Before leaving the Ferry Building, I braved the jostling crowd—and the exorbitant prices—to stock up on the ingredients to make Oscar’s favorite foods: creamy mashed potatoes and five-cheese mac and cheese. Never again, I thought to myself, never again would I deny him carbs in a misguided attempt to force him to eat vegetables. I also bought Scharffen Berger chocolate for chocolate-chip cookies. After all, wouldn’t want the cookie jar to be empty when he made his way back home.
I had just pulled into the driveway I rent near Aunt Cora’s Closet when I spotted an unmarked police car pull up to the curb. Carlos Romero. Shoot.
I had forgotten we had a date with a clothing conservator.
“You ready? She’s expecting me,” said Carlos, checking his watch.
“Um . . .” I had been itching to get back to the store, but this was more important. “Yes, I suppose I’m freeish. Just let me go grab my bag.” These days the medicine bag tied around my waist wasn’t sufficient. I never went anywhere without my portable witch-in-a-bag: bottle of all-purpose protective brew, tiny jar of cemetery dust, lungwort, and mullein. When things calmed down, I really should consider selling these bags over the Internet. I would make a fortune.
“Don’t forget the ledger.”
“Right you are. The ledger. I’ll be right back.”
Bronwyn was still watching over things at Aunt Cora’s Closet; as I’d feared, Oscar hadn’t wandered back into the store while I was away, and my remaining wouldn’t help. At the very least, I should go meet with the clothing conservator and see if she could shed any light on the things in the trunk. It was all tied together, somehow.
Also, Aidan’s promise made me feel optimistic. He was probably right—I had asked Oscar to arrange an introduction with the woodsfolk myself, and my familiar had tried to tell me how complicated it could be. For all I knew, he was hanging around with the Good People, swapping stories while negotiating terms. Or however this was done.
I would see Oscar again soon. I just had to keep believing that.
* * *
The conservator’s office was located in the Asian Art Museum, right across from City Hall. The museum was one of those countless Bay Area cultural attractions on my list of places to visit, but this was the first time I’d managed to get here. As usual when entering a museum or historical building, I was agog at the art and artifacts, but also a little overwhelmed by the sensations. As we passed an exhibit on the Indian royal palaces, I could hear whisperings and felt a brushing sensation flutter past my cheek, a breath on the back of my neck.
Museums are full of ghost-ridden objects, their spirits traveling through the ages; this is one reason some people find them to be energy draining. The ghosts are misplaced and don’t understand where they are, especially when housed in a strange new building. They reach out to attach to other human energies, feeling for understanding. It can be exhausting for people sensitive to such sensations. Like me. Unfortunately, ghosts latch on to me, sensing my strange energy, but I can’t understand them. It’s frustrating for all parties involved.
Carlos and I took the stairs up to the second floor and found Parmelee Riesling’s workshop and office right past a display of fine ceramics.
“You’re late,” she said upon opening the door. Riesling was barely five feet tall, round, with a dark brown pageboy haircut and huge round glasses that magnified her eyes, giving her a buglike countenance.
“I apologize,” said Carlos, checking his watch. I glanced down to see the time: It was three minutes past noon. Apparently, Parmelee was a real stickler for punctuality.
“Who’s she?” the conservator demanded, her eyes on me, piercing.
“This is Lily Ivory. She’s a special consultant to the department.”
“Humph,” she harrumphed, and turned to lead the way into her workshop.
I was still reeling a bit to hear myself described as a “special consultant” to the SFPD as we followed Riesling into the large, windowless room. There were four massive worktables, two covered in felt, the others in a slick plastic. Beside the regular lights, I noticed, were infrareds. Light was one of the biggest risks to delicate textiles.
“Don’t touch anything,” dictated Riesling as she led the way. “Your fingers carry oils, and oil goes on to trap dust deep within fabric. Roll up your sleeves—I don’t want anything to catch threads. No bracelets, necklaces, rings, tags, and anything else sticking out from your clothes.”
She looked over her shoulder at me and gave me a long once-over, raking me with dark gray eyes. Suddenly, she reached out and clutched my skirt, rubbing the fabric between two forefingers. “Midsixties, probably North Carolina, indigo dye lot on cotton blend. Nice example of simple American craftsmanship.”
“I, um . . . thanks,” I finished lamely.
“You should take better care of it; you’ve got dirt on your backside. Also, it’s inside out. And take off those bangles.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, cringing inwardly to hear “ma’am” come out in two full syllables. My Texas twang tended to return with a vengeance when I was nervous or dealing with authority figures.
“Aside from the obvious—no markers, food, or smoking—there must be no direct contact with pins, iron, wood, newsprint, newsprint paper, note cards, non–rag cardboard, unwashed clothes, plastic films, acidic tissue papers, labels, or Scotch Tape. They all have detrimental effects. What kind of consultant?”
I almost missed her question, so caught up was I in her monologue and everything I was seeing: mannequins dressed in historical costume, intricate silk embroidery, ancient needlepoint.
“I’m, a, uh . . . I own a vintage clothing store.”
“A what?” she said with a frown.
“A . . . vintage clothing store? In the Haight.”
She harrumphed again and muttered under her breath as she led us to a small room with yet another worktable, on top of which rested the contents of the trunk, each laid out separately on the table.
“What we have here is an example of nineteenth-century clothing of the merchant class,” she began. She spoke for another ten minutes straight without a pause. Carlos and I were receiving a crash course in the history and conservation of cloth, whether we wanted it or not. Then again without pausing to indicate she was changing the subject, she demanded: “Why have you brought this here, and why are the police so interested in a trunk full of junk?”
“We just wanted to be sure it really was junk,” Carlos said with a shrug. Unlike me, he did not seem particularly flustered by Parmelee’s officiousness. “So you’re saying there’s nothing here worth killing for, at least not that you can find?”
“There’s nothing here worth anything, really. Clothing of this age is always fascinating, but these are so far gone I won’t even allow them in the same room as the valuable textiles, lest mold spores or insects get loose.”
“Insects?” For the first time Carlos looked uncomfortable.
I smiled at the thought of seemingly fearless San Francisco homicide inspector Carlos Romero being afraid of insects.
“Nothing too scary, Carlos,” I whispered. “Mostly little moths.”
Parmelee fixed me with another of her scathing looks. “And beetles. Spiders . . . any number of possibilities.”
“But that’s normal, right? We’re looking for something odd, out of place.”
“The only odd thing I’ve found is some strands of velvet.”
“What would that indicate?” Carlos asked.
“That there was something else in the trunk. Something made of deep gold velvet. Given the age of the textiles, I would say it would have been an outer garment, a coat or cloak of some sort.”
Carlos fixed me with a look, which I steadfastly tried to ignore.
“Can you tell anything else about it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Just seems odd it was tak
en when everything else was left intact. Also, I had an expert look at the trunk itself. It’s much older than these clothes. He dated it all the way back to the Puritans, and see here?” She pointed at a subtle design on the metal fasteners. “Apparently, that was the signature of a metalworker from New England.”
“New England? Whereabouts in New England?” I asked.
“Massachusetts.” Parmelee shrugged, unimpressed. “It’s old, all right, but in terrible shape. Its only real value would be to collectors of Salem mementos. Believe it or not, there are a lot of—”
“Hold up one minute,” said Carlos, a hand raised. “Salem? As in Massachusetts? As in . . . witch burnings?”
“They were hung, not burned,” I felt compelled to mention.
Carlos dismissed my clarification. “Whatever. You’re saying these clothes are from there?”
“Or that area,” said Parmelee. “This metalworker is a known guy, always left a signature. And Salem was, and is, a real town, you know. It existed long before there were witchcraft trials and long after books were written about it. Those trials were an anomaly in the history of an otherwise unremarkable town. But . . . people get excited by the name and the history. So if you want to make money off this thing, I’d play up the possible Salem connection.”
Carlos nodded thoughtfully for a long moment; then his dark eyes slewed over to me. They held many questions and the knowledge that more was going on than I had let on.
“Who collects this sort of thing?” he asked finally.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Parmelee said. “Prior to my relocation to San Francisco, I spent a decade working on the Royal Collection at Hampton Court Palace and Kensington Palace, in London. I was lead conservator for the Princess Cassie Dress Collection and oversaw the conservation of the Ardabil Carpet. While there, I managed the largest textile wash bath in the world, constructed explicitly to handle the majestic sixteenth-century Belgian tapestries of the royal collection. I displayed Queen Victoria’s first official public gown as well as all those of Queen Elizabeth II, and the ancient wrappings of a three-thousand-year-old mummy.”
She paused and fixed us with the stink-eye. “All of which is to say: Witchcraft isn’t exactly my realm of expertise.”
This grand proclamation seemed to silence even Carlos.
“So . . .” I said in an effort to break the tension, “have you ever considered selling the contents of your closet?”
* * *
As we left Parmelee Riesling’s workroom and descended the stairs toward the museum’s main hall, I could feel the heat of Carlos’s eyes on me.
“Interesting woman,” I said. “Very . . . intense.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t make fun. She oversaw the biggest textile bath in the world.” His voice rose and he used a falsetto with a decidedly clipped British accent: “And she has personally seen to Queen Victoria’s frilly underthings.”
I laughed.
“Funny, though,” Carlos added, “about whatever golden velvet thingee disappeared from the trunk.”
“Yeah. Hard to say what was in there, when. It’s an awfully old trunk.”
“Mmm.”
In the lobby, a big group of children on a field trip laughed and ran after one another while their teacher tried to settle them down. I noticed what looked like a fascinating museum gift shop and longed to go in; I’m not much of a shopper, with the exception of garage sales, thrift stores, flea markets . . . and museum gift shops.
But I had the distinct impression Inspector Suspicious here wasn’t up for a side trip. Besides, something else occurred to me.
“So, Carlos, did you really expect Riesling to find something among those crumbling items so valuable it would provide the motive for Sebastian Crowley’s murder?”
“Not especially,” he said as we exited the building. The surprisingly austere plaza in front of City Hall was filled with homeless people, tourists, and men and women in business suits. Government workers spilled out of the nearby federal, state, and city buildings, as well as Hastings Law School, and lined up at food trucks and coffee carts for lunch. “But I thought it might be interesting for your investigation into his death.”
“My investigation?” I blushed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know something odd is going on,” said Carlos. “The way he was murdered, brought there under the tree . . . It makes no sense. We thought maybe he’d buried something at the base of the tree, but all they found was a rotted old box. Empty.”
“Rotted old box? What did it look like?”
“Nowhere near the size of the trunk. About the size of a shoe box.”
“What was in it?”
“Nothing. It had fallen apart, wasn’t even a box anymore, so if there had been something in it, it was long since lost.”
“Were there insignia on it, any markings?”
Carlos looked at me oddly and nodded slowly. He took his phone out of his pocket, brought up his photos, and showed me a picture.
I blew it up as far as I could to see the detail: strange little symbols. Carlos was right; it was disintegrating so there were only shards left. But unless I was very much mistaken, it was the box I had seen in my vision.
“You recognize it?” Carlos asked.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I’ll . . . I’ll have to look into it. I might . . . I might recognize it. I’m not sure. I have no idea what the symbols mean, though.”
“Want me to forward the photo to your phone?”
“Yes, but I don’t have a cell phone.”
“What do you mean you don’t have a cell phone?”
“Just that: I don’t have a cell phone.”
“Huh. This to do with the witchy thing?”
“I guess you could say that, yes. Cell phones mess with my vibrations.”
“Huh.”
“Not everyone has to have a cell phone, you know. It’s not a requirement for being human.”
“You sure about that?”
“Not really. You’re right; I’m feeling more and more like a freak. Witchcraft is one thing, but not having a cell phone? That’s just plain bizarre.”
Carlos smiled, and I responded in kind.
“Could you send it to my e-mail? I’ll ask Maya to get it out of my machine for me.”
“Sure. So, do you know anyone who could help with this?” Carlos asked. “Riesling mentioned calling in a historian of some sort, a witchcraft expert. If you don’t know this history, do you know anyone who might?”
“Maybe. Actually, I met a man the other day. . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to mention I met Professor Williston Chambers at the house of the man who owned the trunk of clothes. Carlos probably wouldn’t have appreciated me talking to Bartholomew Woolsey on my own initiative; while he asked for my help from time to time, it really irked him when I “ran around talking to his suspects.”
“A man?” He roused me from my thoughts.
“Yes. A professor over at UC Berkeley. He researches the history of religious settlements, including, I would imagine, places like Salem.”
“Sounds fascinating. Probably worth your while to go talk to him.”
Our eyes met and held for a long moment. “So, you think this is a case of witchcraft?”
“Maybe. Maybe someone who thinks they’re performing witchcraft. You know as well as I do, people can come up with all sorts of excuses for crazy behavior.”
“So . . . you set up this meeting with Parmelee Riesling just for me?”
He shrugged again and squinted in the sun, looked off up Larkin Street.
“You see that corner?” he asked, pointing toward Larkin and McAllister, where there was now a flourishing community garden. “Years ago, a homeless guy was knifed right there, in broad daylight. His throat
slit by another homeless guy, who was under the illusion that his victim was the incarnation of the devil. Rookie beat cop wasn’t more than ten feet away, but wasn’t able to stop it in time. There was . . . blood everywhere.” Carlos paused for a moment and cleared his throat. “Hard to imagine a human body contains that much blood. Poor guy died before he got to the hospital.”
“And the rookie cop?” I asked gently.
“He was never the same.” He looked back at me. “Witchcraft or no, crazy or not . . . I just want the killing to stop. Go talk to this professor. Here, use my phone.”
“I . . . As a matter of fact, I already have an appointment with him this afternoon. Want to join me?”
Carlos blew out a long breath and shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m already skirting the boundaries of what’s decent; if I push this too far, I really will be the department’s official woo-woo guy. Just let me know what he says.”
“Will do.”
As Carlos drove me back to Aunt Cora’s Closet, he said: “About that oak tree in Golden Gate Park, the one the body was found under . . .”
“Yes?”
“I thought I would mention that the Parks Department has it slated for removal.”
Chapter 12
“What? When?”
“As soon as the SFPD releases the crime scene, I would imagine.”
“Can you stop it? Carlos, it’s very important that the tree not be cut down. Not yet, anyway.”
He fixed me with his laser cop look. “Why?”
“It’s . . . This is one of those situations you’re always curious about but that, in the end, you might rather not know about.”
“Try me.”
“There’s . . . There might be something trapped in the tree.”
“I take it you’re not talking about a little kitten that can’t get down.”
“If only it were that simple.” Oscar might well be with the woodsfolk, as Aidan had suggested. But if not . . . “It’s something that might be trapped in the essence of the tree. It’s a little hard to explain . . . but I need some time to figure it out. If the tree’s cut down . . .” My voice faltered. Oscar. I cleared my throat. “If the tree’s cut down, it could be too late. It might kill some . . . body. Something. Somebody.”
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 13
