Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Um, thank you.” We shared a smile. “Is there anything else you can tell me about your time spent with Lupita, or in the store, or with Ursula? Anything odd, at all—besides Selena?”

  He considered this. “I remember Lupita spoke a lot about her upcoming wedding, but Ursula didn’t seem impressed. Lupita told Selena she could be a bridesmaid, but again, Ursula seemed to downplay the idea, as if she was afraid to raise Selena’s hopes. It struck me because the family tension was pretty overt.”

  “Did anyone mention the fiancé’s name, or anything else about him?”

  “Sorry,” he said with a shake of his head. “I didn’t meet him, and it wasn’t pertinent to my story so I didn’t follow up.”

  “Did Lupita or Ursula say anything about working with a woman named Betty North? Maybe doing a cleansing for an old woman?”

  “I don’t remember in particular.”

  “How about Nicky Utley?”

  “They didn’t mention any names. In fact, that’s something I recall: that Ursula made a big deal out of the confidentiality of her clients.”

  “Rats,” I said as I sat back, frustrated. “Confidentiality doesn’t do me any good, in this instance, I fear.”

  He smiled. “Sorry about that. I don’t feel like I’ve been very helpful, but to tell you the truth most of the interesting stuff made it into the article. And like I said, it was a while ago.”

  “I appreciate you trying. So,” I said, changing the subject, “how’s your brother?”

  “He’s doing great. He’s getting married.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful news! Do you like his fiancée?”

  “Very much. She’s very steady and seems to help him stay the course. Takes the pressure off of me to make sure he’s okay.”

  “You are such an older brother,” I said, and again flashed back on my conversation with Knox. He hadn’t been able to take care of his sister, in the end. Was he beating himself up over it . . . or could he have had something to gain from Nicky’s death? I tried to shake off the thought. This was the problem with hanging around a homicide detective, I thought. You started to see everyone as a suspect.

  “And how are you doing?” I continued. “Are you getting married anytime soon?”

  He shook his head and sipped his beer, holding my gaze. “How about you?”

  “I don’t think I’m the marrying kind,” I said with a nervous chuckle.

  “I don’t know about that,” he said. “I think any man would be lucky to have you.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but had no idea what to say. Instead, I just sat for a moment and enjoyed the peculiar but undeniable intimacy of two people who had once shared something important, but realized they weren’t right for each other.

  We ordered espressos, and Max insisted upon sharing a dessert of my choosing. “The crème brulée is excellent here, as is the tiramisu.”

  “In my book,” I said, “it’s not dessert unless it’s chocolate.”

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Lily Ivory: You are a woman after my own heart.”

  I ordered a double chocolate flourless cake, à la mode, and we shared bites. Dessert finished, we argued over who should pay—I insisted; lunch was my suggestion—and with the bill paid I rose to leave.

  “It was great to see you, Max,” I said, holding my hand out.

  He took my hand in his, and placed his other over it. “Great see you, too. I’ve missed you, Lily.”

  He didn’t let go of my hand, and his gaze lingered. I looked away nervously, and blurted out, “I’m actually seeing someone.”

  Max laughed, and let his hands drop. “As a matter of fact, so am I. It’s for the best, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “I trust he treats you well?”

  “Yes, yes, he does. And is she good to you?”

  “So far, we’ve managed to do well by each other.”

  “I’m really glad for you, Max. I . . . I hope we can be friends.”

  “I would like that.”

  I didn’t tell Max who the new man in my life was. There was bad blood between Max and Sailor, stemming from the tragedy with Max’s wife. Besides, as nice as it had been to see Max again, I doubted we would be barbecuing together or going out on double dates.

  As I walked back to my car I heard a familiar roar and looked up to see a motorcyclist turning the corner. Was that Sailor? Probably not—I was forever thinking it was him when a motorcycle went by. Still, he lived not far from here, in Chinatown. It could have been him.

  Not that it would matter. Unless . . . If he saw me having lunch with Max, he might jump to the wrong conclusion. As I had recently discovered, jealousy was no respecter of logic.

  I decided to take a detour and drop by Sailor’s apartment, which was on the second floor of a building on Hang Ah Alley. His motorcycle wasn’t out front, but I climbed the stairs anyway. On the landing outside his door lingered the ghost of a man killed in a gambling fight more than a century ago. Sailor claimed it didn’t bother him and that this was why the rent was so cheap, but the ghostly presence always made me feel mournful.

  I knocked, but there was no response. I tore a page out of a small notebook I kept in my satchel and wrote a note: Was in the neighborhood. Sorry about last night—I found Selena. Miss you.

  My pen hovered over the paper. At last I wrote simply, Lily.

  Chapter 19

  I used a rare pay phone to call Aunt Cora’s Closet and check in with Bronwyn. She told me all was well, so I bought a few items at my favorite Chinatown bakery and set out to make one more stop before returning.

  When Sailor and I visited Fred after finding the poppet at Betty’s house, I had known very little about Betty and her family. Perhaps it was time for another chat with the elderly artist.

  Fred’s place in China Basin looked exactly as it had the first time I was here, with the door standing slightly ajar. Once again there was no response to either my knock or my “Hello?” But in the warehouse area, I spotted Fred sitting on a stool in front of a canvas, apparently so absorbed in his painting that he hadn’t heard me.

  I watched in silence as he dredged his long-handled brush through the creamy paints on his palette, then dabbed bits of color on the canvas. It was fascinating to witness the flicks of his wrist, his skill and concentration as he brought the painting to life.

  Not so long ago, while helping to solve a homicide at the San Francisco School of Fine Arts, I had felt something of a kinship with the artists. Artists were often outsiders, the “weirdos” of society—a little bit like witches. Sadly, I hadn’t had much chance to pal around with the artists at the school, because in addition to a murderer there had been a vicious demon running around, so I’d been a little busy.

  “Hello, Fred?” I ventured again.

  “Oh! So sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” The elderly man removed earbuds and gestured at an iPod. “My granddaughter bought me this. She loaded it up with all the greats: Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett. Can’t get enough of ’em.”

  “You’re more technologically advanced than I am,” I said with a smile. “I’m still fond of LPs.”

  He chuckled. “I remember you from the other day, don’t I? Sorry. My memory’s not what it used to be. I can’t remember names for the life of me . . . but you came to ask about that ugly doll you found at Betty’s house.”

  “That’s right. I had a couple of other questions, if you don’t mind.” I held up the pink plastic bag. “I brought treats from Chinatown. Char siu bau, almond cookies, and sesame balls.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind, but unnecessary. I’m happy to have a visitor. What did you want to ask me?”

  “Did you ever meet Betty’s children?”

  He nodded, wiping his brush on a white rag. “In the last year or so her daughter, Nicky, had started coming around, visiting fairly regularly. It was a pretty big deal because they hadn’t been close previously. It made Betty very happy.”

>   “What was Nicky like?”

  “Nice gal. Pretty, like her mama. I wanted to paint her, but she wouldn’t sit for me.”

  “What did she and Betty talk about when they got together?” I knew I sounded pushy, but I needed to know.

  “I don’t really remember,” Fred said with a shake of his head. “Just the usual mother-daughter stuff, I guess. I know she was trying to have a baby. Seemed real important to her. Mostly, though, I think she just wanted to have a relationship with her mother, and it’s a good thing too, since it turns out Betty was nearing the end. Some people thought Nicky was after Betty’s house, but I didn’t believe that.”

  “Who thought that?”

  “Actually . . . I guess Betty mentioned it to me herself, asked me if I thought it could be true.”

  “Do you think it was?”

  “Who knows what motivates people?” he said with a shrug. He crossed over to a paint-spattered utility sink and scrubbed his hands. “But I didn’t think so. I didn’t know Nicky well, but she didn’t strike me as that type. If you ask me, it was that Mexican gal who put the idea in Betty’s head. “

  “You mean Lupita?”

  “Right! That’s her right there.” He gestured toward the easel that held Lupita’s portrait last time I was here, but it was empty. He shook his head. “Thought it was there . . . must have misplaced it. Her fiancé commissioned it.”

  “Who is her fiancé, do you know?”

  “I don’t remember his name. Sorry. I met him just the one time, at Betty’s. Guess I should have asked for the money for the painting up front, huh? Live and learn.” He pulled a paper plate from under a counter and took his time arranging the pastries, then set them atop a worktable. “Mmm, I love Chinese pork buns.”

  “Could you tell me what he looked like?”

  “Just a regular guy. White guy. I can’t say as I remember—didn’t really pay attention. I’m a little more observant when it comes to women,” he said with a wink.

  “How was it any of Lupita’s business who Betty left her house to?”

  Fred waved his paintbrush in the air. “You wait and see what it feels like to grow old. Sometimes the nurses who take care of you every day feel closer to you than family.”

  “What about Knox?”

  “Who?”

  “Betty’s son.”

  “Maybe I met him, I don’t recall. But I wasn’t at Betty’s all the time; I’ve always kept my studio, and slept here often.”

  “What did Betty say about her kids?”

  “Not a lot. When I first met her, she said they’d run off with the military. I thought she was joking.”

  He resumed painting, bringing to life a fanciful scene of dancers in North Beach.

  I thought back on our conversation: Had I learned anything helpful? Not particularly. But . . . I just couldn’t imagine the old man in front of me offing Nicky and Betty.

  Would Fred even have been strong enough to walk to the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge and push a woman over the rail? On the other hand . . . paintings could be used for something akin to poppet magic. Could this fellow be a secretly powerful practitioner? Hard to believe.

  I watched for another long moment, wondering whether he had family. He said his granddaughter had given him the iPod, which I hoped meant he was in contact with relatives.

  It occurred to me to call Max’s brother, who taught at the San Francisco School of Fine Arts; could there be a place for Fred there? I didn’t much care for his style, but it certainly was distinctive. And he’d been around the art world a long time. I imagined he could teach young artists a thing or two.

  “Well, I should leave you to your painting,” I said, then paused. “By the way, do you want the portraits you left at Betty’s house? The estate sale’s this weekend. If you don’t claim them, they might be sold.”

  He waved me off. “That’s probably for the best. It’d be nice if someone wanted them enough to buy them. Maybe they’d appreciate them.”

  “I think they’re a lovely tribute to Betty.”

  He shrugged and placed thick swaths of blue paint on the canvas to create a background for the dancers dressed in the white, green, and red of the Italian flag.

  Before I had a chance to say good-bye, he put the earbuds back in, and seemed to lose himself in his painting.

  * * *

  Back at Aunt Cora’s Closet, things were mellow. Maya had arrived and was thumbing through today’s newspaper, Bronwyn was cleaning the herb jars that lined her shelves, and Selena was sitting on the floor, diligently cleaning a small silver locket under the watchful eyes of a pig and a cat.

  “Our Selena seems to have quite a knack for cleaning and repairing old jewelry,” said Bronwyn. “She also has a way with animals; neither Beowulf nor Oscar have let her out of their sight all day.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Maya. “Hey, look. The ad for Betty North’s estate sale is in the paper.”

  Selena’s head popped up at the sound of Betty’s name.

  “That’s good,” I said, speaking as much to Selena as to Maya. “That way her things will go to good homes, to be appreciated and taken care of. What’s the ad say?”

  “Let’s see . . . ‘This is a nonsmoking, no-pets home chock-full of rare collectibles. Items include an antique Chinese eight-panel screen; Karen Scholav seventeenth-century screen; Sally Kimp sculpture; bronze wall sculpture by Elis Gudmann; Waterford crystal stemware; vintage Nicholas Ungar full mink jacket; grandfather clock from Bavaria circa 1935; large antique silver-plated trays, vases, and cutlery; Hoover empower wide path vacuum; Lladros sculptures; enameled jewelry boxes; jade, ivory, and stone carvings; assorted quality costume jewelry; Swarovski crystal chandelier; Waterford, Royal Albert old country rose china; Royal Doulton character mugs; wood carved ducks; circus ephemera; Christmas decorations; free style portable oxygen concentrator Airsep.’”

  Maya paused to take a deep breath.

  “And the list goes on. Wow. There’s a bunch of furniture listed, too.” Maya set the newspaper on the counter with a rattle. “I knew Betty had a lot of stuff, but when you see it all listed like that, it’s kind of overwhelming.”

  “I guess it could really add up,” I said, looking over her shoulder at the list. “From what I saw at the house, they aren’t pricing things cheap.”

  Unlike items at a yard or garage sale, merchandise at estate sales was usually prime. A professional liquidator like Finn would winnow out the junk prior to the sale, selling most of it to dealers like me, donating what was left over to a thrift store, and throwing the rest away. What remained were the quality items which, while a bargain compared to new, would bring in a fair chunk of cash. And considering what houses in San Francisco sold for these days, regardless of condition, Betty’s heir stood to inherit a lot of money.

  “I’m sure Finn’s being fair, though. Canadians are always fair.”

  I laughed. “Seriously?”

  “He is, he told me,” put in Selena.

  “You know Finn?” Maya asked her.

  Selena nodded and put her head back down.

  I hadn’t told my friends the exact circumstances of how I had found Selena or why she was staying with me, much less that she had been hanging out at Betty’s house, before and after Betty’s death. Given what we’d been through together, they were good about not asking me a lot of detailed questions.

  “So,” I said as I hung up a couple of dresses that had been left outside the dressing room, “you’re suggesting that because of his nationality he must be fair?”

  “They’re also funny. A lot of comedians are Canadian.”

  Maya nodded. “Comedians and news anchors.”

  “Yep,” said Bronwyn as she spritzed her counter with an organic blend of white vinegar mixed with rosemary essential oil. “Good people, the Canadians. If it weren’t for the weather . . .” Bronwyn trailed off with a wistful sigh.

  “That’s their ace in the hole,” Maya said. “If the weather were n
icer, the whole country would have been overrun long ago, and they wouldn’t be so polite anymore.”

  “Or funny,” said Bronwyn.

  “Or well-informed,” I added with a laugh. “I get it. You win.”

  “You know, Finn’s sort of cute,” Bronwyn said, wiggling her eyebrows in Maya’s direction. “Might he be single, by any chance?”

  Ever since Bronwyn had found happiness with Duke, she seemed determined to fix up everyone around her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she put up a sign on her herbal stand offering matchmaking services, not unlike the sign for limpias at Ursula’s store.

  “He mentioned a wife,” said Maya in her signature dry tone. But . . . was it my imagination, or did I detect a wistful note? Bronwyn cast me a significant glance, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

  Maya’s love life would have to wait, however. At the moment I had bigger fish to fry: I needed to ask Maya about a few things. But not in front of Selena.

  “Bronwyn, okay with you if Maya and I go in the back room for a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Selena and I can handle the ravening hordes,” she said, gesturing around the empty store.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Maya, a moment?”

  Maya followed me through the curtain into the work room.

  “Lily, please tell me this isn’t a be-open-to-romance pep talk. Because as much as I love Bronwyn, she’s about to send me round the bend, as you would say, with her motherly advice on how to land me a boyfriend.”

  “She just wants you to be happy.”

  “I know,” she said with a smile, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a seat at the table. “Maybe someday I’ll walk in here with an engagement ring, make you both swoon with happiness for me. So, what’s up?”

  “I was wondering about the day Betty North went to the hospital. Could you tell me what happened, exactly?”

  “It was right after lunch. I went to use the bathroom, and when I came out she was on the ground. This . . . it wasn’t that unusual for her to feel dizzy or need to go to bed. She wasn’t in good health.”

  “Were you alone? Just the two of you?”