A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “So I hear. But you know them, right? You’ve been introduced?”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “I’d love to have a talk with them.”

  The woodsfolk, or Good People, adhered to a strict set of rules, not the least of which is that they would not interact with anyone to whom they had not been properly introduced. But I’d been meaning to establish some sort of relationship with them for a while, and what better time than now, when they might be able to tell me what happened to Sebastian? If they had witnessed what had happened, they could solve this mystery just that fast.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “You make the introduction, and leave the rest to me.”

  At which Oscar again guffawed, this time literally slapping his knee.

  “I take it you don’t like that idea?”

  He laughed some more, a rusty chortle that had a lot in common with a hiccupping car.

  “Okay, then. I’ll leave the talking up to you.”

  “If you’re serious about this, then we gotta go at dawn. It’s the best time to talk with them. And you gotta take a gift.”

  “What kind of gift?”

  “Hmmm.” Oscar looked around thoughtfully, as though seeing whether I had a decent candidate for gift giving. “Too bad you don’t have any babies lying around. They like babies.”

  “I am not going to sacrifice a baby to the woodsfo—”

  “It’s not like they’d eat it or anything! They just like to raise ’em. And they do better than a lot of cowan parents.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t condone kidnapping, as a general rule.”

  Oscar shrugged, as though considering the source. “They like gorse blossoms. They make ’em into faery gold.”

  “I’m fresh out of gorse blossoms at the moment. Maybe . . . I don’t know, maybe I could find some down at the flower market?”

  “They also like bread, cream, butter. Honey.”

  “Okay, that’s doable.”

  “Unless they don’t like it, in which case they’ll see it as an insult.”

  “How can you tell which it is?”

  “Can’t.”

  “That’s a little confusing.”

  “Yeah. They’re a confusing lot. First off, we don’t know whether this tree is even owned by the woodsfolk, and if it is, are we talking wee folk, like the fae, or brownies, or gnomes, or who knows who . . . ?” He trailed off with a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes. “And they’re all so touchy. There’s the Seelie court and the Unseelie court; some are scared of rowan, and some hate bread. All I can say for sure is they don’t like complaints or compliments. And they don’t like to be thanked ’cause they think it lets you off the hook, and they like you to be beholden for any favors.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “And never, ever look them in the eyes; they like their privacy. And don’t use their names. They’re like demons that way. If you know their names, you can invoke them and either force them to do what you want or, ya know, they kill you or maim you or whatever. Prob’ly it’s not worth the risk.”

  My mind was reeling. “Anything else?”

  “They prob’ly won’t talk to you anyway. They really don’t like humans, and if they haven’t showed themselves to you already, what with your herb garden and your powers and all . . . they prob’ly won’t. Just be sure to wear your clothes inside out, and bells.”

  “Bells?”

  “They don’t like the tinkling. Except for a few that really do.”

  I stared at him for another moment.

  “Either way, wear ’em. And be sure to wear the clothes inside out; that’s important. Oh, there’s one good thing,” Oscar added finally.

  “What’s that?”

  “They can’t lie. They can confuse, but they can’t lie. So if they saw what happened with Sebastian, and we ask them the right way, they’ll have to tell us.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good then.”

  Oscar shook his head and let out a world-weary sigh. “I sure hope Sebastian Crowley’s worth it. It would be a lot more fun to go check out the dumbwaiter at the Fairmont.”

  * * *

  “Could we pick up the pace, please?” I asked my familiar.

  I looked over my shoulder to see Oscar with a book in one hand and a single dish in the other. Oscar hated cleaning the kitchen, but he loved eating. Since I did most of the cooking, I insisted he at least help by clearing the table. But in the time-honored way of immature creatures who didn’t want to do what they were told and yet didn’t want to get in trouble, he was completing his tasks at such a sluggish pace that I was tempted to jump in and take care of it.

  “Put the book down now, Oscar, seriously. I would like to read too, you know. We can relax as soon as we finish here.”

  I had long since cleaned up my magical supplies but was busy scrubbing the lasagna pan.

  “So he really did keep careful records after all,” said Oscar.

  “Is that Sebastian Crowley’s ledger?”

  Oscar nodded absentmindedly and placed the dirty plate on the counter, so far over that it teetered on the edge. I lunged for it.

  “Huh,” he said. “So if whoever killed him really was looking for the trunk, he could have looked in here and seen your name. Good thing Sebastian wrote it down wrong.”

  I rinsed the now-spotless lasagna casserole dish, placed it in the drainer, and dried my hands.

  “What do you mean he wrote it down wrong?”

  “Instead of Aunt Cora’s Closet, he wrote down Aunt Flora’s Closet.”

  “Let me see,” I said, looking over Oscar’s shoulder. I had overlooked that last night, assuming it had read Aunt Cora’s Closet. “Aunt Flora’s is a florist out in the Richmond.”

  “Aunt Flora’s Closet? Someone ripped off your name?” Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Of all the low-down, dirty . . .”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’ve spoken with the proprietor. They opened about the same time I did—it was purely coincidental. I’ve gotten phone calls for them from time to time and mail occasionally.”

  Our eyes met for a long moment. I hurried over to my crowded desk in the living room and looked up Aunt Flora’s Closet in the Yellow Pages.

  I dialed the number, but of course I got voice mail. After all it was past nine o’clock. The florist probably closed hours ago.

  I nearly left a voice mail, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of a message that didn’t sound crazy. Then I thought about calling Carlos, but what could I possibly say to him? That I had been reading through a dead man’s private account book, which I had stolen when I broke into said man’s shop, and that the trunk might have special significance, and a case of mistaken identity might have sent the perpetrator to a florist out in the Richmond? Oh, what tangled webs we weave.

  Oscar seemed to read my mind. “They friends of yours, mistress?”

  “I wouldn’t say friends, but the owners are very sweet couple, originally from Japan. I hope . . .”

  “Tonight’s a nice night for a drive. Wanna swing by there, just in case? Maybe drop off some stinging nettles, and then we could go check out the dumbwaiter at the Fairmont!”

  “I don’t know about that last part . . . but the stinging nettles are a great idea. Just in case.”

  I packed up several herbs and plants, as well as a talisman and a small black silk bag full of rye seeds and an old key. I could leave it with them like a witchy care package. Probably it was unnecessary, but . . . one never knew.

  My familiar was extremely good at keeping his true self a secret from strangers. He shifted into his miniature potbellied pig form as we descended the stairs to the store, then out the front door to my vintage cherry-red Mustang, which I park in a driveway around the corner. Doglike, Oscar loved riding in the car, and at first he would jump from the backs
eat to the front and back again in his excitement. Finally, halfway to our destination, he settled. He hunkered down low in the passenger’s seat and transformed back into his natural state so we could talk.

  “So, what’s your theory about Sebastian’s death?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “Business deal gone bad? He ran with some nefarious characters.”

  “Like Aidan?”

  “Ha!” He let out a loud laugh, then slapped his hands over his mouth, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  “It’s okay. Aidan can’t hear us,” I said. On second thought . . . “Can he?”

  Oscar was still muffling himself, his green eyes almost comically huge as he stared at me.

  “So if Sebastian was killed because of a deal gone bad, why would they have forced him to the oak tree?”

  “Killing tree.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged and looked out the window.

  “Oscar, tell me what you said.”

  “Sometimes there are killing trees. Trees that just sort of . . . invite death.”

  Well. That was something to ponder. But it still didn’t account for Sebastian being brought there to be shot. Killing tree or no, why not just murder the man in his store and be done with it?

  It took us twenty-five minutes to drive across town to the section called the Richmond. The neighborhood was mostly stucco two-story homes, with a few retail zones. Aunt Flora’s Closet was in one of these small shopping areas, sandwiched between an Irish pub and a dry cleaners shop with signs so outdated they looked vintage.

  The parking lot was jammed with emergency vehicles, their flashing lights bright and frenetic in the sooty black of night.

  Chapter 9

  My heart pounded in my chest as we rolled on by. Oscar stared out the window, gawking at the police milling about the florist shop. I saw a uniformed officer talking to the owner, who was holding an ice pack to his head.

  “Don’tcha wanna stop, mistress? Find out what happened?”

  “I can’t,” I said as I continued down the street and around the corner, driving steadily away from the scene. “I just . . . I can’t get involved with this, not after they found Sebastian with my card in his pocket.”

  “So you met with Crowley yesterday, bought a trunk from him, and then someone else wanted that trunk badly enough to kill for it? You lucked out that he wrote down the wrong name.”

  Had the owners of Aunt Flora’s Closet been hurt on my account? In my place?

  I drove the remaining few blocks to where the street ended at the Pacific Ocean. It was windy and cold, as usual, by the water. The night was dark, the gray of the sky meeting the gray of the water with barely a line. A few tiny lights in the distance indicated boats passing by, far offshore.

  Other than two other cars at the other end of the long narrow parking lot, we were alone.

  “This isn’t your fault, mistress,” said Oscar.

  I remained silent, looking out at the lights in the gray distance.

  “Did you hear me?” Oscar put one large, scaly hand on my shoulder.

  Finally, I managed a nod.

  “Prob’ly we should put some extra protection on the shop.”

  “I already did. I could cast an even stronger spell, I suppose.”

  I had done that once before, and it hadn’t gone all that well. Unfortunately, the by-product of reducing risk is quelling creativity. The staff and customers seemed unable to function normally. And that didn’t even begin to address the fact that I was casting on people who were unaware, something about which I had more than a few ethical qualms.

  But Oscar was right. If someone had gone after Sebastian, and then Aunt Flora’s Closet, why would they spare me? I tried to think back. Was there any way they would know it was me, the proprietor of Aunt Cora’s Closet, who had purchased the trunk? It would have been odd for a florist to buy a trunk of clothes, wouldn’t it? So if someone knew the city and realized there was a store with a similar name that specialized in antique clothing, would that bring them to my doorstep?

  It wouldn’t take a genius. But it would take a few logical leaps, and in my limited experience, thugs were rarely the brightest porch lights on the block.

  “I’m guessing this whole thing’s put the kibosh on checking out the Fairmont’s dumbwaiter?”

  “Afraid so, little guy. I’ve got to get back home and . . . call Carlos, I guess.”

  * * *

  I limped back toward Aunt Cora’s Closet, wanting only to get up the stairs and into the sanctuary of my apartment. As I was unlocking the shop door, I noticed another radio car slowly pulling past and exchanged a wave with the officers. Surely between the vigilance of the cops, my staff, and Conrad, in addition to my protection spells . . . we’d be okay, wouldn’t we?

  My heart dropped as I remembered that the owners of Aunt Flora’s weren’t so lucky.

  Once upstairs, I made my phone call.

  “I tell you what,” said Carlos. “My heart skipped a beat when I heard the name. I thought it was your place at first. Anyway, I’m off duty, believe it or not, but it looks like a botched robbery.”

  “Is . . . is everyone all right?”

  “The owner hit his head on the doorjamb trying to chase after whoever was in his shop, but he’ll be fine.”

  I felt relief wash over me. “Thank goodness. Did they lose much?”

  “Not from what I can tell. But like I said, it’s not my case. I investigate dead bodies, not robberies.”

  “Speaking of dead people . . . I think there’s a connection with this robbery and what happened with Sebastian,” I said. “Aunt Flora’s would be easy to mix up with my place. I think they were after the trunk.”

  “Yeah, I wondered about the name. But I’ve had the forensics team all over that old chest, and they’ve found nothing of interest. The Aunt Flora thing looks like a standard robbery. Any particular reason, other than the similar name, you think these two entirely disparate cases are related?”

  “I can’t say for sure. But maybe you can match forensics, something like that.”

  “Here’s what’s weird,” Carlos said, and I could hear the tapping of computer keys in the background. “No suspicious fingerprints came up in Crowley’s shop.”

  “Wouldn’t a professional have wiped down the prints?”

  “Sure. Or, I hear there are people in this world born without fingerprints.”

  I wasn’t sure why this one thing about me stuck in Carlos’s craw. I was born without fingerprints. But that wasn’t my fault. I had always been like this. It would be a boon, I supposed, if I had a criminal bent, but it made certain bureaucratic tasks, like providing a thumbprint to get a driver’s license, a real bear.

  “So,” I said without much hope, but I had to ask. “Have you found out anything new about Sebastian Crowley’s murder?”

  “I can’t tell you anything more than what was in the papers.”

  “I mean—you don’t really suspect Conrad, do you?”

  “You know I can’t discuss something like that with you. But I’d like you to go with me to visit Parmelee Riesling.”

  “Is that a . . . winery?” I asked.

  “Not a ‘that.’ A ‘who.’ Parmelee Riesling is, by all accounts, the West Coast’s premier textile conservationist. She agreed to analyze the contents of the trunk for the SFPD.”

  “Oh, that’s jim-dandy.”

  “Is that genuine, or are you making fun?”

  “I get that a lot. Sorry. It’s a Southern thing. It was genuine—I think it’s a great idea. I would love to speak with her. I trained briefly with a textile expert in Prague. It was fascinating.”

  “And here I thought you just bought and sold junk.”

  “It’s not junk. It’s vintage. And yes, Mr. Skeptic, there is a lot of science that goes into
textile conservation. I’m nothing like an expert, obviously, and I deal more with everyday items than true collector’s clothing. But I still find it fascinating. So why are you speaking with a clothing conservator?”

  “Our boys looked the trunk over, but they’re not exactly up on their fashion IQ. I had everything sent over for her assessment, just in case there’s anything in the clothing that might connect to Crowley’s death. I know it’s unlikely, but it’s worth a look.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’d be happy to go.”

  “Great. I have no idea what to say to the woman. I’m not exactly up on my fashions myself. You might have more informed questions.”

  “Okey-dokey. Oh, by the way, I . . .” I realized I couldn’t keep the ledger to myself. I’d thought it might provide me with clues that the police wouldn’t be able to understand, but I had to admit they might be able to find something I hadn’t. Besides, I could just make a photocopy of it before turning it over. “I have something to give you. A ledger that Sebastian kept of his clients and whatnot.”

  “A ledger.”

  “Yes. Sebastian Crowley’s ledger.”

  “Uh-huh. How is it you happen to have Sebastian Crowley’s ledger and you forgot to tell me about it until now?”

  “Do you want to see it or not?”

  Carlos blew out a breath, and I could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll pick you up at your store tomorrow, quarter to noon, and we’ll go see Ms. Riesling. Bring the ledger.”

  “Okay, sure. See you then. Thanks for asking me.”

  I hung up and was met with the scowl of an overly curious, entirely disapproving gobgoyle.

  “You’ve got a date with a cop now?”

  “It’s not a ‘date.’ He’s trying to figure out what it was about that trunk that someone is after.”

  “Duh. They’re after that cloak. Travel cloaks aren’t dime a dozen, you know. By the way, prob’ly you shouldn’t bring it to the tree tomorrow. Better to leave it here. Just to be on the safe side. G’night.” And with that, Oscar climbed up into his cubby above the fridge.