In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Awesome event yesterday with the shelter, right?” Wendy continued as she set about mixing drinks and toasting bagels with a fluid, multitasking mastery. “Thank you for donating the clothes, Lily. That was really generous of you. Now we’re going to keep following up on leads, try to help them all find job opportunities.”

  “I was glad to help. And I had the easy part—it’s great that you’re carrying through with them.”

  Though we were friendly, I still found Wendy intimidating. She didn’t smile much. She was a large young woman who wore lingerie as outer garments, along with heavy black boots, dark red lipstick, and her black hair cut in a Bettie Page do, bangs straight across her forehead. She certainly had her own style: sexy and brash. When it came right down to it, Wendy was about ten points higher than I on the coolness scale.

  Then I remembered what Bronwyn had told me about Wendy’s project, Moonstruck Madness.

  “Do you happen to know a woman named Tanya Kolchek, goes by Tarragon Dark Moon?”

  “Sounds familiar… Seems like we carpooled to a pagan festival up in Mendocino once. A lot of them are Feris.”

  “Faeries?”

  “F-E-R-I. It’s a belief system, different from the Wiccans. They don’t adhere to the Wiccan Rede, among other things.”

  “Really? You know, I just went to a coven meeting. Have you heard of the Unspoken coven?”

  “Yep, they’re sort of Feris, sort of not—they have their own belief system… . It’s a little complicated.”

  “Would you be willing to talk to me about it?”

  She eyed the customers behind me. The line here was always long, and it moved slowly. Coffee to the People was the sort of café where you learned to be patient because the baristas weren’t inclined to rush, and “all good things come to those who wait.” It said so on the hand-painted sign.

  Still, a detailed discussion would be out of place.

  “How ’bout I come over tonight after your shop closes? Cook me dinner and we’ll talk.”

  “Oh, I, uh…” I felt pleased and nervous, as though the popular kid at school had just invited me to join her at the lunch table. Or more to the point, to cook for her. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  “Just so you know, I don’t hold with this vegan crap.”

  “How about jambalaya? Or, if you prefer, I make a mean étouffée.”

  “Yes, please,” she said. Guess I was making both.

  I smiled as she turned to the next customer in line, a disgruntled vegan who tried to engage Wendy in a debate about the advantages of the nonmeat lifestyle. Wendy shut him down by shouting “Next!” and serving the person in line behind him. Wendy was the Haight’s version of New York City’s soup Nazi.

  I loaded up my basket with bagels and drinks and headed back toward Aunt Cora’s Closet. Along the way I nodded to a few familiar faces, reveling in the realization that despite everything—despite my past and the fact that I kept getting embroiled in local situations that were making it clearer to all that I was, in fact, a witch—I was making friends in this neighborhood. I was finding a sense of community; it was precious to me.

  Near Aunt Cora’s Closet was a shop called Peaceful Things, run by a woman named Sandra Schmidt. The items on display in the front window included a black mirror framed on only three sides, a variety of crystals, a reproduction vintage Janis Joplin T-shirt, a guitar supposedly signed by Led Zeppelin, and a variety of beaded medicine bags. Peaceful Things used to carry mostly nostalgic goods reminiscent of the 1960s rock-and-roll culture, but lately Sandra was selling an increasing number of magic-related items.

  I hadn’t planned to stop, but the door was open and Sandra waved to me from behind her sales counter, calling, “Yoo-hoo, Lily!”

  “Good morning, Sandra.”

  “Look at this.” She hurried out from behind her counter, a bright green paper clutched in her hand. She held it out to me. The flyer was signed DOM. “Someone slipped it under my door. Do you think it’s a threat?”

  I read the detailed message. It was essentially a manifesto to “clean up our city” and bring it “back to its roots.” I thought about the so-called occult supplies shop Carlos told me had been vandalized by the antimagic group. I wasn’t familiar with the store he was talking about, which was no surprise—in a place like the Bay Area there are plenty of such shops to choose from. Most of those that advertised themselves as “occult” or “magic,” however, were expensive and carried items more for the curious than for the serious practitioner; I got most of my ingredients from my own garden, or the grocery store.

  Sandra was shorter than I, but she hovered while I read, rocking up and down on her toes with nervous energy. “Did you get one?”

  “Not that I know of. When did you find it?”

  “This morning. Why didn’t they go after you? You and Bronwyn are both witches; I’m just a shopkeeper. Do you think I should jettison the pentagrams and crystals?”

  This was one of the reasons Sandra and I weren’t closer. Though she carried a lot of what Carlos might refer to as “paraphernalia” for magical systems, Sandra was a tourist. She catered to the curious and the hopeful—the student who thought if she rubbed a crystal hard enough it would help her on a final exam, the lovelorn who hoped an enchanted rose would win them a soul mate—with little idea about what it meant to follow a belief system, much less a magical discipline.

  Sandra also seemed more than willing to throw others under the bus.

  “Do you think I should report it to the police?” she asked.

  “I would, if I were you. Apparently several shops have been vandalized recently. Perhaps the police could step up patrols or something.”

  “Maybe your pet hobo could keep an eye on the shop?”

  “Pet hobo?”

  “That fellow Con.”

  “Conrad is no one’s ‘pet,’ Sandra. Or a ‘hobo,’ for that matter.”

  She pursed her lips. “If you feed him, he’ll never leave. Just like a stray dog.”

  I clamped down on my anger lest I cause something in Sandra’s shop to explode. Every time I tried to engage with Sandra, convinced she didn’t mean any harm, she went and said something awful.

  “Conrad’s a good friend. And I’ll feed whoever I like, stray or otherwise.” I handed her back the flyer. “I suggest you call the police and watch your back. Oh, and blessed be.”

  Fuming, I strode down the street. Why were some people so eager to judge others? Would having a little compassion really be all that hard? I found Sandra’s attitude especially galling considering how, not long ago, she had fallen victim to a curse and I had busted my you-know-what to save her. And had almost gotten burned to a crisp for my trouble. Story of a witch’s life.

  Speaking of breaking curses… my thoughts cast back to Miriam. At least with Sandra, I had known all the players involved. But in Miriam’s case, I felt at a loss. If Sailor wouldn’t help me communicate with her spirit, and her coven sisters were less than forthcoming… where should I go next to find out something, anything? I couldn’t stop thinking about the poor woman. There had to be something I could do.

  Then it hit me: the cursed corsage. Even if I couldn’t find the actual item, I could speak with the man who sent it, the ex-boyfriend Duke had mentioned, Jonathan Penn. And the botanicals class—I should pursue that avenue, somehow, as well.

  When I arrived at Aunt Cora’s Closet, I opened the door and invited Oscar—in pig form, of course—to come out and join us, then scootched down to sit on the curb with Conrad. Sandra stood outside of Peaceful Things, glaring at us. Happily, Conrad and Oscar seemed oblivious, focusing on the food.

  We ate our bagels in companionable silence. Oscar scarfed down his favorite: a garlic bagel with cream cheese, avocado, and roasted jalapeño peppers. Made for interesting breath.

  “Conrad, I wanted to let you know that some… things have been happening lately.”

  “Dude?”

  “A group that goes by the initials D
OM has targeted businesses they consider ‘occult’ or magical.”

  “Duuuude.” A frown wrinkled Conrad’s brow. “Like vintage clothes stores?”

  “Not vintage clothes stores per se, but… you know Bronwyn’s herbal stand sells a lot of items to Wiccans and others, right?”

  He nodded and took another bite of bagel.

  “And I’m, well…” I trailed off. We had never spoken of such things.

  “Dude, I hear you are a righteous witch.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He licked cream cheese off his thumb and shrugged. “Heard it. Around.”

  I nodded. “Anyway, in case you see anything odd, I thought you should know. Oh, and maybe keep an eye out for Sandra’s shop as well?”

  “Dude, that woman, like, totally is not into the Con.”

  “She’s not happy with anyone living on the street.”

  “I totally live in the park, mostly.”

  “She’s not happy with anyone in the park, either.”

  Conrad paused. “She’s not that awesome—know what I’m sayin’?”

  I nodded.

  After another pause, he shrugged. “Duuude, I’ll keep an eye out. Rise above and all that.” He gathered up our trash, gave me a little salute, and shambled down the street toward Golden Gate Park.

  If only all the residents of our neighborhood were as civic-minded as Conrad.

  Chapter 10

  Aunt Cora’s Closet opens at ten, but the first hour is typically quiet. I had taken to filling the time by sorting and categorizing the new inventory, tagging items, reducing the price on pieces that had been here a while, and other, similar housekeeping tasks common to every small business owner. Maya and Bronwyn usually arrived around eleven, which freed me up in the afternoons to scope out sources of new inventory at garage sales, estate sales, flea markets, auctions, and charitable stores such as the Salvation Army.

  Or to track down the source of magical curses, as the case may be.

  I tuned the radio to 89.1, KCEA, a little station I had happened upon recently. It played hits from the twenties to the forties, mostly big band and swing—and all commercial-free. The signal wasn’t very strong, so there was static and some fading in and out, but that only added to its otherworldly charm. The broadcasting station was based at a local high school, of all places, and was one of those hidden gems I kept finding in the surprising Bay Area.

  This morning the music only reminded me of the Art Deco Ball. In addition to thinking about Miriam, it brought me back to being at the dance with Aidan. Why had he ditched me? Was I fooling myself into thinking he was actually fond of me? Or did he just want to use me, as he apparently did so many others? I shook off the nagging questions—to which I had no answers—and forced myself to concentrate on the work at hand.

  An hour later, I had just finished up with some paperwork for the city when Maya and Bronwyn arrived together, both weighted down by cloth tote bags. They brought their bundles to Bronwyn’s herbal stand. Oscar ran around in frantic circles until Bronwyn picked him up, cradled him for a moment, told him he was “Bwonwyn’s wittle bitty baby,” and kissed him on the head.

  Maya shook her head and let out a snort. “I tell you what, Bronwyn. It’s a really good thing you don’t live in the neighborhood I grew up in, is all I’m saying.”

  “No such thing as loving too much,” Bronwyn quipped as she put the pig down, patted him on the back, and started unloading bags of herbs and powders.

  Oscar, not easily daunted, went to stand next to Maya, leaning against her leg and gazing up at her until she gave him a reluctant hello. Bronwyn and I shared a smile. Maya didn’t fool anyone with her “we eat pigs where I grew up” routine. We’d all witnessed her slipping Oscar leftovers, and even crooning old Motown hits to him when she thought no one was listening. “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” was a current favorite.

  “Mercy me, Lily,” said Bronwyn. “I went to that Chinese grocery you told me about and then to the Mexican botanica down in the Mission for supplies. You’re right. They’ve got great stuff, and so cheap!”

  I smiled. “So what’s your plan, to repackage it and sell it for a profit?”

  “That’s what I asked her,” said Maya.

  “Oh, you two cynics! Some of it I’ll process—I’m going to hang the fresh herbs to dry, then strip and grind them into powders. And some of it I’m going to mix into proprietary blends. My rose hip orange-rind echinacea tea has been selling really well. But…” She pulled a bright green piece of paper from one of the bags. “Look what someone left at the botanica. I asked if I could take it; I thought you should see it.”

  “I’m afraid I already have. Sandra got one too.”

  Bronwyn’s concerned gaze met mine. “Do you think we should be worried?”

  “We haven’t received anything yet, but yes. I guess we should all be on the lookout. Just in case. So,” I said in a more upbeat tone, hoping to change the subject, “it seems Aunt Cora’s Closet has become quite the hotbed of entrepreneurship lately. First Maya’s mom starts making vintage-inspired reproductions, and now you’re in the tea business.”

  “Speaking of tea, I’m going to run down to the café. Anybody want anything?” Maya offered.

  “No, thanks. I’m all set,” I said.

  “I’d love a mocha,” said Bronwyn, handing Maya a five-dollar bill. As soon as the door closed behind Maya, Bronwyn turned to me with a conspiratorial voice.

  “So, how was the coven meeting last night?”

  “It was… well… awkward.”

  “Weren’t they welcoming?”

  “Oh yes, they were. But you know how I can sometimes lose control of my power in a group setting?” I shook my head. “Let’s just say it didn’t go well. And anyway, I was there for information, not to join their coven. So…” I could feel my cheeks burn. “They ended up asking me to leave.”

  “Lily, I’m so sorry.” Bronwyn walked toward me with arms open. She was a hugger.

  “It’s okay, really,” I said, returning her squeeze. “They were right. It wasn’t fair of me to take part in their ceremonies when I was really just there to ask questions.”

  “Well, next time I’ll go with you. I don’t see why a person can’t do both, draw down the moon with a bunch of wonderful women and ask questions at the same time.”

  I smiled. That sort of epitomized Bronwyn’s no-limit philosophy of life.

  “Speaking of questions, I invited Wendy over for dinner tonight. She’s going to fill me in on what she might know about Tarra and the Unspoken coven. Will you join us? I’m cooking Cajun.”

  “I’d love to! Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask,” Bronwyn said. “Have you heard from Duke? About Miriam or the baby?”

  “No, nothing. I called the hospital last night but wasn’t able to get any information. Maybe I should try calling him today.”

  “I’m happy to do it, if you like,” she offered.

  “Really? That would be great. I’d like to know how the baby is.” I wrote down the number for her.

  “No problem. I’ll give him a call.” She tucked the scrap paper in the pocket of the long, oversized vest she wore over yoga pants.

  There was something in her voice… I studied her for a moment. She avoided my eyes, and a pink flush appeared high on her cheeks.

  “Bronwyn Theodora Peters, as I live and breathe,” I said with a smile. “You’ve got a crush on the man.”

  “Oh, good goddess, no,” she said, suddenly becoming mightily intrigued with the sparkly eighties tops she was hanging on the rack. “He’s a worried father. I’m sure romance is the last thing on his mind.”

  “He’s an attractive fellow,” I said. “And just about your age. A workingman with the soul of a poet…”

  “Oh, look! Imogen’s here!”

  The bell on the front door rang as Bronwyn’s eight-year-old granddaughter entered, cradling her black cat, Beowulf. Upon seeing Oscar, the cat jumped from Imogen’s arms and stalke
d across the shop floor, imperiously twitching her tail at the pig. Oscar obediently trailed behind the feline, trying to get her attention.

  Recently we’d learned that the cat was a female, although Oscar had already dubbed her Beowulf—through me—and no one had the heart to change her name.

  It was summer, so, like Maya, Imogen was out of school. She had become something of a fixture at Aunt Cora’s Closet now that her mother, Rebecca, allowed her to spend time with her Wiccan grandmother. I could have sworn I spotted a pentacle around her neck on a silver chain.

  I loved having Imogen here. She was a lot like the child’s version of her grandmother, with warm brown eyes, unruly hair, and a wide-open heart. But like me, she had a neat streak, and I especially enjoyed the way she kept the scarf shelves tidy.

  But she was also a math whiz, and today I spotted the dreaded algebra book under her arm. It was time for lessons.

  Not long ago Bronwyn and Susan had discovered that I never finished high school and had made it their personal crusade to help me study for the GED. Personally I didn’t see why a witch in my position needed a certificate from the state to prove I was literate, but Bronwyn had tsked and asked me what kind of role model I was for the children.

  I never thought of myself as a role model before, but she managed to cow me.

  I read a lot, so with some minimal guidance from Maya, who was well versed in history, sociology, and literature, I felt like I had a good handle on the basics of the humanities. But math… ? That was something else altogether. Especially algebra.

  Give me noxious brews involving rare herbs from high Tibetan mountains, baskets full of snapping venomous snakes, or even old-school spells requiring body parts… I’d choose any of them over solving for the “x.”

  As my grandmother used to say: Once a witch, always a witch.

  * * *

  After an hour I managed to escape with the almost legitimate excuse of needing to visit the Salvation Army and Goodwill stores. Mondays were a big day for thrift shops, as so many people used the weekends to clean out their closets.