“This might not be the best time for this discussion,” Sailor continued, “but I’m worried about the direction our relationship is taking. Seems to me I find myself helping you commit felonies—especially of the breaking-and-entering variety—more often than I’d like.”
“Hey, I cooked you dinner. Doesn’t that count for something? And I’m a witch, not a spirit. I can’t walk through walls. So when it comes to breaking in, I have to rely on entirely normal, everyday methods. . . .”
“Like talking your boyfriend into helping you.”
“Right.” I felt a little thrill run through me at his use of that word. “Um . . . You’re my boyfriend?”
“I certainly hope so. Otherwise I’d be hard-pressed to explain what I’m doing here.”
I leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on his forehead, feeling like a lady rewarding her knight.
“Trying to distract me?”
I laughed softly. “I really do appreciate this, Sailor. If not for you, it would just be me and my Hand of Glory here in the alley in the middle of the night. Even I would find that scenario a little creepy.”
“At some point we should talk about how you run around town with no thought to your own safety. You—”
He stopped speaking as the locking mechanism clicked, and he pushed the door open. With a triumphant bow, he gestured that I should go on in.
The shop was musty and crowded, just as it had been when I was here earlier in the day. But now there were signs of a struggle: shards of glass and ceramics littered the floor, a grandfather clock had been knocked on its side, and a stained-glass lampshade was split into several colorful pieces. The register sat open, empty of any paper money. It had all the markings of a simple robbery gone bad . . . except for the fact that Crowley had been killed under an oak tree clear across town in Golden Gate Park.
“What are we looking for?” Sailor asked in a low voice. He remained near the front of the store, keeping an eye out for passersby through the plate-glass display window.
“Anything, really . . . Something that might give us a clue as to what’s going on. Also, I want to see if I can unearth the name and address of whoever sold him that trunk. Sebastian mentioned it was a woman—”
“That narrows it down.”
I ignored him. “She was the niece of an old man and sold him a number of other items from the man’s estate. You and Oscar mentioned that Sebastian kept careful records.”
“Records of who owed what, mostly.” Sailor raised his eyebrows and cast a glance around the disorganized store. “This guy mostly laundered money for criminals. I’m not sure he ever actually sold anything.”
“He sold something to me.”
“Other than a worthless trunk full of worthless clothes and one possibly disastrous cape to you. Ever occur to you that this was no accident of retail?”
I bit my lip as I riffled, as carefully as I could, through the papers atop Sebastian’s crowded desk. It was such a mess I couldn’t imagine my search would disturb much of anything. There were stacks of unpaid bills and articles ripped out of newspapers, receipts, catalogs, and advertising circulars. Nothing that seemed significant. In the drawers were old index cards, a mélange of dried-up pens and stubby pencils, and a half-empty plastic bottle of Old Crow bourbon.
Frustrated, I sat back in the desk chair and blew out a loud breath. Where would someone like Sebastian have kept a telltale ledger? Probably not here at his desk, which would be the first place a person would look. His shop was such a jumble, it could be anywhere.
Like most antiques stores, Sebastian’s was jammed with bureaus, standing lamps, old oil paintings and baroque frames, and hundreds of decorative tchotchkes. There was a sculpture of the goddess Diana, a couple of marble pillars topped with busts, and a pair of stone wings that looked like they had fallen off a statue. Any of a hundred drawers could be hiding a ledger, unless . . . On the other side of the shop, I noticed several leather-bound books atop a walnut rolltop desk sitting up against the side wall.
Could the ledger be hiding in plain sight?
I crossed the shop and took the books down one by one: a volume of poems by Robert Louis Stevenson, L’Étranger in the original French by Albert Camus, Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, and a few other novels I wasn’t familiar with. And among them, one unmarked leather-bound ledger, full of long columns, like an old-fashioned accountant’s book.
Full of handwritten names and dollar figures and a series of symbols I didn’t recognize.
Sailor was looking over my shoulder, his face angry. “Worse than I thought. I knew this guy was bad news, but this . . . ?”
“What is it, exactly?”
“It’s a score book. He was keeping track of magical folk, what they owed. Not only in dollars, if you know what I mean.”
“For whom?”
“Can’t say for sure. But if I were a betting man, my money would be on your buddy Aidan.”
My heart sank. I was never sure what to think of Aidan. Part of me was grateful to him for what he’d done for me—and my father—but I knew he used his magic to manipulate others and gain power. That was not only ethically questionable; it was dangerous in a man as magically powerful as he.
“So you think the trunk was part of a payment of some sort?”
“Maybe.”
“Then why sell it to me for sixty bucks?”
“You paid sixty bucks for an old trunk full of worthless clothes? Remind me to show you some andirons I’ve been hauling around.”
I smiled. “Carlos said the same thing.”
“First Aidan, now Carlos. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You have terrible taste in men.”
“Don’t I, though?”
“Do I have to tell you what I think about you palling around with a homicide inspector?”
“If you’d give him a chance, I think you’d see he’s a really good guy.”
“He’s the one who won’t give me a chance,” said Sailor. “And one of these days—mark my words—he’s going to catch you at something. Whether he likes you or not, you know as well as I do that he won’t hold off on applying the law just for you.”
“Anyway, going back to what we were talking about . . . I bought the trunk because I felt something powerful within it. Vibrations that ran through me as soon as the lid opened.”
“The cloak?”
I nodded. “Also . . . I don’t know, I sort of felt bad for Sebastian. He didn’t seem like he did much business here.”
Sailor let out a bark of a laugh. “You are something else; you know that? Let’s get out of here. Take the book, and we’ll look through it more carefully at your place.”
“I think this latest sale, from Bartholomew Woolsey, might be the man we’re looking for,” I said as my index finger lay on the top line. “See; it indicates he bought a trunk for twenty dollars, right here.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s go find Mr. Woolsey.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? You’re my partner in crime, remember?”
“Yes, ‘partner.’ I know that only too well.” He checked his watch. “But it’s after eleven. If this mystery man is some kind of magical predator, you’ll need to go in prepared. If he’s just some schmuck who found himself with a trunk of worthless old clothes and a magical cape that he didn’t recognize, then you’ll wake him up and scare the hell out of him.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Crowley told you the old man—”
“Woolsey.”
“Okay, Woolsey, presuming you’re correct about the records. Crowley told you Woolsey needed money, right? Contact him tomorrow morning. Pretend you’re in the market for junk, and say you heard he’s got stuff for sale. Act like a pushy vintage dealer. You know,” he said with a shrug. “Just be yourself.”
/>
“Not a bad idea.”
“Thank you. You know what else isn’t a bad idea? Bed.”
* * *
I meant to study the ledger when I got back home, but Sailor distracted me. I woke early and started to pore over it with my morning coffee, but then Sailor woke up and distracted me some more.
Hell’s bells, having a sexy man in her bed wreaks havoc on a witch’s concentration.
But as soon as the hour was decent, I called the phone number listed beside Bartholomew Woolsey’s name. Among other things, I wanted to talk to him before the police did. If this had anything to do with Sebastian’s death, I would have to share the information with the police.
A young woman answered, then passed the phone to her uncle. Bartholomew Woolsey sounded elderly and genial but a bit vague, and I sure didn’t pick up on any kind of “magical predator” vibe, as Sailor had put it. Still, my powers of perception are compromised over phone lines.
I could hear the young woman coaching her uncle to say “yes” to my offer to buy some clothes. They bickered. Finally, she took the phone back.
“I’m Bart’s niece, Hannah,” she said. I wondered whether this was the “sweet young thing” Sebastian was sure had taken advantage of him. “Yes, definitely you should come by. Bart’s got a whole closetful of old clothes you could look through. How about eleven o’clock?”
“That’s perfect, thanks.”
At nine thirty I went downstairs and prepared to open Aunt Cora’s Closet as I always do: by sprinkling saltwater widdershins, or counterclockwise, then smudging with a sage bundle doesil, or clockwise. I said an extra chant of cleansing, just in case the trunk—or the cape—had left behind any trace of bad juju. Then I lit a white candle on the glass counter by the register, flipped the sign to OPEN, and was pleased to see that Conrad was already sitting on the curb outside the store.
I asked him to wait, then ran upstairs to make a fried egg sandwich, wrapped it in a paper towel, poured a glass of orange juice, and joined him on the curb while he ate.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Dude,” he answered.
“Did the police, um . . . did they keep you overnight?”
He nodded and dug into the sandwich.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “But they released you, so they must be satisfied?”
He shrugged, then spoke with his mouth full. “Didn’t sleep at all last night. Can’t even sleep at the tree anymore; cops have it cordoned off. Wouldn’t want to anyway, after . . . I can’t believe what happened to that poor dude.”
I nodded. Dude.
“Conrad, did the police say anything about you being a suspect?”
He shrugged and continued eating. I feared if I wanted more information, I was going to have to get it from the source: Inspector Romero.
Bronwyn arrived just before ten, accompanied by her friend Duke, a retired fisherman. I was glad to see him; not only did he make Bronwyn glow more than I’d ever seen her—and she’d been happy before—but I’d also noticed that having a man in the store, especially one of a certain age, seemed to encourage other males to enter what was more typically seen to be the haven of young women. Besides . . . given what had happened, the more people around, the better.
At ten thirty I told Bronwyn I was headed out for an appointment, which she took in stride. I was spending less time than ever at the shop, which didn’t make me particularly happy, though I did enjoy the search. The hunt for really cool clothes never stopped. If it wasn’t estate sales and auctions, it was garage sales and thrift stores, or soliciting older folks in their homes and helping them to clean out their attics, basements, and closets.
I hoped today’s visit with Bartholomew Woolsey was as simple as my typical visit to an elderly man with a closet full of old clothes. Probably, he had no idea he had been in possession of a cape with such . . . interesting vibrations.
Probably.
In case I was wrong, I prepared several amulets and packed up the ingredients for protection spells. I carried a jar of brew in my satchel with which I could hastily draw a magical circle, if needed. Just in case Bartholomew Woolsey was not just a hapless guy unaware of the contents of his historic trunk.
Maya came along to help with the clothes; she had a way with seniors, and made a point of collecting their stories and writing down their oral histories. I tried to talk Sailor out of accompanying us, but there was no way he was going to stay behind. I decided that on the off chance that Woolsey really was bad news, it would be helpful to have Sailor along so I was sure I wasn’t putting Maya in danger.
Woolsey’s address was an apartment in a surprisingly graceful historic building on Broadway in Pacific Heights. A doorman let us in, called ahead, then ushered us into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor.
As we wooshed up, Maya looked at me, eyebrows raised. “I thought you said he was desperate for cash.”
“That’s what I was told. Who knows? Maybe he’s . . .” I shrugged. “Maybe he owns his apartment but can’t make the condo fees?”
The hallway to Woolsey’s apartment featured crown molding, muted taupe carpet, and what appeared to be original, handblown amber sconces. It smelled like scented candles and cleanliness. It was hard to believe anyone who lived here was selling off possessions for cash.
A woman about my age answered our knock on the door. She was attractive, tall and strong-looking, wearing athletic clothes: orange Lycra shorts and a bright blue stretch tank. Could this be the woman Sebastian had referred to as a “pretty little thing”?
“You must be from the thrift store,” she said upon opening the door, her blue eyes puzzled as they raked over our trio. I doubted we were what she expected of a thrift store crew.
“Yes, I’m Lily, and this is Maya and Sailor. Thank you for having us.”
“I’m Hannah; I think we talked on the phone. I’m helping my uncle Bart get cleaned up in here. He’s been a little . . . challenged.”
She opened the door wider and invited us into a warren of pathways through stacks of newspapers, books, and plastic bags like giant balloons. Collectibles and antiques were gathered in organized groupings: ceramic figures, silver pieces, painted plaques. I thought Sebastian Crowley’s antiques store looked like a hoarder’s lair, but Bartholomew Woolsey’s place was even worse. At least it assured me that I was not, in fact, a hoarder myself.
“Ignore the mess,” Hannah continued. “It’s a work in progress.”
It wasn’t as closed-in smelling as Sebastian’s shop had been, but I noted the distinctive musty smell of old books. I saw the reason why as I turned the corner: a dining room table sat amid—and under—stacks and stacks of old books.
Huddled with their heads together over a book- and paper-strewn table were two men: one white haired and elderly, the other boyish and scholarly looking, complete with an argyle sweater-vest and wire-rimmed glasses.
Both looked up as we entered.
“Uncle Bart, these are the people from the thrift store.”
“Oh . . .” He glanced down at the watch on his wrist. “Already?”
“It’s eleven o’clock, Bart,” Hannah said. “Remember? I told you they were coming.”
“Hello, Mr. Woolsey. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lily Ivory. We spoke on the phone earlier. . . .”
“Yes, yes,” he said. His hair stuck out here and there on his balding head, and his eyebrows were bushy. Tall and apparently once quite strong, Bart had kindly, crinkly blue eyes behind aviator lenses that looked out of place—if not for the modern eyewear, he might have been the kindly shoemaker in a fairy tale, complete with an open vest over his striped shirt. “I remember. I don’t get a lot of visitors. Except for Williston, of course. Williston’s a professor over at . . . where was it?”
“UC Berkeley,” said the young man as he stood and shook our han
ds. “But please, call me Will. No need to be as formal as Bart. Nice to meet you.”
Darn. I had hoped to speak with Bart Woolsey alone to see what information I could glean from him about the trunk.
The good news was he didn’t seem dangerous. The bad news was I doubted this visit would be particularly fruitful, murder-solving-wise. Then again, you never knew. As they say back in Texas, every fish ever caught had its mouth open.
“Did you want to see the clothes?” Hannah urged from the hallway.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Maya and Sailor would love to check them out. I actually . . . I was hoping to speak with your uncle for just a moment.”
Smooth, Lily, real smooth. Fortunately, Hannah didn’t appear to care very much what I did. “Okaaaay.” She dragged out the word as she led the way out of the room. Maya followed. Sailor cast me a long look before joining her.
“Hannah, don’t . . . don’t throw away anything until you ask me,” Bart called out after his niece, craning his neck to watch her walk down the hall.
A muffled, “whatever” floated back from the direction of the hallway.
“She wants to get rid of all my things,” Bart said, his voice anxious.
“I think she’s just trying to help you sort through all your . . . um . . . everything,” I finished lamely.
“I agreed to sell some of the old clothes that don’t fit anymore, but there’s a lot of other stuff I don’t want to . . . I’ll be right back,” he said as he rose and hurried out of the room.
I was left with the young professor.
He smiled and shook his head. “Poor old guy. He’s a sweetheart, but he does have a bit of a problem.”
“You mean the . . . uh . . .”
“The hoarding. I mean, whether or not he’s really a pathological hoarder is hard to say. It’s not like there’s a lot of filth, or neglected animals or anything. Just lots and lots of . . . stuff.”
I nodded. There were framed pictures covering almost every inch of wall space, stacks of newspapers and manila folders and notepads. Besides the books, knickknacks filled the tops of mismatched side tables and bookshelves. Not exactly a Zen aesthetic, but as a collector myself, I understood the impulses that led to such a state.
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 6
