In A Witch's Wardrobe
Page 1
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS
OF JULIET BLACKWELL
THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES
Hexes and Hemlines
“This exciting urban fantasy murder mystery… is an entertaining paranormal whodunit… . Her familiar, Oscar, half goblin-gargoyle, becomes a cute potbellied pig who adds jocularity to the fast-paced story line as part of the quirky cast (benign, kind, and evil) that helps make this spellbinding tale a fun read.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Hexes and Hemlines carries you along with an unconventional cast where nothing is out of bounds. Extraordinarily entertaining.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Blending a mystery with all things paranormal and her customary light humor, this title doesn’t disappoint. Strong writing, a solid plot, and a spunky, likable heroine add up to this cleverly written, top-notch cozy mystery.”
—Romantic Times
“This is a fun and totally engrossing series that hooks you instantly and makes you want more… . I love the mix of vintage clothes, magic, and a lingering possibility of romance combined with mystery.”
—Fang-tastic Books
“Juliet Blackwell has created a series that will appeal to mystery fans as well as paranormal enthusiasts.”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
A Cast-Off Coven
“If you like your mysteries with a side of spell-casting and demon-vanquishing, you’ll enjoy the second title in Blackwell’s Witchcraft mysteries.”
—Romantic Times
continued…
“This awesome paranormal mystery stars a terrific heroine.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
Secondhand Spirits
“Juliet Blackwell provides a terrific urban fantasy with the opening of the Witchcraft mystery series.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor, creating a cozy that is a must read for anyone with an interest in literature with paranormal elements.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”
THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERIES
—The Herald News (MA)
Dead Bolt
“Cozy fans will want to see a lot more of the endearing Mel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Cleverly plotted with a terrific sense of the history of the greater Bay Area, Blackwell’s series has plenty of ghosts and supernatural happenings to keep readers entertained and off-balance.”
—Library Journal
If Walls Could Talk
“A riveting tale with a twisting plot, likable characters, and an ending that will make you shudder with how easily something small can get totally out of hand. Juliet Blackwell’s writing is able to mix paranormal experiences with everyday life. [It] leaves you wondering what you just saw out of the corner of your eye… a good solid read.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Ms. Blackwell’s offbeat, humorous book is a fun, light read… . Mel makes a likable heroine… . Overall, a terrific blend of suspense and laughter with a dash of the paranormal thrown in makes this a great read.”
—TwoLips Reviews
“Kudos and high-fives to Ms. Blackwell for creating a new set of characters for readers to hang around with as well as a new twist on the ghostly paranormal mystery niche. I can’t wait to see what otherworldly stories Juliet has in mind for us next!”
—Once Upon a Romance
“A wonderful new series… . There’s enough excitement to keep you reading until late in the night.”
—Fresh Fiction
THE ART LOVER’S MYSTERIES
BY JULIET BLACKWELL
WRITING AS HAILEY LIND
Brush with Death
“Lind deftly combines a smart and witty sleuth with entertaining characters who are all engaged in a fascinating new adventure.”
—Romantic Times
Shooting Gallery
“If you enjoy Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum books, Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy series, or Iain Pears’s art history mysteries… then you will enjoy Shooting Gallery.”
—Gumshoe
“An artfully crafted new mystery series!”
—Tim Myers, Agatha Award–nominated author of Key to Murder
“The art world is murder in this witty and entertaining mystery!”
—Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of Murder by Mocha
Feint of Art
“Annie Kincaid is a wonderful cozy heroine… . It’s a rollicking good read.”
—Mystery News
Also by Juliet Blackwell
WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES
Secondhand Spirits
A Cast-off Coven
Hexes and Hemlines
HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERIES
If Walls Could Talk
Dead Bolt
IN A WITCH’S WARDROBE
A
Witchcraft
Mystery
Juliet Blackwell
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58715-7
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
To Sergio,
the brightest star in my galaxy.
Thank you for bringing such precious light into my life.
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due, as always, to my editor, Kerry Donovan, and all the artists, copy editors, publicists, and typesetters at Penguin for all their hard work.
Special thanks are due to Luci Zahray, affectionately known as “the Poison Lady,” for her advice and suggestions about henbane and other poisonous plants. I’ve made a note never to get on your bad si
de! And to Victoria Laurie, for her friendship, support, and warm invitation into the supernatural writers’ club. To the Pensfatales, each and every one of you. Thank you for being there to celebrate, as well as commiserate. And I’m so glad we now have the naughty and delightful Nicole Peeler in our midst!
To Carolyn Lawes, JC Johnson, Sharon Demetrius, and Suzanne Chan for reading early drafts and providing helpful insights, ideas, and constructive criticisms. As always, thanks to my father, who is a constant source of support in my life and never fails to urge me to “be good and work hard,” and to my sister, Susan, for her unflagging encouragement. And to Mom, whom I miss so much.
To my wonderful, close circle of friends, who put up with the constant deadlines and angst and whining—and occasional euphoria—common to those of us who write. I am more grateful than I can say to each and every one of you. My life would be so poor without the riches of friendship.
And finally, to Oscar. Thanks for the laughs, little guy.
There be none of Beauty’s daughter
With a magic like thee.
—LORD BYRON
Contents
Praise
Also By Juliet Blackwell
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Excerpt
About the Author
Chapter 1
Not being a necromancer, I can’t see ghosts. Normally.
But tonight felt like a different story. The brightly lit streets of downtown Oakland were host to a sea of women wearing beaded flapper dresses, glamorous 1930s-era gowns, and vibrant swing costumes. Men clad in tuxedos with tails, white bow ties, and shiny black shoes accompanied the feathered and spangled partygoers.
A black Model T Ford, polished and gleaming, glided to a stop in front of the magnificent Paramount Theater, and the couple that emerged could have stepped right out of the pages of The Great Gatsby.
Sprinkled among these apparent spirits-from-another-time was a handful of witches.
“The top hat is all wrong,” murmured one such witch, Aidan Rhodes. His blue-eyed gaze flickered over the formally attired man who opened the theater door and welcomed us to the Art Deco Ball.
“Top hats are elegant,” I replied. “They’re never not right.”
“But it’s not authentic. Top hats were already out of style by the twenties. And, my dear Lily, you of all people should know: The devil’s in the details.”
“I hope you don’t mean that litera—”
I stumbled, shoved from behind. Aidan’s strong arms caught me before I toppled off my unfamiliar high heels and plunged down a short flight of stone steps.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” exclaimed a young woman as she steadied herself. “It’s these dang shoes!”
“Miriam, you okay?” asked her gray-haired escort, wrapping a beefy arm around her shoulders.
“Fine. Just clumsy. I’m more of a barefoot gal.”
The woman named Miriam had hazel eyes that echoed the sea-foam shade of her dress, and her honey-colored hair was covered by a glittery beaded cap. Unlike many of tonight’s guests, who had clearly modified or sewn their dresses, this young woman’s gauzy number was authentic. A diaphanous flapper dress, it was beaded and fishtailed and hung loose on her creamy white shoulders. My vintage-clothes-dealer sensibilities kicked into high gear, leaving me wondering where she had found such an incredible gown in mint condition.
“I know the feeling,” I commiserated. “No harm done. Your dress is exquisite.”
“Why, thank you! Yours too.” When she smiled, I noticed her expression was warm yet strangely… vacant. Off-kilter. Though undeniably pretty, her face appeared flushed but pinched, as though she were feverish.
And from the vibrations she gave off I could sense… something was wrong.
Wrong and yet familiar to me. One of my magical skills was the ability to sense vibrations from clothes and sometimes from people. But I was certain I hadn’t sold her the flapper dress she was wearing. I would have remembered obtaining such an exquisite antique gown for my shop.
At the moment the young woman stumbled into me I had been distracted by Aidan’s touch—which had, as usual, sent an annoying yet intriguing zing through me. So I couldn’t tell whether the disturbing vibrations emanated from Miriam’s garment or from the woman herself. I’d have to find a reason to touch her again.
As she turned to continue up the steps, I reached toward her bare shoulder.
“Leave it,” Aidan whispered, resting a white-gloved hand on my arm. “It’s not that kind of night.”
I hesitated, and the young woman and her escort disappeared into the crowd.
“I suppose you wouldn’t offer to help until you’d run a credit check on her,” I said, miffed at his interference.
Aidan sold his magical services. Many talented witches did. We’re human; we need to eat and pay rent just like everyone else. Still, the practice galled me. It seemed so crass to cash in on our special abilities. Which was one of the many reasons I had opened Aunt Cora’s Closet, my vintage clothes store, where I earn a legitimate living the old-fashioned way—just like every non-witchy merchant in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood.
Usually, anyway. Vintage clothing is a cutthroat business, and I might, from time to time, utilize my witchy wiles to gain an ever so slight edge. But I kept it to a minimum. It seemed only sporting.
Aidan, unfazed by my criticism, smiled and led me into the grand lobby of Oakland’s Paramount Theater.
I paused, taking it all in. The 1920s Art Deco extravaganza was the ideal locale for the annual Art Deco Preservation Ball. A massive carved glass “Fountain of Light,” over thirty feet tall, dominated the entrance, casting a rich amber glow throughout the room. Overhead a vitreous green panel was bordered by labyrinthine fretwork and diamond-shaped gold patterns.
A sight more interesting than your average multiplex.
In one corner a man with slicked-back hair stood near a grand piano, singing a lilting tune from the twenties. And the crowd was, to a person, dressed to the nines in outfits from the heyday of the Art Deco movement.
It didn’t take a wild imagination to feel as though we had just stepped into a ghostly reenactment of a high-society soiree from days gone by.
“Do me a favor?” Aidan asked.
“Hmm. That depends… .” With a powerful witch like Aidan, an offhand promise could lead to something one didn’t intend: a lifetime of servitude, for example. It paid to be cautious.
“Relax and enjoy yourself tonight? As a woman, not as a witch.”
I laughed. “The woman part I’ve got down. It’s the dancing bit that’s making me jittery.”
“Surely you’ve been to a formal dance before. What about your senior prom?”
“Closest I came was a hootenanny when I was eight.” That was before the good people in my Texas hometown decided to shun me.
Aidan raised one eyebrow. “Is that right? Well, then, this is a special occasion. Chin up, my dear. You’re making an entrance.”
“I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.”
“You shouldn’t be. You’re stunning,” he whispered. “Just look at yourself.”
I scoffed but glanced at my reflection in the mi
rrored wall.
Land sakes. I did look nice. I often tell my customers that when their clothes change, they change. No reason this transformation wouldn’t apply to me.
I had chosen the dress carefully… or perhaps it had chosen me. I had been planning to wear a peacock blue cocktail gown from the 1930s when I received a call from an elderly woman who had two generations’ worth of fine, formal garments in her crammed walk-in closet that she wished to sell. The moment I picked up the tea-stained silk chiffon, I fell in love. The fabric was embossed with beads and flat gold leaf sequins in a twisting vine pattern. Simple spaghetti straps led to a deep V neck, and the bottom was trimmed in a sassy beaded ruffle. Two handmade silk roses sat on the drop waist along with a velvet sash.
Best of all, the vibrations from the dress gave me courage. The gown had been altered so it fit me perfectly: loose, as a flapper dress should, but accentuating my figure. The fine fabrics brushed against my legs as I moved, making me aware of my skin.
Bronwyn and Maya, my friends and coworkers, had tortured my straight hair into a wavy Marcel style, then gathered it into a chignon at the nape of my neck and decorated it with a glittery beaded hairnet. My lipstick was a brilliant red, and I wore matte makeup, eyeliner, and a bit of powder.
My only complaint was the shoes. Bronwyn and Maya had nixed my usual comfy footwear, insisting the shoes be appropriate to the event. Thus tonight I wore reproduction heels that looked great but made me miss my Keds with each uncomfortable step.
Still, the reflection in the mirror showed the effort had been worth it. I fit in here, with these other would-be spirits from the roaring twenties, the elegant thirties, and the swinging forties…
Until I saw something else in the mirror.
A frisson of… something passed over me. I’m not a sensitive and have no special gift of sight. Even my premonitions are vague and generally useless, arriving as they do mere seconds before they come true.