A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

  Juna’s place, in contrast, was about as romantic and otherworldly as an accountant’s office. There were two file drawers in one corner, a messy desk in front of a small window that looked out onto an alley, a crowded bookshelf, and one plain round oak table with four chairs.

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Patience said. “Juna, this is Lily Ivory. Lily, Juna.”

  Juna was tall and thin. She wore an expensive-looking navy pantsuit and her dark hair framed a rather severe face that would have been at home on a runway model: sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes, more chic than pretty.

  “Please, have a seat.” She gestured to the table. “So. You want to know about a man named Jamie,” she said without further niceties. She spoke with an almost imperceptible Russian accent, the kind of slight lilt one might have if raised in the US by Russian-speaking immigrants. “No last name?”

  “No, sorry.”

  She brought out a stack of cards and started to handle them, mixing and cutting. They weren’t a traditional tarot deck, nor were they regular playing cards. They had Cyrillic symbols and Byzantine drawings, reminiscent of the cathedral walls.

  “Actually, I didn’t come for a reading,” I clarified. “I was just hoping you might know him, or perhaps you’ve heard about him from the talk around the neighborhood.”

  Her elegant eyebrows rose and she looked down her patrician nose at me. “You’re paying for the hour. You’re certain you don’t want a reading? I’m quite good.”

  Patience let out a small bark of a laugh. “This one’s a special case, Juna. Take my word for it. You don’t want to read for her.”

  “The price is the same.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Really, all I want is information. Have you heard of Jamie?”

  “Of course,” she said, setting the deck of cards aside. “He used to run a few of the psychics with the carnival, did tourist scams, that sort of thing.”

  “He wasn’t associated with you?”

  “Please,” she said with a snort. “Jamie didn’t deal with real psychics. I mean, I knew a couple of his girls, and one or two might get lucky occasionally, but that’s about it. Then he screwed up—not sure what happened, but he became indebted to a woman. . . .”

  “Renee Baker,” I said.

  “I don’t know her name, but she’s bad news.”

  “They’re all politicians,” Patience said. “You can’t trust politicians.”

  “Do you know her?” I asked.

  “No. But I have heard rumors. . . . She shouldn’t be crossed. She’s got people paying for protection now. Jamie makes the collections.”

  “And if you don’t pay?”

  “People have gone missing.”

  “We’re talking about the cupcake lady?” Patience asked, clearly unconvinced. “Seriously?”

  Juna made a face. “Everybody loves cupcakes. Good cover.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “So, Renee is extorting people and Jamie does the collections. Is that right?”

  “If people don’t pay, he threatens that his boss will place a domovoi in your store—that’s like a poltergeist—or maybe give your name to the Rusalka.”

  “Rusalka?”

  “She’s a water demon. Lures people to their watery deaths.”

  That reminded me of La Llorona, a water demon I’d dealt with not long after I had arrived in San Francisco. It seemed a lifetime ago. I blew out a frustrated breath. None of this told me anything helpful.

  “Witches, spirits, demons. They’re what we call unclean forces,” Juna continued. “Generally bad news. We tend to be a very superstitious people, especially the newcomers or the country people. The crossroads, thresholds, that sort of thing, can be zones of danger. It probably has more to do with the insecurity of an immigrant population than anything else, but Jamie knows how to exploit such fears. To tell you the truth, I sort of feel bad for the guy. He used to run a racket, but he was always pretty nice about it. More of a player, a fast talker. Not a leg breaker, like you see in the movies. Jamie’s strictly small-time. He seems almost embarrassed to threaten people.”

  “So he’s not responsible for the ‘disappearances’?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t think so. But then again, I hardly know him. The only time I really interacted with him was when he was looking for Lepisma saccharina.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I really don’t know. Some sort of sweetener? I sent him to the little grocery on the corner; they have a lot of Russian specialties. Anyway, he wanted that, and the recipe for my grandmother’s famous meat-and-mushroom pasties.”

  “Did you give it to him?”

  She nodded. “A man who has an in with the Rusalka gets what he wants.” A cat-and-the-canary smile lit her face. “But you know, my grandmother always left something out of her recipes. The secret ingredient was just that, secret. That way no one could ever copy her. Not even I know it.”

  I felt a quick shiver of premonition and glanced at the little window over the desk just as a bird hit the glass with a loud thump.

  Juna jumped out of her chair, eyes wide, and crossed herself.

  “Death,” she said in a fierce whisper, then pointed at me. “That is a harbinger of death! You have brought death to this place. Unclean forces! You must leave, now.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Gotta hand it to you, Lily Ivory,” Patience said as we were unceremoniously escorted through the jewelry store and out onto the sidewalk. Juna slammed the door behind us, and threw the lock with a clank. “You do have a way with strangers.”

  I ignored her. “I think we can access the alley over here.”

  “Why on earth . . . ?”

  “Poor little bird. I want to see if it’s okay.”

  She snorted, crossed her arms, and told me she’d wait for me. I edged along the side of the building to the back. But there was no sign of the bird on the ground, and no blood or other obvious signs of trauma on the window. As I was looking around, Juna spotted me through the glass, made some sort of hand gesture, and then spit three times over her left shoulder.

  I didn’t have to be up on Russian culture to know what that meant. Juna was spitting on the devil.

  “It’s not there,” I said as I rejoined Patience, who lingered in front of the store. “It must have flown away.”

  “Oh, what a relief,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm as we started down the block. “And here I was, about to call in the animal rescue squad.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t tell Juna I’m a witch.”

  “I may have neglected to mention it. She doesn’t care for witches.”

  “Because we’re ‘unclean’?”

  Patience shrugged. “It’s a cultural thing. Not like you haven’t been called worse, I’m guessing.”

  “True. Let’s stop in at the grocery and ask about the leprous saccharine, or whatever it was.”

  “Lepisma saccharina. Best be quick about it, before Juna makes a phone call.”

  The cramped grocery offered the usual corner store staples: a lot of cheap American beer, small liquor bottles, potato chips, candy bars, and Slim Jims. But one aisle boasted several items labeled with Cyrillic script. Up by the register homemade pickles floated in a five-gallon container, and a refrigerated display case held an impressive selection of sausages and headcheese.

  A very old man stood behind the counter, silent and watching.

  “Hello,” I said. “Juna sent us. Might you have any Lepisma saccharina?”

  I tripped over the pronunciation, and the man frowned and shook his head.

  I tried again. “I might not be pronouncing it right. Lepisma saccharina. I think it’s a sweetener of some kind?”

  “I have no bugs here!” He spoke with a heavy Russian accent. “My place is clean. I
keep my store very clean! What are you saying? Nasty woman! You get out!”

  Patience and I scooted outside, and I heard her low chuckle as we hurried toward the car. “O for two, Lily. In less than twenty minutes. Is that a personal best, you nasty woman?”

  “I don’t understand what just happened. What did I do?”

  “Maybe you need a course or two in cultural sensitivity before you think about coming back to Little Russia. Otherwise somebody might put something funny in your pierogis.”

  “It wasn’t my fault a bird hit the window,” I said, feeling defensive.

  “What about the poor little man in the corner grocery?”

  “I have no idea what that was about. Either I horribly mispronounced something, or Juna called him and told him I was ‘unclean,’ maybe?”

  “So, you have no idea what that saccharine was? Or why it matters?”

  “Not really. I thought it might tell us something pertinent. But it’s a bust, like everything else.”

  “Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed watching you make an ass of yourself, I have things to do. Drop me off at my place?”

  “Sure. The Nasty Woman Express is at your service.”

  Chapter 24

  I found Conrad sitting on the curb outside Aunt Cora’s Closet, as was his wont.

  “Dudette!” he said when I approached. “You still need my help tomorrow? Want me to bring a coupla friends? Will work for food, as they say.”

  “Yes, please, we’ll need help. I’m more than happy to provide breakfast and lunch for anyone who puts in a couple of hours.”

  “You’re on, dude,” Conrad said.

  Tomorrow we intended to virtually empty Aunt Cora’s Closet to make room for the Magical Match Tea. Hard to believe we were going through with the event with Sailor still behind bars and an unsolved murder on my plate, but canceling it wouldn’t achieve anything more than frustrating our friends and disappointing the Haight Street shelter, which needed the funds to help women facing much more difficult lives than mine.

  Besides, Renee had promised—or threatened—to show up to the tea. I had no idea what to expect from that, but I certainly wanted to be here when she did.

  I couldn’t put an impenetrable protection spell over the store, or it would keep out all our visitors. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t take precautions. I would have to brew. And . . . possibly approach Aidan, one more time. Surely there was something—or someone—else I could appease him with? What about Jamie? He wanted to work for Aidan.

  Conrad followed me inside Aunt Cora’s Closet. Bronwyn was consulting with a customer, her wildflower-crowned head bent low as she concocted a custom tea blend at her herb stand. Duke sat on a velvet bench near the dressing rooms, reading a thick novel. Maya was straightening several brightly colored prom dresses, circa 1980, while half a dozen customers roamed the crowded aisles.

  After trading greetings and making sure everyone was still on for our big move tomorrow, I asked Maya: “Did you get any hits on that drawing?”

  “Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything that matched one hundred percent.” She called a file up on the computer. “But you said to keep in mind that it might not be complete, so these are some of the signs that looked similar.”

  I studied the computer screen, which showed thumbnails of several signs that did seem similar, though none was exact.

  “What do they mean?” I asked.

  “Depends on which one you’re referring to. They’re all over the map. This one’s an ancient Hebrew sign for water; this one’s a petroglyph. This one here”—she clicked on the thumbnail to make the picture larger—“is from the Da Pinchi Code that Conrad mentioned, and it actually looks pretty close. But the interesting thing is that it seems to be based on a much older sign. I’m still trying to track down its origins, though.”

  “Thanks so much for looking.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s sort of fun, like a treasure hunt.”

  I smiled. “I never think of anything computer-related as ‘fun,’ but I’m glad you do. Hey, could you look up something else for me while you’re on the Internet? I think it’s Latin, and it’s probably an ingredient for baked goods, or a sweetener of some kind. Lepisma saccharina.”

  “Spell it for me?”

  “I’m not completely sure, but L-e—”

  “Dude, what kind of baked goods are you eating?” interrupted Conrad, who had been playing with a heap of colorful Mardi Gras beads.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That means silverfish.”

  “Silverfish?” I asked. “As in, the bug?”

  He nodded. “Lepisma saccharina is the Latin name for silverfish.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Latin,” Maya said.

  “I don’t. I know bugs, dude.”

  “So then it’s not an ingredient for baked goods,” said Maya, looking it up online. “At least, I sincerely hope not. Yep, the Con’s right, as usual: Lepisma saccharina, commonly known as ‘silverfish.’”

  So Jamie had been asking around the Russian psychics for silverfish? That made no sense at all, of course, but there had to be a connection to the bugs in the shoe box.

  I felt lost. Whom could I talk to about this? I glanced at the map: The grandmas were in Sacramento. If they were completing this same sign, and it looked like they were, they’d be headed somewhere north next: maybe to Napa for a little wine tasting. Aidan wasn’t going to be much help if he kept demanding I turn over Oscar or Sailor; I would save him as a last resort. But there was another wise woman out there, someone I had, perhaps, underestimated.

  I knew Calypso Cafaro had a magical way with plants, but according to Aidan, she was more than that. She “used to be” a witch. In my book, once a witch, always a witch.

  What’s more, she also used to be in charge of the Bay Area’s magical community. She had had Aidan’s job.

  Determined to speak with her, I asked Maya and Bronwyn to stay and close up shop, and made sure Conrad and Duke would keep them company. Then I ran upstairs and managed to corral one of the silverfish from the box into a jar, rewrapped the shoe box in rowan, and returned it to its place on the shelf. Next I jumped in my car, stopped by the wax museum to pick up my pig, then headed north across the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “I take it you’re feeling better?” I asked my familiar in greeting.

  Oscar—or Aidan?—had anticipated my arrival and he’d been waiting with the highly disgruntled Clarinda at the front ticket office. He remained in piggy form until we exited the thick traffic of the Golden Gate Bridge and Highway 101. Now we were winding through the hills, with no witnesses to notice Oscar’s true form.

  “Hey, mistress, you know when I’m going to do that again?”

  “Never, I sincerely hope.”

  “When pigs fly,” he said, slapping his knee and cackling. “Get it? ’Cause I was high, like flying?”

  “Very funny. Seriously, Oscar, you scared me. What were you thinking, going into the Dumpster for something I told you not to eat?”

  “They were cupcakes,” he said, as though that explained everything.

  As we neared Bolinas, it occurred to me that a normal person might have called ahead to warn Calypso that she was coming, or to make sure it was a good time. But in the past, Calypso had always known I was arriving. Whether she was psychic, or someone informed on me, I had no way of knowing.

  I turned off the main highway, into a long drive that was virtually invisible unless you knew to look for it. A massive hedge leaned so far in on both sides that it was difficult to pass, the branches scraping the sides of the car as I squeezed through. I cringed, thinking of the Mustang’s cherry red paint job, but forced myself to stay focused on the important things. After all, paint jobs could be reapplied.

  I had only one fiancé, and there was only one San Francisco.

&nbs
p; Beyond the hedge was a clearing, backed by a redwood forest. An old butter yellow farmhouse was fronted by a deep porch filled with white wicker furniture and colorful flowering pots. A calico cat was curled up on a porch swing, while a tabby lingered on a windowsill. A vast vegetable garden sat out back, and a greenhouse was attached to the rear. The little brick walkway leading to the front door was lined with rose trees, and everywhere one looked, plants were in abundant bloom.

  “It looks like a picture in a calendar,” said Oscar, a note of awe in his gravelly voice.

  “That’s what I think every time I see it.”

  “It’s pretty early in the season for peaches, isn’t it?” asked Oscar.

  “Things bloom on a different schedule in Calypso’s world.”

  “That’s some powerful plant magic.”

  “She’s a whiz at everything botanical,” I said, glancing over at the copse of redwood trees that edged the back garden. My heart fluttered. I had imagined my handfasting with Sailor taking place right there, at the edge of the woods, to invite the blessings of the fairy folk. Soon Graciela’s coven would be here, filling the house with laughter and wisewoman energy. Or . . . would those things happen, after all? I knew it was dangerous to anticipate something so fervently.

  Be careful what you ask for, my grandmother had always told me. The spirit world might become jealous; it’s best to let the world unfold at your feet, as it will.

  The first time I visited Calypso’s home, I had felt conflicting feelings: On the one hand, it was gorgeous. A fantasy setting, a fantasy farmhouse, a fantasy garden. On the other . . . Calypso was a virtual recluse. By choice, of course. But it made me realize that, after years of wandering alone, I wanted something different for myself: I didn’t want to be a solo act anymore. I wanted friends nearby. I wanted a family. And most of all, I wanted Sailor by my side.

  As she had in the past, Calypso seemed to have sensed our arrival and met us at the door, wearing a bright blue tunic with deep pockets over flowered leggings, a jaunty scarf tied around her neck. Her silver hair was braided, the heavy plait hanging over one shoulder.