A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “How do you know it’s a ‘she’?” Maya asked, one eyebrow cocked.

  “Dude.”

  Maya, Bronwyn, and I shared a smile. I took the clipboard from Conrad and signed his petition. I was all for woodpeckers and other critters keeping their arboreal homes as long as possible. Besides, surely the city had more productive ways to spend its money. Conrad was right: Why not put up a fence and let nature take its course?

  “I’m next,” Bronwyn said.

  “Hand it over.” Maya sighed.

  “So how do you know her name?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “That tree lady came to take a look,” said Conrad. “She told us all about her kind—they’re called Quercus . . . something or other. I can never remember the full name, but the Quercus part just stuck.”

  Conrad paused and perused his petition, full of several new names.

  “Okay, then. Thanks for the support. The Con’s got to mosey on down the way and pick up some more signatures. And, dude, let me know if you need help carrying this trunk out to the alley for garbage day. See you around.”

  “Bye.”

  As he turned to leave, tingles went up my spine and the back of my neck felt cold. Watching Conrad’s back, I suddenly felt as though I was back in . . . wherever I went to when I tried on the cloak. I wasn’t a big one for premonitions, but I’d been working on my magical skills, so perhaps I was developing new sensibilities. Whether it was that, or something about that velvet cloak, or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure.

  But one thing I knew for sure: Something was wrong.

  “Conrad, wait.”

  He turned back toward me, eyebrows raised in question.

  I hesitated, looking around the shop. No one else seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Several customers were absorbed in their search of the racks and shelves of clothing. Bronwyn had returned to her herbal stand, where she was mixing custom tea blends, and Maya was straightening the changing rooms. Frank Sinatra crooned softly in the background, and as always, the air in the shop was scented with the sachets I changed out every week, filling black silk squares with rosemary and rue, or juniper and rose petals . . . whatever herbs or flowers were abundant and in season.

  I was safe and sound in Aunt Cora’s Closet, my refuge. So why did I feel like something was seriously amiss?

  “Conrad, you mentioned you were having bad dreams?”

  He nodded and gazed down at the clipboard.

  “And you’ve been sleeping under this oak tree you’re trying to save?”

  “Dude.”

  I searched my memory for what I knew about oak trees. In European folklore they were said to be home to the woodsfolk, who could be vengeful if their trees were razed. The California live oak was a different breed from the European version, with a small spiked leaf instead of the oak’s classic five fingers. But I had never heard of any species of oak being associated with nightmares.

  And this oak tree probably wasn’t, either. More likely, Conrad was suffering the effects of a life spent ingesting too many drugs and too little food, compounded by a lack of sleep.

  But then again . . . I rarely had premonitions. And I was too smart a witch not to pay attention when I did.

  “Would you show me the oak tree you’re talking about?” I asked. “I’d like to see it.”

  “Um . . . Ms. Quercus? Sure. When?”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Dudette, tell you what. I’ll stroll down Haight for more signatures, and if you don’t catch up with me, I’ll meet you near the horseshoe pits and show you to the tree. She’s not far from there.”

  “Perfect, thanks.”

  The bell on the front door tinkled as new customers arrived, and Conrad went to ask for their signatures on his petition.

  I quickly riffled through the remaining items in the trunk to be certain there was nothing else out of the ordinary, but the velvet cape was the only oddity. I stared at the cape a moment before rolling it up and bringing it upstairs to my apartment over the store, where I placed it in a wicker basket and covered it with a black cloth that had been washed in rosewater and consecrated. Then, just in case, I surrounded it with stones—quartz, Apache tears, and tiger’s eye—cast a quick binding spell, and left it under the watchful eye of Oscar before returning to the shop.

  I tried calling Sebastian’s Antiques one more time, hoping to make an appointment to talk with Sebastian, but still no one answered. I realized I would have to take my chances and try to catch up with him later.

  “Bronwyn, Maya, do you have a moment?” I said, and they joined me at the register. “I took the cape upstairs for safekeeping. Until I’ve had the chance to study it, I’d prefer no one else knows anything about it, okay?”

  “Of course, Lily,” Bronwyn said.

  “I know it sounds a little odd . . .” I began.

  “No more than a lot of what goes on around here,” Maya commented. “Pretty much par for the course, in fact.”

  I smiled, grateful for their support. “I know I’ve been gone all day, but would you two mind if I took off again? I want to see this Ms. Quercus character for myself.”

  “Have fun,” said Bronwyn.

  “We’ve got plenty to sort through,” said Maya. “I’m itching to see what you found at the thrift stores.”

  “Thanks, y’all.”

  I glanced over my shoulder as I walked out the door. Happiness washed over me as I took in the sight of Aunt Cora’s Closet brimming with vintage clothes and bustling with customers and friends. Part of me longed to stay and sort through the new acquisitions with Maya and Bronwyn—not only did I enjoy their company, but we always turned these moments into a fun treasure hunt.

  Still, it was also a lovely day for a walk in the sunshine. San Francisco’s climate was temperate, though it could be plagued by fog and chill blowing in off the ocean. The spring and fall months, I had learned, were by far the most beautiful, as summer days often were shrouded by heavy blankets of fog.

  I walked down Haight Street, passing head shops, a few other secondhand clothes dealers, restaurants and pubs, the Booksmith, and plenty of tourists basking in the hippie hangout of yore. The neighborhood was still filled with young people, like Conrad, who had left their homes in rural Nebraska or downtown Detroit or sunny Florida in search of love and open-mindedness in the City by the Bay. Unfortunately, they also found some of the highest rents in the country and a tight job market. Add the lure of cheap drugs and alcohol, and too many ended up spending their days begging for spare change on the streets of the Haight and their nights sleeping in doorways or in Golden Gate Park. They were frequently dirty, smelly, and pushy to the point of obnoxiousness, but my heart went out to them. I had searched for a home for too long myself not to be touched by their plight.

  Just after Amoeba Records I crossed Stanyan and entered Golden Gate Park, turning right on a curved path toward the horseshoe pits. A couple of boys were playing tag in the grassy field, their young parents sprawled on a picnic blanket. A teenage couple sat on a bench, heads together, hands clasped tightly.

  Just then there were two loud popping sounds, like balloons bursting.

  A moment later, a pair of women, clad in skirts and heels, ran past. Hot on their heels was a man dressed in a business suit. Not your typical joggers.

  Sometimes my body senses things long before my brain catches up. My lips trembled, and I felt another prickling sensation, as if an army of ants was crawling along my arms, then down my spine. I caught a wisp of the cloying, sickly sweet scent of death.

  Carefully, I proceeded toward the noise, passing through a small wooded area and entering a clearing dominated by a massive oak. Its thick branches spread wide, dipping close to the ground as though inviting children to climb. The tree’s immense trunk was encircled by orange traffic cones and city-stamped A-frame wooden signs wa
rning people to keep back.

  Conrad was kneeling by a prone man near the base of the tree.

  Two bright red stains marred the breast of the man’s white linen shirt. Bushy eyebrows were raised as though in surprise; a smudge of dirt marred the bridge of his bespectacled nose.

  Sebastian Crowley had been shot.

  Chapter 3

  “Duuuude,” Conrad exhaled in a harsh whisper, looking up at me as I approached. His eyes looked wild with fear and shock; there was blood on his hands. “He’s right where I usually . . . I mean, this is the exact spot where I’ve been sleeping.”

  “Conrad, what happ—”

  Sebastian groaned. I rushed over to kneel beside him. He was still conscious, but just barely.

  “Sebastian, what happened? Who did this?” I grabbed the scarf from around my neck, wadded it up, and held it against his chest to stanch the blood. Conrad shrugged off his T-shirt and handed it to me. The blood soaked through both quickly.

  The antiques dealer gurgled, sounding like he was choking. I realized he was trying to speak and leaned in close.

  “Witch.”

  I reared back, shivering all the way to my core, as though someone had placed an ice-cold hand on the back of my neck.

  “Sebastian, tell me, who? Who did this?”

  He closed his eyes, no longer responsive.

  “Conrad? What happened? Did you see anything?”

  “I didn’t see a thing. I was like, walking toward the tree, and I totally thought the dude was just napping, until I saw the . . . uh . . . blood.”

  I glanced up and saw a woman with a baby carriage staring at us. She clapped a hand over her mouth and rushed away. An elderly man averted his eyes and hastened off as well. But others approached, forming a loose half circle in front of us and gawking as if unsure how to help. Oddly enough, they did not cross the invisible barrier formed by the orange plastic cones, and for a moment I felt as though we were putting on some sort of macabre performance-art show.

  “Call nine-one-one!” I called out to no one in particular.

  “I left my phone at the office,” one man said, speaking with a slight accent I couldn’t quite place. He was a large man, with thinning sandy hair and goggle eyes that appeared even wider than normal with shock. He and the dark-haired man next to him wore lab coats, and official-looking lanyards hung around their necks.

  “I don’t carry a phone,” I said. “Someone, anyone, a cell phone?”

  “Take mine,” said Conrad, pulling the device from his pants pocket.

  The man was homeless, but had a cell phone? I grabbed it and dialed.

  “Did you see what happened?” I asked the goggle-eyed man as he came to kneel by Conrad, as though to lend moral support. I held the phone to my ear as the number rang; a recording told me to hold on the line.

  “I didn’t see anything. . . . Kai and I were supposed to meet a colleague here to take a look at the tree. Nina’s the tree expert. . . . She should be here, unless . . .” He scanned the area, apparently looking for her.

  “I’m Lily Ivory. I own a shop on Haight Street. You work nearby?”

  “We’re scientists at the Cal Academy. That’s Kai . . . and oh, there’s Nina. Good; she’s okay.”

  “Dude,” said Conrad. “That’s the tree lady.”

  I glanced up to see a tall young woman had joined the other man in a lab coat. Though she appeared strong and broad-shouldered, all three were so pale I wondered if they ever left their laboratories.

  “You still on hold?” asked Conrad. “Why don’t I go see if I can wave down a park ranger or something? I’ll go out to the main road.”

  “Good idea. Thanks, Con,” I said. I felt Sebastian’s neck for a pulse, but though he was still laboring to breathe, I couldn’t find even a murmur of a beat.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said the man.

  I couldn’t blame him. A trickle of blood from Sebastian’s chest was pooling on the soil beneath him. I noticed the dirt had been churned up and recalled Conrad mentioning that animals liked to burrow near the ancient oak tree. Unless someone had been digging for something . . .

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency? Hello?”

  My voice was shaky as I gave the operator our location as best I could: a clearing north of John F. Kennedy Drive, down the path toward the horseshoe pits. Directions were tough in Golden Gate Park, which was full of meandering lanes and woods and fields. I told her someone would be out on the road to wave the emergency vehicles in. She told me to stay on the line; paramedics were on their way.

  “Take a deep breath, hold it. Then let it out slowly, to the count of eight,” I suggested to the man kneeling beside Sebastian, trying to distract him while we waited. “What’s your name?”

  “Lance. Lance Thornton.”

  “And what’s the Cal Academy, exactly?”

  “The California Academy of Sciences. It’s sort of . . . well, part natural history museum and part scientific research facility. It’s not far from here, right across from the DeYoung Art Museum.”

  “I don’t know the area that well. I moved here a while ago, but I . . .” I trailed off as Sebastian’s labored breathing ceased with a final rattling gasp.

  I felt another icy sensation flow over me, then lift, all at once, from my shoulders.

  As I reached out to feel for a pulse in Sebastian’s neck, his head turned toward me . . . eyes open and staring.

  The breath caught in my throat.

  Since moving to San Francisco, I had encountered too much violent death. But I had never been present at the actual moment of transformation, had never knelt beside someone and heard their last breath, witnessed their passing from this dimension to the next.

  I almost told the 911 operator not to bother with the paramedics, to send the coroner and homicide inspectors instead, then decided that it wasn’t my place. I did say the victim was named Sebastian Crowley, that he had been shot, and that he appeared to be deceased. She asked a few clarifying details about that last statement, then again told me to remain on the line until the police arrived.

  “Poor Sebastian,” I whispered.

  “You know him?” asked Lance.

  “Just barely.”

  Holding the phone to my ear, I focused once more on Sebastian’s now lifeless body. This time I noticed something sticking out of his jacket pocket. I leaned closer: It was a small rectangle of cheery purple paper stock emblazoned with the slogan Aunt Cora’s Closet—It’s Not Old. It’s Vintage!

  My calling card.

  * * *

  “You wanna tell me why the victim had your business card in his pocket?” demanded Inspector Carlos Romero of the San Francisco Police Department.

  The paramedics were the first to arrive; then the medical examiner had been called in, and the photographer and forensics team had begun working the crime scene. I was simultaneously relieved and chagrined when I saw which homicide inspector had been assigned to Sebastian’s murder. Carlos and I were on a first-name basis. Our visits were inevitably connected to death and mayhem—murder with a magical edge. Because there was more of that than one might expect in this beautiful City by the Bay.

  The inspector was only a little taller than me, but the way he carried himself suggested he could inflict some serious damage were he so inclined. He wore his standard uniform of a thigh-length black leather jacket, starched white shirt, and khaki chinos and had already taken statements from Conrad and Lance Thornton, as well as from several other bystanders. No one, it seemed, had witnessed the shooting.

  Carlos had saved me for last.

  “Out with it now. And don’t hold anything back.”

  “I met Sebastian Crowley—”

  “The victim?”

  My stomach churned. “Yes, the victim. I met him at his shop earlier in the day, and�
��”

  “Time? Purpose of the meet?”

  “Around ten this morning,” I said. “And the purpose of the ‘meet’ was to buy clothes.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, I bought a trunk of old clothes.”

  “I’ll need to check it out.”

  I nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time the SFPD had confiscated some of my inventory. “It’s at the shop.”

  “Find anything out of the ordinary? A fortune in jewels and gold coins, anything like that? Motive for murder, maybe?”

  “It’s not a pirate’s treasure. Just a bunch of old clothes, not worth anything, really. They’re falling apart, scarcely fit for the rag pile.”

  “What about the trunk itself? Did you check the lining? Look for a false bottom?”

  I shook my head. “The trunk’s kind of old and smelly, mainly of value to an antiquarian. You’re welcome to it.” I’d happily surrender the trunk—for all I cared, the SFPD forensics team could tear it apart looking for hidden treasure. But even though Carlos was a friend and even though I realized it might be evidence or provide a motive of some sort . . . I decided not to mention the strange velvet cloak quite yet. That cape and I had a date to get to know each other better, just as soon as possible.

  After all, Carlos had his skills, but I had mine. And anything associated with that particular garment, I feared, was more in my realm of expertise than his.

  “Would you like me to call and ask Bronwyn and Maya to set the trunk aside?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  He handed me his cell as a crime-scene tech walked up to ask a question. I quickly dialed Bronwyn.

  “Aunt Cora’s Closet,” Bronwyn singsonged as she answered the phone. “It’s not old. It’s vintage!”

  “Hi. It’s me. Listen, a police officer will be swinging by the shop before too long to pick up the old trunk. Let him have it.”

  “Okay,” Bronwyn said slowly.

  “I’ll explain later,” I said. “Another thing: There’s a bundle of stinging nettles at the top of the stairs to my apartment. Do you know what I’m talking about?”