funny. You called Sam Spade to consult with me about a case?”

  They looked puzzled, and it dawned on me: Oscar never transformed in front of Bronwyn and Maya. They couldn’t have spoken about it and worked out the gag.

  “You mean this isn’t a joke?”

  Bronwyn shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Oscar. How had he managed to track down a man named Sam Spade? I was going to kill me one gobgoyle pig.

  The man looked pained. “It’s that movie, right? The Maltese whatever?”

  “The Maltese Falcon, based on the novel by Dashiell Hammett. Featuring Sam Spade.”

  “Hardly anybody remembers that film anymore.”

  I couldn’t have been more than five years this guy’s senior. But, then, I’d always been out of step when it came to popular culture. Or any culture, for that matter.

  “Anyway, my father named me Sam. Not even Samuel or Samson . . . just Sam.”

  “So you grew up as Sam Spade, and then you decided to become a private investigator?”

  “Actually . . .” A pretty blush came over his face, staining his cheeks and making him look like he was still in high school. “I’m a stockbroker. I got laid off. I figured, how hard could it be?”

  He reached into his suit breast pocket and brought out his wallet, then flipped it open to show me his private-investigation license.

  “I didn’t even realize you needed certification.”

  “Oh, sure. You have to pass a test. There’s even a handbook. And if you want to carry a gun, that’s a whole other process. Anyway, I’m good with computers, and I figure there’s always the advanced-search button on Google.”

  I was embarrassed to admit it, but he was probably right; even with such rudimentary investigative skills, he could probably find out more than I did without ever leaving his office. After all, all I accomplished by running around, trying to talk to people, was to stumble into dangerous situations without preparation.

  “I received a message that you’re looking for help,” Sam said.

  “I . . .” This poor man was here under false pretenses. Unless . . . “How much would it cost me to have you track someone down?”

  “It’s . . . just one second.” He put his briefcase on the counter, opened it, pulled out a book, flipped through a few pages, ran his finger along one entry, then finally nodded and snapped the book closed.

  “Two hundred a day, plus expenses.”

  “Two hundred? Gee . . . that sounds like a lot. Especially since I’m your first case and all.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Wild guess. Anyway, seems a little high to me.”

  “Does it?” He seemed to be calculating something in his head. “How about one-fifty?”

  What could it hurt?

  Besides, I thought as Oscar started trotting in circles around my legs . . . I promised my pet pig.

  I agreed to two days of looking for the young Johannes—I figured that was plenty of time to figure out whether he’d already fled the country or, heaven forbid, been killed in some sort of witchy pogrom.

  “So,” said Sam. “This Johannes character—is he your philandering husband?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Boyfriend gone astray? He owe you money?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  There was a pause. I got the sense that Sam Spade was mentally going through his handbook. Perhaps there was a List of Reasons for Pursuit noted on page 7.

  “Did he get your daughter pregnant?”

  “Just how old do you think I am?” I demanded. I wasn’t all that much older than he was. But maybe my lifestyle—lack of sleep, too much worry—was beginning to show on my face.

  “Sorry. Just a guess.”

  “Is it part of your professional code that you have to know why I’m looking for someone? Or could I just hire you without a reason?”

  “I suppose.” He shuffled around in his briefcase for a moment and pulled out a contract.

  “Seriously? In The Maltese Falcon it was more of a handshake-type deal.”

  “I’m more a paperwork guy.”

  “You really should check out the movie. It could give you some ideas. For instance, you should get yourself a fedora. We have several, right over on the hat rack.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that,” he said, as I signed the agreement.

  Two days, three hundred dollars. If this character actually tracked down Johannes, and Johannes could shed light on what was going on—or even had the ring—it would be money well spent.

  After he left, I gave Bronwyn a very abbreviated rundown of what was going on, and in order not to out her “Oscaroo,” I suggested perhaps Carlos, knowing I was looking for Johannes, had sent the note to Sam Spade. Which didn’t make much sense, but Bronwyn wasn’t pushy that way.

  And then I excused myself to go grocery shopping. That night, as per my agreement with Oscar, I would be called upon to make mashed potatoes, Tater Tots, and mac and cheese for dinner. I hadn’t been specific enough about which Sam Spade we were talking about, after all.

  And I should know to mind my p’s and q’s when striking deals with a smarty-pants gobgoyle familiar.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning I decided I should go to see Zeke while he was still in really bad shape. I might be able to learn more from him in his prone position, and if I were lucky I would run into Clem at the same time.

  As I was approaching the main entrance for the San Francisco Medical Center I realized that for the life of me I could not remember Zeke’s last name. Carlos had used it when he asked me about my connection to him after the mugging, but I couldn’t remember. Which was odd for me; usually I had a very good memory. I imagined that my protection spells on the shop and my apartment were tamping down on my natural ab
ilities, too.

  It turned out to be a moot point: Zeke had been checked in as a John Doe. The details of the accident and a chatty nurse were enough to discover that he was in serious condition and in room 312.

  To my surprise, 312 was a private room. That was good; we could speak without being overheard.

  Zeke was asleep. The curtains were drawn and the lights were off, making it dim inside the room, lit only by the lights on the beeping machines and the little sunlight that managed to squeeze through the borders of the blackout shades.

  I started snooping.

  In the bedside table I found a ziplock bag containing a plastic card key from the Hyatt, a cell phone, and a tiny notebook. I had just started to look through it when I heard Zeke stir.

  Upon seeing me, he pulled back in fear and I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help you, Zeke.”

  “You don’t care about me.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  He stilled and studied me, as though surprised at my frankness.

  “You broke into my shop and then attacked me,” I said. “Don’t expect a lot of sympathy from the likes of me. But I can still help you.”

  He looked away, toward the window. “Cain’t see anything here . . . there’s always lights, even at night. Cain’t hardly see the stars, even.”

  I opened the curtains, but he squinted and turned away.

  “I like ’em closed. The light hurts my eyes.”

  I drew the curtains back over the window, leaving the room shrouded in dark.

  “Where you from?” I asked in a soft voice, pulling the room’s single chair over to the side of the bed and taking a seat.

  “Gunston, West Virginia. Little town no one’s ever heared of.”

  “I’m from a small town in West Texas, myself. I like it here, but sometimes . . .” I let my voice take on a wistful note, confessing something to this near stranger that I’d not told anyone. “Sometimes I miss things. Like the dirt—it was red. It would sink into your fingers, under your nails. . . . I don’t know why, but I think a lot about that dirt. Also, the dust made for the prettiest sunsets you’d ever like to see.”