In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  So I would grow old alone and eccentric, like Calypso. There were worse things. Much worse.

  “Careful, Oscar!” I cried. A rack of crinolines teetered as my potbellied pig chased Beowulf under the stiff petticoats.

  No matter what path I chose, I’d have to make room in my life for Oscar. Whether he told me what happened to Sailor or not. If he was close-muzzled, it was because he felt he had to be. It drove me crazy, but I still loved him. As proof, I’d agreed to watch Night of the Living Dead with Oscar tonight. We were planning on popping popcorn and snuggling on the couch, just the two of us.

  The phone rang, and Maya answered.

  “No, but she’s right here,” said Maya. “I’ll pass the phone to— What? I— Hello? Hello?”

  Maya hung up, looking at me with a frown.

  “Was that for me?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat. Let it be Sailor.

  “Yes, but the connection was terrible, and then she was cut off. She said her name was Pilar.”

  “Pilar? You’re sure?” I felt a tingling sensation at the nape of my neck. The only Pilar I knew well was a powerful witch from Mexico, a friend of Graciela’s. The last time I had seen her was when I finally tracked down my father. But… surely she was calling for some other reason. Surely Pilar wasn’t calling to warn me about—

  “She said to tell you your father was coming for a visit,” said Maya, interrupting my thoughts. “I didn’t even know you had a father.”

  “Oh, Lily,” said Bronwyn, her eyes bright. “Your father’s coming? That’s wonderful news. You need family around you right now.”

  Oscar let out a muffled squeal and came to stand next to me. He understood who—or what—my father was.

  “The weird thing was,” added Maya, “Pilar said she called to warn you that your father was coming. Maybe something was lost in translation. She had a heavy accent.”

  I swallowed hard and tried to ignore the the harsh pounding of my heart. If my father were coming to town, it signaled trouble. I would need help.

  I took back everything I’d just thought about shunning my magical friends. Aidan once told me he didn’t worry about angering me, because I’d forgive him at just the moment I needed his assistance. I still had his mandragora; I could use it as an excuse to arrange a meeting.

  And yet… I would have to find a way to deal with my anger before meeting with Aidan, presuming I could find him. And in order to secure his aide, I had the uncomfortable feeling that groveling would be required—and probably a heap of promises I didn’t want to make.

  It was either that, or get the hell out of Dodge.

  And that wasn’t an option. As much as a part of me wanted to hit the road and look for Sailor, San Francisco was my home now.

  Luckily I had friends at my back, and plenty more tricks up my proverbial sleeve. All of which, I imagined, I was going to need. After all, I had been warned: Dad was paying me a visit.

  Continue reading for a special preview of

  MURDER ON THE HOUSE

  A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

  by Juliet Blackwell

  Coming in December from Obsidian.

  What makes a house look haunted?

  Is it enough to appear abandoned, run-down, bleak? To creak and groan when long fingers of fog creep down the nearby hills?

  Or is it something else? A whisper of a tragic past, a distinct but unsettling impression that dwelling within is something indescribable—and perhaps not human?

  Beats me. I’m a general contractor, with a well-earned reputation for restoring and renovating historic homes, and an abiding desire to chuck all my responsibilities in San Francisco and run off to Paris. Reconciling those two imperatives was hard enough, but my life was made even more complicated when the most recent edition of Haunted House Quarterly named me “California’s most promising up-and-coming Ghost Buster.”

  A misleading moniker if ever there was one. When it comes to ghosts, I’m pretty clueless. Not that I let that stop me.

  At the moment I was standing on the front stoop of a once-grand house in San Francisco’s vibrant Castro District. The home appeared lived-in, what with the cars parked out front, the cluster of red clay pots planted with marigolds on the porch, ecru lace curtains in the front windows, and a folded newspaper on the sisal doormat.

  It sure didn’t look haunted. But the current residents were certain it was—in fact, they wanted my help to transform the place into a haunted bed-and-breakfast.

  As usual, when I was facing a magnificent structure, my heart swelled at its history, its artistry… and its needs.

  My practiced eye noted a host of problems: One corner under the roof overhang gaped open, inviting vermin. The gutter had become detached in a few spots, and the roof displayed long streaks of bright green moss that hinted at water issues. Window sashes sagged, indicating rot. Such obvious signs of neglect meant a thousand other problems would be uncovered once the walls were opened.

  And then there were the alleged ghosts.

  I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Here goes. Looking around for a bell or knocker, I found an ancient intercom system to the right of the front door. A quick press of the button was greeted by a burst of static.

  I had just reached out to knock on the door when it swung open.

  I squeaked and jumped in surprise, my hands flailing.

  This was another glitch in any of my ghost buster career aspirations: I’m not what you’d call cool in the face of… well, much of anything. At the moment, for instance, I appeared to be at a total loss when faced with a rosy-cheeked little girl, with long chestnut hair and big eyes the deep, soft brown of milk chocolate.

  As I tried to pull myself together, she giggled.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath and striving to regain my composure. “My mind was somewhere else.”

  “My mama does that all the time,” the girl said with an understanding little shrug, displaying the preadolescent sweetness of a child who was oh so familiar—and patient—with the mysterious ways of adults. Though she held herself with great poise, I pegged her age at ten or eleven. Give her a couple more years, I thought, and she’d be as snarky and sullen as my teenage stepson.

  She stepped back. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m Mel Turner, with Turner Construction. I have an appointment with Mrs. Bernini… . Is she your grandmother?”

  The girl laughed and shook her head. “No, of course not. I’m Anabelle. Anabelle Bowles. I’ll take you to the parlor. Follow me.”

  I stepped into the front foyer and paused, savoring the moment.

  In the old days, all buildings were custom-designed and custom-built, so each historic house was unique. My favorite part of my job, bar none, is stepping into an old structure for the first time; one never knows what to expect.

  Although the lines of this house were neoclassical, the interior details were eclectic, drawing on a range of Federal, Greek Revival, Italianate and even baroque influences.

  The front entry was airy and open, the intricate woodwork painted a creamy white throughout, rather than stained or shellacked. The brightness was a welcome change from the dark woods so characteristic of the Victorian style, as in the house I was finishing up across town. The walls were lined in high bead board wainscoting. Tall sash windows allowed sunlight to pour in, giving the home an airy, sunny feel. An enormous fireplace, missing several of its glazed blue-green tiles, was flanked by built-in display cases. Each newel post on the banister leading upstairs was carved in a different pattern: One was a series of different-sized balls, another was geometric boxes, yet another sported a face carved into the lintel.

  In marked contrast to the home’s exquisite bones, the interior design was appalling. Everywhere I looked, there was a pile of clutter. Newspapers were piled in one corner, and flyers from local merchants littered a scarred maple coffee table from the 1960s. Shreds of discarded paper and a pair of scissors suggested someone had bee
n clipping coupons. And it got worse as I looked up at the walls and ceiling. Rather than strip the faded wallpaper above the old wainscoting, someone had simply painted over it; it was pulling away from the walls and hanging in crazy quilt patches. Rusty water stains bloomed in several spots on the peeling ceiling, and the broad-planked oak flooring was warped and discolored in patches.

  And there was a distinct chill to the air, so it felt almost colder than the winter afternoon outside. It must have cost a fortune to heat a place this big.

  Beneath the papers and layers of grime that had settled across everything, I thought I spied a marble-topped antique credenza near the massive fireplace, as well as a few light fixtures that appeared to be original handblown glass. In general, though, the turn-of-the-century home’s ambience was, by and large, twenty-first-century Frat Boy. It would require a lot of work, both structural and cosmetic, to transform this historic home into a welcoming B and B.

  “This way,” said Anabelle as she led the way down the hall to the left.

  Several broad corridors spiraled off the central foyer. The hallway we walked down was lined with so many identical cream-colored doors, the place felt a little more like a hotel than a private home. We passed a formal dining room with a built-in china hutch, a carved marble fireplace, and two impressive crystal chandeliers hanging from the coffered ceiling.

  “I like your dress,” said Anabelle, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you could be in Ringling Brothers. We saw them when they came to town. They say it’s the greatest show on earth.”

  I looked down at myself. It’s true: I have a tendency to wear offbeat clothing. Nothing inappropriate, mind you, just… unexpected. I chalk this up to the years I spent in camouflage as I played the role of a respectable faculty wife to a respectable Berkeley professor who turned out to be a not so respectable, cheating slimeball. The minute the ink was dry on my divorce papers, I yanked every scrap of my expensive Faculty Wife Wardrobe out of my closet and drove the whole kit and caboodle over to a women’s shelter.

  Once freed from my “respectable” constraints, I indulged my fondness for spangles and fringe with the help of my friend Stephen—an aspiring costume designer and the much-loved only son of a Vegas showgirl. It started as a joke, sort of, but soon became a “thing.” My unconventional wardrobe inspired good-natured ribbing on the jobsite, where denim rules the day, but I’m serious about my profession: I always wear steel-toed work boots and bring along a pair of coveralls so as to be ready for any construction-related contingency.

  But today I was meeting a client for the first time, so I had left the sparkles shut away in my closet in favor of a simple above-the-knee patterned dress topped by a cardigan. Perhaps Anabelle wasn’t accustomed to such uninspired attire in this neighborhood.

  “I like your dress, as well,” I said, “especially the matching ribbons in your hair.”

  “It’s called robin’s egg blue,” she said, clutching a bit of the skirt in each hand and holding it up as though ready to curtsy. She gave me a big smile and turned down a narrow passage to the right.

  It was rare to find a house this massive in the Castro, which was studded with Victorian row houses built by Scandinavians in the 1910s and 1920s, and populated by Irish working-class families in the 1930s. Known locally as the Bernini house, after the family who had lived here for the past several decades, the structure had survived the massive earthquake and fire of 1906. It was exceptional not only for its square footage but also for its extensive grounds: It took up half a city block, and included a huge courtyard garden and two outbuildings. This house was a stunner as it was; once renovated, it would be a rare gem. A landmark, even.

  I wanted this job so much, I could taste it. But there was no guarantee it would be mine.

  I knew the clients were also meeting with Avery Builders, one of my competitors. They were good—almost as good as Turner Construction, though it galled me to admit it. Avery and Turner had similar portfolios and track records for keeping on budget and on schedule. When competition for a job was this tight, the decision usually came down to whomever the clients liked more, whom they felt more comfortable having in their homes, day in and day out, for months on end.

  Client relations make me nervous. I’m a whiz at construction, and understand the ins and outs of buildings and architectural history as if they were in my blood. But when it comes to dealing with people, well… I’m fine. Up to a point. Mostly if they let me do what I want and what I know is right for the house. Diplomacy has never been my strong suit.

  I did have one distinct advantage over Avery Builders: The new owners of the Bernini estate wanted to turn the place into a haunted B and B. And as far as I knew, Avery Builders didn’t have a ghost buster on staff.

  Anabelle hummed as she walked, finally breaking out into song: “Wish me a rainbow, wish me a star…” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, displaying deep dimples. “Do you know that song?”

  “I don’t. But I’m no good at music.”

  “You don’t play? I’m learning to play the piano.”

  “I tried my hand at the clarinet in the fifth grade. It wasn’t pretty.”

  Anabelle gave me a withering look, as though I’d suggested she make mud pies in her nice blue dress. Usually I’m good with kids, because I don’t take them—or myself—too seriously. My stepson, Caleb, and I had gotten off to a famously good start because I had immediately grasped why he felt compelled to wear his pirate costume and remain in character for more than a year before graduating, in a manner of speaking, to pretending to be the more “grown-up” Darth Vader. But then I have a flair for sword fights and laser battles, if I do say so myself.

  “… These you can give me, wherever you aaarrrrrree…” Anabelle resumed singing, slightly off-tune, and stopped in front of a door that stood ajar. “Here we are. Have a seat, please, and I’ll let them know you’re here.”

  She skipped back down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Good-bye. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.” I said, watching her go and marveling at the energy of youth. When was the last time I had skipped somewhere?

  I pushed open the parlor door.

  The room was empty.

  Not just empty of people; it was vacant. No furniture, no rugs, no lights, no knickknacks. Nothing but a heavy coating of dust, a few scraps of paper on the floor, and a pair of shredded curtains on the large windows that overlooked a huge courtyard and garden.

  The afternoon sun sifting in through the wavy antique glass illuminated cobwebs in the corners, and a single paneled door I assumed was a closet. I didn’t see so much as a footstep—other than my own—in the dust on the floor, and the musty smell indicated the room hadn’t been aired out for a very long time.

  “Wait, Anabelle! I don’t think…” I poked my head through the open door and peered down the long corridor, but the girl was gone.

  Then a sound came from the opposite direction.

  Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.

  I caught a glimpse of something passing in front of the arch at the end of the hall.

  Someone, I reminded myself. Get a grip, Mel. The child is playing a joke.

  “Hello?” I called out as I started down the dim corridor. “Anabelle?”

  I heard it again: a slow step, a shuffle, a clank. My mind’s eye conjured a picture of a ghost in chains. But that was an old Hollywood convention, not reality. I hoped.

  And if this truly was a restless spirit, why should I have been so surprised? I had been asked to the Bernini house to help broker a deal with ghosts, after all. I just hadn’t expected to see anything right off the bat, much less in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

  Slowly, cautiously, I continued down the hallway to where it ended in a T, the sound growing louder with each step. Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape. Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.

  I screwed up my courage, took a deep breath, and peeked around the corner.

  An old wo
man hunched over an aluminum walker, slowly making her way down the corridor. An orange-and-yellow crochet afghan was draped over her narrow shoulders, and her hair was a blue-gray mass of stiff-set curls. With each laborious step-push-step she made, her slippered feet and the walker sounded off: Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Oh!” she let out a surprised yelp, one blue-veined hand fluttering up to her chest. “My word, you gave me a fright!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, still basking in relief at the sight of a flesh-and-blood woman instead of a spectral presence. “I’m Mel Turner, from Turner Construction?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. How do you do? I’m Betty Bernini.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you. You have an amazing place here.”

  “Thank you. Come, we’ve been expecting you. The Propaks are in the front room.” She resumed her slow progress, and I fell in step, resisting the urge to offer to help. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear the doorbell. Who let you in?”

  “Anabelle answered the door, but she showed me to the parlor—the wrong room, I take it.”

  The clanking stopped as Mrs. Bernini straightened and fixed me with a steady gaze. “Anabelle?”

  “Yes, she’s a sweetheart.”

  “Anabelle let you in.”

  I nodded, suddenly feeling guilty. Was Anabelle not supposed to answer the door? Had I gotten the girl in trouble?

  “Let me show you something.” Mrs. Bernini shuffled a little farther down the hall and opened the door to a bookshelf-lined study full of cardboard boxes, stacked furniture, and a cracked old leather couch. She gestured to an oil painting hanging over the fireplace. Done in rich old master hues of blue, red, and burnt sienna, it featured a girl and a slightly younger boy. She stood with one hand on the boy’s shoulder, while he held a cocker spaniel puppy.

  The girl had long chestnut brown curls, tied in blue ribbons.

  Robin’s egg blue.