Secondhand Spirits

by Blackwell, Juliet

  “This is my partner, Neil Nordstrom. Neil, meet Max Carmichael. Max is a stringer for the Chronicle, among other things. Still on government contract?”

  “From time to time,” Max said as he shook Neil’s meaty paw.

  “What brings you here, Max?” Carlos asked. “Looking for a Mardi Gras costume?”

  “Yep. I’m in desperate need of a ruffled Victorian petticoat.”

  Carlos grinned, teeth flashing very white. “That blue silk bustier would bring out the color in your eyes. Why don’t you try it on, give us all a show?”

  “Maybe later,” Max said.

  The smile dropped from Carlos’s face as his dark eyes turned toward me.

  “You Lily Ivory?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s this about, Carlos?” Max interrupted.

  “Actually we’re conducting official business here, Max,” Carlos said without taking his eyes off of me. “Mind waiting outside?”

  Max’s gaze shifted from Carlos to me, then back again. “What kind of business?”

  “None of your goddamned business, Max, that’s what kind. You two know each other?”

  I shook my head. Max nodded.

  A look of weary cynicism washed over Carlos’s dramatic features.

  “After I leave maybe you two can get together and get your stories straight.” He flung an arm toward the door. “Out, Max. Now.”

  With one last curious look at me, Max strode out of the shop.

  Carlos turned back to me, near-black eyes flat and unapproachable. Cop eyes, I thought to myself just as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn leather case, flipping it open to reveal a shiny SFPD badge.

  “Are you and Carmichael involved in something together?” he asked.

  “No, of course not. He just stopped by for some herbs.”

  “And yet you said you didn’t know him.”

  “I meant in any significant sense.”

  The inspector blew out a long breath and looked over at his partner with eyebrows raised. The blond man shrugged.

  “I’m Inspector Romero and this is Inspector Nordstrom. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Is this about Jessica?” I asked.

  “Jessica?”

  “The little girl who disappeared yesterday in Hunters Point?”

  Carlos shrugged and shook his head. “Is that your old Mustang parked outside?”

  “Do you need me to move it?” I offered, grasping at a final, slim straw of hope that these two might be plain-clothes parking cops.

  “Did you use the car last night?”

  I nodded. “I . . . I visited a friend of mine who hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “Who is this friend?”

  “Frances Potts.”

  “How do you know Mrs. Potts?”

  A terrible premonition washed over me. “Is something wrong? Is Frances all right?”

  “Why don’t you let me ask the questions, okay, Ms. Ivory? Now, how do you know Mrs. Potts?”

  “I just met her yesterday through a mutual friend, Maya Jackson.”

  “Uh-huh. Any special reason this Maya introduced you two?”

  “Frances has two generations’ worth of old clothes stashed in her basement. I bought a bunch from her for the store.”

  “Was anyone else there at that time?”

  “Little Jessica, though she left early. We told that to the police.”

  “You’re saying something happened with a child and the police were brought in on it?”

  I nodded and gave them a brief rundown of what had happened with Jessica’s disappearance. Romero jotted down the particulars.

  “Was anyone else at the Potts house?”

  “Her lawyer, Delores . . . something . . . came later. She stayed for dinner.”

  “Delores something?”

  “It’ll come to me.” This was the one area my memory failed. I was terrible with names.

  “Frances Potts was found dead early this morning.”

  I looked from Romero to his partner.

  “That’s not possible,” I croaked. “There must be some kind of mistake. . . .”

  “Afraid not. Her daughter found her.”

  Guilt washed over me. On its heels came horror. How had this happened? Why hadn’t I stopped it? Why hadn’t I sensed it?

  “How . . . how was she killed?”

  “Why would you assume she was killed? Perhaps she died in her sleep.”

  “Why else would you be here?”

  He shrugged as though conceding me the point. “The city’s trying a new pilot program in that area to combat drug trafficking. There’s a street camera mounted on the telephone pole right outside the Pottses’ home.”

  His eyes held mine for a long moment before he asked the obvious question.

  “The tape shows someone pulling up in that Mustang and going into the house. You wanna tell me what you were you doing at Frances Potts’s home at one in the morning?”

  “I went by to check on her. She hadn’t been feeling well.”

  “She called you?”

  “No, I just thought I’d check on her.”

  “You don’t think that’s a little odd, to just drop by at one in the morning?”

  “She told us she’d been having trouble sleeping.”

  He stared me down for another few seconds, not speaking. I could have sworn Inspector Romero was trying to read my aura, just as I was trying to read his. That surprised me. In my experience cops were by-the-book, logic-is-supreme sorts, with the possible exception of detectives, who relied a great deal on what they liked to call “hunches.”

  After a long moment his partner cleared his throat, breaking our connection, and handed me a piece of scratch paper with a five-pointed star inside of a circle, sketched in a dark pencil.

  “You know what that is?” the blond inspector—Neil something—asked.

  “A star?”

  “Yeah, but it’s a, whatchamacallit . . . It’s used in satanic rituals, right?”

  “Pentagrams aren’t a sign of Satan; they’re an ancient symbol of the human form.” I hated how easily the craft was misinterpreted. I pointed down at the glass counter, to the display of several carved talismans and amulets. There were three in the shape of a pentagram. “You see? Head, arms, and legs. Pentagrams are used more for protection than for curses.”

  “Though they are used for curses sometimes, then, right?”

  “Occasionally,” I said.

  “What are you, some kind of occultist?” interjected Carlos, frowning as he inspected the medallions in the display.

  “No. I’m a shopkeeper specializing in vintage clothes.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the subject of pentagrams.”

  “I know something about the Mustang I drive, as well, but I’m no mechanic.”

  “So you’re sayin’ this star has nothing to do with devil worship?” asked the blond detective.

  “It would depend upon who used it, and how. For instance, a lot of Wiccans use the pentagram in their rituals, but most don’t believe in the concept of hell, much less the devil,” I said. “Does this have to do with Frances Potts?”

  The inspectors exchanged a glance. I had my answer.

  “Were there any other signs of black magic or devil worship at the scene?” I asked.

  “What kinds of signs?”

  “The numbers six-six-six, animal sacrifice, maybe?”

  “Those would be a sign of satanic ritual?”

  “It’s possible. Some people do associate the pentagram with the devil’s work. If it’s drawn upside down, with two points up rather than standing on two points like a person, it’s thought by some to represent a goat with horns.”

  His eyebrows lifted in question.

  “The goat can be a sign of the devil. It’s called Baphomet.”

  “So this goat would mean there were satanists there?”

  “It’s really not that simple.” I took a deep breath and tri
ed to organize my thoughts in a way that would make sense to a cynical sensibility. “Most symbols and spells can be either positive or negative, depending on the intent of the person casting the spell. For instance, this candle”—I gestured toward the tall beeswax candle that I lit every morning with a brief spell of luck for the shop—“can be a simple source of light, or it can affect the course of someone’s life, for good or ill, depending on the emphasis people give it.”

  Both men’s eyebrows raised in a “hoo, boy” incredulous look. Blondie carefully folded the sketch and returned it to his breast pocket.

  Inspector Romero resumed his questioning.

  “How was Mrs. Potts when you last saw her?”

  I swallowed hard again. How could my magic have failed?

  “Ms. Ivory?” he urged.

  “She seemed fine. She let me into the house, but went right back to bed.”

  “According to the security tape you were there for almost an hour.”

  “I was cleaning up a little.”

  “So that would explain any fingerprints we found at the scene?”

  “If you found fingerprints, they aren’t mine.” I held my hands up palms out and splayed my fingers. “I was born without fingerprints.”

  “You were born that way?” asked Blondie.

  “It’s called dermatopathia pigmentosa reticularis. It’s a genetic condition.”

  Romero held my hand, palm up, in his. He really was guarded; even when I concentrated fully I felt very little from him other than a pleasant, subtle throb. He scrutinized my finger pads, turning them slightly to the side to look at them in the strong light streaming in through the plate-glass windows.

  “I’ll be damned.” He looked at his partner. “You heard of this?”

  Blondie nodded. “They did a deal on it on the Discovery Channel. It’s a pretty rare condition. I’m telling you, Carlos, you gotta watch more television.”

  “Spell it for me,” he said to me, then made note of it. Romero’s eyes remained on his notepad for several moments before flickering up to his partner. Finally, he continued. “I’ll need your friend’s information, the one who introduced you to Mrs. Potts yesterday. And the name of the lawyer you said was there. And we’ll need to confiscate the clothing you took from the Potts home.”

  “The clothing?”

  “It might be evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  “Why don’t you leave that up to me?”

  With reluctance I led them to the back room, and then helped them to gather up the Hefty bags and cart them through the store and outside, to a battered silver Ford sedan double-parked in front of the store. As we walked by the dressing room alcove I realized that Frances Potts’s two wedding dresses still hung on a separate rack. I warred with my conscience for a moment, then remained mute. The gowns wouldn’t tell the police anything with regard to Frances’s death, I felt sure. If they revealed anything to anyone, it would be to me.

  “I guess that’s it for now. If you remember anything else, call me.” Reaching into the breast pocket of his black leather jacket, he pulled out a business card and handed it to me. Inspector Carlos Manuel Romero, SFPD Homicide.

  “Oh, and Ms. Ivory?” he said over the roof of the car as he opened the driver’s-side door. “Don’t plan any trips in the near future. I imagine we’ll need to contact you again.”

  He took the seat behind the wheel, slammed the door, and took off down Haight Street, turning toward Golden Gate Park.

  I stood outside on the sidewalk for a long while after they left, gazing down at the inspector’s card and concentrating on breathing. My hand again reached for my absent medicine bundle, which was no doubt already sitting, discarded, on the floor of Mythbuster Max’s car.

  Why had I given such a precious item to someone who so clearly refused to believe? How could I have been so impulsive?

  Was the lapse of judgment signaling some sort of shift in my powers . . . and could this have anything to do with my failure to protect Frances?

  Frances’s death was horrifying enough, but right on its tail came self-doubt. My magical talents had never before fallen short. On the contrary: Throughout my life my challenge had been to control my gifts, not to let them overwhelm me or those around me. Had I misjudged the situation with Frances? For that matter, why hadn’t I sensed any foreshadowing of danger when I saw little Jessica yesterday? Could I be suffering under a black spell, conjured by someone more powerful than me? My mind cast back to the invisible force I felt and heard in Frances’s house last night. What could it have been? Who—

  Something rubbed at my ankles. I glanced down to see Oscar looking up at me with pink piggy eyes, the expression on his face eager and adorable. As reluctant as I was to admit it, it felt good to have someone—or something—on my side. I gestured to Oscar with my head and he obediently trotted back into the store. Locking the door behind us, I kept the Closed sign up in the window, then opened the glass case, where I had a number of consecrated protective talismans and amulets on display.

  Every full moon, I fashioned the medallions from polished disks of wood in various sizes cut from the branch of a fruit tree, in this case apple. I carved ancient protective symbols upon them, hung them on leather straps, then charged and named each one in a symbol of rebirth by air and water, earth and fire. They hummed with protective energy. I grabbed one, hung it around my neck, and was about to close the case when, on second thought, I grabbed another.

  Leading the way into the rear storage room, I sank into a vinyl chair at a jade green linoleum-and-chrome dinette set, circa 1962. I had grown up with a table just like this one in my mother’s kitchen, but she never thought of it as cute or vintage. To her it was plain old ugly junk, a constant reminder that we couldn’t afford better.

  Which reminded me . . . I jotted down a note to myself on the back of an invoice book: Send Mom money.

  Oscar shifted into his natural form and perched on the chair next to mine.

  “This is for you,” I said as I slipped the extra talisman over his head.

  His eyes got huge as he looked down at the pendant hanging on his crusty chest. “For me?” he breathed.

  “It’s consecrated. It will help to keep you safe. I think you should wear it until I can figure out what’s going on.”

  Tears welled up in his bottle green eyes. “Mistress is very, very good.”

  “You act as though no one’s ever given you a present before.”

  He just shook his large head and repeated, “Mistress is very good.”

  I wondered about Oscar’s background. I had known a few gnomes and goblins in my time, but I had never delved into their private lives. Where did he come from? Did he have a home? A mother? How did that work exactly? I should have some personal talks with the ugly little fellow. He was growing on me.

  But for now, I had some vital issues to attend to.

  “Something’s going on, Oscar.” I sighed and sat back in my chair. “Something not good. First a child goes missing, practically right in front of me, and then the spell I brewed—you saw me do it—fails. Frances . . . Mrs. Potts . . . she died anyway. How is that possible?”

  “I’m supposed ta make things better, not worse.” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s my fault.”

  “It’s not you. Do you think someone could be casting against me?”

  “You know what you should do? Talk to Master Rhodes. He knows everything.”

  “Aidan the male witch? Are you saying he’s involved in this somehow?”

  “No, no. But he knows everything. He’s in charge—” Oscar cut himself off and looked up at me guiltily.

  “In charge?”

  “He just knows everything.”

  I pondered that for a moment, then nodded.

  “Good idea.” I had hoped to stay clear of local witchy politics, but perhaps it wasn’t possible. If there was another sorcerer casting against me, Aidan Rhodes might be the one to know about it.

  I got up an
d retrieved Aidan’s card from the top drawer of a cherry dresser that served as a catchall for my business papers. There was a Jefferson Street address embossed on the fine linen card, but no phone number.

  “Do you know his number, by any chance?” I asked.

  “He likes to talk face-to-face. Ooh, or you could check out his awesome new Web site!”

  “In person is better, thanks.” I had Internet access and a notebook computer, but cyberspace made me nervous. All those bits of code jumping around, unattended . . . In some ways I’m a pretty old-fashioned witch.

  I considered calling Graciela for advice, but lost my nerve. I hadn’t spoken to her, my mother, or anyone else from my hometown for several years. When it became clear I had to leave town before my training was finished, my grandmother sent me to study with a talented curandera friend of hers in Chiapas, but I went instead on an ill-fated quest to find my father . . . despite all her admonitions to the contrary. Not only was Graciela afraid of what I might encounter should I find my father, but she also knew that with a power like mine, not to be in complete control was dangerous. Of which I had plenty of proof. I rarely lost my temper, but I wasn’t safe to be around when I did.

  Over the years I had mailed Graciela presents and letters and money from various parts of the world, but she never responded. Now I was flat-out too chicken just to call her out of the blue.

  “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” Bronwyn’s voice rang out from the front door. “Lily? Is everything okay? Why are we closed?”

  Smoothing my hair and taking a deep breath, I emerged from the back room. Little piggy Oscar trotted along at my heels as I hurried over to help Bronwyn with her many packages.

  “Sorry about that,” I said as I hoisted two “save a tree” cloth shopping bags onto the counter. “We had some unexpected visitors and I needed a moment to regroup.”

  Bronwyn put down her other bags and turned toward me.

  “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  “Nothing, really. I—”

  “Don’t tell me that. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I laughed.

  “It’s not that. I—” I appalled myself by ending my protestation with a little hiccup.

  Bronwyn turned and enveloped me in her plump arms. She was solid and good, full of warm vibrations and simple, straightforward compassion. I let myself sink into her tenderness for a moment.