“And who are you?” Stinson asked Sailor pointedly.
“A friend,” Sailor said, staring him down. After a moment Stinson nodded and looked around him, to me.
“We’d like to speak with you about the circumstances surrounding the death of one Autumn Jennings.”
“Death? Autumn . . . died?”
He gave a curt nod. Inspector Ng said, “Early this morning.”
“What happened?” I asked, shaken. “I mean, it was clear she was ill, but what did she have?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Stinson. “We’d like to get a statement from you.”
“Of course.”
I told them what Maya and I had seen when we arrived at Vintage Visions Glad Rags yesterday, trying to remember details and reconstruct the timeline. Sailor stood, silent and strong, by my side throughout. I realized I hadn’t yet filled him in on what had happened last night, but Sailor was the quiet sort; he would wait to have his questions answered.
Not long ago Aidan had cautioned me that my relationship with Sailor was doomed. He claimed witches like me couldn’t be in love without making ourselves vulnerable and therefore sacrificing our power. I had accused Aidan of being jealous, but a small part of me couldn’t deny that my life experience supported his theory. Still, I was determined to prove him wrong. Not to toot my own horn, but I was one powerful witch, and becoming more so all the time. Loving Sailor made me stronger, I was sure.
Moments such as this one reinforced that belief. I could feel Sailor’s strength humming beside me, warm and welcome, like a psychic hug.
“Nothing else?”
I shook my head. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Jennings didn’t say anything else? Just this sort of paranoid delusion?”
“All she asked was whether we were spying on her, and if we were alone. I really have no way of knowing whether it was a delusion or not, though it did seem that way.”
“Okay. We’ll need to speak with your assistant, this, uh”—he checked his notes—“Maya Jackson, as well.”
“Of course. She’ll be in this afternoon, or I can give you her contact information.”
“That would be helpful. Thank you. Tell me, why did you go to Jennings’s shop yesterday?”
“She . . .” Only then did it dawn on me that the lawsuit pending against me could be seen as a motive for murder. Of course, it wasn’t in fact a motive because I meant Autumn Jennings no harm, but since these officers didn’t know me the way Carlos did, they might not appreciate that. But the truth would come out one way or the other—best to face the music. “She had me served with legal papers yesterday. She was suing me for personal injury in an accident involving a pig.”
“A pig?”
“A pet pig. He’s a miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig.”
“Huh. Didn’t George Clooney have one of those?” said the woman. “I hear they’re real smart.”
I nodded and realized that said pig was, once again, making himself scarce. Just as well.
Inspector Stinson didn’t seem particularly interested in my pet. “What does a pig have to do with a lawsuit?”
“I’m sorry to say my pig bumped into Autumn, here at the store. She fell into some dresses and seemed fine at the time, but the lawsuit says she suffered neck and back injuries.”
His gaze drilled into me. “And you went to talk with her about this? You didn’t, maybe, call your lawyer, something like that?”
“I don’t have a lawyer,” I said. The question hung in the air: Do I need one? “I hoped it was a simple misunderstanding, and we could work it out, face-to-face.”
“Work it out how?”
“I really don’t know. I just . . . I believe in communication, and trying to work things out person to person rather than getting the courts and lawyers involved.”
“Hate to break it to you, but if you were served, then the courts and lawyers are already involved. The time to talk is before a lawsuit’s filed, not after.”
“I— Of course, you’re right,” I said, wondering where this line of questioning might be leading. “I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.”
“Ever speak with the deceased before yesterday?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing at all? No phone calls, text messages, e-mails, Facebook posts?”
“I didn’t even know her number until yesterday. And I don’t do those other things.”
The inspector looked skeptical. “No? Not a twenty-first-century-type gal, eh?”
“You could say as much.”
“What about the old-fashioned way? You ever stop by her shop, maybe check out the competition?”
“Yesterday was the first time I was there.”
“You didn’t send her something, anything at all? An apology of some sort?”
“No,” I said, wondering why he was pressing this point; then I remembered something worth mentioning. “Oh, my coworker Bronwyn brought her a gift basket a few days ago, as an apology.”
“You weren’t involved in this gift basket?”
“No, as I said, I had never been to Vintage Visions, or met Autumn Jennings, until last night.”
“We’ll need this coworker’s information as well.”
I nodded.
Inspector Ng inclined her head toward Bronwyn’s herbal stand. “You work with herbs and whatnot?”
“No, that’s Bronwyn’s stand. She specializes in herbal blends, teas, potpourri, that sort of thing.”
Meanwhile, Inspector Stinson began perusing the carved amulets and talismans in the glass display counter. Many of the talismans were pentacles, which were signs of protection but which nonmagic folk often mistook for something entirely different—and sinister.
He looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “You’re into a satanic-type deal?”
Apparently, Inspector Stinson was one of those people.
“Not in the least.” I went over to stand near him but kept an eye on Inspector Ng, who was nosing around Bronwyn’s jars and packs of herbs. Sailor was watching as well, arms crossed over his chest like a bodyguard, his gaze shifting back and forth between the inspectors, as though watching a really annoying tennis match.
“None of these items has anything to do with Satan, or evil, or black magic, or anything like that,” I said. “They’re charms for protection and healing, not for harm. Never for harm. I carve talismans out of medallions cut from fruit trees and expose them to moonlight . . .”
“She’s a Wiccan,” Ng said, gesturing to the sign hanging over Bronwyn’s stand, taken from the Wiccan Rede: An it harm none, do what ye will.
I wasn’t a Wiccan, but I didn’t try to explain further. The difference between witches and Wiccans was generally lost on people not familiar with alternate belief systems, much less the history and moral codes of different forms of witchcraft.
“H’okay . . . ,” said Stinson, clearly unimpressed.
“It’s a legitimate belief system, Stinson. You gotta change with the times. It’s even recognized by the military these days,” Inspector Ng said. Then she turned to me: “Lily Ivory, we’re going to have to shut this store down for the interim, bring in a forensics crew.”
“Shut us down? For what possible reason?” I asked, shocked.
“We’re gonna need to process these herbs, see if there’s a connection.”
“A connection to what?”
The inspectors exchanged a look. Then Inspector Ng shrugged, and Stinson said, “To the murder of Autumn Jennings.”
Chapter 5
Inspectors Stinson and Ng left their business cards, told me to stay out of the store and not touch anything, and said they would be calling in a forensics team. Happily, I would at least be allowed to come and go from my apartment through the back door that opened o
nto the alley behind the store. I called Bronwyn and Maya and told them both to expect a visit from the police, and that the store would be closed for a day or two. Then I hung a sign in the shop door that read: Closed for Inventory. Open soon, please try back! I had debated what to write and decided a little white lie was probably best. Aunt Cora’s Closet was doing a good business these days, but there was no denying we’d had some strangeness associated with us over the past several months, what with pigs going missing and faith-based break-ins and the like. No need to cast even more suspicion over the place.
Afterward, Sailor, Oscar, and I went upstairs. I put my old copper teakettle on to boil while I filled Sailor in on what Maya and I had found at Vintage Visions Glad Rags last night.
“Do you have any reason to believe there’s something magical going on?” Sailor asked. “I mean, besides the obvious: that you’re a magnet for magical mayhem?”
“No, not really. Except it just seems . . . odd. And Oscar had a problem with Autumn Jennings in the first place. Speaking of which . . .” I turned to my familiar. “What do you know about this?”
Oscar, who had remained in his porcine form, ran into the living room, jumped on the couch, and pretended to snooze. He did this sometimes when he didn’t want to talk. It really dilled my pickle, but I knew from experience that I wouldn’t get anything out of him until he was ready to spill.
“I can’t believe I gave up bacon for the likes of you,” I grumbled, then turned to Sailor. “But I did find Autumn’s name on a marker in Aidan’s satchel. What do you think that means?”
Sailor leaned against the kitchen’s cobalt blue–tiled counter and spoke deliberately. “I think it means you’re right; there might be a reason you’re involved in Autumn’s death.”
“Want to take a look at it?” I asked, reaching for the satchel. “See if you feel anything?”
He held up his hands as though the old leather bag would burn him. “I won’t mess with Aidan’s things. It wouldn’t do any of us any good and might well lead to something . . . bad.”
I understood what he meant. Magic was mysterious and unpredictable. Practitioners had different abilities and weaknesses; sometimes these were complementary, sometimes not. Intermingling magical energy from different sources could lead to increased power and strength—or to utter disaster.
Rather like regular human relationships, now that I thought about it.
Not that the outcomes of such interactions couldn’t be altered with effort. The first time Aidan and I tried mingling our powers, we wound up melting metal. The second time—after I had gained more control of my powers, I had become more familiar with my guiding spirit, and Aidan was more prepared to deal with my magic—I was able to piggyback on his powers to conjure a vision that helped solve the murder of an innocent woman.
“I would, however, be willing to go to Jennings’s store to see if I can pick up any sensations. If Jennings really was murdered, she might well be hanging around.”
“You mean . . . her spirit?”
“It’s possible.”
“But she died in the hospital. Wouldn’t her ghost be lingering there? I mean, assuming it’s lingering at all?”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes, especially with violent death, such as murder or suicide, the spirit remains near the physical location of death. But many times they manifest in the place of greatest significance to them, typically their home or the locale of a loved one.”
“Huh,” I said. “Live and learn.”
Not being a necromancer, I wasn’t up on the rules governing spirits. Ghosts sensed me and often reached out to make contact, but although I could feel them, I couldn’t understand them. It was about as frustrating as trying to communicate with Oscar when he went into shutdown mode.
While Sailor poured the hot water over one of Bronwyn’s custom loose-leaf teas and into a china teapot, filling the kitchen with the aroma of jasmine and honeysuckle, I phoned Inspector Carlos Romero.
“Sorry; I didn’t catch this one, Lily,” he said when he answered.
“You heard about Autumn Jennings?”
“Yes, but I was off duty when the call came in.”
“What happened, do you know? What did she die of?”
“They’re waiting on the final report from the medical examiner, but the doctors suspect it was some sort of poison. Not sure what led them to that conclusion.”
“Poison? Was it an accident or on purpose?”
“That would be the question.”
“What kind of poison?”
“Still waiting on the toxicology report.”
“The inspectors shut down my store, Carlos. They want to process Bronwyn’s herbs—I think we’re suspects.”
“Of course you’re suspects. You have a motive, and Bronwyn has knowledge about, and access to, all those suspicious herbs.”
“They’re not suspicious; they’re just . . . herbs.”
“Sorry—haven’t had my coffee yet so I’m not being as clear as I should be. Here’s the deal: You would be suspects even if I had caught the case, even though I know you. I would be following the same steps, ruling things out. It’s standard procedure. I know it’s stressful and inconvenient, but try not to get too freaked-out.”
“I’ll try, but I’m not sure I’m going to have much success. Inspectors Stinson and Ng don’t know me like you do, and I’m . . . you know . . . sort of weird. Could you put in a good word for me?”
“I’ll do what I can, but I’m sorry to say that my vouching for you with Mark Stinson would probably cause more harm than good. There’s some bad blood between us.”
“Anyone ever tell you that for a nice man, you sure have a lot of enemies?”
He chuckled. “Maybe I’m not all that nice; you ever think of that?”
“Often. Just not once I got to know you.”
“It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. We have to ask uncomfortable questions that people would just as soon not answer. But in the case of Mark Stinson it’s just nonsense: When he was passed over for promotion a few years ago he made allegations of reverse discrimination, claimed I got the job because I was Latino.”
“I’m guessing you got the job because you’re a better detective.”
“I’d like to think so. You ask me, Stinson was passed over because he’s an ass and I’m a better cop. But that’s something he’ll never accept. Don’t get me wrong; he’s not a bad cop, and he made inspector the following year. But he’s had a bug up his butt about me ever since. So you might not want to mention to him that you and I are friends. It won’t help your case and might even hurt.”
“Understood.”
“And in the meantime, I’ll nose around, see if I can find out anything on my end.”
“Thanks, Carlos. And if you could tell me what Autumn Jennings actually died of, that would be helpful.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and Lily? Make sure that pig of yours doesn’t go after anybody else. One head-butt can be a mistake; two head-butts constitute a pattern.”
“Oscar’s not normally that kind of pig. Honest.”
“Uh-huh. Make sure he stays that way.”
* * *
It was only midmorning, overcast as was typical for San Francisco in the summertime. Usually the sun broke through the clouds by noon, warming things up considerably. Still, the City by the Bay was temperate, with temperatures rarely rising above the midseventies even in the summer. Tourists learned this the hard way, and sweatshirt vendors made a killing on the streets of San Francisco.
I decided to take Sailor up on his offer to go by Vintage Visions Glad Rags. Even if the police were processing it as a crime scene, Sailor might be able to read some vibrations from out on the street. It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was something to do. With Aunt Cor
a’s Closet temporarily closed, I had some unaccustomed free time. Might as well look into Jennings’s death a little more. If the authorities happened to see me at Vintage Visions Glad Rags, I supposed I could just say I was nosy. I was already a suspect, after all. How much worse could it get?
Sailor and I headed toward the door, but Oscar got there first. He had transformed into his normal guise, so he could talk.
“Can’t I go, too?” he asked, his bottle-glass green eyes gleaming in his gray scaly face. “I don’t wanna hang around here all day by myself. The store’s closed!”
“What do you think?” I asked Sailor.
Sailor shrugged. “Up to you.”
“If you come along, you’ll have to stay in the car. And make sure no one sees you in your natural form,” I added. Reports of a gobgoyle in my backseat were all I needed.
He narrowed his eyes. “No one sees the real Oscar,” he said, pointing at himself with his thumbs, “unless Oscar says so.”
I had to hand it to my familiar: He was very good at keeping his true self under wraps. I wondered sometimes if it was because Oscar was that good at being discreet or if it was because most cowans, upon seeing a creature like Oscar, assumed they were hallucinating. People were awfully good at talking themselves out of things that couldn’t possibly be, even when those things existed right under their very noses.
Oscar occasionally used his ability to shock people to his advantage, though it was usually while trying to save my life. My heart softened and I felt myself give in.
“Of course you can come, then. We’ll take the van so you have more room.”
“Be right there!” Oscar said and hurried off to grab a few books and some snacks to keep himself amused while he waited.
“That is one spoiled familiar,” Sailor said, shaking his head.
“Well, if a witch can’t spoil her familiar, then who can she spoil?” I said sheepishly, grabbing my woven bag and making sure I had the keys to the car and to Autumn Jennings’s shop.
A Toxic Trousseau Page 6
