A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

  “What’s that?” Patience asked as I opened the box.

  “My Hand of Glory.”

  “You do realize what you just said doesn’t actually reveal anything, don’t you? What is a Hand of Glory, or do I even want to know?”

  “Probably not. A Hand of Glory is a kind of candleholder that opens locked doors—so far it hasn’t been foiled by a single one—and illuminates dark spaces with a clear bright light, like daylight. It’s made from the mummified left hand of a hanged man, which is kind of gruesome, but if you can ignore that part, it’s awfully convenient.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “It’s very handy.” I chuckled at my inadvertent pun and held up the Hand of Glory to her. “‘Handy,’ get it?”

  “Yeah. Hysterical,” she said, rearing back and pushing my arm away. “Just open the door so we can get out of this apartment building of horrors, will you? Between the mournful spirit breathing down my neck and this gruesome mummified hand, I’m going to have nightmares tonight.”

  So much for being on the same wavelength.

  I held the Hand in front of the lock, and opened the door.

  Patience strode right in, but I lingered in the entrance. Sailor’s apartment always smelled great: notes of citrus and exotic spice, mingled with the faint scent of perfume from the alley. But today I could barely sense it. It made me sad.

  Again, I wondered if we were crossing any important lines in invading Sailor’s privacy in this way. True, we were doing it for him . . . but I felt as though I should have asked him before coming in. I had been here before, of course, but not often. We usually met at my place, and almost always stayed the night there instead of here. But Sailor hadn’t given up his apartment, and so far we’d avoided talking about where we would live after getting married. Which was a pretty basic conversation not to have had, now that I thought about it. In fact, it dawned on me that we’d avoided talking about a lot of things. Aidan’s words rang in my ears. What was Sailor’s middle name? What about children?

  Time to focus. Inside, the usually neat apartment was a mess. I imagined it had been torn apart by the SFPD’s forensics team, looking for bloody clothing or other clues linking Sailor to Tristan’s murder.

  “This is pretty bleak,” Patience said as she wandered around, her fingers trailing over Sailor’s sparse furnishings and piles of books.

  “It’s usually neater than this; the cops must have tossed it. But even so, you’re right. Pretty bleak.”

  Her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t say anything else.

  The living room included a small galley kitchen. Several cabinet doors and drawers stood open, revealing only a single bowl, a plate, and one set of cutlery. There were a drawer full of disposable chopsticks, the kind that came stuffed into bags of takeaway, and a bunch of single-wrapped fortune cookies and soy sauce packets. On the one hand it did seem sad; on the other, if a person lived alone in Chinatown, it would be easy enough to pick up inexpensive, delicious takeout every day of the week.

  Off the living room was a small bedroom furnished with only a bed, a nightstand, and a bookshelf, along with a small bathroom. The books had been toppled, the bed linens tossed in a heap on the floor. A metal file box full of papers and an empty leather-bound jewelry case stood open in the corner. That was all there was.

  “Nothing out of place?” Patience asked after sticking her head in the bathroom.

  “I can’t really tell, since the police have tossed it,” I said. But as I spoke, I noticed a notepad covered with doodles on a small table near the bed. The doodles reminded me of something. . . .

  “We have to leave,” Patience said, her tone urgent.

  “What is it?”

  “Now!” She grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the door.

  “What—”

  “Move!”

  I ran after her out the door. On the landing the spirit was agitated; moving across the small space felt like pushing through freezing-cold water. Patience took a moment, closed her eyes, and let out a long breath, as though she was praying.

  I heard the sound of heavy boots on the wooden stairs.

  Climbing toward us was a man.

  Jeans, black boots, motorcycle jacket, helmet under one arm. Scowling, but gorgeous.

  “Sailor!” I exclaimed. “Did they drop the charges?”

  Patience swore a blue streak as she grabbed my arm and pulled me up the stairs, away from Sailor.

  “Lily, come on!”

  “But what—? Sailor?” I said again, but he didn’t respond to me.

  His eyes were cold, empty. A chill ran through me.

  Chapter 16

  It wasn’t Sailor. Not Sailor.

  We ran up the stairs to get away from him.

  Not Sailor paused on the landing, as though having trouble getting past the spirit. It gave us a few precious moments as a head start.

  Up the next set of stairs, and then the next. At the top of the four-story building, the door to the roof was closed and locked.

  “Dammit!” Patience said, slapping her hand against it. It wasn’t fancy, merely a simple door with a knob lock. “Where’s your Hand thingie?”

  “I left it in the apartment.”

  We heard the boots on the stairs again. Faster this time, coming closer.

  Patience whipped a bobby pin out of her hair and jammed it into the doorknob. She opened it quickly.

  We rushed through and slammed the door behind us, but had no way to lock it. A pile of dilapidated wooden crates gave me an idea.

  “Grab a piece of wood,” I said, planting my feet on the roof and leaning against the door.

  “What, those old things? They won’t hold the door.”

  “Not a whole crate, just a piece of one to use as a shim.”

  Patience ran over to one of the crates and stomped on it. The crate splintered, and she grabbed several of the smaller pieces.

  “Jam them in the space beneath the door,” I said. “Like a doorstop.”

  Patience shoved the small pieces of wood between the bottom of the door and the sill.

  “That should slow him down,” I said. “But it won’t hold him long. I’m guessing that’s not actually Sailor.”

  He started banging at the door.

  “Of course not.” She shook her head. “Don’t you feel that?”

  “What?”

  “A pulsating energy . . . It’s kind of making me sick to my stomach.”

  “I don’t feel a thing.”

  “Lucky you. Anyway, how do we get off this damned roof?”

  “We go there,” I said, pointing to the roof of the building next door. There was a three-foot gap between the buildings, which wouldn’t have seemed like much if we were on the ground. Four stories in the air, though, three feet seemed a lot farther.

  “There?” she asked, as the pounding on the door increased.

  “You got a better idea?”

  We ran over to the side of the building. “Jump. You can do it. It’s only three feet,” I said to Patience.

  “My seventh-grade gym teacher told me one day I’d be glad she made me do the broad jump. I really hate that she was right.”

  “You’re stalling,” I said. “I’ll go first.”

  I summoned up my courage and jumped as far as I could, clearing the gap by at least a foot.

  “No sweat,” I said. “You can do this. Now come on, I’ll catch you.”

  Patience hesitated another moment, then took a deep breath and jumped. I grabbed her as she landed, and we ran for the roof door.

  Locked.

  “Dammit!” Patience said, examining the knob. “This one’s beyond bobby pin technology. Now what? Eventually we’re going to run out of roofs to jump onto.”

  “We have to go down,” I said, running along the side of the buil
ding and looking over the ledge. “There. A fire escape. See it?”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s at least five feet down!”

  “Go over feetfirst. By the time you let go of the ledge, you’ll be almost at the fire escape.”

  “You say that like you know what you’re talking about,” Patience said. “Do you do this regularly?”

  “Just go,” I urged her.

  Patience sat on the ledge of the roof, rolled over on her stomach, and gradually lowered herself until she let go. A second later I heard a loud thud.

  “Are you all right?” I said, peering over the side.

  Patience was sprawled on the fire escape, glaring up at me. “I landed on my butt,” she said. “Ow.”

  “But you looked graceful doing it,” I replied.

  Patience snorted. “Your turn, Wonder Woman.”

  I sat on the edge of the roof, rolled over onto my stomach, and slowly eased myself over. Props to Patience, I thought. It took a lot more courage to do this than I had realized.

  “Let go,” Patience called out. I took a breath, released my grip, and landed lightly on my feet on the fire escape, thanks to Patience’s steadying hand.

  “When this is all over, you’re buying me a drink,” Patience said. “Probably more than one.”

  “Deal,” I replied.

  “Now what?” Patience asked.

  “Go inside, I think.” A large window faced the fire escape. We tried raising the window, but it was locked.

  “Next time bring the damned Hand with you, will you?” Patience said while knocking loudly on the window.

  “It’s not like you gave me time to gather my things.”

  “Graft it onto your body or something.”

  I glanced up at the roof and saw Not Sailor peering over the ledge. “I’ll get right on that, assuming we live.”

  A very confused-looking man approached the window and threw it open. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “We’re on a scavenger hunt,” Patience said, climbing through the window and into the man’s apartment. “It’s for charity. You don’t mind, do you? Thanks. You, uh, might want to lock up behind us.”

  I followed Patience through the window, across the apartment to the door, and into the hallway.

  As we careened down several flights of stairs, I realized that I had left not only the Hand of Glory in Sailor’s apartment but also my backpack. With my keys.

  Finally making it back out onto the street, we paused to take a breath.

  “Now what?” Patience asked, holding the apartment building’s door open for a young woman to enter. I heard the thundering sound of Not Sailor’s boots flying down the stairs.

  “Run!”

  We hurried down the street, our progress slowed by the usual congestion in Chinatown. The busy sidewalks and streets jammed with cars should have worked to our advantage by making it easy for us to get lost in the throng, but not this time. Patience stood out in the crowd. Not Sailor would spot her in a moment.

  “We have to get inside somewhere,” I said as we hurried along, dodging shoppers picking over the fresh greens on a sidewalk display. “You’re too conspicuous.”

  “Me?” Patience said. “What about you? You don’t exactly blend into the neighborhood, either, in your vintage getup.”

  “Fine, we both need to get our keisters out of sight. Suggestions?”

  Patience yanked me into a large souvenir shop. We moved toward the back of the shop, where we pretended to browse a rack of silk robes. The shop was packed floor to ceiling with colorful merchandise, which, combined with the dim lighting, would make it difficult for someone on the sidewalk to spot us.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” I asked Patience, keeping my head low to hide my face, though my eyes were fixed on the front windows. “I think it’s time to call Carlos to the rescue.”

  Patience reached into her skirt pocket and handed me a square piece of glass encased in plastic. It was much more complicated than other cell phones I’d seen. I stared at it and handed it back to her. “I have no idea how to work this thing. You dial.”

  “What’s his number?”

  Dangitall. I always thought of myself as having a good memory, but I couldn’t remember his number. I was clearly out of sorts lately.

  “You don’t know it, do you?” Patience said. “Why don’t I just call 911?”

  “What are you going to say?” I asked. “We’re being chased by someone currently in lockup?”

  “I’ll think of something.” Patience rolled her eyes and started to dial. “Aw, crap—duck!”

  We crouched behind the rack of silk robes just as Not Sailor paused in front of the store. The shop owner, a petite middle-aged woman, stared at us nervously from her seat near the cash register. Patience put her finger to her lips in the universal shushing gesture, which seemed only to make the woman more agitated.

  “Please,” Patience whispered loudly. “That man outside is chasing us. He’s bad news. Very bad man.”

  The shop owner glanced at the sidewalk, where Not Sailor was staring into the shop, stone-faced. She stood, grabbed an emerald green silk robe, and marched across the store, flinging open the door.

  Patience and I exchanged a worried look. “Be ready to bolt,” Patience whispered.

  “Robes for sale!” the shop owner shouted loudly at Not Sailor in a heavy accent, thrusting the robe at him. “Very nice robes. I make you good price. Come, come! Come in!”

  Not Sailor ignored her. He took an old-fashioned watch out of his pocket, checked it, then turned and left.

  The woman locked the door, walked back toward us, and winked. “That should take care of him,” she said, the accent gone. “Would you like me to call the police for you? That was one mean-looking fellow.”

  Patience and I started laughing, relieved and grateful. “No, thank you,” I said. “Is there a back door?”

  “This way, ladies,” the shop owner said, and led us to a fire exit at the rear that opened onto an alley. “Be careful. And if you’re ever in the market for beautiful silk robes, you know where to find me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “I need a damned drink,” Patience said, ducking into Brandy Ho’s on Columbus. “Your treat, remember?”

  It was two o’clock in the afternoon and there were only a few customers in the lounge: a young couple in one booth, a single man sitting at the horseshoe-shaped bar and staring at the baseball game playing on the television mounted on the wall.

  “I, uh, don’t have any money on me,” I said.

  She gave me a withering look. “Figures. I’ll treat. Like I said, you might want to look into having your things grafted onto your body.”

  “It’s not like I make a habit of forgetting my things,” I said. “It was a rather . . . unusual situation.”

  “Really? I get chased all the time by men who are the spitting image of a dear one, and you don’t see me forgetting my wallet.”

  The possibility that Not Sailor would return to Sailor’s apartment and take my things gnawed at me. How could I have left them there? My first instinct should have been to grab them on my way out, no matter how big a hurry I was in.

  A waitress came over to take our order.

  “Vodka martini, dry, and the salt-and-pepper fried calamari,” Patience said, snapping the menu shut. “You?”

  “I’ll have a Co—ke,” I said. I had almost asked for a Co-Cola, which was the way my mama always referred to soda pop. But Patience would never let me live that one down.

  “Living life right on the edge as usual, eh, Lily?” Patience said with an ironic smile.

  “I think it’s best I keep on my toes,” I said.

  “You’re worried about your backpack.”

  I had been worried about the backpack. Now I was worried Patienc
e was reading my mind. I made sure my guard was up.

  “And now you’re worried I’m reading your mind,” Patience said.

  I didn’t say anything. The waitress arrived with my Coke and told Patience her martini was on the way. I took a sip and let the familiar sensation of sweet bubbles play on my tongue and bring me back to reality. After our adrenaline-filled escape, I was feeling the crash.

  “I’m not reading your mind, princess,” Patience said, her tone almost kind. “Under the circumstances, it doesn’t take a psychic to figure out what you’re thinking. Want to use my phone to call the store and warn them, just in case? I’ll show you how to dial it.”

  “Good idea,” I said. Patience’s smartphone wasn’t as complicated as I thought it would be, so I took it and went outside, walking past the Flatiron Building to the corner of Columbus and Pacific. It was a busy intersection, with cars whizzing past and pedestrians hurrying along. The traffic noise made it harder to hear, but I wanted the comfort of people around me. Almost compulsively, I searched the crowd for the Sailor look-alike . . . just in case. When I stopped to think about it, we probably should have left this part of town altogether.

  “Aunt Cora’s Closet, it’s not old. It’s vintage!” Maya singsonged as she answered the phone.

  “Maya, it’s Lily. I need to tell you something important, but you have to promise me not to freak out.”

  “Okaaaaay,” Maya said. “What’s up?”

  “If someone who looks like Sailor comes to the store, it’s not Sailor. Sailor’s still in jail. This person is just someone who looks like him.”

  “Would this be the same guy I saw in the herbal store?”

  “Yes, it is. And he’s up to no good. Maybe you should close the store and go home; I don’t like the idea of you being there by yourself.”

  “I’m not—Selena and Bronwyn are here, too. I’ll close the store if you want me to, but I have a better idea: I’ll ask Bronwyn to give Duke a call, and I’ll get a couple of my cousins to come by and keep us company for the afternoon. Also, Conrad’s outside, so I’ll ask him to keep an eye peeled.”

  “Any hint of danger, lock the door and call the police, okay? Don’t take any chances, please.”