He nodded and dropped several sugar cubes into his cup of tea.
“I just love the little sugar bowl,” I said.
“Do you? I couldn’t find the silver one, so I just used this. Bart has a million of these things.”
“Family stuff,” said Bart. He shook a finger in Hannah’s direction. “It’ll all be yours one day if you play your cards right. Yours and your sister, Nina’s.”
“Thanks, Uncle Bart,” said Hannah. “But as you know, I have other interests.”
Bart snorted loudly. “You call those snakes an ‘interest’? How are you gonna find yourself a husband hanging out with snakes all day?”
“I work at the East Bay Vivarium, in Berkeley,” explained Hannah.
“Vivarium?” asked Maya.
“It’s a reptile store.”
“You sell snakes?”
“And lizards and frogs and turtles. And some really cool spiders. Creepies, crawlies, and critters, we like to say. And in answer to your question, Bart, just who do you think hangs out at a reptile shop? I guarantee you, other than the mothers dragged in by their curious children, I’m usually the only woman in the store.”
“You’d be better off studying your family’s history,” insisted Bart.
“You want to pay me to be the family historian, okay. Otherwise, I’ll keep my job, thanks. I happen to love snakes, and I’m not going to apologize for that.”
“You go, girl,” said Maya.
“Thank you,” said Hannah with a smile. “A fellow snake enthusiast?”
“Noooo,” said Maya with a firm shake of her head. “Can’t stand them, actually. But I admire people who go after what they want.”
“Fair enough. Anyway, Will doesn’t seem to be put off by it at all.”
Bart grunted in reply and loudly blew on his hot cup.
Ten minutes later, we finished our tea, agreed on a fair price for the clothes based on Maya’s estimate, and hauled two big black plastic bags of clothing out of the apartment. Maya carried one, Sailor the other, while I got off easy with nothing but the vintage sugar bowl Hannah insisted I keep.
We were saying our good-byes at the door when something else occurred to me.
“Bart . . . you mentioned you didn’t sleep well?”
“I sleep, but I have terrible dreams. They wake me up. . . . It’s the ancient curse; I’m sure of it.”
“Oh, Uncle Bart . . .” Hannah sighed.
“But you said you slept well last night?” I asked.
“Yes.” For the first time since we’d arrived I saw a small smile on his face. “I’ve been plagued with bad dreams for years. But last night, I finally had a good night’s sleep. It does wonders for a person.”
I was willing to bet that last night was the first night in years he’d been without his family’s historic trunk. And without that velvet cape.
Chapter 7
Sailor, Maya, and I said our good-byes and lugged our new acquisitions into the elevator and out to the van.
Sailor climbed into the back, leaving Maya to ride shotgun. I fired up the engine and started across town, debating how much to share with Maya. Both Bronwyn and Maya, the “normal” friends I felt closest to, knew and accepted that I was a little . . . different. But unlike Bronwyn, Maya hadn’t expressed much interest in learning more about my witchy ways.
“What’s all this about an ancient curse?” Maya asked after a few moments.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said lightly, waiting for her to give me a cue that she wanted to know more. “A lot of people who experience bad luck blame it on a curse. No big deal.”
“Think so?” she said, clearly skeptical. She glanced back at Sailor, who lifted one eyebrow in a signature sardonic move.
I watched him in the rearview mirror and felt a small pique of envy; I wished I could get away with a move like that.
“Then why do I have the feeling you will soon be running around town searching for a way to break the curse and in the process encountering all manner of individuals of a sinister nature?” Maya continued.
I heard a faint snort from the back of the van.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “I have no intention of doing any such thing. I have quite enough on my plate as it is, thank you very much.”
Maya and Sailor burst into laughter.
“She’s cute when she fibs,” Maya said to Sailor.
“She’s always cute,” Sailor replied.
I glared at both of them.
When I pulled up in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet, Conrad was still sitting at his usual spot on the curb. He helped us carry the bags into the store.
Sailor drew me aside. “Why don’t I go check out the tree, see if I feel something?”
“Please don’t,” I said with a shake of my head. “The police may still be there, and even if they aren’t . . . I know it takes a lot out of you.”
I didn’t add “lately,” though we were both thinking it.
“This is driving me crazy.” Sailor blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m meeting a few old friends later. One of them will know something. One of them always knows something.”
“Sure you want to do that?” I asked, knowing how much Sailor hated to ask others for favors. A loner by nature and circumstance, he had no true friends other than me, just professional colleagues. I didn’t know much about his world—Sailor wasn’t the only one with loner tendencies—but did know that the circles he moved in kept close tabs on favors owed and received. Repaying a debt was not optional, though one rarely had a voice in just how that debt was to be repaid.
“Yes, but I hate to leave you alone,” he said.
I smiled. “I’ll be fine. There’s more than enough new inventory to keep me occupied. Between the washing, pressing, and pricing, I’ll be too busy to get into trouble.”
Sailor snorted but said with a smile: “Yeah, right.”
“And then I’m going to look through that ledger some more and try to figure out what Bart knew, if anything, and then . . . I’m not sure.”
“Maybe you should reread The Crucible. Just think, it might turn up on the GED. Speaking of which, aren’t you supposed to take that on Saturday? Want me to go with you?”
“Why is everyone so eager to escort me to the GED?” I asked, annoyed. “I’m perfectly capable of getting to a simple exam all by my lonesome.”
“Just don’t get distracted by another yard sale. Ciao, bella.”
He gave me a brief kiss, climbed on his motorcycle, and roared off. I decided to head over to Booksmith a few blocks away. There I found a gently used copy of The Crucible—complete with yellow highlighting and what appeared to be insightful, handwritten comments in the margins. Thank you, lit major, whoever you are, I thought.
I flipped through the book as I walked slowly back to Aunt Cora’s Closet, hoping it might throw some light on the situation I was facing. If the velvet cape dated from when Bart’s family lived in a Puritan settlement, it could explain the unsettling images I had seen when I put it on. But I still didn’t have any idea how it might be connected to a malevolent oak tree, much less to Sebastian’s violent death.
If things were quiet when I got back, I would let Maya and Bronwyn handle things while I slipped upstairs to try on the cape again. Maybe this time, knowing what to expect and surrounded by peace and calm, I would be able to understand the voices that swirled around me. I picked up my pace, eager to get started.
But just as I approached the store, a small tour bus pulled up in front. The bus door swung open and a steady stream of tourists poured out, eager to check out San Francisco’s famous “Haight-Ashbury.” Snapping pictures and chatting excitedly, a large throng of women went into Aunt Cora’s Closet.
Looked like communing with the cape would have to
wait.
By the time I walked through the door, dozens of women were flipping through racks of clothing and pulling items off shelves. Maya and Bronwyn scurried about, showing some into changing rooms, helping others find just the right piece of jewelry to accessorize a blouse. It was a scene of cheerful bedlam, and I immediately waded into the fray.
“Where y’all from?” I asked a woman who was inspecting an eyelet sundress from the 1970s.
“Honey, we’re from all over,” she replied. “Louise and Rose are from Kansas City, Becky is from Fresno, and Lisa is from Redding. Jenny and I are from Salem.”
“Salem?” I asked, wondering if this was yet another coincidence. How often could the Salem witch trials come up in one day? “You came all the way from Massachusetts?”
“Salem, Oregon. Not the wicked witch Salem,” she clarified. “This dress isn’t going to fit me, is it?”
“Sorry to say, this style is not very forgiving,” I replied in my most diplomatic tone, feeling relieved that these customers, at least, were not from “wicked witch” Salem. “If it’s even just the slightest bit too small, it will be terribly uncomfortable. Have you considered something more like this?” I held up a loose-fitting shift in a gorgeous paisley print.
For the next hour or so, the tourists kept Bronwyn, Maya, and me on our toes. Instead of contemplating an enchanted cape in peaceful solitude, I was caught up in a flurry of consulting with customers, helping size garments, and ringing up sales. Oscar was, once again, a huge hit, and I kept having to shoo him away from the changing rooms. There was no denying it: He was a bit of a peeping pig.
Clutching dozens of recycled Aunt Cora’s Closet bags filled with their purchases, the tourists finally climbed back onto their bus, and Bronwyn, Maya, and I took a well-deserved break.
“I’ve never sold quite so much quite so quickly,” Maya said, propping her feet on the counter. “I think we broke some kind of record.”
“I must have sold five hundred dollars’ worth of herbal salves and lotions,” Bronwyn said happily. “I feel like I owe somebody a commission or something. Who were those women?”
“They were from a tour company,” I said. “I should look into that.”
“At least send the tour company owner a muffin basket,” Bronwyn suggested.
“Wouldn’t that be considered a kickback?” Maya asked. For all her offbeat ways, Maya had a strong law-and-order streak.
“Kickbacks are illegal. Muffins are just yummy,” Bronwyn explained. “Hey, did you know carrot cake is technically a muffin?”
“I did not know that,” Maya said. “For some reason, that makes me very happy.”
We were silent for a few minutes, enjoying the peace.
“Time for a bit of housekeeping,” Bronwyn sighed, getting to her feet. “Have you seen the mess in the changing rooms?”
“Count me in,” Maya said. “Lily, I think we have some space to put out more stock. Those women made quite a dent.”
“Good point. I’ll start pricing new items.” I said, realizing that once again, I would have to put off communing with the cape.
Pricing merchandise wasn’t the sort of task I could delegate to Maya or Bronwyn. It was a never-ending job that was equal parts fact-checking (how much had I paid for it?), research (how much was it worth on the open market?), and judgment call (how much would my customers pay for it?). Usually I approached pricing analytically because I was, after all, running a business and needed to make a profit so I could pay my bills. At times, though, I went with my gut, pricing a high-value item below market because I just didn’t like it that much and wanted to get rid of it, or pricing a lower-value item above market because I loved it and wanted the person who bought it to appreciate it.
Once I’d determined a price, I entered it into the computer system and wrote up a tag. The tags were dated so we’d know when stock had been around a while and if it needed to be marked down. Finally, the tag had to attach to the garment in a way that wouldn’t hurt the fabric, which was especially tricky with silks and satins. Fragile pieces required special care: I threaded the price tag onto a ribbon and hung it around the hanger.
“This coming Saturday is the GED, isn’t it?” said Bronwyn casually as she swept up some potpourri that a customer had knocked off a shelf.
“Yup.” I hoped my monosyllabic response would convey that I didn’t want to engage in this conversation.
“Need a ride?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? You missed it last time. . . .”
“That was due to an unavoidable time conflict.”
“Yes, it was crucial that you made it to that estate sale,” Bronwyn said dryly. “Because yard sales are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.”
“I’m a vintage clothing dealer. If I’m not Johnny-on-the-spot, I lose my chance to buy something.”
I heard Maya snort as Bronwyn gazed pointedly at the numerous bags of clothes we’d recently acquired that had yet to be sorted, washed, and priced.
“Okay, okay,” I conceded. “Maybe I should slow down on the acquisitions, at least until we clear out the backlog.”
“And the exam?” Bronwyn asked.
“You’re a persistent one, aren’t you?” I groused.
“That’s one of the reasons you love me,” she replied.
I surrendered. “One of the many reasons. I promise I won’t duck out on the exam this Saturday in favor of an estate sale.”
“Or in favor of anything else,” Maya clarified.
“You two!” I exclaimed. “Yes, all right, fine. I promise.”
“Need help boning up on anything?” Bronwyn asked.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay. Great, then.”
I turned back to my work, and Maya and Bronwyn continued tidying up the shop floor.
“I’m a reasonably intelligent woman, you know,” I said, now unable to let it go.
“Indeed you are,” Bronwyn said.
“I’ve read through the reading lists Maya gave me. I’m rereading The Crucible right now, as a matter of fact. And I’ve traveled extensively.”
“More than most people even,” Maya agreed.
“Surely I can pass a test aimed at the average high schooler,” I said. “Who, if I may be so bold, is nowhere near as well read or as well traveled as I.”
“Nowhere near!” gushed Bronwyn as she removed a magenta satin swirl skirt from the classic T-shirt rack and hung it back among the skirts.
“So I should do just fine.”
“Just fine,” said Maya. “Except for the algebra.”
Just then Susan Rogers breezed in. Susan is a journalist who writes for the Living section of the San Francisco Chronicle. We met not long after my shop opened. After spending a day at the store shopping for vintage gowns with her niece’s wedding party, Susan wrote a glowing feature article praising Aunt Cora’s Closet. Oscar had even gotten his picture in the paper, which he somehow matted and framed and hung on the wall behind the register.
“What’s this I hear about algebra?” Susan asked after greeting us all.
“I think I might have dyscalculia,” I said with a sigh.
“I had that once. A simple course of antibiotics and it cleared right up. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
I laughed. “No, no. ‘Dyscalculia’ is a condition wherein a person has problems understanding numbers. It’s like dyslexia, but with numbers instead of letters.”
“Clearly the verbal section will be no problem for our Lily,” said Bronwyn with a proud smile. “But sorry, Lily: I don’t buy the learning disability. You have no problem calculating prices,” she said with a nod at the clothing I was tagging. “Or completing tax forms and doing the payroll.”
Of course Bronwyn was right. I didn’t like dealing with the bureaucracy that comes with owning a business�
�who did?—but I didn’t find it challenging, just boring.
I was okay at geometry, because visualizing is second nature for me. But algebra was another story. All those X’s and Y’s floated around in my mind like so many helium-filled balloons; there was no context, no anchor. Algebra reminded me of looking into my crystal ball—not only did I not see anything, but I was afraid I wouldn’t know what I was looking at even if I did see something. It didn’t mean anything to me.
“I’m doomed,” I whined. “Why do I even need a diploma? I wish I’d never started this stupid quest.” I put my head on my arms on the counter and groaned. “It’s all y’all’s fault. I was fine before.”
One ill-fated lunch a couple of months ago, Bronwyn and Susan had discovered that I’d never finished high school. They’d been surprised and encouraged me to get my GED. Maya had been coaching me in literature and social studies, which I quite enjoyed—it was a revelation to catch up on what I had missed while practicing conjuring spirits, learning the proper method of melting dragon’s blood resin, and memorizing the Calendar of Revelry.
Math proved to be an entirely different beast.
Bronwyn’s nine-year-old granddaughter, a math whiz, had been tutoring me in the algebra she found so simple. Imogen was a good, patient teacher, but I was a hard nut to crack. It was humiliating.
Bronwyn came over and started rubbing my back. “There, there. Don’t fret. Think of the young people! You’re setting a sterling example. Lily Ivory doesn’t quit. When the going gets tough, she gets going!”
I lifted my head enough to give her the stink-eye. “Did you read that on a Marine recruiting poster?”
“In a locker room, actually. The boys’ locker room.” With a wink and a pat, she returned to the shop floor to help two new customers find unlikely, but charming, mixes and matches.
“How about y’all give me a proper send-off, come to breakfast on Saturday, the morning of the test? I think I might need some cheerleading. I’ll cook.”
“I’m game,” said Maya.
“Me too!” said Bronwyn. “Especially if you make your famous French toast.”
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 8