Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  Oscar snorted in the back. For some reason he didn’t like to transform in front of Sailor, even though I was pretty sure Sailor knew exactly what Oscar was.

  I tried to shake off the aftereffects of the kiss, trying desperately not to think of passion. Of sex. That was one thing that could really mess with a witch’s energy. Though, now that I thought about it, I was tired of living like a nun. I’d like the chance to get to really understand sex magic, and learn to control it. I reckoned I’d enjoy that homework just slightly more than algebra.

  Enough. I forced my thoughts back to the really important matter at hand: Malachi Zazi’s murder, and Gregory’s involvement . . . or lack thereof. If Oliver’s testimony about an overheard argument was all the authorities had against him, then I couldn’t imagine they would actually be pressing charges. Still, I needed to check in with Carlos Romero, ask him where things stood. Meanwhile, I sure would like to know more about this Doura creature. Among other things, now that it seemed unlikely Malachi was any kind of supernatural practitioner, someone else must have wiped down the apartment of any vibrations, muting them unnaturally. Doura seemed more than capable of that kind of magic, given her time-bending abilities. And according to Gregory and Nichol she had been at the dinner that last night, so she had opportunity. The fact that Doura herself denied being there only made it seem more likely.

  Who was this Doura, why was she hanging around a degenerate poser like Prince High, and how was she involved in this murder?

  I pulled up in front of the parking garage at the Chronicle building.

  “What are we doing here?” Sailor asked.

  “I’m dropping you off so you can pick up your motorcycle. I’m going home.”

  He looked rather dumbfounded.

  “Were you planning on sleeping over with me?” I asked, feeling a sort of generalized exasperation with the male sex. I let out a deep breath and rubbed my temples, trying to ward off an incipient headache. I needed some willow bark tea. “Go on now, Sailor. I promise I’ll be home all night like a good girl, and I won’t go out until you come get me in the morning.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I don’t want to get you into trouble with Aidan. Lord only knows who else he might send to harass me. Speaking of which—do you know a woman, she’s a witch or some other kind of practitioner, named Doura?”

  “Who is she?”

  “She came by the store yesterday and warned me off Malachi’s case. And I just saw her in the black abode with Prince High.”

  Sailor looked suddenly very serious. “She’s not one of Aidan’s.”

  I wondered about that when I saw her with Zazi, but I was never sure how these alliances worked. I thought she might have multiple loyalties, or be with Prince High for some kind of supernatural espionage of her own, even while answering to Aidan.

  “How sure are you?”

  “Very.”

  “Isn’t Aidan in charge of the witch folk around here?”

  “In general, but I wouldn’t say one hundred percent.” He slipped out of the van. “Remember, straight home.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  That evening I got busy with my cauldron. I harvested dozens of fresh herbs and roots from my terrace pots, stripped and crushed them, and created a protective brew in which I soaked a talisman specifically against Aidan, just in case. But just as when I was creating conjure balls with Aidan yesterday, I could sense something else with me, something over my shoulder, restraining my power. Everything I did required more effort.

  Even Oscar’s presence didn’t help.

  I managed to prepare a health tonic for Gregory, whether he wanted it or not. If he could bring himself to trust me, I knew I could help. Maybe I could convince Rebecca to offer it to him, and while I was at it talk to her about taking her husband back. But was this any of my affair? I had spent so much of my life trying to avoid close personal connections, but now that I was Bronwyn’s friend, the web seemed to be growing: I loved Imogen, so I wanted her daddy to be okay. It radiated out, like beams from the sun, like a corona around a moon.

  Then I prepared a constellational talisman according to the instructions by Albertus Magnus, scratching Serpentarius’s symbol into a smooth blue-gray river rock. After seeing all those snakes at Prince High’s house, I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Finally, I created a circle of salt, lit candles at the four points of east, west, north, and south, and sat down with the sumptuous silk gowns Nichol Huffman had given me.

  Like the ones in Malachi’s apartment, the gowns had fitted bodices with dozens of tiny buttons, true whalebone structures in the bodices, and yards of billowing fabric. One cream-colored dress was studded with hundreds of seed pearls; a ruby red brocade was trimmed with gold embroidery. There were tassels, ruched necklines, and lace galore. Gorgeous specimens, in incredible shape.

  I sat, modulated my breathing, subsumed myself to the powers . . . but still, I sensed very little. Like the dresses in Malachi’s apartment, these gowns had been magically cleansed at some point. Holding them in my arms within my pentagram, I could feel the excited sensations of Nichol and her friends, I presumed, those who had worn them recently. But the older vibrations were still, motionless. Had they been cleansed on purpose? Was someone trying to remove all traces of what had gone before?

  The only truly strong image I had while holding the dresses was that of Doura’s face. Was this the red brocade she had worn to Malachi’s last dinner? Or was she simply on my mind?

  Something else was bothering me. It dawned on me that while Nichol seemed so young and sweet when she hugged me, she wasn’t really an innocent at all. She was guilty of shoplifting that bracelet from my store. It seemed like a small thing in some ways, but it was a violation. I should have felt some sign of the breach of trust when I held her. Could she be some kind of practitioner herself, or simply someone who truly did not know right from wrong?

  By the time I looked up at the clock it was nearly two in the morning. As Aidan pointed out yesterday when I was in the cloister, time was relative, especially when in a trance.

  As I was brushing my teeth I realized that I had gone the whole day and still hadn’t spoken with Carlos Romero. I wrote a note to myself to call him tomorrow.

  I went to sleep and dreamt of Malachi, an hourglass, snakes, and Doura.

  Chapter 14

  I was late getting started the next morning. Maya arrived before I finished my store cleansing rituals, or even went for coffee. I did manage to call and leave a message for Carlos, however, asking him to call me back.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Maya asked. I was usually more on top of things than this. “And is Bronwyn all right? I haven’t wanted to ask anything too detailed.”

  “Her daughter has some problems.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it,” she said, her eyebrows raised. Rebecca’s occasional swooping down on us at the store hadn’t endeared her to any of us.

  I smiled. “You know what I mean. I guess she and her husband have been having some difficulties.” I didn’t really want to air Bronwyn’s issues; she was usually open about them, as with everything, but that should be up to her, not me.

  I started sorting through the clothes that had come into the shop over the past week. One Hefty bag held a nice stash of 1950s dance dresses; there were several with voluminous skirts and poofy crinolines that would require special attention in the wash. A bag of sweaters revealed that many of them had been moth-eaten, which was a shame. No way to fix that. Finally, a battered cardboard box revealed a treasure of early 1980s disco clothes.

  “Hey, check this out.” I held up a gold-spangled, bellbottomed, one-piece jumpsuit. The outfit was so absurd it made Maya laugh out loud.

  “Bet you it’ll sell by Friday,” she said.

  “I imagine you’re right,” I said as I tossed it into the growing pile destined for dry cleaning. The wildest, least wearable items seemed to fly off our rack
s. I put it down to the Bay Area’s wonderfully wacky populace.

  “So, did Max ever find you yesterday?” Maya asked.

  “He did, yes.”

  “And . . . ?” Maya’s eye brightened with interest. “So what did he say? What happened?”

  “I decided I shouldn’t see him anymore. I made a resolution.”

  “Oh, that’s no fun.” She flipped the sign on the front door to OPEN. “Was he being a jerk?”

  “Sort of. Not totally. I don’t know.” I started inspecting the lace on several sets of 1950s baby-doll negligees. “But I was pretty darned determined right up until he kissed me.”

  “He kissed you?” Maya came over to the sales counter and leaned toward me. “Like, a little peck or down and dirty?”

  “Um . . .” I shouldn’t have brought this topic up, either. I was just as confused about Max today as I was yesterday. “You know . . .”

  “Then it was down and dirty. Hmm.”

  “I have the willpower of an ant,” I said, slapping my forehead.

  “Actually, ants have a great deal of willpower. They’re famous for their determination. Ever hear that ant and the rubber tree song?”

  “Oh, please don’t sing it,” I pleaded. Not only was I getting fed up with my lack of any normal popular culture references, but not long ago I had dealt with a magical music box that played a children’s ditty incessantly. Took me a week to get it out of my head. “Okay, an ant was a bad example. I have the willpower of a marshmallow.”

  “A limp noodle maybe. Or a dishrag.”

  “Thanks,” I said, tossing a crinoline at her head. “I get it.”

  “Anyway,” she continued with a laugh, “why should you have much resolve around Max? He’s a sexy, interesting, smart man, and you’re both single adults. What’s the problem?”

  I realized that while Maya was my friend, she was still somewhat in the dark about my magic. She had been raised in the Baptist Church, and still attended occasionally. Though she had seen my magic in action, it was hard for her to reconcile both worlds. I wasn’t as aboveboard with her as I had been, say, with Bronwyn.

  “The problem is that I’m a . . . witch.” I swallowed hard. It still took a lot for me to just come out and say it.

  “You mean—”

  She was cut off by the tinkle of the bell on the front door. We both swung around, as though we were naughty schoolchildren caught talking during an exam.

  Sailor stood in the doorway, shadows under his eyes, looking even grumpier than usual. I had to smile.

  “I take it you’re not a morning person?”

  He just grunted.

  “Duuuude,” said Conrad, who lingered behind him, as though worried Sailor might pull a sawed-off shotgun out from under his trench coat. Given the look on Sailor’s face, and the long gray trench coat he was wearing, it wasn’t that off base of an assumption.

  “Conrad, this is my friend Sailor. He’s okay. Sailor, Conrad,” I introduced them. Sailor held out his hand and they shook.

  I was pleased that Sailor treated Conrad like a man, rather than the gutter trash that so many others did. The Con might be dirty, homeless, and addicted to illegal substances, but he was a sweet soul who meant no harm to anyone. Sailor seemed to understand this instinctively.

  While I was at it, I introduced Sailor to Maya. He nodded hello, then slumped into a large chair by the dressing room and proceeded to scour the room with his usual glower.

  Just then Bronwyn walked into the store, her two grandchildren in tow.

  “Looks like we have a full house this morning,” I said, pleased to have so many friends under one roof.

  Bronwyn pulled me to the side while Imogen and James were distracted, chasing Oscar through the aisles and under racks of clothes.

  “Rebecca and Gregory are getting together to talk. Were you able to find out anything?”

  “Nothing definitive,” I said. “But it sounds as though the police were interviewing everyone who was at the dinner. Inspector Romero hasn’t called me back yet, but I doubt a simple overheard argument would be enough for them to pursue him for homicide.”

  “That’s what I thought. My dear daughter does tend toward the histrionic.”

  “I’ll try to get hold of the inspector today and see what he has to say. I’m glad to hear that Rebecca and Gregory are talking, though,” I said, watching as Imogen stopped chasing Oscar in favor of the black cat. She picked it up, and it purred, contented in her arms. “That reminds me—I brewed a tonic for Gregory last night—it’s in the fridge in the back room. I thought you might bring it to Rebecca and see if she’ll pass it on to him. I believe it would help calm him, replenish his energy.”

  “Thank you, Lily,” Bronwyn said, enveloping me in a bear hug. “For everything. Oh! I remembered to bring the algebra workbook as well,” she said, bringing it out of her massive tapestry satchel.

  “Oh, goodie.”

  “But you’ve been improving, and it’s been ages since we worked on it,” Bronwyn pointed out.

  “I’ll help you, Lily,” Imogen piped up. “I like math.”

  “You see, Lily, the eight-year-old is offering to help you.”

  “This is so embarrassing,” I said.

  “There’s nothing embarrassing about self-improvement,” Bronwyn said. “We all have our own journey.”

  “My current journey’s down to the café for coffee drinks,” Maya announced. “Kids, want to come with me? Bronwyn, Lily, the usual? And, Sailor, do you want something?”

  “Don’t be too nice to him,” I teased. “He’ll never leave.”

  Like the cat, I thought. I looked over to see Imogen still cradling the animal to her thin chest. I sneezed. Oscar snorted, in what I presumed was a piggy version of “Gesundheit.”

  It was wonderful—magical—to see Aunt Cora’s Closet full of friends. Customers started to arrive. I worked my way through three more bags and boxes of clothes, marking items for repair and special hand washing, and Bronwyn sorted her herbs. Sailor inadvertently sold a dress by giving the woman a blatantly interested once-over when she came out of the dressing room to look at herself in the mirror. A teenager with multiple piercings came in looking for a truly unique prom dress—she decided on a lemon yellow chiffon, circa 1963—and a transvestite came by looking for size thirteen women’s shoes. In a wonderful feat for a secondhand store, he unearthed a pair of brilliant fire engine red pumps. Perfect.

  As the hours passed, I decided that if I tried hard enough, when surrounded by friends and vintage clothes, I could almost ignore the memories of the black abode, and Doura, and the visual of Malachi Zazi dead upon the table, and the feel of Max’s mouth on mine. If I tried very hard.

  The bell over the door tinkled as a tall blond man entered.

  “Atticus,” I said. “How nice to see you. I thought you were Oliver at first.”

  “I get that a lot,” he said with a smile. Then he glanced around the shop. “Would it be possible for me to speak to you in private?”

  “Of course. Maya, I’m going in the back for a minute. Would you watch the register?”

  I led the way to our small back room and we sat at a jade-colored vintage linoleum table.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, glancing around the room. He cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t know how to say this. . . .”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he reached into his pocket and brought out the silver-link bracelet I had seen on Nichol yesterday. He laid it on the table.

  “She . . . Nichol’s had a problem with this, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Shoplifting. But she confessed it to me herself, and she feels terrible. Look, I know it’s not fair to ask, but could you let it go, just this once? I promise I’ll get her back into counseling, and keep her out of your store. I’m happy to pay any damages, any—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Atticus,” I said. “I appreciate you bringing it back.”

  “You won’t
be pursuing charges?”

  I shook my head. I was more than willing to go above and beyond when it came to prevention, but punishment was something else altogether. I’d rather leave that to karma. “I’ve got the item back, that’s what matters.”

  “She’s truly sorry.”

  I nodded, though I thought that if Nichol were truly repentant, she might have come herself rather than having her brother do her dirty work.

  So much for my attempts to forget the mystery surrounding Malachi Zazi. Had Nichol really come to Aunt Cora’s Closet to find a dress for the Art Deco Ball, and was this just one more coincidence?

  After seeing Atticus out, I couldn’t stop thinking about going back to Malachi Zazi’s apartment once more—but this time, with Sailor at my side. Since he was sticking with me anyway, I might as well put him to work. Just one more look in that bad luck apartment, and then I would drop this case. It really wasn’t my problem, anyway, so long as Gregory wasn’t charged with any crime. I would tell Carlos Romero—who still hadn’t deigned to call me back—the little I had managed to unearth and let him piece it all together. But first, I had to be sure I wasn’t missing some massive magical quandary, something orchestrated by someone with power, like Doura. I couldn’t let Carlos walk into that sort of thing by himself.

  And unlike my enthusiastic but limited familiar, Sailor was a powerful psychic capable of contacting the beyond. I had seen him in action.

  Unfortunately, Sailor wasn’t likely to do this sort of thing as a simple favor . . . and it was probably best not to spring such a plan on him on an empty stomach. Maybe a nice home-cooked meal and a beer would loosen him up a bit.

  “Do y’all want some lunch?” I asked the assorted crowd a little after noon. “I have some leftover gumbo; I could make a salad to go with it.”

  “Oh, thanks, Lily, but I brought lunch for me and the kids.”

  “And I’m running out to meet my sister for Kashmiri food,” said Maya.

  “How about you?” I asked Sailor. “Do you like gumbo and corn bread?”