“Jealousy isn’t about another person, Lily. It’s about yourself.”
“Which means?”
She chuckled. “It’s normal to worry about losing something you value. But you should talk to Sailor about what you’re feeling, not make assumptions. Besides, you know nothing about this Patience woman—for all you know, she could be married and madly in love with her husband. Or her romantic interests may lie in an entirely different direction. You never know.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. Now, why don’t we get this place straightened up and ready for customers, and then you can go talk to Sailor?”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Nonsense. These kinds of feelings tend to fester, and no good ever came of that. The sooner you get it out in the open, the better. I’ll keep an eye on Selena.”
“Fine,” I said, wishing she weren’t right.
* * *
A faint floral fragrance hung over Hang Ah Alley, a lingering scent from a long-ago German perfume maker who used to have a factory here. The scent mixed with other spices used not only in the food, but also in the healing arts of Chinatown, lending the alley a distinctive aroma.
I climbed the stairs to Sailor’s apartment and tried to ignore the ghostly sensation on the landing outside his door. I knocked softly, half hoping he wasn’t home.
My heart fluttered when I heard noises from within.
But the moment Sailor opened the door, I was happy to see him. As always. The top button of his Levi’s was undone, and his shirt hung open. Sailor’s broad chest was lean but muscled, and its black hair invited my touch. Just the sight of him made me feel warm and shivery and calm and excited, all at the same time.
“I was just thinking about you,” Sailor said, taking me into his arms and kissing me.
After a long moment, I pulled back. “We need to talk.”
“This is more fun,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.
“I agree. But we really do need to talk.”
At this last, his mood shifted and he released me. “All right,” he said as we stepped into the apartment and he closed the door. “What’s up?”
Sailor’s apartment smelled even more strongly of pleasant spices. I knew he didn’t cook, so I wasn’t sure where the scent came from—perhaps it was Sailor himself. I couldn’t get enough of his scent.
The apartment was small: a galley kitchen, a living room just big enough for a table and an upholstered armchair under a reading light, a stack of books sitting on the floor beside it. There were piles of papers and books everywhere, but no bookshelves. The bedroom consisted of a bed—also strewn with books and papers—and a closet, with a tiny bathroom attached. That was about it.
I took a seat at the table, and he sat backwards on the chair opposite me, his arms crossed over the back. It was a posture simultaneously defensive and aggressive.
He searched my face, unsmiling. I felt tendrils of energy reaching out, trying to worm their way into my thoughts.
“Are you trying to read my mind?” I demanded, stroking my medicine bag and slamming shut the gates to my thoughts.
He shrugged. “Thought it might help.”
I didn’t know how to be in a romantic relationship in the first place, much less one wherein my partner knew my every thought. Everyone has secrets, private corners of their soul and their mind that they don’t allow anyone to access. But among magical folks, secrecy is almost a religion.
Sailor had never been able to read my mind, which was a great relief to me. Had his training with Patience made him so much stronger that he could now push past my defenses? Was that even possible? And if so, did I need to protect myself against Sailor?
This did not bode well for our relationship.
“Unfortunately,” said Sailor, “I can’t read a damned thing. So you’ll have to tell me. What’s going on?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Patience?” I blurted out.
He cocked his head as though trying to understand what I was saying. “What about Patience?”
“She’s . . . gorgeous. And she’s not your cousin.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “She is my cousin.”
“I’m not going to argue the definition of cousin with you.”
“Glad to hear that.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Almost never. But speaking of relationships, you and Max have a nice time yesterday?”
“I thought I saw you ride by.”
He just waited.
“I had to talk to him about an article he wrote about El Pajarito and Ursula Moreno.”
“Uh huh,” he grunted, sounding unconvinced. “You could’ve asked me to come along. I like having lunch in North Beach bistros.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do if you’re having lunch in a North Beach bistro with another man.”
“It wasn’t like that, Sailor. You know that.”
“Do I? It seems to me you and Max were pretty hot and heavy there for a while. The way he looks at you . . . No, I don’t know what it’s like between you two.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Sailor. I promise.”
“And neither do you.”
“And . . . there’s something else. Selena is going to be a challenge, I can tell. Taking on a teenager would be a lot to ask of a boyfriend, but a teenager with special needs is even tougher. You didn’t sign up for something like that.”
He stared at me with his beautiful, unreadable eyes.
“And you did?”
“No, not exactly, but . . . Well, yes, I guess I did. I did when I told Ursula I would look after her, and then I told Selena if Ursula didn’t get out, she could stay with me.”
“And you think I wouldn’t be willing to do the same?”
“I’m . . . I don’t mean to put words in your mouth, Sailor. But I can never tell what you’re thinking. If Graciela hadn’t stepped in to help me back in the day, when I was just a little younger than Selena, I’d be . . . I don’t know what I’d be. Toast, probably. So I feel an obligation to pass it on, as they say.”
“Let me get this straight: You are committing to help raise this little witch, Selena, and you’re letting me go?”
Tears stung the back of my eyes. As a witch, I can’t cry. But as a woman, I often felt the desire to do so.
“You don’t think very much of me, do you?” he asked.
“I think a great deal of you, Sailor. And maybe now, with Patience—”
“Enough about Patience!” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t want her, Lily.”
“She’s just so freaking gorgeous.”
“Yes, she is. But she’s not my type.”
“Gorgeous, sexy Rom women aren’t your type?”
“Not at all.”
“Why not? Aren’t you human?”
He rose from the chair and came around the table; I stood to face him. He stopped in front of me, so close I felt the warmth of his body, only inches from mine.
“I guess I prefer nosy, stubborn, Southern women.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“But . . . what about Selena?”
“If I can handle a grown-up witch like you, I’m certainly not going to be frightened off by a teenage version. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m made of pretty stern stuff.”
I took a deep breath, remembering what Bronwyn had counseled me. I willed myself to believe that he was telling me the truth about Patience. And that he was enough of a man to take on not only me, but possibly my guardianship of Selena, and all that might entail.
“So, you really prefer nosy, stubborn Southern witches to unencumbered gypsy sexpots?”
He nodded, moved closer to me, and gave me a slow smile.
“Well, now,” I said with an exaggerated Texas twang, tilting my head and batting my eyelashes. “Y’all got yourself one of them li’l fillies right
here.”
“Don’t I just? Now, can we get back to the kissing?”
* * *
Selena was sitting on the floor near the register at Aunt Cora’s Closet, wearing a pair of white cotton gloves. She appeared intent on repairing and cleaning every piece of jewelry in the shop. Her single-minded industriousness made me feel a little like I was running a sweatshop, but I was glad to see her occupied.
“Did you know,” asked Bronwyn, “Selena has a knack for memorizing every herbal blend I can come up with? She can repeat complicated orders from yesterday morning without blinking an eye. Watch: Selena, what did I mix for Susan Rogers?”
Without looking up from her task, Selena recited: “Two parts echinacea, one part black-eyed Susan, mix with ground rose hips, shredded ginger root, add turmeric for color and anti-inflammatory properties. Combine with dried orange peel and bergamot to taste. Only sunflower honey for sweetening.”
“You see? She’s like an herbal recipe tape recorder.”
“That’s amazing.” With a memory like that, why hadn’t she told me every nuanced detail of what she had done at Betty’s house? Was she afraid to tell me? Or could loyalty to someone be keeping her mute?
Why, oh why, couldn’t mind-reading be one of my skills? I wondered if Sailor might be able to read her. Would it be ethical to ask him to try without Selena’s knowledge and consent? Would the all-powerful Patience allow him to “dissipate his powers” in the attempt?
Or . . . now that I knew what I did about some of Ursula’s “wrong” wax being made into poppets and placed in Betty’s house, and about Lupita, I wanted another peek at El Pajarito. Preferably without an impatient homicide inspector looking over my shoulder.
I glanced at the human tape recorder sitting quietly and cleaning jewelry. Should I bring Selena along? She might be able to tell me something about what was happening in the shop, and maybe even make the connection to what had happened to Nicky. It was her home, after all. Or at least it had been. Would it be too sad for her, or might it be good for her to go back?
I decided to just come out and ask her. She was so small that it was easy to think of her as a child, but she was fourteen years old. At that age, I had known my own mind.
“Selena, would you like to go with me to El Pajarito?”
She jumped up and grabbed her sweater.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I murmured, then turned to Bronwyn. “Can you handle things here?”
“Of course, Sunday afternoons are slow. But”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“are you allowed to go back there? I thought it was a crime scene?”
“No, not at all,” I stretched the truth. “There’s not even crime scene tape across the door. It’s just a mess, is all. No worries.”
Besides, I could protect myself and Selena easily enough; we would wear our talismans, and there wouldn’t be scary people there, just out-of-control store supplies.
That Bad Luck spray had no chance against yours truly. Not to toot my own horn, but I wasn’t that easily cowed.
And I had the distinct impression that neither was Selena.
* * *
Selena and I peered through the metal security grates that covered the front of El Pajarito.
Santa Muerte’s cigarette dangled from her bony mouth at a rakish angle, and her skeletal visage appeared to smile. But Selena only had eyes for the bedlam beyond the display window.
“Wow,” said Selena. “That’s a real mess.”
“You can say that again.” If and when Ursula was released, she was going to have one heck of a time getting things back to normal.
I was pleased to see that although Selena was shocked by the mess, she did not appear to be traumatized.
“Shall we go in?” I asked my partner in crime.
“How? It’s locked, and I don’t have a key.”
“Good point,” I said. I had been so intent on making sure Selena and I had protective talismans, I had forgotten to bring my Hand of Glory. “What about around the back? Is there a window, or something?”
Selena’s eyes were wide and serious. “We’re going to break in?”
Adhering to the code of normal people had never worked all that well for me, so recently I had embraced the “witches’ code”: An it harm none do what ye will. In my grandmother’s words, “haz lo que necesitas,” or “do what you need to do.” The “do no harm” was implied.
All of which is to say I wasn’t above breaking into Ursula’s store to look for evidence of a doll similar to the poppet found in Betty North’s house.
“We’re hardly breaking in, now, are we? After all, it’s your grandmother’s store, right?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that why you invited me along? So you wouldn’t get in trouble for breaking and entering?”
“No, of course not. I invited you along because I thought you could help me figure out what might be going on here. I also thought you would enjoy being back.”
“Hmmm,” she said, giving me a speculative look, as if I were a juvenile delinquent and she the schoolmarm.
“C’mon,” I said.
“Where we going?”
“Around back.”
“Can’t. The gate to the alley behind the store is locked.”
“Let’s try next door.”
The neighboring business sported a huge sign advertising: “Money Orders, Send Money Back Home!” Through the front window I spied a ray of afternoon sun shining through a small window in the door at the back of the store.
“Follow my lead,” I said, and we went in.
A long line of people waited patiently for their turn at one of the tellers, who sat behind thick slabs of bulletproof glass.
I marched briskly past them toward the rear of the store, Selena close on my heels. We pushed through the door at the rear, and into the alley. The door swung shut and locked behind us.
“Why didn’t anyone stop us?” Selena asked.
“Never underestimate the power of a self-confident woman in a vintage dress.”
The narrow alley was lined with trash cans and recycling containers. One end was closed off by a brick wall, the other by a chained gate topped with barbed wire. By virtue of the locked gate, the alley was populated by no one but the two of us and, I was certain, vermin.
A little blue bench sat next to the back door of El Pajarito, the twin of the bench out front. Cigarette butts littered the concrete in a semicircle around it. Apparently Santa Muerte wasn’t the only one with a nicotine habit.
As I had hoped, the alley access to Ursula’s store wasn’t as secure as the street entry. There was a door and an unbarred window, and the door appeared to be secured with a simple doorknob lock. I pulled a credit card from my satchel and slipped it between the doorframe and the knob as I had seen done in movies. I wasn’t at all sure this would work, but figured it was worth a try. My backup plan was to break the window, which I hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Sure enough, after working the credit card a few minutes, the lock mechanism released.
“You can open locks?” Selena said, more awed by this simple trick than any of my magic she had witnessed.
“Watch and learn, young grasshopper,” I said, feeling smug. Unfortunately, the door opened only a few inches before being caught by a chain.
Selena snickered.
I smiled at her, pleased to hear her laugh. If I couldn’t break into the store, at least I could amuse my ward.
I pulled a chopstick from my bag, and shut the door as far as I could while still allowing enough room to maneuver. I closed my eyes and concentrated on envisioning the chain sliding. After another few moments—and a couple of swear words—it fell away.
“You’re amazing,” said Selena.
“Thanks. Hey, before we go in, this is what I’d like you to do: Feel for anything out of place, anything odd.”
“The whole place is ‘out of place.’ It’s a mess.”
“I mean at a deeper level. See if you feel anything ‘wrong,’ the same
way you did with the wax doll you found in Betty’s clothes.”
“Okay.”
We entered El Pajarito.
Unlike the shop floor, the back of the store was neat as a pin, the air scented with bleach and a sweet-smelling detergent I always associated with Mexico. Boxes were labeled in a neat, tight handwriting: Holy water, Lourdes; Holy water, Guadalupe; Holy water, Jerusalem. Candles: success, love, family, scholarship, car accidents.
A desk held a neat stack of papers, and wire baskets labeled “In” and “Out” for bills and invoices. I flipped through the bills in the “Out” basket: business taxes, what looked like a greeting card, a credit card bill. All stamped and ready to go; I picked them up and put them in my satchel to drop in the mail for Ursula. It was the least I could do.
There were a couple of paintings on the wall that reminded me of a Rorschach test: black ink on a red-brown background. To my mind they looked like twin demons; if I looked long enough I saw open mouths complete with fangs.
“You see what you want to see,” the experts would say. I remembered meeting with a middle school psychologist after the incident with the exploding basketballs. She showed me a series of images, and even though I saw demons then, too, I told her I saw butterflies and kittens playing with a ball of yarn. I may have been young, but I wasn’t stupid.
“What are these pictures of?” I asked Selena.
“Nothing,” she said, hands splayed at her side as she attempted to sense something. “They’re abstract.”
Apparently she wasn’t stupid, either.
Time to face the mayhem in Ursula’s shop.
I paused in the short hallway that led to the shop floor, taking a moment to steel myself. What I had said to Carlos the other day wasn’t a joke; this was highly unusual behavior in merchandise. I’d witnessed the occasional rogue activity, but only under a specific set of circumstances: when I was under the influence of strong emotions and physical connection—like lovemaking. Other people worried about accidental pregnancies or STDs. I caused dresses to dance or rose petals to appear.
Could the same principle apply under different circumstances? Maybe the merchandise in Ursula’s store was responding to the strong emotions Ursula had felt upon being arrested and hauled off to jail.
Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 22
