A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Lance? You don’t think he’s the one who chased you, do you? Lance wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s been here forever, I think. He’s odd, I know, but he’s really great with amphibians.”

  * * *

  I dragged myself home, feeling defeated. More than that. The attacker had knocked me off-balance, made me doubt my ability to take care of myself, thereby stealing my peace of mind. I needed to salve myself, to rejuvenate.

  I mounted the stairs to my dark, quiet apartment. No Oscar. The feeling of tears stung the back of my eyes. How I wished I could cry and release some of this pent-up emotion.

  “Where the hell have you been?” came a voice in the dark.

  “Sailor! Hell’s bells, you scared the living daylights out of me!”

  He flicked on the overhead light. “Where were you? What happened?”

  Sailor’s eyes lowered to my neck. He reached out, and his hand hovered over the scratches and bruises that were starting to form. He frowned.

  “I could feel you were in trouble, but I couldn’t find you. I tracked you to the hospital, but lost your trail. Maya and Bronwyn told me you left the hospital when they did.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “I was so desperate I even went to Aidan to ask for help. And you know how crazy that makes me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Where were you? Who hurt you?”

  I took a shaky breath. “I don’t know who, but it’s been a heck of a night. I went back to the Cal Academy to ask someone who worked there about Lance. Nina and I were in the basement, but she went to talk to the director and the lights went out and I was alone and . . . and this happened. I stabbed him, though.”

  “You killed him?”

  “You really are bloodthirsty; you know that?” I tried to smile. He didn’t respond.

  “If you didn’t, I’ll take care of it. Who was it?”

  “It’s not as though I don’t appreciate the macho posturing, Sailor, but I don’t actually know who it was. If I did, my first call would have been to the SFPD, not to you. I’m crazy and law-abiding like that.”

  “I wouldn’t exaggerate your law-abidingness if I were you.”

  “In any case, I don’t know who it was. I was able to escape. . . . They had me from behind and I cut his arm—or her arm. . . .”

  “You don’t even know if the attacker was male or female?”

  I shook my head, then swayed on my feet.

  “How could you do something so dangerous without me?”

  “I didn’t really think about it that much. I guess I’m used to doing things on my own.”

  “And where did it get you?”

  “I’m not about to start asking your permission, Sailor.”

  “It’s not about asking permission. It’s about being smart, keeping yourself safe, and most importantly, letting the man in your life know what’s going on.”

  “I guess you’re right. I didn’t really stop to think. I considered calling you, but then since I was going back to the museum where they were having a party and just speaking with Nina—I never thought it would go wrong. I was just trying to . . . to figure this all out. And to find Oscar.”

  There was a pause, and I felt something I hadn’t for quite some time: Sailor was trying to read my thoughts. He’d never been able to, but maybe he thought our relationship would change that. I sincerely hoped not. I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone that much in my head. Even Sailor. Especially Sailor.

  “What’s the real reason you didn’t call me?” he asked.

  I swallowed hard and confessed. “Sometimes . . . when I’m around you, it’s hard for me to be sensitive to other people’s vibrations. To sense anything much, as a matter of fact. You fill up my senses.”

  “I think there’s an old song about that,” he said in a very quiet voice.

  Sailor moved into the kitchen, took the bottle of tequila off the shelf, and poured us both shots. I cut open a lime; the tangy aroma wafted and hung in the already spice-laden air of the kitchen. Oscar’s continued absence combined with the comfort of my things, this space, to bring the horror of what had happened—or almost happened—home to me.

  So I let myself collapse against Sailor’s broad chest. After a brief hesitation, he wrapped his arms around me, cocooning me in his warmth. He stroked my hair with his rough hand, kissing the top of my head as his other arm squeezed me tight.

  “Do you have any idea how it feels to know the woman I love is in danger,” he rasped, his voice rough with emotion, “but not be able to get to her?”

  “I’m sorry. This whole relationship thing, learning to rely on someone else and ask for help . . . it’s new to me.”

  “You think this is new for you? I’ve got news for you: You’re in this with the champ. We’ve both got a lot to learn.”

  I nodded, my nose still pressed up against his shirt. I couldn’t get enough of his scent, his warmth, his aura.

  “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “Could we just . . .” I didn’t want to relive any of it right at the moment, or think about Oscar, or worry about Conrad. I felt overwhelmed and depleted of inner resources. Right now, there was only one thing I wanted. “I know this is boring of me . . . but could we just go to sleep?”

  * * *

  “My aunt Renna told me there are legends about that tree. It’s hosted death at its roots before, but she doesn’t know why,” said Sailor the next day after breakfast. “She also didn’t say much about Crowley’s murder, other than that he had a lot of enemies. She agreed to ask around, but I think my time would be better spent checking out this Lance character.”

  I had told Sailor what happened while lying in the cocoon of his arms in my comfy brass bed. It seemed unreal to talk about it there, in such a safe and comforting context. We agreed I wouldn’t meet folks without backup anymore, though truth to tell, I was glad I hadn’t exposed any of my friends to danger. But I took his point.

  “Lance? Good idea.” I said. “Just . . . don’t do anything violent.”

  “You think I’m the type to be violent?”

  I chose my words carefully. “I think that if you think Lance is the one who hurt me, who may have been trying to do worse, yes, you might be moved to violence. Just as I might be moved to some crazy witchcraft when my friends are threatened.”

  Our eyes held for a long moment and he let out a long breath. “Okay, I’ll try to keep a lid on things.”

  “Thank you. I’ve got a whole lot going on, and having to get you out of jail would short-circuit my already overloaded senses.”

  He gave me a crooked grin. “Nah, you’d just call your buddy Carlos and have me released.”

  “I think I’ve used up that marker already, getting myself out of custody.”

  We shared a smile, and I saw him out of the store, then opened the shop as usual. Unfortunately, since Oscar’s disappearance, it wasn’t business as usual anymore. Instead, within an hour of opening, it had once again become Lost Piggy Central. I tried to keep a lid on my impatience; I was so grateful for everyone’s support, but it nearly drove me clear ’round the bend, knowing that none of it would do any good.

  I pined desperately for Oscar, but I also longed to have normality restored, especially after the events of last night. I still wasn’t able to wrap my mind around that nightmarish chase through the basement of the Academy of Sciences.

  A few hapless folks wandered into Aunt Cora’s Closet looking for clothes, but between Maya’s extended family, Bronwyn’s coven sisters, and Conrad’s gutterpunk friends—all looking for Oscar—it was a chaotic scene. There were people staffing the tables and handing out flyers, food piled on the side table, and Maya answering the incessant ringing of the phone with people calling to report mostly erroneous pig sightings.

  I took advantage of a brief lull in p
hone calls to try the hospital and was able to speak with Conrad; he was feeling better, but had to stay another day to be sure all the poison had passed from his system and wouldn’t cause secondary effects.

  “Dudette, I have to tell you . . . I had the craziest dreams while I was under the influence. They reminded me of a book. You ever read that play about what happened in Salem, Massachusetts?”

  The back of my neck tingled. I just happened to have a copy of it next to my bed. “The Crucible, by Arthur Miller?”

  “Yes! About the witch hunts, right? And it was like an allegory for McCarthyism? And then Miller was cast with suspicion himself, which was pretty ironic. But, you know, at least he got to marry Marilyn Monroe.”

  Conrad never ceased to amaze me. “When did you read The Crucible?”

  “Back in eighth grade, I think. But now I find books all kinds of places. Usually paperback romances, but whatever. The Con reads what the Con reads. I’ve got a good mystery right now; one of my friends brought it to me so I could read in bed.”

  I made a mental note to bring some books down to the shop to share with Conrad and his friends.

  “So, anyway, when I was high or poisoned or whatever,” continued Conrad, “I felt like I was there, in that play. In Salem, during the witch hunts. Dude. Not a nice place to hang out.”

  Indeed. Not a coincidence, either, I was sure.

  Before signing off, a nurse came on the line and said Conrad’s many sisters and brothers and cousins had been crowding his room and urged me to ask folks to drop by only a few at a time. I promised to see what I could do, but privately I was willing to bet that all those “relatives” were kin of the fictive variety.

  “Good morning, Lily,” said Bart Woolsey as he walked into the shop.

  “Good morning. Are you . . . ?” I trailed off. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t made much progress in what we talked about.”

  That was a bit of an understatement. I hadn’t made any progress. Frankly, finding the remedy for Bart’s love curse hadn’t been at the top of my to-do list. But then again, perhaps it should be. If it was truly cast by Deliverance Corydon, perhaps breaking the curse could help me figure out the rest of the puzzle.

  “Oh, I understand. I know these things take time. Good morning Duke, Maya . . . Sierra.”

  I followed his gaze. It didn’t take a genius to see why Bart had returned this morning: Curse or no curse, he had his eye on one of Bronwyn’s coven sisters, who called herself Sierra Sempervirens. Sierra was a plump, strong-looking woman in her midsixties, with a ready smile, warm brown eyes, and a can-do attitude. I decided Bart showed good taste.

  I asked Maya to help me print the e-mail from Inspector Romero. True to his word, he had sent photos of the wood scraps that had once been a box, some of which still showed carved symbols. Plus, he had scanned in the page of Sebastian’s ledger that referred to the trunk.

  I stared at the printouts for several moments, but the sad truth was that they couldn’t tell me anything more than I already knew.

  One of Conrad’s friends was taking part in the Oscar search while also continuing to collect signatures for a reprieve for Ms. Quercus. She was an unkempt young woman with tangled red hair and incongruously beautiful straight, white teeth—showing obvious orthodontia. Last night, during the ride in the ambulance, I realized I had no idea if Conrad had family, and if so, how to contact them. How could I know so little about someone I cared about? Friendship fail.

  I asked her if she knew anything about all of Conrad’s visitors in the hospital.

  “We’re his family,” she said as she handed the clipboard to Bart for his signature. “We gutterpunks are all the family Conrad’s got.”

  “A rotten tree is a danger to the community,” Bart said to the young woman, handing her back the clipboard.

  “But it still provides a home—”

  “A ‘home’ to whom?” Bart interrupted. There was no vagueness to him now as he fixed the young woman with a stare.

  She took a step back. “Not to, uh, ‘whom,’ but to birds and squirrels and . . . never mind. Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. I’m gonna move along now. . . . ’Bye, everybody.”

  After she left, Bart looked a bit chagrined. “I didn’t mean to chase her out. It’s just . . .”

  “No worries,” said Sierra, passing a plate of blueberry muffins to Bart. He took one with a nod of thanks. “The young people have their minds set on saving that tree, as though there aren’t hundreds of others in the park that could use some looking after. There’s no particular logic to it, but it gives them something to work toward.”

  Bart just nodded and ate his muffin in silence. His occasional flashes of temper, followed by sullenness, weren’t going to go very far in helping Bart find romance, I thought to myself. But then, perhaps true love would see beyond the obvious.

  “Oh my Lord,” said Susan Rogers as she burst through the door. “I just heard the news! That darling little oinker is lost? How could that be?”

  “Oh, Susan, it’s awful!” Bronwyn responded in kind. “Can you even imagine such a thing?”

  Several of the other women joined in, with much clucking and tsking and shaking of heads.

  “What happened?” asked one apparently well-meaning woman who had actually come into Aunt Cora’s Closet in search of clothing, not a pig. She got an earful about Oscar before I could intervene.

  “May I help you find something?” I asked.

  “I hope so. My son’s graduating from college—he had to go to summer school, so he’s a little late, but that’s not the point. . . .” She let out a loud breath. “Even though I’ve moved on, I want my ex-husband to . . . um . . .”

  “See how great you’re doing?” ventured Bronwyn.

  “Eat off his own arm in a jealous rage?” suggested Maya.

  The woman laughed. “Exactly. I can’t afford anything special new, so I was thinking maybe vintage . . . ?”

  “You’ve come to just the place!” Susan jumped in before any of us actual staff had a chance to respond. “Now, let’s see. . . . You look about my size, maybe a little more voluptuous. You simply must play up that impressive cleavage—or is that inappropriate for a son’s graduation? Depends on what he’s graduating from, I suppose. . . . Have you seen the designer dresses over on the rack in front of the window? You know, Calvin Klein dresses don’t look like much on the hanger, but you should try them on. Oh, here, let me show you!” She tucked her hand under the woman’s arm and started to lead her around the store, as on a tour.

  Bronwyn, Maya, and I exchanged amused glances.

  It was typical of Susan to step in and help a customer, but she wasn’t the only one who felt the impulse. Several of the coven sisters did the same when they were in the store, and it wasn’t unusual to see customers helping one another find just the right belt or a hat that would finish off an outfit. The communal dressing room was more often than not the scene of dress swapping and encouraging words among women who had previously been strangers to one another. I couldn’t take much credit for it: It was something about the magic of the shop and all the good energy within it.

  And speaking of magical energy . . . I had a question for Bart. I grabbed him for a moment when he was alone.

  “Bart, did you ever talk to a man named Aidan Rhodes about your . . . problem?”

  He turned beet red, and when he spoke, his voice was so low I had to lean toward him to hear. “You promised me your discretion.”

  “Yes, of course.” I looked around the shop; no one was paying us any attention. “I don’t think anyone’s listening.”

  “You’d be surprised. The walls have ears.”

  “Um . . . okay. But—”

  “Lily, the dress looks perfect on her, but it needs some alteration,” said Susan, interrupting our discussion. She was right; the customer stood smiling in fron
t of the three-way mirror, admiring herself in a simple emerald green sheath that fell too far below the knees, topped by a gold brocade jacket that hung too low on her arms. “Do you think it could be done by next weekend?”

  “Let me take a look,” I said, grabbing my wrist pincushion from behind the counter. “As long as it’s nothing too drastic . . .”

  Only later, while I was kneeling at my customer’s feet and pinning up the hem, did I realize that I’d never gotten an answer from Bart about whether or not he knew Aidan.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, the bell on the front door tinkled and I heard several squeaks and a quick little scream.

  A huge black dog trotted into the shop.

  He didn’t seem aggressive; nor was he made nervous by all the people and activity. Rather, he appeared almost preternaturally calm and focused as he passed through the crowd to come stand near the register—near me.

  “Oh, look at the sweet little thing,” said Bronwyn as she came out from behind her herbal stand and stroked the dog’s anvil-sized head.

  “He might be sweet, but he’s sure not little,” muttered Maya, who was wrapping up a young woman’s purchase of an orange crocheted jacket.

  “Wait,” I said as realization dawned. “I think I know that dog.”

  The tag on the collar read Boye, but there was no phone or license number listed. Normally I know better than to gaze into the eyes of a dog—especially one of this size, which could do serious damage if it so chose. But this animal’s eyes were different. There was something about it. . . . I had met this dog before.

  And unless I missed my guess, this was no ordinary canine.

  After asking everyone in the shop if they knew where the dog came from, Bronwyn checked outside on the street. Nothing. The animal just sat by the counter, as though waiting patiently for something.

  “I’m going to bring him upstairs,” I said. “He might be hungry.”

  “Want me to call the shelter?” asked Maya. “I know the receptionist there by name by now, since I’ve called so many times about Oscar, and then Miss Nelly.”