Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  “About what?”

  Nigel shrugged and scratched his head. “I don’t buy into this whole supernatural deal, but it bugs me when people fool around with it. You never know when they’ll slide on over into animal sacrifice, that sort of thing. Scares the hell out of me.”

  I nodded. Best not to follow that one up. Nigel was open-minded, but witchcraft was a bit much to ask most anyone to swallow outside of the Haight.

  “Do you think the dinner participants talked themselves into the bad luck somehow?”

  “Could be. I—”

  His eyes shifted over my shoulder.

  I whirled around to see what, or who, he was looking at. My heart pounded, thinking it might be Max.

  It wasn’t.

  It was a woman I’d seen with Max once before. Lovely. Sleek. Wearing a very expensive chic outfit. Very put together in a career-woman-on-the-go sort of way. Her eyes settled on me briefly before skipping past me to land on Nigel.

  “How’s that piece on city hall coming?” she asked him.

  “Just waiting on a callback with a final confirmation. I’ll send it over shortly.”

  “And the SoMa article?”

  “I’m on it.”

  She nodded, seemingly unconvinced. Her pretty eyes settled on me once more.

  “I know you.”

  “Yes.” I stood and held out my hand to her. “Lily Ivory,” I said. “We haven’t officially met, but I was with Max Carmichael one time—”

  “Oh, right. That’s it.” She ignored my hand, turned away. Over her shoulder as she left she said to Nigel, “No time like the present, right?”

  Nigel didn’t respond, other than to lean back farther, hands linked over his belly. His desk chair protested the move. When I sat back down and met his eyes, one side of his mouth hitched up in a half smile.

  “She’s fond of Max Carmichael.”

  “So am I.”

  “That’s the problem.” He smiled and shrugged one chubby shoulder. “She’s a hard-ass, but she puts out a good product. Speaking of Max, have you seen him since he got back?”

  “Max is in town?”

  “Uh . . . yep.” There was something like a blush on his cheeks. “I guess he hasn’t had a chance to call.”

  “I guess.”

  Nigel leaned forward and shoved the manila envelope toward me. “Take this, if you like. Some of the names are on the back of the photos. You might want to check out some of the participants, see if any of them are willing to talk to you.”

  “I won’t be stepping on your toes, then? Mucking up your investigation?”

  “I’ve been pulled off of it,” he said, telegraphing his anger and frustration. “They’re keeping me busy on other things, and lately I’m not in a position to rock the journalistic boat. This story needs telling, though.”

  “Do you think someone’s trying to stifle the story?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t have any proof of anything, just my journalistic intuition. There are a lot of powerful people on that list; or more to the point, these are the children of powerful people.” He tapped the envelope. “There are probably a whole lot of folks who’d rather keep this whole story under wraps—such as one Mike Perkins. Not to mention Senator Huffman.” He wrote something on the back of his business card and handed it to me. “Here’s my cell number. Feel free to call if I can help fill in any details. It’s probably best if you call, though, rather than stopping by.”

  I thanked him, stood, and shook his hand.

  “Lily—be careful. These folks may be wing nuts, but some of them are wing nuts with powerful connections.”

  “I will be,” I said. “Oh, you wouldn’t like to adopt a cat by any chance?”

  “A cat?”

  “It seems perfectly healthy. Sweet-natured, pretty, all black.”

  He shook his head. “I’m a dog person. Got two golden retrievers at home, that’s more than we need already.”

  “Thought I’d give it a shot,” I said with a shrug. “Thanks again for your help.”

  “Anytime,” he said. His eyes shifted over to the glassed-in office again. “Next time give me a call, and I’ll meet you somewhere. Not here.”

  I nodded. “Will do.”

  Despite our talk of bad luck and “black abodes,” as I made my way onto the elevator and down to the parking garage, one thought kept echoing through my head, and my heart: Max is back. But he hasn’t called me.

  That could only mean one thing . . . couldn’t it? He’d decided he couldn’t deal with my witchy ways.

  I felt a surge of anger. Car alarms began to blare as I walked past.

  Max was a coward. A cowardly cowan, just as Oscar liked to call him. How was it possible that a gargoylelike goblin like Oscar would be smarter than I at romance?

  As I walked across the parking lot, I rooted around in my satchel for my keys. Finally I looked up to see a man leaning against my car.

  Max?

  Chapter 9

  My heart leapt.

  Like Max, the man beside my car was tall and dark-haired. But he was leaner . . . and I would wager he was a durn sight meaner.

  “What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?” I said.

  “Hello to you too, Ms. Grumpy-pants,” Sailor said.

  “I . . . wasn’t expecting anyone.” I unlocked the van and threw in my bag, trying to cover my thoughts of Max by acting surprised. Normally Sailor couldn’t read my mind, but at the moment I was so focused on Max I’d be surprised if my grandmother wasn’t feeling my hurt and yearning all fifteen hundred miles away in Jarod, Texas. I took a deep breath and turned back to Sailor. “What do you want?”

  “You’re saying I have to have a reason for visiting my favorite witch?” His voice was smoky, his eyes heavy-lidded and seductive. A bit of mysterious sadness showed through his gruff exterior. Though I had seen him act this way to others, he had never turned his dubious charms on me.

  “You don’t like witches,” I pointed out, immediately suspicious.

  “I don’t like Aidan. Nothing against witches per se.”

  “Uh-huh. So what are you doing here?”

  He laughed. I had never heard the sound. It was deep, and surprisingly pleasant.

  “I felt bad about yesterday. I tend toward the churlish, I know, especially after spending time with Aidan. Anyway, I’m turning over a new leaf. The truth is . . .” As his voice trailed off, he shrugged and avoided my eyes. “I don’t have all that many friends. It may be time for me to reach out.”

  I doubted him. Seriously. I imagined he really was working for Aidan, I just couldn’t figure out exactly why. But upon reflection, I decided I could use some company at the moment. I didn’t relish the thought of traipsing around after murder suspects on my own. Usually I was a solo act, since normal humans couldn’t protect themselves as well as I could. But Sailor was different. Whether he liked it or not, he was strong. And it might be useful having him around. I had barely started asking questions about Malachi’s murder, but already there seemed to be much more to this than a simple crime of passion, or the result of bad luck symbols, for that matter. Maybe Sailor could read some minds, some vibrations, and help clue me in on what was going on.

  “All right,” I said as I climbed into the driver’s seat. “Jump in.”

  “Great,” he said in his more familiar sardonic tone, as he saw Oscar and the cat in the back of the van. “Me and the menagerie. Maybe we can pick up a stray dog, or maybe a raccoon, and make it a party.”

  By the time I pulled out onto Harrison the cat had moved to sit in Sailor’s lap. Sailor reared back, looking as appalled as Oscar had in the same situation.

  “Not a cat person, I take it?” I asked.

  He didn’t deign to answer. Instead, a strange look came over the strong planes of his face. He laid his broad hands upon the feline, ducked his head, and fell silent.

  “This is not your cat,” he said after a long moment.

  “No,” I responded, though it was
n’t a question.

  Sailor met my eyes.

  “Can it tell you something?” I asked, suddenly excited. Could Sailor find out from the cat what happened in Malachi’s apartment that night? “It may have been witness to a murder. Can you read its mind?”

  But he was shaking his head.

  “They don’t process like we do. They’re mostly about visuals, pictures, sensations.”

  “Yes, but . . . Did it see what happened?”

  “No. But there was something there . . . something evil.”

  I sat back, disappointed. “A fat lot of help you are, Mr. Psychic. I think I figured that much out as soon as I saw the man sprawled on the table with a piece of broken mirror stuck in his chest.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sailor asked, and I realized he knew nothing of Malachi Zazi’s untimely death. I gave him the abridged version.

  “So I thought maybe you could tell me something, from the cat.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault,” Sailor said. “I do what I can. Have you ever wandered through the recesses of a cat’s thoughts? It’s mostly about smoked ham and dust motes.”

  Oscar snorted loudly from the back of the van.

  I pulled over and consulted a San Francisco road map, checking the street signs against it, and the address Rebecca had given me.

  Sailor watched me for a moment. “Where are you trying to get to?”

  I told him the address.

  “That’s in the Tenderloin.”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s about three blocks from the newspaper offices.”

  “It is?”

  “Next time I’m driving. Take a left.”

  San Francisco is a small town, geographically speaking. Thus, one can pass from a prosperous, well-tended area to a run-down, poverty-stricken neighborhood within the space of a city block or two. Though the Tenderloin sits cheek by jowl with the theater district, the denizens here could scarce afford a movie, never mind an off-Broadway show.

  We passed a soup kitchen with a long line of scruffy people waiting, defeated and patient. Several men crowded the corners, holding signs declaring they were available for work. The women, many wearing garish makeup and clothing far too skimpy for San Francisco’s changeable weather, looked as though they did whatever they had to in order to survive.

  “At least there’s plenty of parking,” I said as I pulled to a spot at the curb in front of a dingy white four-story building. An old half-lit neon sign flickered near the double doors: HOTEL WHARTON—VACANCY.

  “There might not be much left of this van by the time we get back.”

  “Sounds like a good reason for you to stay here, keep things safe.” Though it was nice knowing that Sailor was nearby, I didn’t feel any need to have him accompany me to interview Bronwyn’s son-in-law, Gregory. Besides, I wouldn’t know how to explain him to Rebecca. I’d rather save him for bigger fish, presuming I could track any down.

  I climbed out of the vehicle. Sailor did the same.

  “You’re not coming with me for this,” I told Sailor as we both slammed our doors. “I’d rather talk to this fella alone.”

  “Who is it?”

  “None of your business. It’s personal. Stay here with the animals.”

  Just then a building alarm rang out. A series of muffled pops sounded suspiciously like gunshots. A small group laughed and smoked on the corner, selling a questionable collection of stained clothing that hung on the Cyclone fence behind them.

  Sailor snorted. “Yeah, I can just imagine explaining this one to your friends at Aunt Cora’s Closet. ‘Guess I shouldn’t have let her go into the worst dive in the city alone. So sorry about that knife in her back.’ Peaceloving Wiccans or not, they’d put a pox on me.”

  “Really, I don’t need a bodyguard, Sailor. I’ve got talismans that are a darned sight better protection than you are.”

  He shrugged and came over to stand beside me. “You’re a witch, not an immortal.”

  A man reeled toward us on unsteady feet. He wore jeans and an old pin-striped vest that barely hid his sweaty, hairy beer belly; as he neared I noted the stench of alcohol and body odor. The man’s rheumy eyes fixed on me and he gave me a moist leer.

  I leaned into Sailor.

  My self-appointed bodyguard looked down at me, amused. “How quickly the mighty change their tune,” he said in a low voice. Still, he draped his arm around my shoulders and glowered at the drunken man. Then he urged me toward the hotel doors. “Let’s go, tiger.”

  Black leather jacket and permanent scowl or no, Sailor was a psychic, not invincible. Save for premonition, testosterone, bravado, and his fists, he had no actual way of keeping himself safe. I fished around in my Filipino woven backpack until my hand wrapped around a talisman I had carved and charged during the last full moon. I put it around his head, laid my hands flat on his chest, and chanted a quick charm of protection.

  When I stepped back, his eyes were dark and searching, though as always hard to read. Full of questions, that much was clear. And something else, something unusual, unexpected. Vulnerability?

  The moment passed.

  I cast a quick spell of protection over the van and its inhabitants before setting off to find Rebecca’s errant husband.

  “This is just lovely,” grumbled Sailor as we stepped into the dingy lobby. The eye-watering chemical aroma of Pine-Sol wasn’t sufficient to hide the underlying scent of unwashed humanity.

  “Your place isn’t a whole sight better,” I pointed out.

  “Give me a break. My apartment building may be run-down, but it’s nothing like this.”

  He was right. Not all poverty is the same: In many instances, it leads to a neighborly interdependence, strong family bonds, hard work, and determination. Often, the more people have to rely upon one another, the more they retain their cultural integrity and remain loyal to their family and friends. But here, in this section of the Tenderloin at least, the grinding poverty was part and parcel of degradation, addiction, and hopelessness.

  The Hotel Wharton was the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour. As a domicile its chief advantage, as far as I could imagine, was the price, and the fact that no one would ask questions. About anything. Their recent spate of bad luck notwithstanding, surely the Petrovics had the resources for Gregory to stay someplace decent upon being expelled from the family home. I would imagine Rebecca’s husband feeling most comfortable at a Marriott extended-stay hotel, someplace corporate and shiny and new.

  There was only one obvious explanation: Gregory Petrovic was punishing himself.

  No one stopped Sailor and me or asked who we were looking for as we made our way down a first-floor hallway. The indoor-outdoor gray carpeting was threadbare and stained, and the cracked stucco walls vibrated with despair. Sounds of televisions and loud conversations seeped through the series of thin doors.

  I knocked on the door of room 112.

  The man who answered was of average height, pale, with thinning light brown hair. His eyes were surprisingly pretty, large and long-lashed in the way of Maybelline models. Heavy-lidded, they might have been very romantic if they hadn’t been rimmed in red from lack of sleep, or drink. He was lean and fit, with that signature Bay Area upwardly mobile professional look of a man who mountain bikes and windsurfs in his downtime, making it a point of pride to maintain a flat belly after the age of thirty. It was easy enough to imagine that with a change of clothes, he and Rebecca would make a polished-looking affluent couple.

  Everything about him looked out of place in this hotel, except for the defeated look in his eyes and a grimy bandage on the ring finger and pinky of his left hand.

  “Gregory? I’m Lily Ivory. I work with Bronwyn, your mother-in-law?” I said. His expression remained flat, vacant. “Rebecca sent me. Could we talk?”

  “Who’s that?” he asked, glancing behind me.

  “An associate of mine. Sailor.”

  Gregory shrugged, stepped back, and let us in. The roo
m was standard flophouse: a twelve-by-twelve space with a single window looking out over an alley, a sagging double bed, a scarred bureau with one drawer missing, and a tattered love seat near the window. I had stayed in worse in my time, but always in much more exotic surroundings—Morocco, Thailand, Amsterdam. There it seemed rather romantic. Here, plain miserable.

  The bed was neatly made, but clothes were strewn about, and papers spilled out of an open briefcase at the foot of the bed. An empty grease-stained Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket sat on the floor, and a bottle of expensive bourbon stood on the nightstand.

  “Is Rebecca ready to see me?” Gregory asked.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t actually know. I came to speak to you about Malachi Zazi.”

  “Oh.” He drooped like a deflated balloon, sinking down onto the side of the bed and cradling his head in his hands. He let off a defeated thrum, like a funeral dirge. “When Rebecca called and said you’d be coming by, I thought maybe it had to do with us. Her and me, I mean. She told me she’d think about letting me visit with the kids. . . .”

  After a moment he looked back up, as though surprised to see we were still there.

  “Oh, sorry. Have a seat.”

  I perched on the room’s single wooden chair.

  Sailor remained silent, standing at the door. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned back against the wall, and glowered. My own personal Secret Service detail.

  “The police haven’t pressed charges against you, have they?” I asked. “Do you expect them to?”

  “I have no idea. The way my life’s spinning out of control lately, probably.”

  “Tell me what’s been going on.”

  “I wish I knew. Everything . . . first my research experiments were tampered with. The results were forged, and it looked like I did it, but I didn’t. I swear. I spent less time at home, trying to make up for what was spinning out of control at work. But then we got an audit notice from the IRS, and we owe a bunch of back taxes. I got into a fender bender. And then I started . . . drinking. I managed to get a DUI. I even smashed my hand in the car door,” he said, holding up his bandage with an almost petulant sort of “Why me?” look on his face. “And now this. I’m accused of murder.”