“Do you like Walker?”
“He’s okay. But he’s like the last guy I’d think of . . . that way. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t talk. I’ve got bad taste in men, like my dad always told me.” Andromeda ran chipped black-painted fingernails through her short purple hair. “But the weird thing is, Dad could be really . . . I don’t know, easy to talk to about things like my love life. It was strange, as if I knew he would tell me the absolute truth. There aren’t a lot of people who will do that, right?”
“True.”
“He was kind of hard to pin down. He kept reinventing himself: son of a poor immigrant, high school dropout, then hippie guy, then hardheaded businessman. I guess my dad had to be pretty tough, to get where he did, given his background. Here’s something I bet you didn’t know: He actually funded a scholarship for kids of immigrants. Sent a whole bunch of kids to school. But he kept it a secret.”
I was surprised. That was the thing about people. They’re multifaceted. Maybe Andromeda was right; Jerry Becker had to be tough to achieve what he had. Either that, or he’d had help.
“And your mom?” I asked. “Did the police talk to her as well?”
“Dunno. She’s been up a tree the last two months, so I doubt they can even talk to her. But then at least that gives her an alibi, right?”
“Up a tree?” I asked. Was that slang for something?
“You know, at Berkeley.”
I must have looked blank.
“You really aren’t from around here, are you?” Andromeda asked. “I noticed the accent.”
“People say I twang.”
“It’s cute. You make one-syllable words sound like two.” She studied my profile for a moment. “And you’ve got great skin tone, pale but really olive. Hey! Would you model for me sometime?”
I could feel myself blush. “I really don’t think . . .”
“Don’t be embarrassed. You’d be great. You don’t have to go all naked or anything, though that’s a plus. Luc Carmichael says we should all think about modeling naked at some point in our lives. It frees us.”
“Really. Luc said that?”
“I pose naked for him sometimes, along with half the student body. Ha! Sounds like a pun. Naked student body . . .”
Interesting, Luc had left out that little tidbit about the source of a father’s anger.
I could hear Oscar snorting loudly in the backseat. “So your mom is where . . . ?
“She’s one of the tree-sitters in Berkeley.”
“A tree-sitter?” An image flashed in my brain of a woman holding a sapling in her lap, watering it with a baby’s bottle.
“The university fascists want to cut down some old redwoods, so a bunch of people are living up there. You never heard of Julia Butterfly Hill?”
I shook my head.
“Where are you from, Mars?” She started riffling through her backpack.
“I’ve been traveling.”
“Must have been gone for a while.”
“A good while.”
“Anyway, these folks live in the trees so no one can cut them down. Aha!” Triumphant, she held up a crumpled pack of strawberry-flavored sugarless bubble gum. “Piece of gum?”
“No, thank you. So you mean they live in the trees full-time?”
“Duh,” she said, shoving two pieces into her mouth. The car soon took on the sweet, distinctive aroma of artificial strawberry.
Though I was raised in a small town, I had traveled the world and rarely felt provincial. Still, the Bay Area denizens had a way of throwing me for a loop. Try as I might, I just couldn’t envision living in a tree.
“How do they sleep? How do they . . . you know . . . go to the bathroom?”
Andromeda looked over at me with the first real glint of humor to enter her eyes since I had met her. “First off, there is no bathroom to go to. They pee and poo in a pot they lower to the ground.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s worth it to save the life of a redwood.”
I was appalled. Before I perched on a branch trying to do my business in a pot that I lowered to my earth-dwelling associates, I think I’d volunteer to cut down the danged tree myself. On the other hand, this was one of the things that had drawn me to the San Francisco Bay Area: People were crazy in really interesting, socially conscious ways.
Clearing my throat, I got back to the subject at hand.
“Did you ever see your dad with anything strange, sort of occult-seeming?”
“Like the talisman you sold me?”
I inclined my head, hating to hear my own items referred to as occult. “Any medallions, jars of powders, old books of symbols . . . ?”
“He always wore a medallion. But that’s about it.”
“Was there a symbol on it?”
“Yeah, but nothing I recognized. Kind of like a horoscope sign or something like that.”
“Would you be able to draw a picture of it?”
“Nah. All I remember was it was kind of spiky, like a fork sort of, with four crosses at the tips. Something like that.”
“Why were you the one child still hanging around your dad?”
“He paid my way.”
“It’s that simple?”
She shrugged.
It seemed odd to me, but then I wasn’t sure what normal family dynamics looked like. My father had walked out before my first birthday, and my mother, overwhelmed, essentially gave me over to Graciela—the woman I called Grandmother—at the age of eight, when she figured out I wasn’t merely a strange misfit, but an out-of-control force of nature.
“My therapist says it’s more than that,” Andromeda said. “She says I’m trying to work things out. She says that that’s why I sleep with Dave, ’cause he’s older and kinda Dad-like and used to work with my dad, so there’s a parallel there, and transference stuff.”
Sleeping with Dave? As Ginny would say, eeeuuuwww.
“Do you think your therapist is right?” I managed.
Andromeda shrugged. “Maybe. I never slept with my dad, though,” she clarified with a quick, sidelong glance.
Thank goodness for small favors.
Andromeda thanked me for the ride and climbed out when we arrived at the school. I idled in the car for a moment, pondering what my next move should be. If only Sailor had agreed to come to the school and help to communicate with the restless spirits, I might know what the heck was going on. Then again, I might not be able to understand what they were trying to say, but at least after Sunday’s supersized dose of supernatural sensations, I was starting to tease out some distinct vibrations.
As I sat at the green curb in front of the school building, a student streaked by—quite literally. The young man continued running down the street, buck naked.
Oscar gaped at the boy’s pale posterior.
“Didja see that?”
Another nude student ran past. I tried not to look.
“This is one nutty school,” said Oscar, shaking his head and cackling.
“You can say that again,” I muttered, noting a small cluster of students in the covered hallway, arguing. Meanwhile, two couples embraced passionately under a bank of brilliant fuchsia bougainvillea.
“Wait here,” I told Oscar.
“Yes, mistress.” For once he didn’t argue; he must have had enough the last time he’d volunteered to accompany me.
I entered the doors to the main hall. There were a few papers strewn about the floor, and a smear of chalk dust and colored pigments near the entry looked like a modern expressionist painting. A dozen or so students lingered in the hallway or headed from one class to another; a few small groups argued about painting methods and materials.
“Kevin,” I called out as I spied the tall security guard breaking up a fight between two young women.
“Oh, hey,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on with these kids lately.”
I smiled. Kevin wasn’t any older that the “kids” he was referring to, but in my experie
nce, full- time employment tended to mature a person quickly.
“Do you happen to know Walker Landau?” I asked him.
“Sure. Why?”
“Have you heard anything . . . odd . . . about his relationship to Jerry Becker, or Andromeda Becker?”
“Not really. But I’m not really part of the gossip mill here. I work for a living.”
I nodded.
“Only weird thing I noticed was Landau changed his whole style of painting lately. Then last week I saw him working on a collage, of all things.”
“A collage?”
He nodded. “I always thought that was like, for kids? But a lot of folks here do it as legitimate art. Guess it takes all kinds.”
“I guess so.”
“He did have the grace to seem kinda embarrassed about it, though, when I walked in. I was just closing up; didn’t know he was there. He doesn’t usually work past midnight.”
“Was he alone? Was anyone posing for him or anything?”
“No one posing, but yeah, now that you mention it, there was somebody else in the studio.”
“Who?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. The whole back of the studio was pretty dark; I could tell someone sort of slipped behind the partition when I walked in, but I didn’t see enough to even tell you whether it was a man or a woman. Wasn’t really my business, though, right? I felt kinda bad. I try not to interrupt artists at work. They’re doing some important stuff here. Look, I’d better get back to work.”
“Of course. Thanks for talking to me.”
“See you around,” he said as he loped off down the hallway.
I headed in the opposite direction, toward the bell tower stairwell. This time the ghost—was it John Daniels?—wasn’t wasting any time. As soon as I arrived, the breathing and footsteps began to sound.
Scattered herbs, a pentagram drawn in chalk, and the stubs of three candles had been set up on the second stone step. Was someone casting spells? I held the sage bundle to my nose and inhaled. Stale. No witch worth her salt would use less than potent herbs, especially when going up against an entity from beyond. And there were no strong vibrations here, no remnants of power. Strictly amateur hour.
That was good. Unless, of course, whoever was fooling around had managed to rouse a spirit anyway, without any idea what to do with it. People didn’t realize what they were fooling around with when they failed to take such things seriously. I was a powerful witch, but things like Ouija boards scared the heck out of me. And they were sold to little children, in the toy section.
The ghostly sounds grew louder in intensity, making the stucco walls vibrate.
“I can’t understand you,” I said to the empty stairs. The moaning intensified.
“For cryin’ out loud, I hear you already. Hearing is not understanding, you get me?” This ghost was treading on my last nerve. I had no idea if he could understand me, but it was worth a shot. “Either do something, or figure out a way to communicate, or shut the heck up.”
The noises subsided.
“I’m sorry,” I said in the general direction of the stairwell. “I didn’t mean to yell.”
“Who are you talking to?”
I whirled around to see Ginny standing behind me. “Ginny! Good to see you,” I said.
She looked around, a question in her eyes. “Who were you talking to?”
“The, um. . . . the ghost.”
“You’re apologizing to a ghost?”
“Sort of.”
Now her eyes looked wary. “Isn’t this the ghost that, like, pushed the Big Cheese down the stairs?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think it was responsible.”
“Then who was?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh.” Her vibrations were frightened, and angry. Very angry. A bitter smell of chicory floated over to me.
“Hey, I hear you’re to be congratulated on your deal with the gallery,” I said, moving aside as a trio of squabbling students jostled by us. “That’s great news.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Ginny said, decidedly lacking in enthusiasm. “I’ve got a show coming up. Will you come?”
“I’d love to. Are you working at the café today?” I asked, noting the coffee-stained apron she was wearing.
“I was, but . . . everybody’s sniping at each other. I bounced.”
“I don’t think anyone’s intending to do it,” I said. “There’s something going on. . . .”
“Something to do with the ghost?”
“Sort of, yes. Ginny, could you tell me, when you were with Jerry Becker, did he ever have anything strange with him?”
“Strange?”
“Odd symbols, or jars of salts or powders . . .” As I said the words I realized how peculiar they sounded. “Just anything out of the ordinary?”
She shook her head. “But we weren’t exactly best buddies or anything. Except for the fact that he was . . . ‘close’ . . . to my mom, we didn’t have a lot of connection.”
Again, the wafting scent of bitter chicory. It reminded me of the cheap, weak coffee we drank in my hometown.
“How about when you and your mom opened the closet upstairs? Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Unusual how?”
“I don’t know . . . just anything out of the ordinary?” She shook her head. “It smelled kind of funky. But there wasn’t anything cool in there—no offense, but I couldn’t care less about old clothes, if you get my drift. That’s my mom’s deal. She was Miss Fashion back when this place was a fashion institute. But I’m all about real art.”
“Your mom was a student here?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you know? Anyway, I gotta go. Maya’s picking me up, and we’re gonna take some of my paintings to get gallery framed for the show, and start packing some of the sculptures. She said you probably wouldn’t mind if we borrowed the van.”
“She knows she’s welcome to borrow it anytime.” For a young artist with a major gallery show coming up, Ginny didn’t seem very happy. On the other hand, she had just walked away from her job, and her home life seemed to leave a bit to be desired. Maybe those things were weighing on her mind.
I made a note to talk to her mother about the good old student days. Marlene wasn’t old enough to have gone to school with Eugenia and John Daniels, but it was an interesting tidbit nonetheless.
“Ginny, one more thing before you go: How did you know what John Daniels looked like?”
“What?”
“John Daniels. You showed me a sketch of him, but I can’t find any photos of the man.”
Ginny’s big eyes looked anywhere but at me.
“Ginny?” I persisted.
After a long moment of silence, she mumbled, “I saw him.”
“Saw him where? How?”
“In the mirror. Up in that creepy closet.”
A chill came over me. “How did you know it was him?”
She shrugged.
“This is very important, Ginny. What did you do after you saw him in the mirror?”
“I got scared, so I just left. That was why Maya thought you might be able to help.”
Just then a fire alarm sounded. Everyone evacuated the building.
It turned out to be a false alarm, but Ginny disappeared into the crowd before I could ask her any more questions.
Chapter 13
“You’re prob’ly pretty hungry after your day running around, huh?” Oscar said as soon as I let us in to Aunt Cora’s Closet.
My familiar was many things; subtle was not one of them.
“Prob’ly you’re feeling just a might peckish?”
“Give me just a minute, Oscar,” I said.
My familiar harrumphed and curled up, pouting, on his silk pillow.
I took a moment to hold Eugenia’s designer clothing in my arms, feeling the sensations. There were mostly light wool skirt suits and Jackie O-type sheaths. They gave off a confident, arrogant, self-satisfied hum, much like the woman herself. They wouldn
’t be right for everyone, but perfect for some, such as the customer who needed a brash, self-assured outfit to take on a corporate board, or to face a soon-to-be-ex-husband during divorce proceedings.
A few of the outfits went beyond arrogant. I didn’t sell items that seemed to contain overwhelming amounts of negativity, anguish, or evil, certainly, but many darker items had their matches. A lot of people in the world were drawn to the dark side, in need of gravity, even solemnity, in their surroundings. For them, shadows were necessary to underscore the lightness.
Lastly, I drew John Daniels’s coat into my arms. The letterman’s jacket smelled of leather and old fabric, and creaked slightly as I hugged it. The vibrations were subtle, aged. I felt profound melancholy, betrayal, grief—all emotions in keeping with a suicidal personality, to be sure. But the sentiments could also apply to a man who had just discovered that the sapphire-eyed love of his life was boffing the art supplies delivery boy. Maybe—
“I’m sooooo hungry,” Oscar said, interrupting my thoughts. His little belly growled loudly enough for me to hear it across the room.
“I know, Oscar, I’m sorry,” I said, laying down the jacket. Enough of death; it was time to focus on the living for a while. “Let’s go upstairs and start dinner. You can make the salad dressing, just like I taught you. And afterward we’ll practice cleaning the kitchen.”
He made a face, I think. Given Oscar’s gruesome, gray-skinned countenance, it was sort of hard to tell.
“So you said Aidan was out of town?” I asked Oscar a couple of hours later, as we were finishing up washing the dishes after a meal of jambalaya and red beans and rice. Discussing Cajun food with Susan earlier had put me in a nostalgic mood; the mere aroma of sassafras filet gumbo was enough to bring me back to humid, lazy evenings at home in Texas. Though my mother and I weren’t what you might call “close,” there were times I missed her with a visceral yearning. And don’t even get me started on my grandmother.
“Where did he go?” I continued.
In nonanswer to my question, Oscar shrugged a scaly shoulder.
“When will he be back?” I persisted.
He gave me a wide-eyed look and shook his head.
“Oscar, how are you connected to Aidan? How do you know so much about his comings and goings?”
A Cast-Off Coven Page 16
