Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  I thought about what Rebecca had said, that it couldn’t be easy to grow up as a senator’s child. Or like Gregory, with his wealthy but absent parents. Or certainly as the son of a man who considered himself a devilish prince.

  On the other hand, Oliver and Atticus and Nichol had one another, as well as parents—however challenging—who loved them, which was a lot more than many of us could claim.

  When I first encountered Malachi’s corpse on the table mere days ago, I thought he must have been orchestrating something evil, something wrong. But now, reading his letters, talking to his friends, it was hard to know what to think. They painted a different picture of the man entirely. As though he were yet another victim. Could he really have been simply trying to disprove the tenets of his father’s life, reacting to the superstitious chaos he had grown up in?

  “Thank you for helping to figure things out, for finding out what happened,” Nichol said, a little hiccup in her throat. She hugged me.

  I was never sure what to do in these circumstances. I’m not really a hugger. Feeling awkward, I patted her on the back. Nichol’s vibrations were young. Younger than her years. I was getting the distinct impression that most of these Serpentarians were immature and silly, rather than sinister.

  I noted a bracelet on Nichol’s arm that had been covered by her sleeve earlier. It was distinctive, made of lace and worked silver links.

  Last time I saw that bracelet, it was in my shop, near the display shelf of silk scarves.

  “Nichol, how did you come to pass by Aunt Cora’s Closet yesterday?”

  “What kind of closet?”

  “It’s a vintage clothing store on Haight Street.”

  “Oh! I did go by there. How did you know?”

  “I own that store. My assistant mentioned that she saw you. She recognized you. She’s a fan,” I added, covering up the suspicions of shoplifting.

  “When I get stressed out I shop. I know what you’re thinking,” she said to her brother. “But it’s not like that anymore . . . I just . . . the last time I was at Malachi’s apartment I saw this newsletter for the Art Deco Society and it mentioned that store had a lot of pieces from the era. That was back when I thought Malachi and I were going to go to the dance together. Before . . .”

  Her voice trailed off; she looked out toward the main house, her gaze far away.

  “Why is a shopkeeper looking into a murder?” Atticus asked, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “It’s a little hard to explain . . . but believe me when I tell you I’m trying to help.”

  Atticus took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, thoughtful sigh. Then he nodded. “We’d appreciate your keeping our family’s name out of any of this, to the extent that you can.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I can’t speak for the police, of course, but if Oliver wasn’t even there after the dinner, there’s no reason his name should be mentioned in conjunction with the case.”

  “Tell Oliver good-bye from me,” Gregory said to Atticus. “Tell him to give me a call when things are a little calmer.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  We said our good-byes. Gregory and I climbed into the van and pulled down the driveway. My mind was racing, thinking of my next stop.

  It was high time I went by the “black abode.” Not that I believed Malachi was the son of any sort of devil, but I wanted to have a little chat with Daddy Zazi.

  We dropped Gregory back at his temporary dwelling, the Hotel Wharton, and watched him slump in through the front door.

  “About time we got rid of that sad sack,” Sailor said. “What a drag.”

  “So says Mr. Happy-go-lucky.”

  “Hey, compared to him I’m a ray of sunshine.”

  “Gregory’s got call to be sad. He thinks he’s losing his family.”

  “With an attitude like that, they’re better off without him. Anyway,” he said, clapping his hands together loudly enough to make our animal companions both jump and pay attention, “is it just me, or is it well past lunchtime? I thought the least those rich folks could have done was to offer us snacks.”

  Oscar snorted his approval.

  “I guess I’m a might peckish as well,” I conceded. Glancing down at my watch, I saw it was after two o’clock.

  “I know a great taco truck not too far from here,” said Sailor. “Best carnitas in town. Take a left on Fourteenth.”

  Oscar, who had turned back into his natural form, harrumphed in the backseat. Given that he spent half his time lately as a potbellied pig, he had become sensitive on the subject of pork. I never ate it anymore myself. Or bacon . . . and I used to adore bacon. My mouth watered just thinking of it.

  I followed Sailor’s directions to a truck that had set up business in the parking lot of an abandoned-looking drugstore. I ordered vegetarian options for me and Oscar, and chicken for the cat. Sailor, refusing to be cowed by what he called a gremlin, ordered beef and pork.

  While Sailor waited for the food, I took advantage of a rare public telephone to check in at Aunt Cora’s Closet. Maya told me all was well, Bronwyn had arrived, sales were good, and then added, “Max called.”

  “He did? What did he say?”

  “He’s in town, I guess. He’s looking for you.”

  Terrible timing. This whole Malachi Zazi thing seemed custom-tailored as the sort of supernaturally charged mess Max would not want to be mixed up in. But still . . . I was glad he called. And Maya didn’t really know what I was up to, so—

  “I didn’t talk to him, Bronwyn did. They had quite a long talk. She told him all about what was going on at home, poor thing.”

  “She told him everything?”

  “She said you were helping out, talking to some folks. That you started by talking to that other reporter over at the paper. Hey, I’ve got a line forming. I’d better go.”

  I kept my hand on the phone receiver for a moment, thinking. Great. Max had finally called, and now I reckoned he knew exactly what I was up to. Bronwyn told him all the details, no doubt. Would he try to talk me out of what I was doing, or mind his own business, or go after—

  “Food,” Sailor said, interrupting my thoughts. He gestured at me with hands full of overstuffed tacos.

  We sat on a low cinder-block wall to enjoy. I put the animals’ food on the cracked concrete sidewalk in front of us.

  “So when you read Gregory’s mind, did it tell you anything?” I asked, biting into a scrumptious cheese and guacamole taco. It was so good I sighed and let out a little moan.

  Sailor looked amused. “Hungry?”

  I smiled. “I hadn’t realized ’til right this minute.”

  He took a huge bite of taco and shook his head. “I didn’t read Gregory’s mind.”

  “You didn’t? Back in the hotel room?”

  He shook his head again, finishing off one of his carne de res tacos.

  “But you gave me a little signal when I looked over at you, a little flick of your head.”

  “That had nothing to do with reading his mind. It meant he was a jerk.”

  “So we don’t know for sure that he’s innocent?”

  “I think it’s pretty clear. I doubt a man like that is capable of murder.”

  “And you know this how? Why didn’t you read his mind?”

  “I don’t just go around reading minds on a whim, you know. It takes work. It takes energy. And it’s kind of . . . creepy.”

  “‘Creepy’?”

  “Makes me feel like a stalker.” Sailor seemed almost embarrassed. “There are privacy issues, for crissakes.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath. Super. A reluctant psychic with an overdeveloped sense of ethics.

  Two sets of eyes were riveted on us. Oscar and the cat had inhaled their snacks and were now attempting porcine and feline mind control, respectively, trying through sheer force of will to compel Sailor and me to drop our food.

  “We’re not far from the Richmond District, are we?” I asked.

&nbs
p; “What do you need in the Richmond?”

  “I’m going to the Devil’s House. The black abode. Whatever it’s called.”

  “You can’t just go over there.”

  “Why not? Do you know the ‘prince’?”

  “No, of course I don’t know him. No one in their right mind would associate with a man like that.”

  “Do you even believe in that sort of thing? That devil stuff?”

  “No, but . . . I believe that he believes. In a way it’s worse. At least when you’re dealing with an actual demon there are clearly established rules of the game.”

  “I guess you’re right at that. Anyway, that’s where I’m headed. Suppose Aidan will mind?”

  Sailor looked at me, startled, guilt in his dark eyes.

  “Come on, Sailor, we both know that Aidan sent you.”

  “He did not.”

  “Did too. I don’t have to be a psychic to figure out that much. What does he want?”

  He shrugged.

  “Did you really expect me to buy the idea that you just wanted to ‘hang out’ with someone like me?”

  “You’re not that bad.”

  “From you, I’ll take that as high praise. So what did Aidan tell you to do? What are you looking for?”

  “Dunno exactly. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you.”

  “Keep ‘tabs’ on me?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  “What does that consist of, exactly?”

  “I’m sort of playing this by the seat of my pants here,” Sailor said with a shrug. “With most folks, I can track them from afar. Since I can’t read your mind, that wasn’t an option. So here I am. Like a very poorly paid private eye following an unfaithful spouse.”

  “And then what? You tell Aidan where I’ve been?”

  “Something like that. It appears that his other sources haven’t been all that reliable.”

  He shot a glance toward Oscar, who snorted, ducked down, and became suddenly fascinated by the cat.

  “Well, I’m headed to the black abode,” I said as I stood and started to gather our trash. “Want me to drop you off somewhere on the way?”

  Sailor let out a long-suffering sigh. “No, I’ll go with you.”

  My reluctant stalker.

  Chapter 12

  The Devil’s House was pretty easy to spot.

  A run-down Victorian on a busy street, it was painted a solid black that might once have been shocking, but which now had faded to a matte dark gray. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the front yard: a patch of tall dry grass strewn with papers, plastic bags, a couple of smashed wooden chairs, a bureau missing half its drawers, and a soiled mattress. In the driveway sat a generic-looking silver Honda Civic, its everyday blandness making the stark house seem even stranger.

  Glancing at the perfectly normal Victorians on either side, prettily painted in shades of white, gold, and yellow, I couldn’t help but wonder what the neighbors must think.

  “Looks like the Addams family home the day after a frat party,” Sailor said as I pulled into a parking space at the curb not far from the house. “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of this?”

  “I just want to talk with him.”

  “I can’t go in there with you. There are reasons. . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he just said, “Aidan wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Stay here with the animals, then. That’s best anyway.”

  He held my eyes for a long moment.

  “Screw Aidan. If you need me, I’ll come with you.”

  “No, Sailor, really. I’m more likely to learn something useful if I speak to him one-on-one, in any case.”

  “If you need me, shout. Loudly.”

  “Literally, or psychically?”

  He smiled. “Psychically should do it. Just let me know you need me, put some of your considerable power behind it, and I’ll come.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I walked to the gate, I told myself that however underwhelming the black abode might seem at first glance, it was best to take it seriously. Evil can lurk behind the most mundane façades: the quaint tile-roofed adobes that dotted the town of my youth; a bucolic thatched-roof hut in Botswana where I barely escaped a pointed finger and a whispered accusation of “witch”; the fairy-tale houses of a remote Bavarian town where I finally tracked my father, and found so much more than I’d bargained for, so many years ago.

  Anyone who would name his home after the devil, whether it was just a ploy to make money or a sincere belief, was to be treated carefully.

  I was reaching out for the gate when a man’s voice came from behind me.

  “Lily.”

  It was a voice I knew well. Max Carmichael.

  “Max, what in the world are you doing here?”

  I glanced back at the van, hoping Sailor had the sense to quite literally lie low. The last time Max spotted Sailor he hauled off and socked him in the eye. Not over me, mind you, but still. Things were feeling a little unpredictable at the moment. The last thing I needed was boys fighting in front of the black abode. Talk about a frat party.

  “I called the store. Bronwyn told me you were working on a case involving her son-in-law. Then Nigel told me you were asking about the father of the victim, and the location of his charming house.”

  “So you figured I’d come here.”

  He smiled. “Hard to believe you’d talk to this guy alone, but then again . . . it made a certain kind of sense, in Lily-land.”

  I noted a coffee stain on his white T-shirt and a few crumbs on his jeans. He appeared haggard, his gray eyes weary. And yet, somehow, he looked great.

  “You mean you sat in your car, just waiting for me? How long?”

  He shrugged. “I had lunch. Good a place as any.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “I thought I might need to rescue you.”

  “Rescue me?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “From?”

  “That man’s a nutcase.”

  “I have no need of being rescued. Much less a desire to be rescued. If there’s any rescuing to be done I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flutter of drapes. Someone was looking down at us from a second-story window. I raised a hand in greeting. A buzzer sounded, and I unlatched the gate.

  Max stayed close on my heels. Apparently I had swapped one bodyguard for another.

  The gate clanged shut behind us.

  The cement walkway was cracked and studded with weeds; the wooden porch steps were rotting, the boards sagging and creaking under today’s pink Keds–clad feet. An improvised beam of wood lying atop two ladders seemed to be holding up the roof of the front portico. I was getting the distinct sense that business wasn’t great these days.

  A moment later I heard voices coming from behind the door. Again, like the house itself, they seemed less frightening than mundane, everyday voices squabbling over who should answer the door. Two female, one male.

  Finally, the door swung inward. Creaking. Just like a haunted house. I rolled my eyes. But I was brought up short, the laughter dying in my throat at the woman standing in front of me.

  It was the woman I had seen in the store. The timebender, Doura. She smiled, one bloodred-tipped hand clutching the edge of the door as though ready to slam it shut. A mass of blond curls hung down to her ample breasts, much of which were on display above a sweetheart neckline. Her eyes were outlined with heavy black liner, accented by bright blue eye shadow.

  “I wondered when you would show up,” she said with her jarringly baby-doll voice, malevolence in her blue-green heavy-lidded eyes.

  “How nice to see you again,” I lied, hoping—but not expecting—to win her over with exaggerated good manners, as my mama would do.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, giving Max a blatant once-over and a sexy smile.

  “I’m her bodyguard,” Max said. “Pretend I
’m not even here.”

  “Easier said than done, handsome,” Doura said.

  “I was hoping to find Prince High Zazi at home?” I interrupted.

  “Prince High? Oh, Prince High!” she called over her shoulder, still studying me, smiling.

  Descending the shadowy stairs was the goateed man who had accompanied Doura when first I saw her. He moved slowly, one gaunt hand gripping the banister, the other holding a cane for support. He was a lanky man, and must have been taller, I thought, before the ravages of age. His hair and goatee were dyed that sooty black. His eyebrows formed dramatic, upside-down vees over his eyes.

  “Prince High?” I asked.

  Doura laughed again.

  “It’s the High Prince!” said the man. His voice betrayed none of the frailty of his physical form—it was deep, mellow. I thought of what Nigel said, that this man had once been a magnetic, charismatic leader. “How many times do I have to tell you people? High Prince of Hell. Not Prince High. It’s as though people mangle it on purpose.”

  Demons refer to themselves as “high princes.” I might be unsure about a lot of things lately, but this much was clear: The old man before me was no demon.

  “My name’s Lily Ivory,” I said. “We sort of met the other day . . . I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your son.”

  “My son.” He leaned back, appearing more thoughtful than sad. “My son has passed.”

  “I know that, sir. I’m sorry for your loss—”

  “And who’s the stiff?”

  “Max Carmichael,” said Max. I noticed that neither man put his hand out to shake. Once again Doura’s heated gaze raked over him, and she quite literally licked her lips.

  “You’re with the paper,” said the Prince. “You enjoy exposing frauds, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Among other things,” Max said and nodded.

  “I’m no fraud.”

  “Then there’s no problem.”

  “Do you think we could sit, talk perhaps?” I interjected. I didn’t want this discussion to be taken over by allegations of fraud. I had my own questions.

  “She’s a witch,” Doura said to the Prince. “Don’t you remember? The one from the thrift store.”