Bewitched and Betrothed

by Juliet Blackwell

  We laughed.

  “You’d both best keep your hats on, then,” said Maya. “You look too official for anyone to poke fun.”

  “Makes me feel like Dudley Do-Right, in a good way,” Elena said, putting the hat back on and gazing around the shop floor at our bounty of inventory. “I keep meaning to drop by and do a little shopping, but I rarely find myself in this neighborhood. Still, if you told me you had a pig I might have made a special trip.”

  Oscar snorted and preened, rubbing up against her legs.

  “Thank you so much for coming in,” said Maya. “I could have brought the shirt to you, if that was easier.”

  “No problem,” said Elena. “Forrest and I were in the area today, anyway, and while we’re here we’re distributing these flyers—we’re bringing some to the Golden Gate Park office, and are asking merchants if they’d be willing to help out. Would it be okay to place a flyer in your shop window, Lily? It’s for a good cause.”

  The robin’s-egg blue and milk chocolate brown poster was done up in a retro Art Deco style and advertised the “Alcatraz Festival of Felons!” a full day—and night—of events on the island. Tickets were expensive: $250 per person, with an additional charge of $50 for those wishing to camp out for the night “in genuine Alcatraz cellblocks.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder: Was a creepy old federal penitentiary the best venue to hold a charitable fund-raiser? But then I reminded myself for the thousandth time: I didn’t exactly march to the same drummer as my compatriots.

  “It’s coming up soon, but there are still some tickets left so we’re trying to get the word out. Kyle Cheney is organizing it,” Elena said.

  “I’d say his assistant, Seth, is doing the actual organizing,” said Forrest. “But Mr. Cheney is the creative force behind it.”

  “Wait—do you mean the Kyle Cheney?” asked Bronwyn. “The one who made a fortune in the computer industry, back in the 1990s?”

  “The very one,” said Elena. “He’s pledged to match ticket sales and donations, dollar for dollar. Half the festival’s proceeds will go to the city’s historic renovation fund, and half to support the city’s homeless.”

  “I hear he personally funded that homeless shelter in the Tenderloin that was going to shut down,” said Bronwyn. “He seems like a good guy.”

  Forrest nodded. “Mr. Cheney’s surprisingly down-to-earth. When he approached us with the idea for the festival, he said, and I quote: ‘It seems rude to just sit on all this money.’”

  “Well, we can’t match Kyle Cheney’s level of generosity, but Aunt Cora’s Closet could contribute something,” I offered. “A coupon, maybe, or a chance to win a dress of one’s choice? Something along those lines?”

  “I’ll bet my mom would donate free alterations,” suggested Maya. “Good cause, and good publicity.”

  “That’s so nice of you!” Elena replied. “You should contact Mr. Cheney’s assistant, Seth. Mr. Cheney’s a little hard to get in touch with, and besides Seth’s the one in charge of donations. His number’s on the poster.”

  As I went to tape the poster in the front shop window, I scanned the list of the festival’s many sponsors. One name stood out: Renee Baker’s Cupcakes.

  Maybe Renee was just doing her part as a member of San Francisco’s business community. Or perhaps she was simply being civic-minded, like I was. Or perhaps her intentions were nefarious. Whatever her motives, Renee was no simple cupcake baker, and it was high time that I checked in on her. The last time I had seen Renee she was being treated by paramedics for a head injury sustained during an attempted coup by her underling. She was probably feeling better by now . . . and unless I missed my guess, she would be up to her old tricks, which involved establishing something called the coincidentia oppositorum, which was a male-female alliance that would make a play for the magical soul of San Francisco. Last I knew, she was looking for her male counterpart. This wasn’t an easy role to fill: It had to be someone magical and evil enough to buy into her ambitions, but simultaneously trustworthy enough not to betray her.

  I fervently hoped she hadn’t found him yet. That would be . . . bad.

  It struck me that I should probably get a handle on Renee before even thinking about planning my honeymoon. I added Visit Renee the Shady Cupcake Lady, ASAP to my mental to-do list.

  Suddenly I felt a slight pitching under my feet, my senses swam, and I heard a low rumble. The old Victorian building creaked around us.

  “What in tarnation was that?” I asked.

  “Just a little temblor,” said Bronwyn. “We had one last night, too, did you feel it? Around three a.m., I think.”

  “A little temblor? As in an earthquake?” I’d lived in the City by the Bay for a while now, but this was my first experience with an earthquake. The others smiled, trying not to laugh at my reaction, and I could not understand how they could be so blasé.

  “It’s just a little one, Lily,” Maya said.

  “You’ll get used to it, dear,” Bronwyn confirmed.

  “That’s nothing,” Forrest said. “You should’ve felt the Loma Prieta quake, the one that took down sections of the freeway and some buildings. Killed a number of poor souls.”

  The others nodded.

  “I was taught the small ones are a good sign, because they release some of the pressure along the San Andreas Fault,” Forrest continued. “But now I hear seismologists don’t think that’s true after all. I guess we don’t really know all that much about earthquakes, when it comes right down to it.”

  As I thought that over, the jaded locals, unfazed by the idea that the earth could shake and bring down buildings, continued their conversation.

  “Kyle Cheney’s a real history buff,” Elena was saying. “And he’s gotten to know some of the docents and curators out on the island. Also, get this: During the festival, after the sun sets, there’s going to be a ghost tour of the island led by a paranormal investigator named Charles Gosnold.”

  “Oh!” said Bronwyn. “I know Charles! We haven’t chatted in ages. He must be doing well for himself, if he’s running in Kyle Cheney’s circle. Good for him!”

  Maya and I exchanged a glance. She knew that in private I referred to Gosnold as “Charles the Charlatan.” In my view he was a hack, full of puffery and nonsense, the kind of paranormal “investigator” who gave those of us who were actually connected to the world beyond a bad name—or at the very least tagged us as slapdash, New Age “woo-woo” crackpots. But Bronwyn had a much bigger heart than I, with a soft spot for oddballs.

  Which, now that I thought of it, might explain why she had taken the likes of me under her wing.

  “So, is it true? Is Alcatraz haunted?” Bronwyn asked Elena. “I did the night tour once, and I swear I saw something . . .”

  Oscar snorted loudly, which brought a chuckle from Elena, who leaned over to give him a good scratch behind the ears. When she straightened, he trotted over to lie down on his purple silk pillow, a gift from Bronwyn.

  “Who can say? A lot of people report hearing the clanging of cell doors or whispers and cries, that sort of thing. But it’s hardly surprising in a building of that nature, a prison built to house inmates too notorious or too dangerous to be held elsewhere, like Al Capone and Machine Gun Kelly, or the Birdman of Alcatraz. . . .” Elena shrugged. “It’s only natural that people would think the island was cursed. To me, what’s most surprising is that Alcatraz looms so large in our imaginations, considering it operated as a maximum-security prison for only twenty-nine years.”

  “Is that right?” Bronwyn said, surprised.

  “From 1933 to 1963,” Forrest confirmed.

  “Why was it closed down?” I asked.

  “It became too expensive to operate. Alcatraz is called ‘the Rock’ for good reason—it’s pretty much a barren rock,” Elena explained. “All water, food, supplies—everything needed to suppor
t life and to run a prison had to be ferried over by boat, no mean feat. Keep in mind the warden as well as the guards and their families also lived on the island, so there was a lot of demand.”

  “But if Alcatraz was only open for so short a time,” I said, “why is it so famous?”

  A thoughtful look on her face, Elena turned to Forrest. “What do you think, Forrest?”

  “There’s something about that island that’s intriguing—the desperation of the inmates so close to San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge yet at the same time so very far away. The inherent romance of an isolated isle, maybe. And it’s had more than one incarnation: It was established as a military fort and prison in the nineteenth century, complete with dank underground cells referred to as ‘the Spanish dungeon.’ The Federal Bureau of Prisons built the penitentiary on the foundation of the old fort, leaving the basement untouched.”

  “So the Spanish dungeon’s still intact?” I asked.

  “Sure is. It’s creepy down there. The paranormal folks like to say the only place more haunted than the dungeon is the hospital wing.”

  “Great places for ghosts,” Bronwyn murmured, sounding hopeful.

  We fell silent for a moment, contemplating the lonely island out in the bay. Complete with a dungeon and, apparently, a haunted hospital wing.

  “It’s certainly ripe with rumors of ghosts,” said Elena. “But the official NPS line is that no, there are no errant spirits wandering Alcatraz. So, anyway, Forrest and I could go on all day about the history of the island, but why don’t we save that for when you all come to take a tour?”

  “Yeah,” said Forrest, checking his watch. “I hate to say it, but we should be moving on.”

  “Maya, would you get the shirt, please? It’s in the workroom, on the washing machine.” I turned to Elena and Forrest and took a deep breath. “I know this is going to sound strange, but I have to tell you there’s something a little wrong with that shirt. Elena, has Carlos mentioned anything about my, um . . .” I trailed off, trying to think how to phrase it.

  “About your ‘special talents’?”

  “I guess you could call them that.” I used to play my cards very close to my chest, but I was learning to be more open about myself—and my “special talents.”

  Elena nodded. “He’s told me a little. I get it. We have a beloved aunt who has quite a knack for reading cards, believes in things like amulets, and shops at botánicas. A lot of the family is Catholic, so it leads to some tense holiday dinners, but when it comes right down to it, it makes as much sense to me as anything else. And our tía gets it right more often than not.”

  I had known Carlos for a while now—we met not long after I’d opened Aunt Cora’s Closet—and though we had been inching toward a real friendship, I still knew very little about his private life. He wasn’t what you’d call a big talker, into self-disclosure. I knew—at a profound level—that Carlos was a good, decent man. I knew that another cousin of his had been married to an old boyfriend of mine, Max, and that she had died by her own hand. And I knew that he was remarkably open to my “special talents,” as Elena had phrased it, though he was careful not to gain a reputation as the SFPD’s “woo-woo guy.” But that was about all.

  “That’s good to hear,” I said. “Because I’d like you to keep an open mind with what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Deal.” She inclined her head in agreement.

  I glanced at Forrest, who smiled. “I’m just along for the ride.”

  Maya returned and set the brown-paper bundle on the counter in front of us.

  “I’m going to unwrap this so you can view the shirt,” I said. “But then I’ll tie it up again because it’s important to bind the shirt’s vibrations. They’re seriously negative.”

  “Negative how?” Elena asked.

  “I don’t know their source—I don’t have that kind of sight. It might be the result of the inmate who wore the shirt, or his experiences in prison, or it might be something else, entirely unconnected to Alcatraz. But I do know they’re there. The shirt should be safe enough if you or someone else wants to inspect it, but then put it on display behind glass. Maybe tuck the knotted braid of strings in the pocket?”

  “Okaaay. . . .” Elena said, frowning.

  “And whatever you do, do not put it on.”

  “Why would we put it on?” Forrest asked, puzzled.

  “I’m not saying you would, and I hope it wouldn’t even occur to you or to anybody else. I’m just saying . . . wearing the shirt could be dangerous. According to Maya’s research, it may have belonged to a prisoner named Ray Perry. Do you know anything about him?”

  “He wasn’t a serial killer or anything like that,” said Elena. “But Perry was one tough customer, like most of the inmates at Alcatraz.”

  “If I recall correctly, Perry was a prisoner early on, in the thirties, when prison officials enforced the rule of silence,” said Forrest.

  “That sounds ominous,” Bronwyn said. “What was the rule of silence?”

  “In the prison’s early years, inmates weren’t allowed to speak with each other except during mealtimes and when out in the yard; the rest of the time they had to be silent. The inmates hated the rule of silence, and there were claims that it drove some prisoners mad.”

  Bronwyn gasped. “I think I saw something about that in an old Clint Eastwood movie. A man cut his own fingers off!”

  “That’s from Escape from Alcatraz, which was based on the escape of Fred Brooks and the Albright brothers, Jim and Cole, but was largely fictional,” Forrest said smoothly, in what sounded like a practiced speech he had no doubt delivered hundreds of times to those touring the island. “Much of the mystique of Alcatraz came from the fact that Warden Johnston purposefully kept the public in the dark as to what life was like out on what came to be known as the ‘Devil’s Island.’”

  “It was a good movie, though,” said Bronwyn.

  Elena smiled. “It really was. Birdman of Alcatraz was a good movie, too, and almost entirely a work of fiction.”

  “A rule of silence seems pretty extreme, doesn’t it?” asked Maya.

  “As I said, several inmates were supposedly driven mad by it,” said Forrest. “Whether or not that’s true, I can’t say. However, it is known that the psychological impact of imprisonment is often more difficult to cope with than the physical challenges. Even the notorious gangster Al Capone confided to the warden that Alcatraz had broken him.”

  “And on that note . . .” I unwrapped and untied the shirt and spread it on the counter.

  Elena and Forrest moved in to take a closer look.

  “What do you think?” Maya leaned forward. “Could it be genuine?”

  “I’m no textile expert,” said Elena, studying the chambray closely. “But this certainly looks like the shirts in the museum’s collection. And 258 was Ray Perry’s inmate identification number. This is an amazing find, Maya. If we can authenticate it as genuine, we’ll be sure to give you credit on the display.”

  “Mrs. Emmy Lou Archer had it in her attic,” said Maya. “She deserves the recognition. All I did was open an old box.”

  “But you recognized what it was,” said Elena. “This is amazing.”

  I didn’t find the shirt amazing so much as profoundly disturbing, but was happy that Maya and Elena and Forrest were able to appreciate the garment’s historical importance without attaching fear and loathing to it. What would it be like to go through the world without feeling threatening vibrations? I wondered. Not for the first time, I reflected, having supernatural powers was a double-edged sword.

  “Does the discovery of this shirt prove that Ray Perry survived his escape from Alcatraz?” asked Bronwyn.

  “I don’t know that it proves anything, really,” said Elena. “First, we have to establish that it is, indeed, genuine and that it belonged to Ray Perry. And even if
we can authenticate that, it doesn’t necessarily mean Perry survived the escape. Maybe he took it off during the attempt, and it washed up on the shore. Maybe he left it in his cell and it was included with his personal effects and given to his family. Plus there’s the fact that I never thought he would have been able to escape on his own.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know how anyone could have escaped from Alcatraz without some assistance. There were rumors that some of the guards were on the take; maybe Perry got close to one of them and was able to persuade him to help.”

  “But that’s pure speculation,” Forrest added. “We spend all day, every day, out on Alcatraz; the theories abound.”

  “I’ll bet they do.” I retied the braided strings around the shirt, wrapped it in the brown paper, and handed it to Elena.

  “Remember—nobody puts this shirt on,” I said. “Nobody.”

  Elena nodded. “Display purposes only. Roger that.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Maya said to Elena and Forrest, then turned to me and Bronwyn. “Anyone up for a coffee or chai? My treat.”

  “I don’t pay you nearly enough to treat us,” I said, grabbing a twenty-dollar bill from the petty cash box. “Drinks are on Aunt Cora’s.”

  “Even better,” Maya said with a smile. She tucked the bill into her pocket and escorted the national park rangers out of the shop. They chatted about the history of Alcatraz as Maya closed the shop door behind them, the bell tinkling.

  As I picked up the royal blue beaded top that had been too big for Agatha, my hands froze on the hanger.

  Was it my imagination, or did the familiar tinkle of the bell over the door sound a little . . . off?

  Shrill. Alarming.

  Oscar snorted awake, leapt up from his silk pillow, and ran to the back room.

  I dropped the sparkly top and turned to look out the front window.

  From outside, there was the high-pitched peal of tires upon pavement.

  A woman screamed.

  Was that Maya?