I had an additional motive for wanting to speak to Renna. She was Sailor’s aunt. And even though she was angry with me—and, as a matter of general knowledge, it isn’t a good idea to have a powerful Rom witch holding a grudge against you—I was working up my courage to try talking my way out of that little deal gone bad, hoping Renna could tell me where Sailor might have disappeared to. After all, what’s the worst she could do—hex me?
Yes, as a matter of fact, she surely could. But I doubted she would. Most witches respect their powers and do not abuse them.
“Fire dancing,” Maya suddenly blurted out.
“Um . . . I’m sorry?” I asked, looking up from the display case.
“I checked it out last night and I really want to do it!”
“This is the new hobby you were mentioning?”
She nodded. “It’s more than a hobby, actually. It’s like I’m . . . obsessed. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Is this the fire dancing in the park? Conrad mentioned something about that. But . . . really? You want to . . . dance, with fire?”
Witches and fire—we have a complicated relationship. I might use fire in a very controlled setting in some of my brews and spells, but dancing with it? That sounded like trouble.
“It’s not nearly as scary as it sounds.” Maya smiled. “In fact, it’s really empowering. It’s . . . well . . . it feels sort of magical, for lack of a better word.”
“How did you get into it?”
“I had seen the dancers in the park last week, but then they did a special performance at the Gem Faire, and the head guy really encouraged me to try my hand at it. I gave it a whirl last night. It was incredible.”
“And how do they dance with the fire?”
“They have these pots, like, on the end of ropes? The pots contain fuel, which they light, and then they dance, spinning the pots up and around. Some use lit torches, but it’s the same concept. It’s . . . it’s hard to explain, but it’s mesmerizing.”
“But . . . why doesn’t the fuel fall out of the pots?”
“Centripetal force. If you spin the pots fast enough, the fire stays in the pot. But that’s why you have to learn how to do it safely—it takes total commitment, or it’s dangerous.”
Like casting a spell. And like so much else in this world.
“Oh. Well, then—”
“Next!” the cashier said.
As the cashier added up our purchases Maya and I placed our items—the French maid costume, the embroidered tablecloth, some beaded pullovers from the ’80s, a men’s cowboy shirt, an eyelet bolero jacket, a black velvet coat with a real mink collar, and an assortment of T-shirts and cotton peasant skirts that, while not vintage, were a style my customers liked and often asked for—into the burlap sacks we had brought along. Plastic bags were no longer allowed in San Francisco, and paper bags were expensive for a shop like this one, which donated its proceeds to charity.
As I paid the bill, I marveled at the low prices. For less than one hundred dollars, I had bought three big burlap sacks of clothes. Discarded clothing was so plentiful in the United States that thrift stores at times were overwhelmed with donations and sold the overstock by the pound. The clothes were shipped overseas and sold to people in poorer nations. Maybe one day I would make a documentary on the life of an American T-shirt. Perhaps it started out as a freebie from a computer company, was worn by a college student to play intramural soccer for one season, and then ended up at the bottom of the dirty laundry bag he brought home at the end of the school year and handed to his mother to wash. The T-shirt sat for a few years in his dresser at home until he moved across country for his first job after graduating, and Mom decided to convert his old bedroom into a home gym. She gave the T-shirt to the Goodwill, where it languished on a rack among thousands of other T-shirts until culled and sent to Uganda, where it was now protecting from the blazing sun a farmer who, I imagined, had no idea what the logo on the front of the shirt meant but had chosen it because he liked the color and the look of the swoosh.
“Lily?” Maya asked, bringing me back to the present. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” I said. The documentary would have to wait for another day.
We lugged our heavy bags out of the store and across the parking lot, the blacktop radiating heat. The unseasonably hot spell still blanketed the city, leading to the rare sight of people sweating in San Francisco. As they’d say back home: It felt hotter than a Billy goat in a pepper patch.
“So, about fire-dancing: How are you learning to do it safely?”
“There’s a man who used to work with a carnival,” Maya said. “He started out as a fire eater, a long time ago, but that’s too much for me. I’m just into the dancing. Anyway, he’s developing a fire-spinning troupe, and he’s training a bunch of us. Whoever can pass the test gets to be part of the group.”
“He’s training you . . . for free?” A whisper of a premonition, like the flickering of a butterfly’s wing, appeared at the edges of my consciousness.
“He’s sort of like a scout, looking for new dancers to join the traveling troupe. He teaches you some basics, and if you’re good enough you might be chosen. He’s amazing.” The fire was dancing now in her eyes.
I unlocked and opened the rear doors of my purple van, and we plunked our heavy bags in the back, then circled around and climbed into the cab.
“Are you saying you want to join this traveling troupe? What about school? And . . . your family?”
What I was really asking was: What about me? But I didn’t say it. Maya’s life was, after all, her own. And goodness knows I should be the last one to discourage anyone from traveling and learning new things. But having made friends and decided to remain in San Francisco, it had never occurred to me that my new friends might leave, to follow their own journey. I knew as well as anybody that there are no guarantees in life, and that all is transient. But still. I liked our Aunt Cora’s Closet family just as it was.
Maya laughed. “No way . . . You should see how bad I am—seriously, I’d never make the cut, even if I wanted to. But it’s still fascinating. I’m telling you, you won’t believe how this guy works with fire.”
As I pulled out of the parking lot, a glance in the rearview mirror confirmed what I thought I’d seen right on our tail on the way over: a big old Ford Scout, dented and colored a faded minty green.
It was following us. Conrad had been right to be suspicious.
“This fellow who’s teaching you to fire dance out of the goodness of his heart, you met him at the Gem Faire? What’s his name?”
“We just call him Gene. You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen him work with fire. And in a suit, no less.”
Jersey Gene with the Jelly Beans. I would bet the farm this was oh, so much more than a coincidence.
“And you say you met him at the Gem Faire? When?”
“You were rescuing Oscar from the clutches of security. The dancing troupe came in to give a little exhibit, and Gene announced they’d be meeting in Golden Gate Park and offered to train anyone who was interested.”
“Could that be how the fires got started?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so,” Maya said. “Funny, that never occurred to me. But . . . no, now that I think about it, the fire spinners had finished their show long before anything caught fire. And no one spilled or anything. Too bad you missed it.”
“Too bad I missed the fires?”
“The dancing, of course.”
“Yes, too bad. Did Gene happen to ask you about jewelry?”
“Jewelry?”
I glanced at the mirror again. The truck was still there. It wasn’t the first time I’d been followed, but neither was it the sort of thing a person got used to.
“Was he curious about what you’d bought at the fair—som
ething along those lines? Or about Aunt Cora’s Closet, maybe?”
Maya fixed me with an odd look. “No, nothing like that. All we’ve talked about so far is fire safety, and how important it is to have confidence in your moves, so you don’t falter.”
“Sounds more like philosophy than dancing,” I muttered, hearing a cynical note in my own voice.
“Lily, what’s bothering you?”
“I . . .” I trailed off as I glanced at the truck again. What I couldn’t understand was why, if they were following me, would they choose such a distinctive vehicle?
Speaking of distinctive, I was driving a purple van with AUNT CORA’S CLOSET: IT’S NOT OLD; IT’S VINTAGE! emblazoned on the side. So I guessed I was a pretty easy target to follow.
There were two men in the truck, both wearing sunglasses. I didn’t recognize them, at least from this distance.
I glanced at my watch. It was a little after noon. This stretch of Sacramento Street was jammed during lunchtime, and there was only one lane in each direction.
Pulling to a stop at a traffic light, I made a decision. If I was being watched and followed, it was safer to face it here, in public, than to wait until they found me somewhere alone and vulnerable.
“Don’t get out of the car. I’ll be right back,” I said to Maya as I shifted the van into park, set the parking brake, jumped out, and headed toward the truck behind me.
Chapter 8
Horns blared as the traffic light changed to green and the cars in the lane behind us realized we weren’t going anywhere.
As I approached the mint green truck, I noticed a wooden decoration in the shape of a Maltese cross had been attached to the hood. An interesting embellishment to an otherwise faded, beat-up vehicle.
The two men in the cab gaped at me, slack-jawed. Both had dishwater blond hair, long skinny necks, and unfortunate overbites. Shared genetics, I thought. Brothers or cousins, most likely. Both wore dark sunglasses, frayed baseball caps, and dirty T-shirts.
“Hey!” I rapped on the driver’s window. “You two! Let’s talk.”
Ballcap Number One, behind the wheel, opened and shut his mouth without speaking, like a fish, while Ballcap Number Two started gesturing, apparently suggesting they go around my van.
Ballcap Number One abruptly jammed the truck into reverse and stomped on the accelerator, immediately slamming into the grille of the luxury car behind them. The molded, painted bumper of the late-model Lexus was no match for the truck’s steel bumper and crumpled with a metallic crunch. The driver of the Lexus laid on the horn and started unbuckling his seat belt, but the mint green truck was already nosing into the oncoming lane in an effort to escape. I jumped aside to get out of its way, but noted the license plate number. Horns sounded as the truck darted into oncoming traffic, then swerved back into the lane in front of my purple van, raced down the street, and careened around the corner with a screech of tires.
“What the hell?” shouted the driver of the Lexus, a handsome, well-groomed fellow. He looked to be about twenty-five, and was dressed in a pale yellow polo shirt and madras pants. I spied golf clubs in the backseat. “You stopped, in the middle of the street? What kind of idiot stops like that? Do you see what you’ve done?”
“I am really sorry this happened, but in all fairness, I didn’t back into you; the men in the truck did.”
“This is a Lexus!”
“I really am sorry.” My guilt at setting into motion the chain of events that had ruined this man’s day waned as he continued to scream at me. Fender-benders were an inevitable part of life in a big city, like it or not. “Those men in the truck were following me, and I felt I had to confront them in public for my own safety.”
“Your safety? What about my car? Look at this!”
I gave the irate driver the truck’s license plate number and my business card as well. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be considered my fault—after all, cars stall at lights all the time—but, just in case, it was best to leave all those details to the insurance professionals.
When I climbed back behind the wheel of my van, Maya was gawking at me.
“Um, Lily? What was that all about?”
“It was either brave or kind of stupid,” I said as the light turned red again. “I’m going to go with ‘brave.’”
“Gotta say, I’m more inclined toward ‘stupid,’” Maya said. “Why didn’t you let me come with you? I could have served as backup.”
“Which is why I asked you to wait here. If I’m going to do something brave”—I glanced at Maya—“or stupid, I don’t want to drag you down with me.”
“So what’d those guys do to tick you off?”
“They’ve been following us since we left Aunt Cora’s Closet,” I said as I pulled forward, putting an arm out the window and waving in apology to the traffic stacked up behind me.
“They have? You’re sure?”
I nodded.
“In that old truck? Not exactly a low-profile vehicle.”
“I was thinking that myself.”
“Not cops, then.”
“No.”
A silence.
“Are we in trouble, Lily?”
My heart swelled at my friend’s loyalty and generosity. I wasn’t used to being a part of any sort of “we.”
“You are not in trouble. Not as long as I can help it.”
“Are you in trouble, then?”
What should I say? Why were those men following me? Could it have something to do with my father? Or did they think I was in possession of a valuable piece of jewelry from the Gem Faire?
Something else occurred to me: If they had been watching Griselda at the Gem Faire, maybe she sold me a very obvious box in an attempt to throw them off her trail. Maybe she hoped they would follow me, as they did, and leave her alone. That would help explain why I felt nothing from the jewelry in my possession.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“What can I do to help?”
I reached out to squeeze Maya’s arm. She was still uncomfortable with the whole witchy thing. Her mother, Lucille, was very involved in their Baptist church, and though Maya had stopped attending services she had been raised with the basic tenets of the Baptist faith and accepted them as the norm. Witchcraft didn’t fit in to her worldview. Still, unlike a lot of people I could name, she wasn’t hostile to the idea or to me, and had witnessed enough to understand that there were forces beyond the obvious at work in this world, even in such a beautiful city by the bay. She was a loyal, supportive friend who was willing to stand by me, whether or not it made her doubt her own sanity from time to time.
“Thank you, Maya. I have no idea what’s going on at this point. But I’ll be sure to let you know if you can help—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support.”
“Glad to hear it. And, by the way, the next time you decide to go mano a mano with a couple of yahoos, I’m helping. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
I laughed. “Thank you, I appreciate that. Hey, when’s your next fire-dancing practice?”
“Tomorrow night. Want to come?”
“I would indeed.”
“Great. Everyone’s welcome. But . . . something’s bothering you about it, isn’t it?”
Yes. I might not be able to foretell the future, but I knew this: A woman had been killed, my father was in town, and two men were following me. The fact that Maya was suddenly all het up about fire dancing taught by a suit-clad man named Gene . . . well, I couldn’t help but see trouble. With a capital “T.” Still, what could I say to Maya without freaking her out? Gene . . . well, he seemed suspicious to me, but I had no proof that he’d actually done anything. As I’d said to Carlos, I was trying hard not to think of “odd” as a synonym for “wrong,” because I’d been on the receiving end of more than enough of that kind of thinking.
I f
orced a smile. “Nah. It sounds so intriguing, dancing with fire.”
“Gene says fire’s like life: you can’t be afraid of getting burned.”
I supposed that was true. Still and all . . . this Gene character was starting to tread on my last nerve.
• • •
Back at Aunt Cora’s Closet, we found Bronwyn and Lucille working on the alterations for the quinceañera dresses. They had draped the pink off-the-shoulder silk on the dressmaker’s form and were making tucks here and there. It always amazed me how the smallest little folds in just the right places made the difference between a good fit and a great fit.
Maya and I lugged in the burlap sacks and unpacked, showing off our purchases. The French maid’s outfit was the hit of the day, though after seeing Lucille’s fondness for the fine lace mantilla I made a mental note to have the tatting repaired, wash it in rosewater, and let it dry in the moonlight. Thus mended and cleansed, it would be the perfect gift for Lucille’s upcoming sixtieth birthday.
A few customers roamed the aisles, but all in all it was a mellow afternoon. I was tidying up the dressing room when the phone rang.
A slight crackle as I picked it up indicated it was long-distance. Hans.
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing good, I am sorry to say. I asked around, as you requested. I learned there was a well-known witch in the county of Baden-Württemburg, near the Black Forest, named Carlotta Hummel. Very flamboyant; described as having bright orange hair and a rather big mouth. Not a favorite among the local politicos, I’ll tell you that much.”
“And?”
“And she was found pressed to death just last week.”
I realized I was holding my breath. “That’s not good.”
“It gets worse, I’m afraid. Carlotta Hummel had a sister named Griselda. Last her neighbors heard, Griselda was headed to a jewelry fair in San Francisco.”
I looked out over my store, at the wonderfully peaceful and domestic scene. Bronwyn and Lucille chatting as they sewed, Maya helping a young woman find a top to match a colorful peasant skirt. As usual, my shop kept me grounded whenever craziness was swirling all around.
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