“I . . .” The look on my face must have given her a more eloquent answer.
“Lily, I’m sorry. We didn’t realize . . . I know this was one.” Bronwyn handed me a heavy piece made of rough chunks of lapis lazuli and a fringe of tiny bells.
“And this,” said Maya, holding up a leather strap with carved brass fittings and green glass beads. Nothing appeared to be worth killing someone over. Then again, I didn’t know what I was looking for.
“And here are a couple of pieces similar to the one you’ve got on, but without the opals. Oh, and I think the crystal chandelier earrings hanging in the front window, too,” added Maya as she and Bronwyn hustled about the store, trying to remember which items came from the box. “I’m so sorry. We thought it was all up for grabs. I guess maybe we got a little carried away.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Really,” I said hastily. “I just thought there might be something . . .”
I reminded myself that my friends didn’t know there had been a murder at the jewelry fair and had no way of realizing that anything had occurred besides the smattering of small fires.
I wondered, not for the first time, how much to share with them. As my friends, they had already been through a lot—more than most friendships required. If I was lucky, maybe I could figure out what was happening this time without getting too enmeshed myself, and spare their involvement as well.
I decided to keep Griselda’s death to myself for the time being. As my mama used to say, better a blind possum than no possum at all. I didn’t actually understand what that meant, but at the moment it seemed appropriate.
Bronwyn and Maya collected several more items they remembered pulling from the tatty cardboard box, but almost everything they showed me appeared to be contemporary ethnic jewelry or just plain junk, like the stacks of cheap, plastic Mardi Gras–style beads. Some of the items, though not particularly valuable, were undeniably pretty, and given our Haight Street clientele I was sure they would sell. But nothing seemed like a secret treasure capable of driving someone to commit violence. Not even anything historic or antique. Maybe Griselda really had just pawned off her extra junk on me. Probably had nothing to do with what had befallen her afterward.
Inspector Carlos always said most murder victims are killed by someone they know. Maybe Griselda had a violent ex-husband or boyfriend, or maybe Johannes had gotten sick of being ordered around like a lackey. Maybe she’d sold someone a fake gem for the price of a real one, and a disgruntled customer wanted payback. Plenty of possibilities.
And after all . . . it’s not like every strange murder in San Francisco had to do with yours truly.
Breaking out of my reverie, I realized Maya and Bronwyn were watching me, waiting for a response.
“You know what?” I said lightly. “I’m famished. Maya, would you mind running out and picking up something for lunch? I could really go for a big cup of coffee and a bite to eat. How about you two?”
“I’m starved!” Bronwyn said, sounding relieved.
“Sure thing,” Maya said. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Tell you what: You and Bronwyn decide, and surprise me.”
“We’re on it,” Bronwyn said. She took a handful of take-out menus from the drawer beneath the cash register, and she and Maya settled in to debate the relative merits of sushi versus Thai food versus pizza.
With my friends happily occupied, I focused on the jewelry Maya and Bronwyn identified as coming from Griselda. I held each piece between my palms and concentrated. But as usual I was unable to read any vibrations in the cold of metal and stone. Faint fingers of awareness danced and lingered at the outer reaches of my consciousness, but there was nothing solid to grasp.
It had nothing in common with my natural talent for reading articles of clothing, how easy it was for me to sense what people had been feeling when they wore them.
Giving up, I turned to inspect the cardboard box. It had been used several times; labels in German had been crossed out and written over. The last address, written in a bold black marker, was in Bavaria.
I had been to that part of Germany once, many years ago. I was a teenager searching for my father, who had abandoned my mother and me when I was just an infant. I had encountered a land of storybook cottages, friendly people, hearty food . . . and a few unsavory characters, like my own father.
It occurred to me that I still had an acquaintance in Germany who might know something about what was happening here. It was a long shot, but this fellow . . . well, he made it his business to know people. Supernatural people. And if I was right and Griselda was indeed some kind of witch, she might be on his radar screen. I had no idea where he was after all these years, but as Maya often reminded me, we lived in a high-tech Information Age. Sometimes tracking someone down was as simple as logging on to a social-networking site.
“I’m heading out to pick up lunch,” Maya called.
“And coffee?” I said.
“And coffee,” Maya confirmed. I handed Maya some money, then looked around for my suspiciously absent familiar. Usually Oscar was piggy-on-the-spot whenever food was being discussed. He had been making himself scarce ever since I wouldn’t let him accompany me to the Morning House.
Just as I spotted him snoring under the lacy hems of a rack of 1950s-era negligees, there was a commotion at the front door, and the bell chimed merrily.
Marisela and Shawnelle, the teenagers I’d met at Griselda’s jewelry counter, blew into the store. But this time they were traveling with an entourage.
“This really is your shop!” exclaimed Marisela. “Wow. Cool.”
“Hello again. I’m glad you found us,” I said, and introduced them to Bronwyn.
“This is Flora and Janelle, and here’s my sister Metzli, who’s the princess turning fifteen,” Marisela said, gesturing to three young teenagers. “It’s Metzli’s quinceañera.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks,” the girl said. She and her two friends were already flipping through gowns.
“Metzli is a Nahuatl name, isn’t it?” Nahuatl is the language of the Aztecs and of my grandmother, Graciela, who had raised me.
“It means ‘goddess of the night,’” a woman in her thirties or forties explained. “I’m Rosa. I’m the mom.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“And this is mi abuelita, Carmen.” Marisela gestured toward an older version of Rosa. Both women were short and round, with short-cropped and tightly permed hair and broad, smiling faces. “My grandmother, mi abuelita, doesn’t speak a lot of English.”
“Mucho gusto,” I welcomed them. “Bienvenidas a Aunt Cora’s Closet.”
We had a brief conversation in Spanish that before long defaulted to English. I’m not fluent in Spanish, but because I learned it as a child from my grandmother, my accent is impeccable. As a result, Spanish speakers assume I know more than I actually do, and speak so rapidly that I quickly get lost. Further hampering communication is the fact that most of what I learned from Graciela involved spells and a witchy vocabulary, like the words for “dragon’s blood resin” and herbs like eye of newt. A discussion of normal, everyday things usually required a fair amount of sign language and pointing.
Oscar, ever the schmoozer, pranced around and came close to tripping the young women as they giggled and chatted and flipped through the dresses. The girls cooed over him for a few minutes—the typical response when strangers caught sight of my miniature potbellied pig—but once the novelty wore off, they became serious about their fashion hunt. The girls zeroed in on a rack of flouncy formal dresses in the back near the dressing rooms, and seemed partial to those in shades of pink. If this quinceañera had anything in common with the others I had witnessed, the dresses would be fluffier and frothier than any wedding ensemble. Nothing like letting an adolescent girl make her own decision about how to dress like a princess for a
day.
Marisela held up a blushing-rose-colored, tulip beaded ball gown with a strapless scoop neckline and a skirt made of layers of tulle. Metzli had selected a beaded organza number with a sweetheart neckline and layers of ruffles over another full skirt. Shawnelle found a silky cerise taffeta with a removable single shoulder strap, decorated with silk flowers and beaded gathers throughout the bodice, with a sexy corset-style back.
Not to be outdone, Janelle discovered a burgundy taffeta strapless with feather accents on the scoop neckline and throughout the trailing pickup skirt. It was finished with a ruched waistline that, I thought, would complement her slightly plump, curvy figure.
Maya returned, discreetly set the bags of food in the back room, and, without my having to ask, called her mother, Lucille, to come down to the shop to take measurements. Vintage clothes rarely fit perfectly the first time, and since each piece is unique the only solution is to have a garment altered by a first-rate tailor. Lucille was pure magic with a needle; so much so that at times I wondered if she had a touch of the supernatural about her.
“All right, girls. Follow me,” Bronwyn said, and rolled the entire rack of formalwear into the large communal dressing room. “Don’t come out until you’re gussied up, good and proper.”
From behind the drawn curtain we heard the girls chatting and laughing as they tried things on.
“And now for the mamas,” I said, turning to Rosa and Carmen. “Are you looking for yourselves as well?”
“Of course . . .” said Rosa. “But I’m sorry to say I have to stick to a pretty tight budget. We’ve already booked the hall and the band and ordered the cake . . .” She laughed as she idly stroked a strand of pearls hanging on a hook by the door. “I don’t know what possessed me to give birth to daughters.”
“They’re lucky to have you,” I said.
She chuckled and waved me off. Her eyes were so friendly, her countenance so smiley, that I imagined she laughed most of the time. And every time she did, her mother nodded and smiled as well.
“One of the great things about buying vintage is that unless you’re buying true collectors’ items, the pieces are surprisingly affordable.” I selected a gown that was perfect for Rosa: a deep sapphire blue with colorful floral embroidery at the yoke. Best of all, its vibrations were warm and calm. “This would look great on you. It’s too long, but that’s an easy fix.”
She held the dress under her chin and looked in the mirror. The silk dragged on the floor, ruining the line, so I knelt and folded it so she could get the full impression. As I leaned over, the medallion fell out of my neckline.
“What a beautiful necklace,” said Rosa. She reached down and lifted it up to look at the medallion. “So unusual. Where’d you get it?”
“I, uh . . .” I trailed off, thrown off balance by Rosa’s intense gaze. Suddenly I was seeing danger everywhere.
“Oh, hey, that’s the one the old lady was showing us at the fair, right?” said Shawnelle, who had emerged from the dressing room in the cerise taffeta and was twirling as she looked at her reflection in the three-way mirror.
“Yes, it is.”
“I love opals,” said Rosa. “I’m a Libra, so I can wear them. That one in the center is a nice example of a fire opal.”
The center stone was a deep, translucent yellow. Most opals are green and blue, or white with flashes of pink and gold.
“What’s a fire opal, exactly?”
“They’re similar to other opals—they’re the same stone in terms of their makeup. But fire opals are a yellow or orange or reddish brown, and come from Mexico instead of Australia, which is where the blue ones come from. There’s even an Aztec legend about a fire opal.”
“You and your legends, Mamacita,” said Metzli affectionately to her mother. “You also said the última muñeca part of the quinceañera ceremony was from an old Mayan tradition.”
“It is,” Rosa insisted with a smile. “I know to you and your friends it’s just an excuse for a big party and a pretty new dress, but really the quince is a way of holding on to traditions and passing them down through the generations.”
Metzli rolled her eyes in my direction, looking for commiseration.
“Don’t look at me,” I said with a smile. “I have to side with your mom on this one. A quinceañera is very special. You’re very fortunate.”
Metzli gave her mother a bear hug from behind.
“Gracias, Mami,” she said in a slight singsong.
Rosa squeezed her daughter’s arms affectionately. “Anyway, la última muñeca means ‘the last doll,’ and it refers to a girl putting away childish things and becoming a woman. The quinceañera’s supposed to be the first time a girl wears makeup, though these days . . .”
She looked askance at her daughter, balanced on the cusp of womanhood. Metzli giggled and rolled her eyes again. She was wearing mascara, eyeliner, and blue eye shadow, and had covered her acne with concealer and powder.
Still, it was clear that their teasing and banter was based on a firm mother-daughter bond. I wondered what it would have been like to have that kind of relationship with my mother. I was fortunate Graciela took me in and cared for me after my magical talents emerged and I became too much for my mother, but my grandmother was never one to indulge in foolishness like elaborate parties. She would scoff, telling me the money and energy were better spent on nailing down protection spells. Given how my life had turned out, she had probably been right.
Abandoned by my father, kicked out of my childhood home at the age of eight by my mother . . . no wonder I had issues.
Pushing aside these gloomy thoughts, I realized Marisela’s abuelita was speaking. Spontaneously, as though she did this often, Marisela started to translate.
“My grandmother says there’s a famous story about a magical fire opal. The Aztecs called it Ojo del Fuego, which means ‘Eye of Fire,’ and had the finest jeweler in Tenochtitlán, the Aztec capital city, set the stone in a silver ring after it was discovered in the very depths of the mines. It was considered the stone of Xolotl.” In Nahuatl the “x” is pronounced “sh,” making Xolotl sound like Sholotal. “Xolotl was the god of fire, disease, and, like, all kinds of bad luck.”
Shawnelle snorted as she paraded around the store in the ball gown, loath to take it off. “There’s a god for bad luck?”
Janelle said, “Hey, want to switch dresses?”
“Sure,” said Shawnelle, and they headed back to the dressing room.
“There was a god for just about everything back then,” said Marisela in a voice loud enough to carry past the curtains. “It’s, like, a Mexican thing. Xolotl is usually depicted with a doglike face, and he could transform himself into an axolotl.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Shawnelle, her voice muffled. “What’s an axolotl?”
“I was hoping you’d ask! It’s a kind of salamander that lives near Mexico City, which was built in the valley where the Aztecs lived. The salamander’s face looks a little like a dog. They’re endangered now, so there was a whole public-service campaign to save them. They’re really cute.”
“Awesome,” said Shawnelle as she emerged from the dressing room clad in the pink tulle. Janelle was now wearing the cerise gown, and both girls rocked back and forth to make their skirts sway like bells as they admired themselves in the mirror. “You guys have some pretty wild stories.”
“Right?” said Metzli, now wearing an aqua off-the-shoulder gown, complete with crinoline skirts. It was pretty, but far too grown up for her. Rosa held her daughter’s gaze, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head. Metzli made a grimace of disappointment, but ducked back into the dressing room to try on another gown.
“Abuelita says that when the Spanish invaded, the Aztec priests and curanderas conspired to hide the ring containing the Ojo del Fuego. It was handed down through the generations. Opals are partly water, so they can
carry part of the human spirit, or whatever.”
“You said something like that at the fair, right?” Shawnelle asked me.
I nodded. “I heard the stories from my abuelita.”
“I was wondering . . .” Maya interjected. “I collect stories from local elders. Would you ask your grandmother if she’d be willing to tell me stories and let me record them?”
Marisela spoke with her abuelita in Spanish, who nodded, and they made arrangements to get together on Thursday.
Lucille arrived, sewing basket and notepad in hand. After more hemming and hawing and prolonged debate over each gown’s relative merits, the girls decided on their dresses. Rosa and her mother also chose their gowns; Rosa selected the sapphire gown I had suggested, and Carmen opted for a loose, classic red-and-gold shift. Lucille would hem both pieces, and take in Rosa’s dress a little at the waist. The girls’ selections would need additional alterations: a few nips and tucks here and there to make them fit just right, and, in Metzli’s case, a panel inserted to expand the bodice.
“The quinceañera is a week from Saturday,” Rosa said, as I helped Lucille mark the alterations on Metzli’s dress.
“Next Saturday?”
Lucille, her mouth full of pins, looked at me with wide eyes.
“Um . . . I don’t know if all these alterations can be made that soon—” I began.
Metzli spun around, eyes filling with tears. “I knew it was too late! I knew it!”
Putting together an elaborate quinceañera had much in common with planning a wedding—including the capacity to send normally reasonable people completely around the bend.
“Don’t panic, Metzli,” said Rosa.
“But, Mom! This is the only dress I like. I’ve tried on so many!”
“It looks great on you,” said Marisela in a placating, big-sister tone of voice. “Everything’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
By this time Lucille had taken the pins from her mouth. A mother herself, she understood the dynamic.
“No worries, birthday girl,” she said soothingly. “Let me make sure I have all these measurements exactly right. I’ll pull a couple of the women away from other projects for a few days. We’ll get it done. Don’t you fret.”
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