Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “And did you see anything?”

  “No. Someone had ransacked the room, or so it seemed. I didn’t see anything that seemed significant.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “I touched the sheets on the bed, just to see if I could feel anything out of the ordinary.” I let out a sigh.

  “You okay?” Carlos asked.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You look a little . . . off-kilter.”

  “It’s been a tough couple of days.”

  He studied me. “I guess it has, at that. Did you feel anything significant from her sheets?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. I didn’t take anything, didn’t even touch anything else. I know I shouldn’t have gone there . . . I really did think I might be able to help. I thought there might be some sort of connection between us and I was trying to figure out what, exactly.”

  Carlos nodded. “Well, I told Inspector Leibowitz I would take your statement about your visit to the bed-and-breakfast, so at least you don’t have to worry about yet another SFPD inspector breathing down your neck. For the moment.”

  I managed an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Carlos. You’re the best.”

  “Better not forget it.”

  “Oh, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that when Zeke mugged me, I was right outside the hostel where Johannes, Griselda’s assistant, was staying. They said the cops had already been there; I just wanted to mention it.”

  “Anything else you want to mention?”

  “That’s all I can think of.”

  “Okay.” He paused as though choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to tell you your father was released.”

  I felt an unexpected wave of relief wash over me. Good to know my father wasn’t a murderer. At the very least, not Griselda’s murderer. I opened my mouth to ask for more details, but quelled my curiosity. When it came right down to it, I didn’t really want to know.

  “Watch your back, Lily,” Carlos said.

  “You mean with regards to my father?”

  “Yes. You say you barely know him?”

  I nodded.

  “My cop’s intuition tells me he’s bad news. So, back to this character hit by a car . . . his name also came up in the Gem Faire murder investigation. You have any idea why these guys were following you? Did he say anything? You two talk at all?”

  I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to go into all the demon stuff, but I could tell Carlos an edited version.

  “I think they were after something Griselda might have had.”

  “Like what?”

  “A ring. A . . . special ring.”

  “Special. As in witchcraft?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have this ring?” He fixed me with his patented Inspector Carlos Truth-Laser Gaze.

  I shook my head. “I sure don’t think so. Griselda sold me a box of junk jewelry, but I’ve been through everything several times, and I can’t find a durned thing. There were only five rings, and none of them fit the bill.”

  “Thought you told me she didn’t give you anything.”

  “I was afraid you’d confiscate things before I could study them. I wasn’t trying to hide anything, exactly . . .”

  Carlos snorted.

  “If I had figured anything out, I would have told you.”

  “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

  “Not really. But from what I’ve learned the ring is a fire opal, like this one but of better quality.” I showed him my medallion, and he reached out to cradle it in his hand, studying it.

  “You’re positive this isn’t what they’re after? Maybe the ring was made into a necklace.”

  “I thought of that, too, but when I offered them the necklace they didn’t react. Then again, they’re both a cob or two short of a bushel, so maybe they just got it wrong. Still, I’ve been wearing the medallion since Sunday and haven’t felt anything at all unusual.”

  “Doesn’t feel magical or special in any way?”

  “Afraid not. Carlos, I imagine y’all looked carefully through Griselda’s things at the fair, but would it be possible for me to look? I might recognize something y’all wouldn’t.”

  “You’re asking me to allow a witch—a civilian witch—to look through the evidence in a murder investigation?”

  “You could stay there with me. I won’t hurt anything.”

  He studied me for a moment, then blew out a long breath and got to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do. And don’t forget what I told you: be careful of dear old Dad if he comes a-calling.”

  I nodded and stood to see him out. Just as we reached the velvet curtains that cordoned off the work room from the shop floor, something occurred to me.

  “Carlos, have you heard about the fire dancing in Golden Gate Park?”

  “What’s fire dancing?”

  “I take it that’s a no?”

  He shook his head.

  “Could you ask around, maybe let me know if you hear anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know . . . injuries, kids going missing . . .” I shrugged. “Probably nothing. Witch’s intuition.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?” Carlos asked.

  “Nope, that’ll do. For now. Thank you so much, Inspector.”

  “You’re very welcome, Ms. Ivory.”

  • • •

  I meant to go back upstairs to brew, but the store got busy and my presence was needed. Usually Maya could handle the store by herself, but today things weren’t going well. Customers were acting stupid: misplacing items, popping buttons, ripping out hems, breaking down in tears in the dressing room when a dress designed for a 1950s teenager didn’t fit a twenty-first-century matron.

  It’s this darned protection spell, I thought as I went about putting out emotional fires. It suppresses creativity and, after all, smarts and rolling with the punches use up a lot of creativity.

  With Zeke and, I presumed, Clem out of commission, maybe I could dial back the protection. But I hesitated. There were too many variables in play, not the least of which was when—and if—my father decided to make an appearance.

  By the time I went back upstairs it was late afternoon. I did a purification spell, looked at the bloodied clothing, and suppressed a bubble of fear. I wasn’t usually afraid when I was brewing in the safety of my own home, a carefully guarded environment full of herbs and charms. But maybe there really was something to this witchy premonition thing. . . . If Zeke was beholden to a demon, I had to be dead certain to attend to every detail in the spell so as not to invite anyone in, much less allow them to exert power over me. I had faced a demon, a fellow named Sitri, only once and frankly it had scared the pants off me.

  And there was always a tiny flicker of doubt that since our interaction meant Sitri and I were now bound together, that he was wise to my tricks and if I had to go up against him again I might not triumph.

  Not that I had any reason to think Sitri had anything to do with what was going on now. After all, demons didn’t all know one another any more than we humans all knew one another. It was a big, wide, terrible demonic world out there.

  And here and now, Zeke was my only tangible connection to what was going on.

  I made myself another cup of tea to calm my nerves, then focused once again on the bloody garments. Blood is special. It shimmers with our energy. The Aztecs knew this, along with so many other cultures that sacrificed life—sometimes even human life—as a vital offering to the gods. Practitioners know this. too, and some use sacrifice to contact their ancestors and invoke their abilities to alter reality. As a matter of principle I avoided blood sacrifice, but this time it had quite literally dropped into my lap. I would be foolish to ignore this boon.

  I set a clean white cloth on the kitchen counter and laid out my jewel-encrusted athame, trying not to think of the one that had killed Griselda. Had she refused to talk? Had her torturers gotten what they came for and decided to s
ilence her for good?

  I shook off such thoughts. One of the most salient aspects of spell casting is concentration. I chanted and stroked my medicine bag to achieve the right frame of mind. I consulted my Book of Shadows, an old red leather-bound volume handed down to me by my grandmother. A piece of sacred rope; herbs such as sorcerer’s violet and magical vinca. As I brewed, I dropped small squares of the bloodied clothing into the bubbling cauldron. Then cemetery dust and marsh weeds, spider silk, and a sharp rock. Red dirt from home. Fresh and dried herbs.

  I stirred deosil, or clockwise, and chanted steadily, until the concoction started swirling on its own. I allowed it to boil for about ten minutes, when a distinctive, rank odor signaled the brew was ready. I cut a tiny “x” in my palm with my athame and added two drops of my blood. Then I called upon my helping spirit to guide me . . . and to protect me while the connections were made.

  The spell was cast well, and I could feel the portals opening, the power slipping through. Oscar watched silently from his perch atop the refrigerator, his mere presence making my casting easier, smoother.

  Try as I might I couldn’t read the steam and divine who Zeke was, who he worked for, or what he wanted. What I could read was another’s influence over him. Since nothing in the world of magic was ever simple, it wasn’t as though I perceived a name or a face. But if I met the person, I would know him or her. I would recognize his or her vibrations just as one might recognize a distinctive face in a crowd, just as I might recognize the owner from feeling the clothes he or she had worn.

  Zeke was held in sway by someone. Not just influenced by that person, but . . . held. As though a prisoner, Zeke didn’t have any choice in the matter.

  And those vibrations reminded me of something else I had sensed recently. What was it? I thought of all the jewelry I had been studying or any recent acquisitions for the store. Finally I recognized it. I pulled out the little drawer by the sink, where I had placed the gold cuff link I found at Griselda’s stand.

  It felt as though it were burning in my palm—it hummed with the same vibrations I had read from the brew using Zeke’s blood. But I couldn’t imagine Zeke, or Clem, for that matter, wearing a solid gold cuff link. Besides the fact that they didn’t appear to have much money, they had been wearing dirty T-shirts both times I had seen them. They didn’t appear to be the types to don cuffs, much less cuff links.

  It was much more likely that the cuff link belonged to my father, Declan Ivory. Which would mean . . . could my father be the one holding Zeke in sway? And since there were some definite demonic overtones to this vibration, could my father be more than a simple witch? That would help explain the memory loss when I met him—demon encounters were known for such a thing.

  Like I didn’t have enough issues. A rogue witch for a father was one thing, but a demonic dad? Quite another.

  I wondered what the paramedics had determined about Zeke, whether he was going to make it. He wasn’t far from a good hospital, the San Francisco Medical Center. I hoped for his sake he had gotten help in time. Would he be conscious and able to talk to me?

  And then I wondered whether his little brother would be showing up for visiting hours. Clem was scared, but kin was kin. He’d probably visit sooner or later. And I was willing to bet that with a little effort, I could get at least one of the Ballcap boys to speak to me.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning I embraced my familiar, comforting routine of casting a protective spell over the store, going down to Coffee to the People, and eating breakfast with Conrad and Oscar—in his piggy form, of course.

  When Maya came in for her shift that morning, she reminded me that she was interviewing Marisela’s abuelita today.

  Carmen seemed to know a lot about legends of fire opals, I thought to myself.

  “Would you mind if I join you?”

  Maya was gathering her things from her leather backpack. “Of course not. That would be great. You might well come in handy with the Spanish—Marisela agreed to translate, but just in case. I feel like such an idiot not knowing Spanish. I should take a class.”

  “In all your spare time, between art school and working here and running the Web site and doing oral histories . . . and now fire dancing?”

  She smiled. “What can I say? When it comes to life I have ADHD.”

  “I’d say it’s more like a passion to live life to the fullest,” said Bronwyn. “Never apologize for that. And yes, Lily, I’m happy to watch over the store in the meantime.”

  “I see you’ve anticipated me. Becoming a mind reader?”

  “Oh, good goddess, I hope so,” said Bronwyn, who was cradling piggy Oscar in her arms. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Sounds a little scary to me,” I said.

  “Ditto,” said Maya.

  “Oh, by the way, if I’m going to work the afternoon shift, would you mind if the coven meets here? Just a partial meeting; we won’t be forming a circle or calling upon the Lord and Lady. Just a few bureaucratic issues we need to discuss.”

  “Not at all,” I said, grateful I wouldn’t be here for such a meeting. I had witnessed one once . . . it dragged on for hours. Bronwyn’s coven was committed to a nonhierarchical, communal decision-making process. In theory I applauded their efforts; in reality, it meant even the smallest decision was subject to endless debate and ceaseless tinkering. Yet another reason I was a solo act. I didn’t have the patience for group process.

  On the way over to Marisela’s house that afternoon, I asked Maya to be sure to ask Carmen about the legend of the fire opals that she had alluded to on her trip to Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  “Sure . . . are you looking for any information in particular?”

  “Just anything she might know,” I said. “I think those guys who were following me were looking for a fire opal ring they thought I might have gotten at the gem show.”

  “I don’t remember seeing a ring like that.”

  “No, I don’t have it, at least nowhere I know about. But that’s why I was hoping you could talk to Carmen and see . . . Maybe she could shed a little light on the subject.”

  “With an old legend?”

  “Hate to break it to you, my friend, but old made-up legends often have a grain or two of truth. It’s worth a shot.”

  Marisela lived in a house in the Sunset, a part of San Francisco that looks out over the Pacific Ocean and, ironically, rarely saw the sun setting because it was so often beset by thick banks of fog off the sea. The area was developed later than much of the city, in the 1940s, and featured long rows of stucco homes built for working-class families.

  Maya and I were buzzed through an iron gate, then entered into a little courtyard to the right of the garage, then up a full staircase to the living area, which was located on the second floor.

  Marisela and Metzli, Rosa, and Carmen were joined by another half dozen young women and one adolescent boy. They were all sitting around the living room, on couches and chairs and the floor, making party favors out of little squares of pink tulle wrapped around chocolates and key chains marked with the date, and tied off with wire twists decorated with tiny silk flowers. Two fans hummed while they kept the air circulating, a radio played Motown oldies in the background, and the sounds of children playing outside drifted in through the open window.

  “Sorry about all this,” Rosa said as she stood to greet us. “I thought we’d be done by now, but . . . it’s getting a little down to the wire.”

  “No problem,” said Maya. “I really appreciate your mother’s willingness to talk to me, and Marisela’s offer to translate.”

  “My daughter speaks better Spanish than I do—she studied it in school. Terrible, isn’t it? I mostly know how to talk about food.”

  “I feel like that with a lot of languages,” I said with a smile. Food brought people together and linked the generations; cuisine-based traditions were almost always among the most persistent. “I’d be happy to help with making favors while Maya conducts the in
terview.”

  “Really? I won’t say no—we could use all the help we can get.”

  I plopped myself down on the floor next to the boy—overcoming the family’s protests that I should be given a chair—and he patiently explained to me how to make the little purses, including tucking in Hershey’s Kisses. They reminded me of witch’s charm bags, and in a way they were: small tokens made with love, meant to imbue their new owners with memories and connection to the energy of the event.

  Maya, meanwhile, set up her tiny recorder, took out her notebook, and sat near Carmen, with Marisela in between. She started off with lots of factual information about where and when the older woman was born and raised, when she came to the United States and why. How long she’d lived in San Francisco—almost sixty years now. And, very delicately, Maya asked Carmen why she’d never learned to speak English.

  Rosa broke in to say that though Abuelita first came to this country decades ago, she often returned to Mexico and stayed for years at a time. She was from a small village in the state of Jalisco, where she enjoyed her little home as well as the admiration of her neighbors. She was the source, apparently, of all sorts of local history and lore. When she was in the United States, she rarely ventured outside of her home for fear of violence in the streets.

  “She doesn’t live here with us,” said Rosa. “She insists on staying in her own place in the Bayview, and it’s not a great neighborhood.”

  Just then a knock sounded at the door. The boy jumped up and buzzed the person in; a few moments later Shawnelle appeared at the top of the stairs. We all said our hellos like it was old-home week.

  “Wow. They’ve got you making favors? How’s that working out for you?” Shawnelle asked me.

  I smiled. “Joel and I are racing to see who can make them fastest.” I nudged the boy, who had returned to sit next to me, with my elbow. “Care to join the competition?”

  “I don’t suppose I have much choice,” she said, taking a seat and picking up scissors and a length of cloth.

  At a significant glance from me, Maya asked if Carmen could expound on the subject of the fire opal, or Ojo del Fuego, that she had mentioned the other day at Aunt Cora’s Closet. Carmen smiled and started speaking. I understood most of it, but was glad for Marisela’s translation, just in case I missed anything.