In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  I packed up my things, left Aunt Cora’s Closet—and Oscar—in the capable hands of Maya, Bronwyn, and Imogen, and pointed my vintage Mustang back toward the East Bay. Duke told me Miriam’s corsage had been sent by her boyfriend, Jonathan, who worked at a collectible card shop called MJ’s Games in downtown Oakland. I didn’t know Oakland well, and truth to tell, it intimidated me. But once I got off the freeway and found my way to the downtown area, it was charming. Though there were a number of empty shop fronts, clearly it had once been a bustling downtown, full of ornate Victorians and Art Deco buildings, much like San Francisco. The curbs were crowded, so I parked several blocks away and walked past a historic hotel, a brewpub, and a Vietnamese restaurant to reach the corner of Ninth and Washington, where a large sign read MJ’S GAMES—COMICS, COLLECTIBLES, CRAZY STUFF.

  Unwashed windows held a dozen posters of superheroes, but I recognized only the most obvious: Spider-Man and Batman.

  The shop front was long and narrow, with a counter running along one side and the opposite wall holding racks of comic books. In the center were several substantial-looking card tables around which gathered scads of adolescent boys and teenagers. A soft murmur arose from the crowd, but by and large they were intent on the colorful cards splayed out on the tables in front of them.

  The moment I walked through the door, the smell hit me. Not unwashed, necessarily, but distinctive of young males. Add to the mix those who hadn’t quite discovered personal hygiene and a widespread penchant for strong, sprayed cologne, and the air at MJ’s Games was pungent.

  Two twenty-something men stood behind the counter. It was hard to imagine Miriam with either. One was short and stocky, with tattoo sleeves on his arms and Tiko emblazoned on his forehead. The other had a beard that hung from his chin in a braid. I tried not to stare… Though upon reflection, I supposed maybe he wanted people to stare; otherwise why would he do something so unusual on his face?

  “Help you?” asked the one with the braided beard, raising his chin at me.

  “Hi,” I said, and several young heads whipped around to look at me. I had the sense they didn’t get a lot of estrogen in this place. “I was hoping to speak with Jonathan Penn?”

  Just then a tall, thin man emerged from behind a bamboo curtain painted with a picture of a female superhero complete with exaggerated breasts and long, long legs. He wore a retro Frank Sinatra–type hat, had scraggly facial hair, and a vest with silver rivets over a long-sleeved vintage T-shirt with a Black Sabbath emblem.

  His attention was fixed on a bright green flyer in his hands.

  “Get this,” he said to his companions behind the counter. “Says here that magic is damaging to society, that it’s connected to the devil.”

  “Magic as in magic, or like the cards?” asked Braidman.

  “Or like pulling a rabbit out of a hat?” asked Tiko.

  “Doesn’t specify,” said the man with the hat.

  “You’re saying they think the cards are connected to the devil somehow?” I asked, though it was obvious I was butting in.

  “Guess so.”

  “Are they?”

  He just gave me a look: a mixture of incredulity and irritation.

  “Why are they called ‘magic’ cards?” I asked.

  “Magic, the Gathering. It’s just the name of them; it’s like a fantasy-game-type deal. It doesn’t have anything to do with abracadabra, nothing like that.”

  “Who sent the letter?” I asked, though I already knew.

  “It’s signed DOM, Defense of Morality.”

  “Never heard of ’em,” said Braidman. “What’s their deal?”

  “Who cares? I’m gonna light up this here flyer and show ’em what they can do with their magic.” The man with the hat pulled a silver engraved lighter from the pocket of his black jeans and held the flame to the paper.

  His companions laughed, and several of the young boys looked up with awed smiles on their faces, a goodly amount of hero worship in their expressions.

  “Let them put that in their pipe and smoke it,” he said, then let the burning flyer fall to the glass display counter, where the black ash quivered.

  “Yo, Jonathan,” Braidman said, tweaking his head toward me. “Lady’s here to see you, man.”

  So the tall fellow in the hat was Jonathan Penn, Miriam’s boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend.

  He raised his chin to me. “Hey, sorry about that. Listen, if your kid bought one of those collectible Iron Man comic books, I can’t be giving refunds. I told the kids when they bought ’em they weren’t licensed.”

  “It’s nothing like that. I was hoping I could talk to you?” I began, trying to get a bead on him. There was intelligence in his eyes, a certain intensity that was easy to miss at first, given his slack posture. He looked me up and down, and I had to admit there was something appealing about him. If he took a bath and cleaned up a little.

  He shrugged and placed his palms on the counter, leaning on his hands. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to ask you about Miriam Demeter?”

  At the mention of Miriam’s name, he went still. “What are you, a friend of hers?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Look, she said she didn’t want to talk with me, so like, I respected that. I don’t know what she wants from me, swear to God.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  “We went shopping for outfits for this dance she wanted to go to. It wasn’t my thing, but I was, like, whatever she wanted. Know what I’m saying? If that floats her boat, then whatever.”

  His companions behind the counter nodded, in solidarity with a man trying to deal with the inscrutable whims of a woman.

  “Where did you go for the outfit?” I asked.

  “This vintage place down on Union Street, near Filmore. She wound up getting a dress, but it was expensive and the lady told me I should just rent a tux instead of buy one, which I totally was gonna do until Miriam told me she didn’t even want me to go with her.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  A shadow passed over his eyes. “She’s been wanting me to sell this shop to my partners. Says it isn’t a grown-up job, and—I dunno—maybe she’s right.” He shrugged. “Hanging out all day with kids maybe isn’t the best way to make a living, but it pays for itself and I like it. Guess Miriam… You know, we’re the same age, but she’s got a kid. So it’s different for her. I guess I get where she’s coming from.”

  His coworkers shook their heads, commiserating.

  “And then what happened? She called off the dance?”

  “Texted me, if you believe that. Said she was breaking up with me. Whatever. If that’s the way she wants to play it…” He shrugged, looked at the boys hunched over their cards, then back to me. “So what’d she do? Send you here to talk with me? That’s sort of effed up. Know what I’m saying? Communication is, like, the key to any relationship. If she wants to get back together, we, like, totally need to talk, and she should come here herself.”

  “She can’t do that,” I said. “She’s in the hospital.”

  He went rigid, his nervous eyes finally fixing on mine. “Hospital?”

  “They’re not sure what it is. She fell sick the night of the ball.”

  “Are you serious? It seemed like something was wrong, but I never thought… Ah, maaaaan.” He wiped his face with his hand. “I can’t believe this. What hospital is she in?”

  I told him where to find her, though I wasn’t sure how Duke would react to Jonathan’s presence.

  “You might want… You should give her father a little room. He’s sort of emotional right now.”

  “Her old man doesn’t like me at all.”

  “He’s a father. They can be protective.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said with bitterness. “I never knew my father.”

  “Me either,” I said. “But Duke seems pretty close to his daughter. Anyway, he mentioned taking Luna to the doctor today so you could proba
bly visit without a problem, if you want. Hey, can I ask you one more question? Did you happen to know Tarragon Dark Moon?”

  “Yeah…” Realization dawned on his face. “Oh wait. No way. No effing way. First Tarra dies, and now Miriam… You think something’s going on?”

  “Maybe. It’s quite a coincidence.”

  “Maaaaan,” he breathed, shaking his head.

  “Did you know Tarra well?”

  “She was friends with Miriam.”

  “Do you know about the botanicals training they were both involved in?”

  “Sure. Miriam couldn’t stop talking about it.”

  “Could you tell me who ran it?”

  “Name’s Calypso something. She’s way up in Marin, or maybe past that—not in the city, is all I know. But I don’t have any details.”

  Darn. “One last thing: Did you send Miriam a corsage the night of the ball?”

  He turned beet red, shrugging once more and glancing at his companions. “Yeah. Lame. Right? I just… I felt bad about it. I really sort of wanted to go. I wanted to be with her. Ah, man, I can’t believe this.” He took off his hat and ran a large hand through his dark hair. “I’ve got to go see her.”

  “Did you send the corsage yourself, or did someone take it for you?”

  “What? Oh, girl works in a flower shop ’round the corner is a friend of ours. She gave me a discount, and I sent it through her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Jonathan gave me an odd look. Now that I spent so much time snooping, I had come to recognize the signs: the moment when someone starts wondering why I was asking so many questions. The moment when a person stops talking.

  His hands rested on the countertop. I covered one with my own and looked him straight in the eye. “I know it’s a long shot, but I’m wondering about the corsage. Maybe there was something… wrong with it? I’d like to talk to the people who made it.”

  After a pause, he nodded. “Name’s Anise.”

  “Like the flavor?” asked Braidman.

  “It’s a seed, I think, right?” said Jonathan. “Like in absinthe?”

  He looked at his colleagues, eyebrows raised in question.

  “I think so, yeah,” said the tattooed one. “Some sort of spice.”

  “Like licorice.”

  “One more thing,” I said to Jonathan, handing him my business card. “If you stop by the hospital, would you call me and let me know how Miriam’s doing?” I had tried calling again earlier, but they refused to give me her status over the phone.

  “Sure,” he said, taking the card. “Aunt Cora’s Closet? That’s a vintage store in the Haight, right?”

  I nodded. “You know it?”

  “Nah. But it was on the list of stores Miriam had when we were looking for our outfits for the dance. If we hadn’t found the dress at the other store, I guess we would have wound up at your place.”

  “My store was on your list?”

  He nodded. “I remember the name, ’cause I actually have a great-aunt Cora. But like I say, we didn’t get there. We stopped at a place on Union and found the perfect dress for her.” Sadness entered his eyes. “She looked so pretty when she tried it on. Really great. I can’t believe she’s in the hospital. Dudes.” He turned to his colleagues. “I’m totally gonna take off for a while, go see her.”

  “Go for it,” said Tiko, patting him on the back in masculine solidarity. “Think you’ll make it to drumming circle tomorrow night?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Dunno. See you when I see you.”

  We walked out together.

  “So, why’s a vintage clothes dealer asking about all this? You a member of Miriam’s coven?”

  “No.”

  “A friend of the coven?”

  “Not really. I mean, I’m not an enemy or anything. I just don’t know them very well. But I was at the dance when Miriam passed out. I think I can help her.”

  He gazed at me another moment, suspicion in his eyes.

  “How?”

  Good question. “I don’t really know. But I want to try.”

  He studied me another moment, then shrugged his thin shoulders and loped off toward his car. I walked in the opposite direction, toward the flower shop.

  Chapter 11

  Lee’s Flowers was easy to spot. Plastic tubs chock-full of colorful bundles of cut flowers spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of the store, which was no more than a tiny, fragrant box. After the aroma of the card shop, I was particularly appreciative of the flowers’ gift of perfume, and took comfort in being surrounded by blossoms. If I weren’t a witch, I could see myself owning a little stand like this one.

  But then, knowing me, I would wind up filling it with medicinal plants rather than decorative flowers.

  Inside, Anise sat on a high stool, her legs dangling and kicking, texting on her phone. Her short, light brown hair was brushed forward to fall almost over her eyes. She wore a navy blue hoodie and jeans, and had a chain hanging down with a bunch of jangly keys. She looked about twelve years old.

  “Help you?” She looked up reluctantly from her phone.

  “Hi, Anise. Good to see you again.”

  She looked at me, her expression confused. “I know you?”

  “I met you last night, at the coven meeting?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I was just talking to Jonathan Penn, around the corner at the game store? He mentioned he sent a corsage through you to Miriam Demeter on Saturday?”

  She nodded again, and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Sure. Pink orchids, flax, Hyoscyamus, teal ribbons. I made it myself.”

  “Hyoscyamus?”

  She nodded.

  “Hyoscyamus niger? As in henbane? You’re sure?”

  “Special request.”

  “Requested by…”

  She widened her eyes and gave me an annoyed, impatient look. “Uh, Jonathan?” The duh was implied. I recognized the tone from my sometimes less than mature familiar.

  “Jonathan asked for Hyoscyamus by name?”

  “He texted me while I was making it. What’s all this about?”

  “And you sent it directly to her address?”

  “Yep. Didn’t it arrive?”

  “It did,” I said, hesitating. Was it my place to tell the world that Miriam was sick? If Anise was a friend, as well, would she hustle on over to the ICU along with Jonathan, and at what point would Duke lose his patience with visitors… especially since he didn’t seem thrilled with her current group of friends?

  The phone rang. Anise looked over at it and blinked, as though she had forgotten how to respond to the ring.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

  She nodded, ignoring the phone.

  “You’re part of a botanicals group, aren’t you? Along with Tarra and Miriam and Jonquil? Who else was in the group?”

  She shrugged. “A couple of other girls not with the coven. And a couple foodie types. Some chef guy who works over at Randi’s, near the ballpark.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the woman who teaches the class?”

  “Calypso Cafaro,” she said, animation finally filling her voice. “She’s the best. She’s, like, so awesome. Really. She let me stay there.”

  “Stay there, with her?”

  She nodded. “When I first came here, to the Bay. I was, like, a runaway? And I stayed with her for a while until I got on my feet. She’s done that for a lot of us.”

  “Sounds very generous.”

  “She’s, like, awesome.” She looked down at her stubby nails, where blue-black polish was chipping in spots. “I so want to be her when I’m, like, old.”

  “Could you give me her contact information? I’d love to talk with her.”

  “Who?”

  “Calypso, the woman who teaches you about botanicals.”

  “Um… I don’t think so. It probably wouldn’t be smart.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s very private. People tota
lly don’t visit her without an invitation.”

  I’ll bet. “Does Calypso grow Hyoscyamus niger in her yard?”

  “She grows, like, everything in her yard. That’s where I got the flowers for the corsage, ’cause they’re not what you call standard. Usually I just use the business flowers, but since Miriam’s a friend, I went above and beyond. Calypso taught me everything I know about flowers. That’s how come I got this job.”

  I happened to know a thing or two about flowers myself. In particular, about the sort of flowers that can kill you.

  If Calypso had taught Anise all about plants, I was surprised she hadn’t mentioned that Hyoscyamus niger, otherwise known as henbane, is highly toxic, whether fresh or dried. The purplish flowers are rather pretty, though the whole plant is more aromatic of tobacco leaves than floral perfume.

  When I’d seen Miriam’s corsage at the ball, I’d been so focused on the needles and black thread—the obvious curse—that I didn’t even notice henbane flowers. But thinking back on it now, I remembered sensing the subtle aroma of tobacco and assuming that someone nearby was a smoker.

  “Did you include any black ribbon or needles in the corsage?”

  Anise’s delicate eyebrows narrowed. “Needles? Only, like, the pins to hold it on. And I just told you, the ribbon was teal.”

  “Do you remember that day? Do you recall actually sending it, or could someone have gotten hold of it and maybe changed it?”

  She shook her head. “No way. I mean, I don’t exactly remember—” She was cut off when two women came in, distraught over the wrong color of roses used in their wedding arrangements.

  “This is an outrage… !” they began, and the discussion devolved from there. They started demanding that the red flowers be changed to rose-colored, and Anise strained to keep up with the shouted questions. It surprised me that such a small place would be furnishing whole weddings, but then I guessed they must be a small outlet while working out of bigger warehouses somewhere.

  Then the phone rang, and a clearly distracted Anise answered it, holding up a limp hand to the wedding planner.

  Sensing I wasn’t going to get much further with Anise today, I slipped out into the sunny afternoon.