The phone rang, and Greta answered in a singsong: “Vintage Chic.” She looked up at me with a sour look on her face, her lips pulling back in irritation. “Yes, she is. Here.”
She handed the phone to me.
“Hello?”
“Lily, I’m glad I caught you,” said Maya. “Carlos just called to tell you that someone attacked your friend’s voodoo store. Herve’s place.”
“Herve?” My heart leaped to my throat. Herve was a good friend and an important magical ally. “Was anyone hurt? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know anything else. Carlos said he heard it up at the station, but it’s not his department.”
“Thanks. I’ll go straight over.”
I hung up, then noticed that Greta was holding her dog, stroking him while she stared at me. Her words dripped with saccharine-sweet sarcasm.
“Any other calls you’d like to make? Or receive? Any other police evidence I can obtain for you?”
“I’m sorry about the phone call. But I really do need that record back. It’s not valuable or anything— wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me. And I can return it to the theater soon. Maybe I could repay the favor by—I don’t know—helping with costumes for upcoming theater productions, something like that?”
“I’ll think about it.” Greta pursed her lips, remaining silent for a long moment. Then she asked, “And how is poor Herve? Will he have to close the store?”
“I’m on my way there now,” I said as I headed toward the door. “You’re friends with Herve?”
“I know him. I know a lot of people.”
Chapter 19
“Herve, I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
We stood on busy Valencia Street, looking at the smashed windows, the colorful graffiti claiming that “Magick is Murder,” the chaos of broken pottery and shredded cloth inside the shop called Detalier’s. Curious onlookers stood around the section of the sidewalk that was roped off with bright yellow crime scene tape, and a uniformed officer was filling out forms on a clipboard while another was taking photos.
“At least no one was hurt.” Herve shook his head. About my age, Herve was a powerfully built man with dark skin and a commanding air. In front of customers he spoke with a deep Caribbean lilt, but in private his accent was pure California, which made sense since he’d grown up in LA. He had explained that people didn’t give his magic much credence unless he seemed exotic. Their mistake.
“Madame Detalier would be rolling in her grave,” he continued, referring to his patroness and the namesake of the store. “So. Did you come here for a social call, or did you need something?”
“I heard what happened, so I came to see if I could help. Is there anything I can do?”
He shook his head. “Not at the moment. Caterina took the kids to her mother’s until this blows over. Police say they want to keep the store undisturbed for a day or two to see if they could find any trace evidence—looks like they’re trying to have all their ducks in a row in case they catch the culprits and can prosecute. Since it’s a string of crimes that seems to be ratcheting up, they’re being particularly thorough.”
“I’m happy to help with the cleanup, when you’re ready.”
“Thank you. I’ll take you up on that.”
“Hey… now that I think about it, could you tell me what you think about this salve?” I brought Miriam’s jar of homemade salve out of my satchel.
Herve brought it to his nose cautiously and sniffed. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as though tasting something at the back of his throat. His eyes were closed in concentration.
“Does it contain henbane?”
He nodded and handed the jar back to me. “But there’s more. There’s a curse involved. Witchcraft. Your ilk, not mine.”
I always felt vaguely insulted when Herve did that, drew the line in the sand between his tradition and mine. It made me feel insecure, knowing that our normally collegial relationship was limited. He was familiar with a whole world that I was not, and vice versa.
“That’s some wicked stuff you got there, my friend. If I were you I wouldn’t hang out with folks playing with things like that.”
“I’m not. Not exactly. Or not knowingly, anyway.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there. Were you going to go track down the maker of said cursed salve?”
I nodded.
“Mind if I tag along?” Herve asked, with one final pained look at his shop. “I’d love to get out of here for a couple of hours, get my mind on other things. And you always seem to land in… interesting situations.”
I smiled. “I’d love some company. Thanks.”
As we drove across town I filled Herve in on Miriam, Tarra, and the various goings-on.
“So where are we headed now?” asked Herve.
“I may be grasping at straws, but there are two people in this mix that I haven’t spoken to yet: Calypso Cafaro, a botanicals worker who was running a class that included both Miriam and Tarra; and Rex, Tarra’s boyfriend.”
“What does Tarra’s boyfriend have to do with what happened to Miriam?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing, but… isn’t it usually a loved one or family member who’s ultimately responsible for a person’s murder?”
“That’s a terrible thought.” He looked at me askance. Herve prized family above all.
“Sorry,” I said, feeling like quite the cynic. “That’s what I hear from the SFPD. Anyway, Rex works at Randi’s Café over near the ballpark. I just want to talk with him, feel him out.”
Randi’s Café was one of those understated places I still couldn’t get used to: The decor was exposed pipes and metal beams with rivets, and the tables were simple bistro-style metal. You ordered up at the counter, then took a number and the food was delivered to you. But the prices were more like a nice sit-down restaurant. There were lots of complicated, organic concoctions on the menu, perhaps justifying the cost. I found it all confusing—but the place was clearly popular, packed and bustling this lunch hour. Good thing I was in retail and not the restaurant business.
I asked the harried young woman at the register for Rex Theroux and she waved me toward the back of the restaurant, where I saw a man walking through the rear door with a sack of organic coffee beans thrown over one shoulder.
“Rex?” I asked.
“’Sup?” he said with a nod.
Rex was tall and buff, with a shaved head and multiple tattoos visible on the backs of his hands. He wore a hoodie sweatshirt with a leather jacket over it, even though it was warm in here. Thick-framed black glasses, à la Buddy Holly, looked so out of place as to be stylish. Around his neck was a black leather strap with a tiny little burlap sack hanging from it.
“I’m Lily Ivory. A friend of Miriam’s. I wondered if I could ask you about Tarra?”
“Dude, I’m, like, I can’t even believe it, you know?” He was multitasking, arranging the sacks of coffee that lined the back wall of the restaurant. “The police have asked me about it already, a lot. I told them that like any couple we had some problems, but violence isn’t the solution to anything. Know what I mean? I would never do anything like that.”
“I’m looking into what happened with Miriam. You all were friends?”
“This is, like, so weird. First my girlfriend, like, totally dies, and now Miriam’s in the hospital? Jonathan’s pretty messed up over it.” A shadow passed over his eyes. He shook his head. “I can’t even… I still can’t wrap my head around that. Know what I’m sayin’?”
I nodded. “I know it was sudden. Could you tell me what happened with Tarra? Was she sick, anything like that?”
“You a sister?”
He meant coven sister. I took a deep breath and decided to lie: I nodded. “I’m just trying to figure this out.”
“You and me both.” His eyes shifted to Herve. “I know you, right?”
Herve just shrugged.
Rex nodded. “Anyway, I talked
to the cops and I was, like, I don’t even know. She seemed fine, kind of run-down. But that morning… she felt stabbing pains, the sensation that she couldn’t breathe, then passed out. I totally called nine-one-one, but I sort of freaked out.”
“How come?”
He shrugged. “She was into herbs—know what I mean? We both were. But I’m into a particular kind of herb, if you get what I’m saying. I started thinking if the authorities were snooping around the place… I’m just saying, weed’s practically legal, but I don’t exactly have my medical marijuana growers’ license and the feds are still busting people… so I ran.”
“You ran?”
“I left the door open for the ambulance, but I took off.”
“Very gallant,” said Herve.
“Look, they said the autopsy showed she’d been poisoned, like, twelve hours before. But I totally had an alibi.”
“What was that?”
“I was with my drumming group until real late. Didn’t get home till after two.”
“Is this the coven drumming group, the one with Wolfgang?”
“Yeah. You know Wolf?”
“I’ve met him. What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, he and Tarra were having an affair.”
“Really.” I wasn’t sure I’d heard what I thought I heard. If Rex was telling me Tarra and Wolfgang were seeing each other, wouldn’t it be more traumatic? He had announced it like it was no big deal.
“They had a thing.”
“You don’t seem very upset.”
“I’m trying to overcome jealousy. Jealousy is at base just fear of loss. We can’t allow ourselves to be ruled by fear. Humans can’t avoid loss, but we like to think we can.”
As I thanked him for speaking with us, I realized I had forgotten to tell Carlos this little tidbit about the relationship between Tarra and Wolfgang.
As we left, I looked around at the new construction, the ballpark, took in the scents off the bay, the call of the seagulls. The massive base of the Bay Bridge was nearby, and I could see that traffic was already starting to get heavy.
“What do you think?” I asked Herve. “You think we need to overcome jealousy?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “I guess we do; it would certainly bring down everybody’s blood pressure. But if you’re asking me whether I could handle knowing my woman was with some other guy?” He shook his head. “Never.”
I nodded. “It does seem like quite a feat, to remain unaffected by something like that.”
“On the other hand, you never know. Maybe they were into threesomes. Maybe Rex is secretly into guys, so that’s how he gets his kicks. Maybe—”
“Yeah, thanks. I think I’ve got enough information for the moment, not to mention visuals.”
Herve gave me a deep, sonorous chuckle. “You do get yourself into some interesting fixes, my friend. I should mention to you that I gave Rex some help a week or two ago.”
“What kind of help?”
“A talisman to keep someone away. I see he’s still wearing it, the bag around his neck.”
“That seems awfully coincidental.”
“Not really. He’s a pagan. I supply a lot of those people. In fact, these coven sisters? Seems to me that I’ve met some of them. Rex was with a woman when he came into my shop. I wonder if that was this poor Tarra. She seemed… a bit out of it. Dazed. But she refused my help.”
“Any idea who Rex was trying to keep at bay?”
He shook his head. “Not really. But I got the sense it was female. Someone powerful. After what’s happened, I would assume it was whoever attacked Tarra and Miriam.”
There was one female associated with everything that had happened. One I dearly wanted to speak with: Calypso Cafaro.
And then I remembered why the name Randi’s Café had sounded so familiar—Anise had told me a chef who worked here took lessons with Calypso. Probably heard of her through Rex.
I went back in, but Rex had gone. Still, I barged into the kitchen without asking and inquired whether any of the workers knew Calypso Cafaro.
“Please remove yourself from my kitchen,” yelled a small, officious man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He moved to escort me out. “What’s this about?”
“I’m sorry for barging in—”
“I should hope so,” he cut me off. “Who do you think you are?”
“Do you know her? Calypso Cafaro?”
“I’ve been attending a series of workshops she teaches about herbs,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Rex wanted me to get her address from you?”
He hesitated.
“It has to do with a murder investigation,” I said, my voice rising so that all the customers couldn’t help but hear. “Regarding your employee’s girlfriend who was found dead in their apartment last week?”
His eyes shifted, looking out over his clientele. Then he took a business card from the counter, wrote on the back of it, and handed it to me. “She’s a very private person. I would appreciate you not mentioning where you got that address from.”
“You got it,” I said. And then, just to annoy him: “Oh, before I go, do you suppose we could have two lattes?”
* * *
“I enjoy seeing your mean streak,” said Herve as he sipped his latte. We were back in the car headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
“I’m not mean, just caffeine-deprived,” I said with a smile. “Besides, I don’t cotton to snooty.”
“Says here Calypso Cafaro lives in Bolinas. It’s about half an hour up the coast,” Herve said as he tapped the address into his smartphone. First I find out Sailor has a cell phone, and now Herve has a smartphone… . I guess I was the only magical type who didn’t use such things. I thought it was common to steer clear of such technology. Once again, I was out of step.
“She lives a little outside of town, actually,” Herve continued “Ooh, looks secluded.”
He said the last in a spooky voice. Herve was teasing me for being nervous about going to see Calypso on my own. A middle-aged botanicals worker didn’t strike him as scary.
“I really appreciate you coming with me.”
“No problem. Not much to do while the shop’s closed, anyway.”
“I have to say, Herve, you’re remaining awfully calm in the face of all this.”
“I’m a skilled practitioner of hoodoo magic. You think the perpetrators won’t be properly punished?”
I glanced over at him. Herve fixed me with a stare as I drove onto the Golden Gate Bridge. He started to smile very slowly, and then chuckled. I laughed along with him, but there was something in the intensity of the deep rumble of his laugh that was… unsettling.
We exited the freeway when we passed Sausalito, then headed toward Mill Valley and beyond to Highway One. The highway was famous for its intense twists and turns and the beautiful scenery: thick groves of redwoods, dramatic hillsides, babbling creeks, the Pacific Ocean. We passed Muir Woods and Stinson Beach, and still we drove on.
“Have we hit Bolinas yet?” I asked after nearly half an hour.
“Hard to tell,” said Herve. “You never know about Bolinas. The residents are famous for taking down all road signs leading to their village.”
“Why would they do that?”
He shrugged. “Guess they don’t want visitors.”
“That seems… kind of creepy.”
He laughed. “I imagine we can hold our own. Anyway, our quarry doesn’t live in town. It looks like…” He studied the device. “Yes, up here about half a mile, take a left.”
I turned on to a small, unmarked dirt road.
“Is this right?”
“Looks like it. If not, it’s an adventure, right?”
I had never spent much time with Herve outside of his shop. He had quite the joie de vivre. I wasn’t sure if he was reckless, or if I should take a page from his book.
“Either that, or we’ll be met ’round the bend by someone with a shotgun.”
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“I think these are mostly aging hippie folk out here. Probably not big into guns.”
“How reassuring.”
He chuckled again.
“Why are you so happy?”
“I’m relishing what’s going to happen to the DOM folks who tried to destroy my shop. As soon as I get back into my workshop…” He rubbed his hands together and waggled his eyebrows at me. “I do adore helping a bit with karmic payback. Don’t you?”
I had to laugh. “Not particularly, no. I’d rather people just acted decently toward one another from the start.”
“Where’s the fun in that? I didn’t start this battle, but I’m sure going to enjoy finishing it.”
“Maybe it’s a guy thing.”
“I thought it was more a magick thing. You are an odd one; you know that?”
I nodded. “How are you planning on tracking them down?”
He waggled his eyebrows again and smiled like the proverbial cat with a canary. “I have blood.”
“Blood?”
“One of them cut themselves on a ceremonial knife. Just a few drops, but I found it. I’ve got it. And I’ll use it.”
Blood was powerful, no doubt about that.
“So, what are you planning on doing?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” he said, clearly relishing the possibilities. “There’s always a Capsicum Curse, but that seems so… banal, somehow. I might have to go with something more inventive. Maybe something dermatological—ugly rashes are so wonderfully public and annoying.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Herve.”
He chuckled, reached out and ruffled my hair. “You and I ever go up against each other in a battle, my friend, and no one comes out alive.”
I guessed that was supposed to be reassuring.
A hedge obscured the road in front of us, so thick it looked as though we couldn’t pass. But as we approached, we could see glimpses of the house beyond. The car barely managed to squeeze through, thorny branches scratching the sides as we drove past. I cringed as I heard the scraping, thinking of my red paint job.
Once through the hedge, we pulled into a clearing. It was picture-postcard perfect: The house before us was an old white-and-yellow farmhouse, with a wraparound porch and a large glass conservatory to one side. Hanging baskets brimmed over with colorful trailing flowers. A dozen wind chimes sent out a delicate music, and a whirligig weather vane swung on the roof’s peak. The walk to the front door was lined with trained rose trees, full of red blossoms. Only one was full of white.
In A Witch's Wardrobe Page 20
