In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  Halfway down the stairs, the ghosts began to notice us. One by one they stopped talking and turned to watch us pass. At long last we reached the bottom of the stairs. We started for the theater’s front doors when a tuxedoed man with slicked-back hair, rosy lips, and shadowed eyes blocked our path.

  “Do join our party,” said the ghost.

  “’Fraid not, pal,” said Sailor in a surprisingly strong voice. “Step aside.”

  Sailor and the apparition stared at each other until the ghost disappeared, then reappeared behind us.

  “Another time, perhaps,” he hissed.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” said Sailor. “We ain’t Jack Nicholson.”

  “Who?” the ghost asked.

  “Back off now.”

  And as quickly as that, the ghosts faded away, leaving only the murmured sounds of their party, faraway music that grew fainter and at last disappeared, leaving only a deafening silence.

  We jogged across the lobby and through a set of interior doors that opened onto a small foyer. Only a few feet of carpet and one last set of doors stood between us and the safety of the street. Unfortunately, without the Hand of Glory we had no way of unlocking the final set of doors to the outside. Sailor pushed and banged, but they didn’t give. We turned around, but the interior doors had shut—and locked—behind us with a quiet snick.

  Trapped in the foyer. On display to the street like mannequins in a shop window.

  Sailor cursed a blue streak, pulling me over to the side wall so a casual observer wouldn’t notice us. Still, we were easy prey. There was nowhere to hide.

  Sailor took a phone from his pocket and flipped it open.

  “You have a cell phone?” I asked, surprised.

  “Everybody has a cell phone.” Sailor ducked his head and engaged in a brief conversation that consisted of: “It’s me. Busted… I know. Oakland… Good.”

  He snapped the telephone closed.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “You never told me you had a phone.”

  “Why would I tell you? You’d call me, and I don’t like people to call me.”

  “Could I have your number?”

  “I just said, I don’t want people calling me.”

  “I’m not ‘people.’”

  “No, you’re worse. Look what you just put me through.”

  That gave me pause. “Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

  He shrugged. “What those SOBs do to my head is a lot more destructive than what they do to my body. You know, it takes a hell of a lot of power to manifest like they did, not to mention the power that’s required to throw a human around. You might want to keep that in mind.”

  “Is there… a demon in the theater?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not a demon. More like an outside force, an out-of-control rage.”

  “Like a spirit that has been invoked and brought down upon someone? Upon Miriam? Could it be loose in the theater?”

  “Not in the sense that it will be haunting the theater. It might be serving to separate us from her, though. Lily, you’re dealing with more than a cursed corsage here. I think whoever it is left a part of themselves here, to keep Miriam from escaping. Someone who is naturally gifted, but out of control. Like you, but mean, without any moral code.”

  Moral code reminded me of DOM. Whose morality was it? It was all relative.

  “What did she say? Could you understand?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand backward talk, since the thoughts are backward as well. But at least you have the recording.”

  I still clutched the record to my chest.

  “There’s clearly a displacement of some sort. The others are ostracizing her.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The other spirits. They recognize something’s wrong with Miriam, that she’s not complete. She’s still tied to her body.”

  “That’s something I’d like to encourage,” I said. “So how do I get her back to her body?”

  “You have to figure out who put the curse on her and why. And then figure out how to undo it.”

  We were back to that.

  “Anyway, if we can hold tight my buddy’ll… Aw, hell.” Sailor swore in a low voice. I followed the direction of his gaze through the glass of the theater’s front doors.

  “What is it?” Looking out at the street, I saw nothing.

  “It must be the top of the hour; guard’s making his rounds.”

  The security guard stood on the other side of the interior glass doors, shining the beam of his flashlight straight at us, his mouth open and goggle-eyed.

  And then he lifted his radio to speak into it.

  “Hope you brought bail money,” muttered Sailor.

  “Oh, Sailor, I’m so sorry I got you into this.”

  “I’ll just add it to your considerable debt to me. Though this time…” He shook his head. “It’s really gonna cost you.”

  Chapter 18

  As it turns out, a large vinyl record is hard to hide from the police. I was relieved of it immediately, and was left wondering what the police would think, if and when they tried to play it.

  Considering we’d been caught in a locked theater where we had no place being in the first place, there was no easy manner of talking our way out of this mess. I needed someone to intervene, and I knew only one official well enough to ask such a favor. I used my phone call to contact Carlos Romero.

  Sailor and I were separated, and I spent the night in jail. Actually, by the time we were booked it was four a.m., so it was more like spending the morning in jail. I slept all of an hour.

  “Thanks for helping us out,” I said to Carlos as we finished up the release paperwork.

  His silence reverberated with anger.

  “Where’s Sailor?”

  “Already released—I guess a friend posted bail.”

  I hadn’t realized Sailor had any friends.

  “Abandoned you. Such a gentleman,” Carlos said as he yanked open the front door and held it for me. I blinked in the bright sunshine of the late morning.

  “Lily, want to tell me what you were doing breaking and entering, and with Sailor, of all people?”

  “Do you know everyone in San Francisco?”

  “I know the ones who specialize in milking hardworking citizens of their money. Seriously, Lily, the fact that you think of me as a friend is beginning to worry me. First Aidan Rhodes, now this guy? I thought you were going to keep a low profile. That antiwitch group is just the tip of the iceberg—you know that?”

  I nodded. “You’re right. I’ll keep my head down.”

  “You do that.”

  “There are just a couple of things…”

  Carlos sighed. “What is it now?”

  “I left some items in the theater, personal items that I need back.” What would I do without the Hand of Glory? As gruesome as it was, it came in handy.

  “Personal items?”

  “Of a witchy caliber.”

  “Super. Anything else?”

  “I need the record that was confiscated when we were arrested.”

  “A record?”

  “Yes, an old vinyl LP. It’s not valuable or anything, but I need it.”

  “Did you steal it from the theater?”

  “It’s more like I borrowed it. I just need to listen to it; then I’ll give it back. It’s not a regular record. It’s special.”

  We had arrived at his car, a beat-up blue Subaru. He looked at me over the roof of the car like I had a screw loose. I wasn’t doing a very good job of explaining this. I tried again.

  “It’s the recording of… a spirit.”

  “You mean a ghost?”

  “No, a spirit. She’s not dead.”

  “Who’s not dead?”

  “Miriam Demeter. Her spirit is trapped in the mirror of the ladies’ lounge at the theater.”

  “A spirit in the mirror.”

  �
��You know I don’t make this stuff up.”

  We climbed in the car. Carlos put the key in the ignition but paused. Rather than starting the engine, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does this have something to do with my case?”

  I nodded.

  “Tanya Kolchek?”

  “Otherwise known as Tarragon Dark Moon. And her coven sister Miriam Demeter. Miriam’s the woman who fell ill at the ball I attended.”

  He started up the car and pulled into traffic, nimbly finding a hidden entrance to the freeway and heading toward the Bay Bridge.

  “Do I want to know more details?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Fine. I’ll look into getting the record released, but it was theater property. You don’t happen to know anyone associated with the theater. Do you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What about that woman, what’s her name? Owns a vintage clothes store. Surely you know her?”

  “What woman? What store?”

  “Over on Union Street. She’s pretty influential; I think she sits on the board. That’s how I knew about the Art Deco Ball; she was going on about it at the policeman’s fund-raiser. She was at the dance. Didn’t you see her?”

  I tried to think. Wait—the petite woman in the beautiful ruby gown who had addressed the crowd—was that Greta? I had been so distracted at the time that I hadn’t remembered where I had seen her.

  “Maybe you could talk to her, one vintage clothes dealer to another. She probably has some pull with the theater’s owners, maybe even could get them to drop the case against you. If the record isn’t valuable, as you say, no one should care.”

  “Thanks, Carlos. I really appreciate your help.”

  * * *

  Later that morning, I was trying to forget that I had spent the night in jail. I didn’t even tell Bronwyn and Maya. I explained away my haggard appearance by claiming insomnia, and tried to lose myself in the minutiae of running a busy retail establishment in San Francisco.

  But my carefully constructed façade fell when Max Carmichael walked in. Our brief relationship had ended because Max couldn’t handle the witchy side of me, and I wasn’t willing to change to please him. Supposedly we were “friends,” though that sort of arrangement had been easier to agree to than to live up to. My stomach still did funny things when I saw him… or heard him. He had an amazing voice.

  “Lily,” he said, in that voice. “Good to see you. You look wonderful, as always.”

  After the night I’d had, it was evident to all that the man was lying. But I appreciated it. “Thank you. You too.”

  Maya and Bronwyn both greeted Max briefly, then pretended to be absorbed in their task of sorting new acquisitions for repair and washing.

  “What brings you here?” I asked. “Looking for a vintage outfit?”

  “Actually, I’m here in an official capacity. I’m following a story.”

  “No comment.”

  “I haven’t asked you anything.”

  “Is your story about vintage clothing?”

  “No.”

  “Then no comment.”

  “It’s about ghosts.”

  “I’m not a necromancer. I can’t see…” I trailed off. Except maybe now I could. I saw them at the theater, after all. Did that mean that I was developing a new skill, or was it just a quirk?

  “You can’t see?” Max asked.

  “Sorry. I’m not really a ghost gal.”

  “There’s a rumor that there’s a spirit in the ladies’ room at the Paramount Theater in Oakland.”

  “I… uh… really?” Was Max here to ask me about last night? Did he know I’d been arrested?

  “You were there for the Art Deco Ball, right? Did you notice anything?”

  “Mmm,” I said, shaking my head. I really was a bad liar.

  “Hmm,” he responded. “I take it that means you’re not going to tell me about it.”

  “What do you think you know?”

  “That there’s some sort of apparition in the mirrors there. It’s scared the heck out of a few women the last couple times they’ve had events.”

  “There are always a lot of ghosts in theaters, or so I hear. Have you seen anything?”

  “No…” he said, fixing me with a gaze. “But then, as you know, I’m skeptical about these things.”

  “One might even say bullheaded,” I said lightly.

  Max symbolized what I had always wanted: someone steady and normal, someone at ease in the regular world. He was the sort of man who might marry a person and honor the commitment, love her and stand by her. A non-witchy person, that is. He thought of himself as a tough guy, but Max was dewy with the innocence of those untouched by the sorts of things I knew, had witnessed, the supernatural powers that coursed through my veins, that sang to me through the generations. He tugged at my heart, at a part of myself I didn’t even know existed. At the same time, I was never fully myself with him; I held back, held my tongue, held my breath.

  Which was why we could never work.

  I knew it, but it still made me sad.

  The mail carrier arrived, bringing bills and one padded manila envelope with a Paramount Theater return address. The overly curious Max cocked one eyebrow. I hesitated, but decided that there was no harm in him seeing it—he would have no way to connect the contents to his story.

  I opened it. Inside was a rather smooshed corsage, as though it had been stepped on. I imagined it had been kicked aside on the night of the ball, trod upon by innumerable high heels. The limp flowers were partially shredded and gone.

  But I wasn’t interested in the flowers. I wanted to inspect the needles beneath. The curse.

  “Your corsage from the other night?”

  “How did you even know I went to the ball?”

  “Bronwyn mentioned it. We’re still in touch.”

  It figured. Bronwyn wasn’t one for dropping friends.

  “That looks like an uncomfortable corsage,” Max continued. “What’s with the needles? It takes that many to keep it attached?”

  I didn’t respond, caught up in what I was seeing. There was one in particular that didn’t look like the other rusty needles. It was like a very thin wooden spool with a spike at the end. What was that?

  “Why would anyone put a spindle in a corsage?” said Maya over my shoulder.

  “A spindle?”

  “Looks like a miniature one, from a spinning machine.”

  “As in spinning cotton into cloth?”

  “Or straw into gold, yeah,” Maya said. “Wasn’t it Sleeping Beauty who was pricked with a spindle?”

  “I think so. Sleeping Beauty is the same as Briar Rose, right?” Maybe I should brush up on my fairy tales.

  Maya nodded. “More or less, yes. My mom has an antique spinning wheel she keeps threatening to put back into service. So, lest the house be even more covered in fuzz, I’d appreciate you keeping her busy with her dressmaking project here. My father might just leave her if she gets involved in yet another hobby.”

  I smiled. “After thirty-five years, I can’t imagine he’d leave over a new hobby. Besides, he’s nuts about her.” The last time Maya’s father came into the shop, he and Lucille had stood giggling over the gauzy negligees. And every time I had seen them together, he gazed at his wife with open adoration. It was enough to give a cynic like me pause.

  Not to be left out, Bronwyn joined us at the counter. “Speaking of Sleeping Beauty, I spoke with Duke again this morning. He tells me Miriam’s boyfriend, Jonathan, came over to the hospital. They had a long talk, came to a new understanding. Looks like he’s not willing to get out of Miriam’s life and wants to be there to help.”

  “That’s wonderful news, Bronwyn. Thank you for telling me. You just made my day.”

  Max, snooping, read the return address on the package. “I know this woman—she’s a docent at the theater. Very sweet. Gave me a tour.”

  “Just how close are you two?”

  He
gave me a questioning look. “She said I reminded her of her son. Why?”

  “I wonder if you could do me a favor. I left a few things at the theater that I need to get back.”

  “Things? Like another corsage?”

  “Not exactly. More like… things I used to cast a spell. One of them is a kind of candleholder, looks like a hand. It’s pretty important I get it back.”

  “This wouldn’t have been in the ladies’ lounge, by any chance?”

  “The very place. And if you get the items for me and promise to keep my identity anonymous, I’ll give you an exclusive scoop on what’s up with the mirror.”

  He took a deep breath through his nose, lips pressed together in what looked a lot like annoyance. Then he nodded and held out his hand.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  * * *

  Getting those spell craft supplies back was one thing, but I needed the record most of all. Which was in police custody. Better follow up on Carlos’s suggestion to speak with Greta. Couldn’t hurt, right? I told Maya and Bronwyn I was headed to Vintage Chic to check out the competition, then offered to pick up lunch on the way back. There were a lot of great-looking restaurants along Union Street.

  I spent a few minutes petting the yappy dog while Greta finished up with a refined-looking mother and daughter who had just found “the perfect gown for the cotillion.”

  They have cotillions in San Francisco? This town never ceased to amaze me.

  When we were alone, I approached Greta and told her what I wanted.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, a tiny frown marring her forehead, her fingers tapping on the glass counter. “Why were you in the theater after hours, without permission?”

  She wore an incongruous-looking Garfield Band-Aid on her pointer finger, making me think of Miriam.

  “It’s a little hard to explain,” I said. “I guess that’s obvious… .”

  She shook her head. I tried to use my power to will her to agree with me, but she wasn’t having any of it. Greta had a wall up around her feelings, rare among regular humans. I wondered what her background was: abused, abandoned, traumatized?

  “You can’t have it,” she said. “Why would I reward you for being a thief?”

  “It wasn’t thievery exactly. It’s very important for me to get some information from that record.”