In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  He stuck out his chin, nodded, and seemed to mull something over. Despite the fact that we were on friendly terms, the inspector had a disconcerting way of making a witch like me feel guilty… of what, exactly, I didn’t know. Must be an occupational hazard.

  “Could we talk in private?”

  “Of course.” I led the way through the velvet curtains to the back room, where we took seats at the table. I moved the box of baby clothes—which were still humming maddeningly—to the floor.

  “You carrying baby clothes now?”

  “Not exactly, no. I’ll probably give them away once they’ve been washed.” And I would cleanse them, spiritually as well as physically, before I’d allow another baby to come near them. “What can I do for you, Inspector?” Please don’t be here about Miriam.

  “Do you happen to know a young woman named Tanya Kolchek?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “She also went by the name Tarra, short for Tarragon Dark Moon?”

  I shook my head. “Is there a reason I might know her?”

  “Not necessarily. She was found dead on Friday.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He shook his head. “Damned shame. Twenty-two years old. About Maya’s age.” He handed me a photograph.

  Tarragon Dark Moon had a short black bob and wore bright red lipstick and a shirt with a wide sailor’s collar. She looked pixyish and retro at the same time, jaunty in a sailor’s cap. I wondered if she’d ever been to Aunt Cora’s Closet, but I didn’t recognize the top… and I almost always remembered the clothes that passed through my perceptive hands.

  “Not a natural death, I take it?”

  “Hard to say. We’re waiting on the medical examiner’s report.”

  “I see. Why are you asking me about her?”

  “Because she was big into the Wiccan scene.”

  “I’m not Wicca.”

  “I know that. But I thought you might be able to ask around, see what people knew about her. I’m hitting a wall every time I try to talk to them. They’re not telling me anything I want to know.”

  Surprise, surprise. “What would you like to know?”

  “Usual stuff: who her friends and lovers were, what she was into, that sort of thing. She was estranged from her family so they aren’t much help, and all her work contacts have been dead ends. Far as I can tell, she worked several part-time jobs, did occasional child care, dog walking, flower delivery, that sort of thing. It seems the Wiccans were her life.”

  I stared at Tarra’s photo. What a tragedy for her family, estranged or not. Perhaps, like me, her real family was her friends, or her coven sisters. But if so, why would they be secretive about the circumstances of her death? Or were they just naturally suspicious of the police, as I myself had been most of my life?

  “Do you know which coven she belonged to?” I asked.

  “I don’t know anything, which is why I need your help.”

  “You said you were talking to some Wiccans who wouldn’t tell you anything… . Who were they?”

  He shrugged. “An occult supply store down on Mission was broken into. I thought maybe there was a connection. Somebody runs a store like that, they’re probably Wiccans of one kind or another, right?”

  “That’s hard to say,” I said. I wasn’t up to speed on the local witch scene—my whole life I had tried to avoid local witchy politics. But at least I wasn’t as clueless as most, such as the inspector. I knew that not all witches were Wiccan and not all those who dealt in the occult were witches. “What makes you think Tarra was Wiccan?”

  “Her parents mentioned it—I got the impression they didn’t approve. We also found paraphernalia in her apartment.”

  “Paraphernalia?”

  He gave a crooked half smile. “The usual suspects: an altar to some goddess, pentacles, crystals. And she had a bumper sticker on her car that reads: ‘Where there’s a Witch, there’s a Way.’”

  “Cute,” I said, writing down her names: Tarragon Dark Moon, née Tanya Kolchek. “I’ll ask around. May I keep the photo?”

  He nodded. “Just find out general stuff: the name of her boyfriend or girlfriend, if she had one, her friends, what she did with her time.” Carlos fixed me with a serious look. “I don’t want you to investigate, just ask around. Are we clear on that?”

  “Got it.” The last time Carlos had asked for my help, I went a little over the top in my zeal to unmask a murderer.

  “Carlos, since you’re here, could I ask you about something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I was at a dance at the Paramount Theater last night—”

  A smile lit his dark eyes. “You went to that Art Deco Ball? Seriously? How was it?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Sure. It’s supposed to be quite something.”

  “It was.”

  “Hard to imagine you going to a fancy dance like that.”

  I felt vaguely insulted. Was it really that hard to imagine me in elegant surroundings? Were my small-town West Texas roots showing? “Why shouldn’t I go?”

  “No reason,” he said, backtracking hastily. “I guess it makes sense, at that. What with the clothes and all. At least you had the wardrobe, right? Who was your date?”

  “A… um… friend.”

  “Come on; you can tell your uncle Carlos. You have a beau?”

  “He’s not my beau,” I said, cheeks flushing. “Aidan Rhodes.”

  “Rhodes? The guy who operates out of the Wax Museum at the wharf? Supposed to be able to rid people of curses? Guy’s a fruitcake.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Why are you running around with him?”

  “We’re not in a gang together or anything.”

  “Allow me to rephrase. Why are you wasting your time with Aidan Rhodes?”

  “He’s an… acquaintance who escorted me to the ball, that’s all.” And ditched me, I added silently.

  “Guy’s trouble, Lily. You want my advice, stay away from him. Especially since…” Carlos paused.

  “Since what?”

  “You’re already sort of on the edge.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together. When he looked up at me, sincerity shone from his dark eyes.

  “Look, you know I’ve proven that I’m… okay with your special abilities, right? But most folks aren’t so open-minded, and that could mean trouble. You get a reputation as someone who thinks she’s a witch, and… well, a lot of people are gonna associate that with kookiness at best. Or worse: satanism.”

  Chapter 5

  “That’s ridiculous, Carlos,” I protested. “It’s not the same thing at all—”

  “You think I don’t know that? But a lot of people aren’t as open-minded. I’m just saying, Lily, you might want to watch your back.” He played with a piece of packing string that had been left on the table, winding and unwinding it around his thumb. “There’s been some evidence that a group opposed to witches has formed recently.”

  “What? Who would do such a thing?”

  “C’mon, Lily—you don’t need me to tell you, of all people, that lots of folks are afraid of witches, especially when times get tough. You’ve never run into this before?”

  It was certainly true. Throughout the ages, attacks against witches have increased in times of stress. We’re a convenient scapegoat.

  “Has something happened in San Francisco?”

  “There have been a handful of incidents. That occult supply store in the Mission was vandalized, like I mentioned, and had a bunch of antiwitch graffiti painted on the building. And a record store—the kind that sells old LPs?—was ransacked and a bunch of the records were smashed. A note left at the scene said the records conveyed satanic messages when played backward.”

  “How do you play a record backward?”

  “A lot of old phonographs play backward as well as forward. So
me even recorded.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Anyway, the mechanics of it are not really the point. I just want you to be on your guard.”

  I supposed he was right. “What did these alleged satanic messages say?”

  “I haven’t heard them.”

  “Who would even think to play a record backward?”

  “Don’t you remember the old controversy over the backward lyrics in rock songs?”

  I shook my head. Rarely did a day go by that I wasn’t reminded of how out of the mainstream my upbringing had been. I loved old Bewitched reruns, but as for the rest of popular culture? I was clueless.

  “How about the Beatles’ ‘I buried Paul’ thing? Doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “Not really.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is, these folks have gotten themselves all worked up, and they’re taking action. I hear they call themselves DOM, which supposedly stands for Defenders of Morality. They seem to find the… ‘openness’ of the Bay Area to be a threat. They’re upset about a lot of things, but their main target now seems to be New Age and witchy stuff.”

  “Are they a religious group?”

  “Could be anything. You know how it is around here: Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists…”

  “I find it hard to believe Buddhists would be involved in something like this.”

  “I find it hard to believe people of any faith would be involved in something like this. In my religion, as in most, the core belief is ‘love thy neighbor.’”

  It surprised me to hear of Carlos speaking of faith, though when I took a moment to think about it, it made a certain kind of sense. He was steadfast and unflappable, which often reflected a deeper belief system.

  “I didn’t know you were religious,” I replied.

  “Catholic.”

  “Catholic,” I repeated, taking care to keep my tone neutral. It was a long time ago, but the European church-led witch hunts rode high in every witch’s collective memory.

  “And before you make reference to the witch hunts, the Inquisition, or the Crusades,” Carlos continued, “I would like to point out that those shameful incidents had to do with the fallible, power-hungry men in charge, not with God. In my version of Catholicism, we love our neighbors.”

  I smiled. “Well, then, I like the Carlos version. So, do you think Tarra Dark Moon’s death could be linked to this DOM group… ?”

  He shrugged and blew out a breath. “I hope not. She wasn’t a leader in her coven, as far as I can tell, so I can’t see why she would have been singled out. But like I said, I haven’t been able to find out much about her.”

  “Most Wiccan groups aren’t hierarchical; it might be hard for an outsider to identify who the leaders are, assuming there even are any.”

  “Maybe you could check that out for me, as well. See if Tarra was a high priestess, or whatever they’re called.”

  I shivered a little. “Scary to think there’s actually a group organized to do harm to witches.”

  “Watch your back, Lily. Whenever people come together through shared intolerance or hatred… well, they can be very bad news.” He sat back in the chair. “So what were you going to ask me about the ball?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You started to say you went to the Art Deco Ball… ?”

  “Oh, right. There was a woman there, Miriam… something.” I realized I didn’t know her last name. “She lost consciousness and was taken to the hospital. I don’t suppose you heard anything about it?”

  “No, but there’s no reason I would. That’s in Oakland—not my jurisdiction. And someone passing out at a dance wouldn’t be deemed suspicious unless there was more to it. So, was there more to it?”

  I hesitated. When I’d first met Carlos, he’d suspected me of murder and had dug up part of my past, at least the part I’d spent in my hometown of Jarod, Texas. It was something I had been trying hard to keep under wraps, making a fresh start in California. But instead of condemning me for my witchy ways, he’d come to me for help. It had astonished me, another in a series of lessons I was learning about friendship and faith. Still, old habits of mistrust died hard. And my feelings about the cursed corsage… Even to my own ears, it sounded weak with no other evidence. Not to mention no corsage.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If it’s assault and you have any evidence, tell me. If not, well… . even then, unless she died under suspicious circumstances, there would be no reason to bring in homicide. Did she die?”

  I stroked the medicine bag I wore around my waist and intoned a quick message of protection. “I hope not. Would there be a way to find out?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Call the hospitals, for a start. Why are you so interested? Doesn’t sound like you knew her well.”

  “I didn’t. I met her at the ball. I was just…” I thought of the corsage and the strange vibrations from her dress.

  “Just what?”

  “I was just concerned about her, that’s all,” I said with a shrug.

  “Is there something you’d like to tell the investigating officers, presuming there are any? Do you know something about what happened to her? Was it a witch deal of some sort?”

  “All I know is that she seemed a little… off. Something felt fishy. But I don’t have anything more to go on.”

  His cell phone chirped. He checked the readout, texted something, then stood. “If you want, I can make a few phone calls, see if anyone in the Oakland PD knows anything.”

  “I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Carlos rose and headed back through the velvet curtains. “I’d better be going.”

  Out on the shop floor, Bronwyn had given in to temptation and was traipsing around in a reproduction 1930s jet-beaded backless cocktail dress, showing off. The contrast of the sleek gown with Bronwyn’s fuzzy mane—entwined with fresh flowers, as usual—made me smile.

  Carlos let out a low whistle as he passed. “Can’t arrest you for lookin’ good, ma’am, but if I could…”

  Bronwyn gave Carlos a deep curtsy.

  “Why, Officer, ah do declay-are,” Bronwyn said in a lousy imitation of my Texan accent. “Ah like to swoon at such words.”

  Carlos chuckled. The bell tinkled with finality as he shut the door and disappeared onto the crowded Haight Street sidewalk.

  “Everything okay?” Maya asked softly as I joined her at the counter, where she was jotting down the final choices of the women from the shelter. Though we weren’t charging for the clothes, we keep careful books and track inventory.

  “He wants me to ask around about a woman named Tarragon Dark Moon. You wouldn’t happen to know her?”

  “No, but with a name like that I’ll bet Bronwyn does.”

  Bronwyn was still surrounded by women, so I decided to talk to her about it later. In the meantime…

  “Maya, what can you tell me about the woman who brought in the box of baby clothes?”

  “I’m really sorry about buying those, Lily,” Maya said. “I just… The woman seemed so upset. I thought she might need rent money or something.”

  “I probably would have done the same thing. But what did the woman look like?”

  “Sort of ordinary? Pretty. Light brownish blond hair, medium height…” She shrugged. “She was distracted, a little breathless. She seemed to be in a hurry, but then she bought a capelet—that little zebra-striped one that used to be on the stand in the window?”

  “So she couldn’t have been that desperate for money.” I searched for inspiration. “Did she say anything? Ask about me or the store?”

  “She asked if I was the owner,” said Maya. “I told her you’d be in later in the day, and she said she might come back.”

  “Was she interested in Bronwyn’s herb stand?”

  “Not that I noticed. Why?”

  “No special reason.”

  If the woman had been Miriam, it was possible she had come in because the Art Deco Ball was on her mind
. I hadn’t recognized her dress, but perhaps she had bought something else from us, a piece of jewelry or headdress or even undergarments… something other than a zebra-striped capelet. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed that.

  “You didn’t happen to write down her name?”

  Maya shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful next time.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I think I may have met her at the ball last night, and she became sick. I’d just like to know if there was a reason she came here, a reason I met her.”

  “A reason like what?” asked Maya.

  I shrugged. I wish I knew.

  I flipped through today’s paper but didn’t find anything about untoward events at the Art Deco Ball. Might as well try the Internet. Lately, though, whenever I came near the computer it popped and sizzled. I wondered if this meant my powers were increasing… or if it was time to go computer shopping.

  I grounded myself by stroking my medicine bundle, then looked up the local paper’s Web site, hoping it might have been updated recently. I found a brief article with a photo from the Art Deco Ball, but nothing about Miriam. Carlos was right: A woman getting sick wouldn’t rate a newspaper story unless there were obvious signs of foul play, or unless she had died. While I was online I looked up Oakland hospitals, scribbled down their phone numbers, and called the one nearest the Paramount Theater.

  Since I didn’t know Miriam’s last name, all I could ask was if a young woman had been admitted last night, and the operator I spoke with in Admissions wasn’t willing to admit even that much. I hate telephones. If I were speaking to her in person, I might be able to use my powers to influence her response. Looked like a field trip was in order. Chances were good that Miriam was at Summit Medical Center, which was the closest emergency room to the Paramount. If I didn’t find her there, I’d try the other medical centers in circles radiating out, like ripples in the surface of a lake.

  First, though, I had to finish up my business with the women from the shelter. It was another hour before the last one left, new clothes folded neatly into recycled paper bags with AUNT CORA’S CLOSET stamped on the side.

  I ran upstairs and decanted the brew I had made last night into a wide-mouthed mason jar, my favorite device for mobile spells. Then I slipped the prepared talismans into the side pocket of my satchel, along with two black silk bags filled with healing herbs. As I came down the stairs with the packed bag over my shoulder, Bronwyn’s astute eyes swept over me.