He started snoring in about ten seconds flat.
I envied my familiar his ease with the sandman. I was exhausted, but sleep eluded me for a long time. All I could think about was the nice couple that owned Aunt Flora’s Closet, and Sebastian, and the face of that woman upon the pyre . . . and the horrifying burning sensation on the pads of my fingertips.
They tingled now, just thinking of it.
* * *
Oscar woke me an hour before dawn. I threw on yesterday’s 1960s striped sundress—inside out—matched it with a reversed coral cardigan, and grabbed a cocoa brown wool car coat for warmth. One thing about San Francisco weather: You learned to be prepared for temperatures ranging from cloudy fifties to the sunny eighties.
This morning was chilly and damp, as was typical, when Oscar and I crossed Stanyan, entered Golden Gate Park, and made our way down the meandering path to the suspect oak tree.
The “do not cross” tape was still up, but there was no SFPD or park security presence. Interestingly, though, there were no homeless people, either. Probably Conrad and his crew had abandoned the police-ridden scene for less threatening sleeping areas. I wondered whether they’d be back, and whether they’d continue their campaign to save the tree—Ms. Quercus, as Conrad called her.
Looking at its massive branches, black against the gray moonlit sky, it was hard to believe the tree was on its last legs. Oaks were like that: so substantial and hulking that they spread their broad arms and seemed to invite the world to come sit under them; but when they fell, they fell hard.
Now that we were here, I didn’t know what I hoped to accomplish exactly. The only thing I was sure of was that it was no coincidence that Sebastian Crowley had been found here not long after I had been with him. With my card in his pocket, no less.
Had he been digging for something . . . ? And the police, I presumed—or someone else?—had continued digging; the earth at the base of the tree was disturbed, big clods of clay dirt overturned. I knelt and placed my hand on the earth, trying to feel for something, anything. I wasn’t gifted at reading minerals, but it was worth a shot.
Nothing. Maybe I should take Sailor up on his offer to try to read, just in case. Even with diminished abilities, he’d do better than I.
“I don’t like it,” said Oscar.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Were these mushrooms here when Sebastian was killed?”
“I don’t remember seeing them. But you know how they are; they can spring up overnight.”
I remained kneeling at the base of the tree, looking very carefully in the dim light.
“Oh! There goes a frog!” I pointed as the chubby fellow hopped out of sight.
“You know what they say: Mushrooms are ‘toadstools,’” said Oscar with a little sigh, apparently less enthralled with the wildlife than I. “Though why toads need stools, I’ve never figured out.”
“I don’t know either. More importantly, I also don’t know how any of this would have anything to do with Sebastian’s murder.” I leaned back on my heels and gazed up into the branches of Ms. Quercus. “I guess I was just curious. . . . I thought maybe I would notice something out of the ordinary.”
“Did you know in German the word Todestuhls means death’s chair?”
“They’re also called Hexensessel, or witch’s chair, so I guess we shouldn’t get too carried away. So in Todestuhl, does the word refer to toads or to death?”
Oscar nodded. “Right.”
“No, I’m asking—”
There was a rustling in the tree. I tried to peer up, but all I could see was the outline of black against the predawn sky. What did I expect to find that the police hadn’t already discovered and confiscated? I inspected the trunk of the tree with my flashlight to be sure there were no magic symbols or other markings that might be out of the ordinary.
Another rustling. Squirrels, no doubt. Or birds. Or any one of the animals that Conrad had mentioned dwelt in the branches of dying trees. The circle of life, all of that.
But then I could have sworn one of the low-hanging branches took a swipe at me. The rough edges of its leaves scratched the side of my face.
I jumped back, swearing a blue streak, and landed on my butt in the mud.
Oscar came running. “Mistress? Are you all right? The woodsfolk say to stay away from this tree. It’s no ordinary arboreal specimen. I’ll tell you that much.”
“How do you mean? You talked to them already? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“I didn’t get specifics, but Ms. Quercus here is no ordinary tree.”
Something poked me in the back. I spun around to see what looked like a common, innocent little branch sticking out from the massive trunk. It swayed slightly.
“You’re saying the tree’s alive?”
“All trees are alive.”
“Yes, of course. I mean . . . sentient?”
Oscar stared at me. “Don’t know what that means.”
“Conscious. Like . . . like the apple trees in The Wizard of Oz.”
Now he started snickering. Oscar and I had snuggled on the couch last week and watched the movie, which I had heard of all my life but had never seen. Oscar thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. I found it horrifying—especially the flying monkeys and the evil witch and the trees that threw apples. Oscar informed me that I had lost my sense of humor and that I clearly needed his help to find it again. He could well be right.
Still shaking his head, he wiped tears from his eyes with his oversized hands. “Those apple trees. That was somethin’. But yeah, in a way I guess you could say it was like that. Except this one . . . This is a different deal entirely. It’s a source of”—he dropped his gravelly voice—“evil.”
“Are you saying the tree killed Sebastian Crowley?”
“No, of course not. It wouldn’t kill like that. How would a tree use a gun?”
Somehow that wasn’t as comforting as one would hope. Besides, I thought with a sick feeling deep in the pit of my gut, someone had gone after the proprietor of Aunt Flora’s. Someone very human, unless I missed my guess.
Another rustling sounded up in the far reaches of the tree.
“Grrrrr.” Oscar started to growl, making a rasping sound like an old saw. I rarely heard him make such a sound—it was the kind of noise that reminded me that Oscar could be fierce when provoked.
He was peering up into the branches, his muzzle set in a ferocious cast.
“What is it?” I whispered, trying to see what he was looking at. As before, all I could see was a web of dark lines crisscrossing the rapidly brightening sky. “What do you—?”
Oscar scrambled up the tree trunk and disappeared into the branches.
There was a great rustling sound, more growls. Small branches snapped. I was showered with leaves, twigs, and acorns.
Then sudden silence.
“Oscar?” I called out in a fierce whisper. “Oscar, are you okay? Where are you?”
The otherworldly pink light of the dawn seemed to close in on me. I looked around, feeling as though I was being watched or that I was doing something wrong. It made me realize how rarely I had to go it alone these days, what with Maya and Bronwyn and Sailor and Oscar and others. . . . I was no longer a solo act.
Another long moment passed, the silence much more sinister than the earlier commotion.
“Oscar?” I whispered again. When there was still no response, I threw caution to the wind and yelled as loud as I could, “Oscarrr!”
I passed the beam of my flashlight around and through the branches, but it was light enough now to see without it. Unfortunately, with or without the flashlight, I saw nothing more than wood and leaves.
My familiar was gone.
Chapter 10
“Oscar!” I shouted again.
“Lily?” came a voice from behind me. I whirled around to see Conrad standing with a couple of his friends. “Lily, what are you doing here? No one’s supposed to cross the police tape; dude, a man was killed here just yesterday.” Apparently, he forgot I had joined him shortly after he found the body.
“I . . .”
“Where’s Oscar?” Conrad looked around the clearing. “I heard you calling for him.”
I looked back up into the tree, hoping for a glimpse of my familiar.
Conrad looked up too, then back at me with a worried expression on his face.
“I think I . . . I lost him.”
“Where did you last see him?”
“I . . .” I trailed off, realizing that to the normal world Oscar appeared as a miniature potbellied pig. And it didn’t stand to reason that a pig could have climbed a tree. “Right around here,” I improvised. “I lost sight of him here at the tree.”
“I’ll help you look,” said Conrad. “Though I gotta say, you shoulda had him on a leash. I know pigs are smart, but they’re sorta like dogs, right?”
At those words, I hoped to hear a disgruntled Oscar somewhere, as he hated being compared to a dog. But still there was nothing.
“Here, Oscar!” Conrad started yelling, looking under benches and behind trees. I handed him my flashlight as he started to literally beat the bushes. “Here, piggy piggy pig!”
I blew out a breath, closed my eyes, and tried to reach out to Oscar psychically. I wasn’t good at this, but I hoped if I could focus enough I might be able to piggyback on our connection. So to speak.
Nothing.
Calm yourself, Lily. Obviously, Oscar was up to something. My familiar had lived a very long time—for centuries, probably—without my help. He knew what he was doing around magical events, most of the time much better than I did. He was probably . . . I don’t know . . . probably communing with the tree, or maybe he found something to eat. Didn’t tree sitters bring picnic baskets up into the branches of the trees sometimes?
“Conrad, were there sitters in this tree?”
“What? Nah, dude. I told you. We can’t sit in it on account of the rot. You could totally, like, fall, or even hasten the tree’s death. The tree lady said it could go on like this for another five years, dude. A slow death. That’s the way they do it.”
Another pair of young people meandered by, hair tousled and eyes still sleepy, looking like they just woke up. But then again, I guess when you live in Golden Gate Park you always look like you just woke up. I had spent nights out in the open from time to time, and the sleeping wasn’t the worst part—it was awakening to no toilet, no shower, no privacy. I was sure it wasn’t good for anyone’s mental health.
“Okay, everybody, listen up!” yelled Conrad. A small crowd of gutterpunks gathered around him in a loose semicircle. Suddenly, the vagueness seemed to drop from him; the Con was large and in charge. “We’ve lost a pig. Everybody, fan out and look for him.”
“What’s it look like?” asked one young man.
“Yeah, what’s it look like?” asked a young woman.
This question seemed to stump Conrad, and just that quickly, the vagueness was back.
“It’s, uh . . . he’s sorta pink, a little bit? And . . .”
Conrad glanced over at me as though seeking rescue. I was about to describe Oscar’s porcine form when one of the cleverer men offered:
“Dude, if he’s a pig . . . well, if anyone finds a pig of any sort we should probably say something. How many pigs could be running wild in Golden Gate Park?”
“Excellent point, dude,” said Conrad. “Any kind of pig sighting at all, you yell, okay? And, dudes, don’t be afraid or anything. He’s, like, a totally friendly little pig.”
While Conrad made his speech, I couldn’t stop searching the tree. I looked up as surreptitiously as possible, wondering, yearning, trying as hard as I could to clamp down on my incipient panic. The sun was now pouring soft golden light down onto the park, and the new growth at the top of the tree was clear to see: bright green leaves among the darker mature ones. So the tree might be dying, but it was still producing new life, still performing photosynthesis, taking in nourishment. As Conrad had pointed out, trees did not die easy.
The clearing was now awash in calls of “Heeeere, piggy piggy” as the gutterpunks enthusiastically crashed through bushes and between the trees. I supposed it was possible that Oscar, seeing the witnesses, had climbed down the other side of the tree and transformed into his piggy form and would appear any second.
But my heart fluttered as I gazed at the tree, whose broad, low arms were perfectly clear in the morning light.
They now appeared sinister to me . . . and full of dreadful secrets.
* * *
Hours later—after searching fruitlessly and calling incessantly—Conrad insisted on walking me back to Aunt Cora’s Closet.
“Dudette, I don’t mean to embarrass you, but your clothes are totally on inside out. I do that sometimes,” he said with an understanding nod. “Get dressed in the dark, easy enough to screw up. I like the bells, though. You sound like music when you walk.”
Aunt Cora’s Closet was open for business when we arrived. Two early-bird shoppers were browsing; one was flicking through antique negligees, the other trying on a fringed buckskin jacket in front of the three-way mirror.
“Lily, there you are!” Bronwyn gushed, enveloping me in a coffee- and muffin-scented hug. “I don’t believe I’ve ever opened the shop without you before! Where have you been? I didn’t see any signs that you had cast your usual morning spell. . . .”
“I—” I had held it together the whole time in the park and on the walk home. But for some reason, upon seeing Bronwyn’s face, I lost it. I wasn’t crying, since I don’t cry. But I started gasping for breath, unable to rein in my emotions.
Before I could get ahold of myself, two prom dresses flung themselves off the rack. A shelf fell down on one side, sending its contents—hats and gloves—tumbling to the floor. The bell over the front door started ringing incessantly, as did the ones circling my wrists.
The two customers witnessed the destruction, looking confused and startled.
“Dude?” asked Conrad.
Bronwyn spun around, watching as things crashed and flew. Finally, she looked back to me, realization dawning in her eyes. “Conrad, what happened?”
“Dude, she totally, like, lost her pig? And now she’s losing her shi—”
“Thank you, Conrad. That’s fine. Why don’t you slip outside for a moment while we gather our wits? Do us a favor by keeping any customers out for a moment. We’ll reopen in a few.”
Her words were accentuated by a nineteenth-century gown that flew off its display on the wall and careened across the store. A hatbox flew in the opposite direction, and a pair of umbrellas skittered along the plank floor.
“Lily, listen to me,” Bronwyn said, her voice low and very calm. “You have to get ahold of yourself.”
Oscar. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop panicking at the thought that he was gone. I took a step in one direction, then another, spinning around without knowing where I was going. I was gasping for breath, my heart hammering in my chest; I could feel its wild fluttering through my veins.
The two customers fled the store, one after the other rushing out into the cool, sunny morning.
“Lily,” repeated Bronwyn firmly. She took me in her arms again, this time more as a restraint than a welcome. “Listen to me, Lily. You’re going to hurt something, or someone. Calm down.”
Her words finally sank in. I felt myself start to quiet.
“Breathe. Take a deep breath, hold it for four, release for eight.” She breathed in deeply, demonstrating. I tried to match my breath to hers. After a moment, things stopped flying around the store as I regained control.
“Osc
ar is . . .”
“I know. Conrad told me. He got loose in the park? Did something scare him off?”
She knew it wasn’t like him to run. He stuck by my side—he was my familiar, after all. That’s what he did.
Unless he had a very good reason not to. Or unless he wasn’t able to . . .
I felt the panic rise again and forced myself to breathe, as Bronwyn had instructed me. It wasn’t going to do anyone any good if I carried on like a sinner in a cyclone.
“Okay, let’s think this thing through logically,” said Bronwyn as she poured heated water over some herbs in a tea bob and handed me a steaming mug. “Drink this.”
It was a measure of trust that I took the hot drink from Bronwyn without asking. Usually a witch didn’t accept random herbs from another person. Somewhere in the back of my head I realized that I had come a long, long way from that lonely, friendless witch who’d wandered into town not even a full year ago. I didn’t have to deal with things alone anymore.
But how could I tell her that Oscar was no ordinary missing miniature potbellied pig?
I wanted Bronwyn to understand the level of my fear and frustration and why Conrad’s friends’ efforts to help were useless. But there was a reason we magic folk keep certain things from nonpractitioners. Even though my friends had come to accept me and the things I did, I was still human and remained within their frames of reference. If I introduced them to the idea of magical creatures . . . well, I didn’t know what would happen exactly. But I had the definite sense it wouldn’t be pretty. It would rock their world, upset their parameters of reality and knowledge. And not in a good way. I didn’t adhere to Oscar’s generalized disdain for cowans, but I did agree with one thing: Sometimes ignorance was a blessing. Knowing too much about what existed in the world wasn’t going to do them any favors.
“How long has he been gone? Should we check the pound?” Bronwyn ventured now that I was calmer.
“I—”
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 11
