A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

  But all the beauty in the world couldn’t improve my scrying. Most witches had at least some natural ability with this sort of thing, but not me. I could brew with the best of them, but seeing something useful—whether in the crystal ball or in a black mirror or in standing water—was almost always beyond my ken.

  Tonight was no exception. I had hoped to spy a glimpse of Sailor, or Tristan Dupree, or even the cupcake lady, aka Renee Baker. But all I saw, as ever, was a few fleeting shadows, the significance of which remained frustratingly out of reach.

  I turned to the shoe box.

  At the moment, I was tempted to open it, but I feared I wasn’t strong enough to face whatever it contained, all by myself. Especially now, with the sneezing and fatigue and strangely challenged magical energy.

  I cringed at how I’d left things with Aidan. When would I learn not to antagonize him? But I pushed that thought away. Best to focus on the problems at hand. For lack of a better idea, I rewrapped the rowan around the shoe box, braided some threads and knotted them with whispered incantations, added a string of holly and stinging nettles, then put the box back into my suitcase and hid the suitcase in the back of my closet. It would be safe there.

  I hoped. Normally I had confidence that my apartment was so protected it was virtually immune to intruders. But since I hadn’t been exactly feeling myself lately . . . I wondered whether I should have taken up Aidan on his offer to safeguard the box. He would probably still agree to do so, if I asked him nicely.

  I yearned to talk with Graciela, and to convene her coven of elderly wisewomen. Surely they could offer some insight into what was going on? If only they were here and could help me to open the shoe box, figure out what was plaguing me, find a murderer, and get Sailor off the hook.

  My mind cast back to the red thread spiderweb forming over the map behind the register. What in the world were the women doing?

  Had the coven simply been sidetracked by burgers and sea otters, or was there something else—something more sinister—going on?

  Chapter 9

  Early the next morning, I headed out to the jail.

  The street was quiet at this hour of the morning. Haight Street’s boutiques, bookstore and record shop, and myriad bars and restaurants catered primarily to a later crowd. But Lucille’s Loft, right next door, was already bustling.

  I had hoped to rush past—Sailor was paramount on my mind—but Lucille noticed me and came to the door.

  “Good morning, Lily,” she said. Lucille is a lot like her daughter, Maya: calm, kind, and smart. Lucille carried a few more pounds and many more laugh lines, and her hair was graying, but other than that, mother and daughter could have been sisters.

  “Good morning, Lucille.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I—” I wondered whether to launch into the whole story. I didn’t have much time. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go around telling people my fiancé was in the slammer. A big part of me expected—hoped, anyway—that Carlos would stumble across some huge hole in the case, the SFPD would apologize profusely, and Sailor would be home in time for dinner.

  “A friend’s in trouble,” I said simply.

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” she said.

  “Me, too. Thanks. Oh, Lucille,” I said as something else occurred to me. “Maya mentioned that Renee Baker had dropped by the other day?”

  “The cupcake lady? Yes, she did.”

  “Could I ask what she was looking for?”

  “She wanted to know if we would be available to do some alterations for her.”

  “Really? That’s . . . odd.”

  Lucille’s brows rose and she smiled. “Lucille’s Loft is the best, after all. Why wouldn’t she come to us?”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that!” I blushed.

  She chuckled. “I know. Renee’s cupcake shop is across town, so why would she come all the way here? She mentioned she was in the neighborhood visiting a friend who’d placed a big order for an upcoming event.”

  “Did she say who?”

  Lucille gave me an searching look. “Are you sure everything’s all right, Lily?”

  “There’s . . . Not really, no. Sailor was arrested last night.”

  “Sailor? Is he all right?”

  It didn’t escape my notice that Lucille didn’t even ask what Sailor had been accused of. He had fans. It did my heart good.

  “I think so. I’m on my way to visit him.”

  “And you think Renee’s somehow involved? The cupcake lady?”

  “Not really. I’m just . . . Things are off-kilter right now, so I’m keeping an open mind.”

  Maya didn’t share a lot of the details of my life with her mother, and that was probably best. I doubted Lucille would be on board with the whole witchcraft thing. She was open-minded and openhearted, but she was an active member of her local Baptist church—and in any case, my brand of witchy was a little tough for most people to swallow.

  “Did you happen to notice anything odd about Renee’s visit? Did she ask anything, do anything in particular, that struck you as”—I couldn’t think of a more apt word— “odd?”

  Lucille shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lily. Nothing comes to mind. She admired our collection of fabrics, asked about prices, and then left us with a lovely basket of assorted baked goods.”

  “Did you eat them?” I demanded, a strident note in my voice.

  “Sorry I can’t offer you any—they didn’t last long.” Lucille laughed and patted her stomach. “I know I shouldn’t, but I had a meat pasty for lunch, and two cupcakes for dessert, and enjoyed them thoroughly.”

  “And you’re feeling all right?”

  “Lily . . . what is going on?”

  I had debated whether to tell my friends and acquaintances that Renee was bad news. To all external appearances, she was simply a bakery owner whose intricately iced cupcakes had become wildly popular, and whose baked goods were in high demand all over the city. How did I tell people Renee might well be involved in some sort of supernatural battle for the soul of San Francisco? And that her cupcakes might, or might not, be suspect?

  “Nothing, Lucille,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m just jumpy, and worried about Sailor. But if Renee comes back, would you let me know?”

  She nodded, her soft brown eyes gazing at me intently. “Of course. Please give Sailor my love, and let me know if there’s anything at all I can do. I have a niece who works for the sheriff’s office. I’d be happy to make a call if you need a personal contact.”

  “Thank you, Lucille,” I said. “I appreciate that, and I know Sailor will, too.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The prosaically named County Jail #2 is located on Seventh Street, not far from the freeway. Many’s the time I’d been stuck in traffic in the approach to the Bay Bridge, and gazed at the serpentine building with its partially fogged windows, thinking of those inside, awaiting their fate.

  I had been here a few times to visit prisoners.

  It dawned on me that my father had once been accused of murder. My fiancé currently stood accused of murder. Perhaps I should wonder about the men in my life.

  The check-in process for visitors always seemed to take forever, but at long last I sat at the counter, waiting.

  Sailor shuffled in; his dark hair stuck up, uncombed, and whiskers shadowed his jaw in blue-black. He looked pissed off. But that was nothing new. Sailor had his great moments—amazingly great—but his default way of looking at the world was grumpy, and his general attitude had not been helped by a night in jail.

  We took a long moment, just staring at each other. Drinking in the sight of each other. Then he started talking.

  According to Sailor, he had been practicing a new psychic technique in his apartment when
the cops came a-knocking. He had been alone since about four in the afternoon, and all evening. There was no more to the story.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t sense the police were on their way.”

  “I was in a trance state. And I had no reason to be on guard.”

  “That’s it? You didn’t go anywhere near Dupree? You weren’t at the Hotel Marais at all?”

  He shook his head. “No, I was in the East Bay working with Aunt Renna until a little before four, then walked the labyrinth up at Sibley Park. After that, I went straight home. I was nowhere near Dupree’s hotel, Lily.”

  “So Renna can vouch for you?” I asked, feeling hopeful.

  “Only until four. The police seem to think I would have had enough time to get back to the hotel. I guess they haven’t sat in traffic on the Bay Bridge lately—even on the bike it’s a challenge. But in any case, Renna’s a known Rom fortune-teller. The DA will make the case that she’s unreliable, and that she’s lying to protect me. Doubtful anyone will believe her.”

  “That’s awfully cynical,” I said, disappointed.

  “And this surprises you?” Sailor’s words were sarcastic, but his tone was gentle.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all that might help? Have you been able to see anything?”

  “Not much. The only thing . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “It doesn’t make much sense. As I’ve told you, I ‘see’ things in symbols, usually. And I keep seeing my dad’s old watch.”

  “What would a watch symbolize?”

  He shrugged. “Running out of time, maybe? It’s unusual for me; usually I see things in the language of flowers. I did also see aspen trees. . . .”

  “In my tradition, aspen leaves are used in antitheft charms.”

  He nodded. “It’s unclear what it means. But I had an inkling that someone had been in my apartment yesterday. You didn’t go by there, did you?”

  “No, I was at the shop all day. I haven’t been to your place in a while.”

  “That’s what I thought. I didn’t find anything disturbed; it was just a sense I had. I also had a vision of a symbol of some sort. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to fully make it out. I was seeing it in the trance just before I was arrested, as a matter of fact, and tried sketching it, but it still made no sense.”

  “The man—the fellow who seems to have killed Tristan—stopped to look at a watch.”

  “Interesting. Still not sure what that tells us, though.”

  “Hervé met me at the hotel last night,” I said, “and was able to make contact with Tristan’s spirit. But he couldn’t tell me much. He did mention cupcakes, so I suppose Renee’s involved in whatever’s going on.”

  “You’re suggesting the cupcake lady beat up Tristan?” he asked in a sardonic tone.

  “No, of course not. But she has people working for her.”

  “What motive would she have?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Tristan shouted about the bēag again, and I still don’t know what he was after, much less why. But . . . when I asked him who killed him, he was very clear. He said it was you.”

  “He and everyone else at the hotel, apparently.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  He shrugged.

  “Sailor, remember the other day, when Maya said she saw you, or someone who looked just like you, in an herb shop in Chinatown . . . ?”

  He held my gaze but didn’t help me to finish the phrase.

  “I had the sense you weren’t being entirely forthright.”

  “Forthright?” The corner of his mouth kicked up in a slight smile.

  “All right, let’s put our cards on the table,” I said, annoyed. I’d been up all night worrying about Sailor and trying to figure out how to prove his innocence—and here he was, being Mr. Cranky Pants? “I had the sense you were . . . lying.” When he still didn’t respond, I asked: “Were you?”

  He glanced around, then leaned forward slightly. “I’ve been working on projection.”

  “I’m going to assume you don’t mean in a psychological sense, accusing others of the things you are guilty of?”

  He shook his head. “No. Actual projection. Psychic projection, which is sometimes called astral projection.”

  “What does that entail, exactly?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” He glanced at a sheriff’s deputy standing, attentive, nearby. “Essentially it means I can project my thoughts to wander elsewhere. I can pick up sensory data: I can see, hear, smell someplace even though my body’s not present.”

  “Could your thoughts go rogue and kill someone?”

  “Of course not. It’s a spirit projection. It has no impact on the world around it. It’s sort of like being a fly on the wall, but it makes even less of a physical impact than a fly would. And even if it did, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t like Dupree bothering you, and I wouldn’t have pulled a punch if he showed up at the shop again. I’m no saint, but to kill a man? I’d need a damn good reason. You seriously think I could have done this?”

  Our eyes held for a long moment. I shook my head. He seemed to relax, ever so slightly.

  I sneezed. I felt bone tired. I hadn’t slept much last night, but usually that wasn’t a problem for me. Maybe I was just getting older and finding it hard to bounce back from things like casting all night.

  “Are you okay?” Sailor asked. “You look tired.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Beautiful, of course. Have I mentioned that? But are you feeling all right?”

  His deep voice relaxed me, and I could feel his aura wrapping around me like a psychic hug. I missed him, my Sailor. Cranky pants and all. I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into his arms, have him tell me that everything was going to be all right.

  But it was up to me to find a way to make it right.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You were probably up all night trying to find a way to get me out.”

  I smiled. “You promised not to try to read my mind.”

  “I’m not. I just know you.”

  Our eyes held for a long, warm moment.

  “Sailor, why didn’t you call me when you were arrested?”

  “I tried—you weren’t at home or in the shop. I was able to get in touch with Maya because she has a cell phone. My last phone call was to a lawyer: Henry Petulengro, who’s married to a Rom cousin. He’s good. I told him you might be calling, so he can fill you in. I don’t have his number on me; you’ll have to look it up.”

  I jotted the lawyer’s name on the little pad I always kept in my bag.

  “Oh, by the way, Lucille sends her love and an offer to do anything she can to help, as does Maya. And Hervé. And Oscar, of course. So, what do we do now?”

  “I’m afraid my contributions will be limited, given my circumstances. I can try to use projection to snoop around a bit, but I have to be careful.”

  “Of what?”

  He shrugged. “If it’s not done right, the soul can get trapped in the spirit world. The body is left torpid, can’t be roused.”

  “That sounds . . . ridiculously dangerous.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “You’d better be. I’m supposed to be getting married in two weeks, and that will be decidedly more difficult if the groom’s trapped in some random spirit dimension.”

  “Not to mention in jail.”

  “That, too. It won’t happen. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sailor gazed at me with such intensity I swear his look could have started a fire.

  My mind was racing, trying to think of something else to ask him, anything that could help. I didn’t know what my next steps should be, or how to go about proving that Sailor wasn’t where the police said he
was, despite all evidence to the contrary. How could I find out who else might have had motive to kill Tristan Dupree, even though he was new to town?

  “I’m hoping Carlos and Aidan may be of some help,” I said finally.

  “I know I don’t have to remind you of this, but I’m not Aidan’s favorite person these days. Or Carlos’s, for that matter.”

  “Carlos went over your case with me last night, and for your information, he thinks it’s hinky.”

  “And this is a good thing?”

  “In this case, it’s a very good thing. He doesn’t believe you did it.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. That wasn’t the impression he gave me over the course of several hours of interrogation. I was surprised he didn’t step away from the case, actually, since we know each other.”

  “According to Carlos, his involvement isn’t prohibited as long as he’s transparent about his connection to you, and lets his supervisor know. Anyway, trust me: We want him on your case.”

  He nodded. “And Aidan?”

  I hesitated. “He might take a little more convincing. But I’ll figure it out. I have it on good authority that I can be very persuasive.”

  He gave me a long, slow smile. Our eyes held. There were no words.

  Soon enough our time was up. I didn’t want to leave.

  “Thanks for your note last night, by the way.”

  “I meant it.”

  “I feel the same. And yes, I am fully prepared to marry you, even in front of a coven of grandmas. ’Bout time I met my future in-laws.”

  I rose to leave, feeling the sting of tears at the backs of my eyes. At that moment I was glad I couldn’t cry. It would have embarrassed us both.

  “Lily.”

  I turned to face him.

  “It’s going to be all right. I have faith in you. In us. Unshakable faith. Do you believe me?”

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Finally I just swallowed, hard, and nodded. And hurried out of the visiting room.