In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  “And yet you think I’m happy to hop-to every time you need a favor?”

  “Um… Not ‘happy,’ exactly. But willing.” Sailor’s psychic abilities were rare, and he had proved to be mighty useful from time to time. And though he denied it, I was pretty sure he had a sneaking fondness for me. I liked to think I was growing on him. “I’m here for you if you need me.”

  Sailor took a sip of the drink I had brought him. “Don’t need you.”

  “Doesn’t mean you won’t one day.”

  “We made a deal, you and me, last time I helped you out. You still haven’t come through.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I promised to help you get released from your obligation to Aidan, and I will.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sailor again glanced toward the corner of the bar and frowned. “How’s that working out, exactly? You two talk about it while you were doing the tango at the Fat Cat Ball, did you?”

  “Hey, it’s a tall order. I’m working on it,” I said, peering over my shoulder to see what he was looking at. “Are you here with someone?”

  He shook his head.

  “What are you looking at, then?”

  “A pretty woman in a short skirt. Nosy much?”

  I settled back into the booth. “Anyway, Aidan’s sort of making himself scarce at the moment. I haven’t seen him since the ball.”

  “What, did you refuse to invite him into your lair afterward?”

  “Never had the chance. He left early.”

  “He ditched you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No. He had a very good reason.”

  “What?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m sure it was good.”

  Sailor chuckled and sipped the scotch. Sooty eyelashes fluttered down over his dark eyes as he lost himself in the smoky taste and aroma of the liquor. The strong planes of his cheeks were covered in dark stubble, as usual, and his mahogany hair was tousled. His eyes were dark and mysterious. He’d be darned attractive, if he weren’t so… dour.

  “What is it you want this time?” He set down the drink, arranging it in a straight line with the other shot glasses. When I didn’t answer immediately, he added: “Out with it, already. Your time’s almost up.”

  “That scotch is the good stuff. It should buy me at least fifteen minutes of your time. Besides,” I said, ostentatiously looking around at the revelers in the bar, “I don’t see anyone else vying for the privilege of sitting with you.”

  “Maybe they’re smart enough to avoid witches,” he growled. “Unlike me.”

  “Okay, here it is: I met a woman at the ball, and she seemed… odd.”

  “As in not human?”

  “Oh no, definitely human. But her vibrations were off, although I couldn’t figure out exactly how so. Later I realized they were similar to, or somehow connected to, some baby clothes she had dropped off at the store a few days before.”

  “You sell baby clothes?”

  “No. Maya felt sorry for her and bought them. She might have sensed something as well.”

  “Don’t tell me Maya’s psychic now? She’s the only sane one at that store of yours.”

  “I never said she was psychic. As you well know, all of us pick up on things from time to time, whether we’re psychic or not.”

  “Whatever.” He cast another glance into the dark corner. The scotch in his glass was two-thirds gone, as was my time. “So Maya buys some baby clothes, even though you don’t sell baby clothes. Sounds like employee-of-the-month material.”

  “I thought you liked Maya.”

  “I do like Maya. Don’t understand why she hangs out with your ilk, but to each their own.”

  “Getting back to the point: I ran into this woman, Miriam, at the ball, and something seemed off about her. Later in the evening I bumped into her again, in the ladies’ lounge, and helped her with her hair.”

  Sailor made a snoring sound. “Does this story get interesting anytime soon? Maybe we could skip ahead to the good part before I fall asleep.”

  “Then she lay down on the chaise longue and didn’t wake up.”

  “What, she died?”

  I shook my head. “She’s in a coma, completely unresponsive. No known cause. The doctors have no explanation.”

  “Sounds like a medical mystery, not a witchy one. And by the way—you’ve been pretty open about being a witch lately. I’d watch that, if I were you. My advice? Stay out of it.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Her soul is trapped in a mirror.”

  He went still. “You’re sure?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. But I want to go back and try to speak with her, which is why I need your help.”

  “Let me get this straight: Some woman you bumped into at a costume party falls into a coma, her spirit’s trapped in a mirror, and you want me to help you speak to her? That about sum it up?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Sailor was silent for a moment. One more glance over my shoulder, and then he met my eyes. “You ever heard of the ‘ghost light’ they leave on in theaters?”

  I shook my head.

  “Old theaters are so packed with ghosts, by tradition the staff leaves a light on for them.”

  He glared at me, and I wondered what he expected me to say.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me it isn’t, ’cause I don’t go to theaters.”

  “I’ll buy you another scotch.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Sailor, this woman needs our help.”

  “You always say that as though it’s a big selling point. You don’t seem to get what everyone else understands: I’m a misanthrope. I don’t like people. I actively dislike people.”

  “I know that’s what you’d like others to think—”

  “I’d like them to think that because it’s the truth.”

  “I believe you’re really quite decent. You’re just invested in this off-putting image for some reason.”

  “You ever notice how, when you come in here, I’m sitting alone in this booth? The operative word being ‘alone.’ These folks understand me.”

  “Several of the young women seem to notice you. And even know you.”

  He gave a little half smile. “A man has needs.”

  “Fine. I don’t need to hear about it.”

  “And you know how it is—women do love bad boys.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Uh-huh.” He gave me a sardonic smile and knocked back the last of the scotch. “Seems to me you’re attracted to Aidan. The quintessential bad boy—am I right?”

  “You are the quintessential bad boy, with your motorcycle boots and scowl. Anyway, I’ve had too much bad in my life. I don’t go for that.”

  He snorted. “You might not go for it in my case, but don’t fool yourself. You’re attracted to the dark side.”

  “Are you going to go to the gol-danged theater with me or not?” I snapped, annoyed at the turn in the conversation.

  “Not.”

  “She needs our help, Sailor. She has a little girl, a father, people who love her.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Fine.”

  As I surged up and out of the booth, the shot glasses blasted apart, one smashing into the back of the wooden seat, another skittering off the table and onto the floor. This sort of thing sometimes happened when I got angry, which was one reason I tried to keep a lid on my emotions. I made an exception for Sailor.

  As I stormed out, I glanced into the dark corner that had drawn Sailor’s attention. I saw nothing more than a trio of pretty young women clutching pink drinks in martini glasses and clad in skimpy slip dresses completely unsuited to the chilly San Francisco evening.

  Perhaps it was just as Sailor said, an attractive woman claimed his attention.

  If only I could ignore the tingle that it was something more.

  Chapter 9

  Pushing my way through the crowded
bar, I made it out the front door, then stalked down the dark side street toward Broadway. Bright restaurants and music-filled clubs beckoned. Couples crowded the streets: young women gazing up at their youthful escorts, elderly couples walking arm in arm, laboriously, down the sidewalk. Lovers and friends crowded into cafés, sipping lattes or Campari and soda while waiting for their Italian pastries or eggplant parmigiana.

  Usually I soaked up the carefree happiness in the air as though it were mother’s milk. But tonight Sailor had hurt my feelings. I kept thinking we were friends, all evidence to the contrary. Besides, I was grumpy lately. I couldn’t deny it. I felt… Was it envy? I wanted to wrap my arm around a man, have him hold the door for me and watch me drink Chianti as though he couldn’t get enough. Why wasn’t that an option for me?

  Jiminy crickets, Lily, get a grip. Less than a year ago I had been alone and friendless. Now I had a whole group of people who cared about me, and what did I do? I got greedy.

  But there was no denying that I wanted the whole enchilada. Romance, as well as friendship and community. My one recent attempt at a love life, with journalist Max Carmichael, had been a bust because he couldn’t deal with my witchy ways, and I couldn’t deal with him not dealing. Aidan’s power scared me, and Sailor… well, Sailor didn’t like me.

  I noticed a young mother with her baby strapped to her chest leaning down to kiss his fuzzy head in a gesture as natural and timeless as the warmth of the sun. I felt a pang for Miriam and little Luna.

  As I unlocked my car door, a sleek champagne-colored Jaguar glided past. The license plates read MALWTCH, and the car sparkled subtly under the streetlamps, the light fading in and out, emanating from the glamour that disguised the car and its owner: Aidan Rhodes, male witch. Was that the witchy premonition I felt in the bar… ? Was he following me? Or had I interrupted a meeting between him and Sailor? And if so, why would he hide from me?

  * * *

  By the time Oscar and I got home I was beat. No gardening for me tonight, after all. But I had one last task before snuggling into my old brass bed: I picked up the phone and made a call.

  “Romero.” His voice was scratchy.

  “It’s Lily. Did I wake you?”

  “Nah, homicide inspectors never sleep. What’s up?”

  “I struck out with the coven.”

  “Didn’t win them over with your charm?”

  “I think I’m fresh out of charm,” I said. Unless we were talking about the magical kind. “Anyway, the only lead I have is that Tarra was participating in botanicals training.”

  “Botanicals—that’s right up your alley, isn’t it?”

  “It is. The problem is that I wasn’t able to get any information about the training—where it takes place, who’s teaching it. I’ll work on it.”

  “Speaking of botanicals: The tox report came back on Tarra. Are you familiar with something called mandrake?”

  “It’s a medicinal plant.”

  “Medicinal and/or poisonous. I Googled it. Famous for being grown in witches’ gardens.”

  “I have a mandrake plant on my terrace, as well as wolfsbane and datura. They’re all poisonous if not used properly.”

  A long silence.

  “Carlos, a lot of people know about these plants: gardeners, run-of-the-mill botanists, anyone into alternative medicine. There was an exhibit about poisonous plants at the San Francisco botanical gardens just last month.”

  “I know that. I’m just saying, it’s interesting. I’d like to talk to whoever’s running that botanical group you mentioned.”

  “I’ll try to find out more.” Maybe Bronwyn’s friend Bliss would know about the group, or Wendy with her Moonstruck Madness phonebook. “Another thing: It turns out Tarra and Miriam are—were—coven sisters.”

  “Miriam? The woman you asked me to look into?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a coincidence.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like coincidences.”

  “Neither do I. But in this case… well, I guess it makes sense, in a way. I think Miriam may have been seeking me out.”

  “You mean she bumped into you at the ball on purpose?”

  “Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe she was drawn to me?”

  “I’m getting the feeling we’re leading up to yet another discussion of witchcraft. Frankly, I’d rather skip it unless it has something to do with my case. Does it?”

  “I’m not sure.” I was going to have to work on that one. There were too many variables right now. “Miriam seemed off when I met her at the ball, even before she fell ill. There was another woman at the coven meeting, Anise, who’s in the botanicals group as well. She seemed rather confused, too.”

  “Maybe she’d been smoking something.”

  “Covens come together to worship, and they take it seriously. I can’t imagine they’d accept a coven member coming to their meetings under the influence.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Could there be something in the building where the coven meets, or something like that? You know, like some kind of Legionnaires’ disease?

  “If so, everyone would be affected. But it’s worth checking out. Give me their information.”

  I gave him the address of the design center, and hoped the coven wouldn’t hold it against me. Morocca mentioned the cops had already spoken with the coven, and she hadn’t seemed happy about it. On the other hand, if Tarra had been murdered and the same person had gone after Miriam and was now targeting Anise, they should not only cooperate but volunteer to help.

  Unless they had something to hide.

  “All right. I’ll check out the mass-poisoning angle. Maybe it really was an accident.”

  “Or maybe they were exposed to something in the botanicals group?”

  “Sounds more likely. See what you can find out from your end, and I’ll do what I can as well. Seems to me this coven was on our list of folks we interviewed, but they didn’t give us any pertinent information. So think of it this way: You did better than the SFPD.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. One more thing: Tarra had a boyfriend named Rex Theroux. Did you know about him?”

  “Yep, we tracked him down today through her neighbors. Doesn’t look likely. He’s got an alibi.”

  “May I ask what it is?”

  “Medical examiner’s timing suggests Rex was with a men’s group when the poisoning would have occurred. And he was pretty consistent throughout a very long interrogation, seemed genuinely shocked and clueless about plants. Can’t rule him out, but I don’t think he’s our guy.”

  “Would you mind if I spoke with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not as part of the investigation or anything official,” I assured him. “But now that I know Miriam and Tarra were acquainted, I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  “Stay out of this, Lily. I appreciate you asking around for me, but that’s all.”

  “I, uh…”

  “Do not interfere with my investigation. Is that clear?”

  “Very. Did you find out anything further about Miriam?”

  “No. Sorry. I talked to a buddy of mine over there, but the Oakland PD wasn’t called in on the case.”

  “Could you do me a huge favor? Have the toxicology report sent over to Miriam’s doctors, to see if she’s suffering from whatever killed Tarra?”

  “She still alive?”

  “As far as I know,” I said, knocking on wood.

  * * *

  Aunt Cora’s Closet used to be closed on Mondays, but increased demand, and the help of Maya and Bronwyn, persuaded me to change our policy. It was great to be able to offer shopping seven days a week, but it sure made it difficult to deal with the never-ending Sisyphean task of the vintage clothes dealer: the laundry.

  This morning I opened the store as I usually did, cleansing it and intoning a quick protection chant.

  My simple shielding spell wouldn’t keep away all negative intent, but it served
as a deterrent. I rarely had to worry about shoplifting or abusive customers. I did wonder, though… with what Carlos told me about DOM, the antiwitch group, maybe I should step up the level of magical protection. But, as with everything else in the world of magic, there was a price: Minimizing risk meant restricting thought and creativity. Automatons may not steal or vandalize, but neither do they add much to a conversation.

  I sighed. I needed coffee. I grabbed my woven shopping basket and stepped out into the misty, gray morning.

  On the curb sat a lanky, thin fellow in his late teens or early twenties. Conrad—he went by “the Con”—and I had adopted each other when I first moved to the Haight and opened Aunt Cora’s Closet. He did small tasks for me and watched over the store. In return, I made sure he had breakfast and allowed him to use the bathroom.

  “Duuude,” he said by way of good morning. “Sweep for you?”

  “That would be great, thanks. I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried down the block to my favorite café, Coffee to the People. On the way I passed by several young men and women—many who looked more like children—loitering on stoops and curbs, some smoking or playing music, others accompanied by dogs that looked as unkempt as they. Ever since the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood hosted the Summer of Love in 1967 it had become famous for welcoming rootless young people onto its streets. Many of them, like Conrad, slept in nearby Golden Gate Park but spent the greater part of their days panhandling along Haight Street. Some local merchants and residents had tried to oust them and had gone so far as to champion a “no sitting” law to forbid anyone from relaxing on the sidewalk.

  I understood their perspective. But because most of these kids seemed as lost as I had been for so long, I couldn’t help but sympathize with them.

  “One garlic and two toasted sesame bagels with the usual,” I ordered when I reached the head of the long line at the café, another throwback to the area’s hippie heyday. “Plus one Flower Power and a double nonfat latte, easy on the milk.”

  “You got it,” said Wendy. Bronwyn’s coven sister Wendy worked the counter with a sweet, multipierced fellow named Xander. The two baristas were among the coolest folks I knew, and the day they started recognizing me and my “usual” order I felt like I had taken a giant step toward acceptance in the neighborhood.