We had stopped for a light at an intersection, and Carlos stared at me with his dispassionate cop expression on his face.
“The tree will kill somebody?”
“No . . . Cutting it down might kill somebody. Maybe.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why are you looking at me that way?” I demanded, irked. “You just told me two seconds ago that you think there might be more to this case, that there might be something occult going on.”
“I realize that. I wasn’t looking at you thinking you were crazy. I was thinking . . . I was thinking that you must get tired of dealing with this crap. You’re not even getting paid for it.”
Our eyes held and locked for a long moment. Finally, I nodded.
“Yes, it can be a little . . . overwhelming.”
“Don’t forget to take some time for yourself or you’ll burn out. It’s important.”
Good advice, but just about now I didn’t have a lot of time. If Oscar was in the tree and Ms. Quercus was scheduled to be razed, I—Oscar, really—was under the gun.
“You can drop me here,” I said when we got to the Haight, in front of Coffee to the People. I wasn’t wild about the folks at Aunt Cora’s Closet seeing me climbing out of an SFPD car, even an unmarked one. It made Conrad nervous, and with everything else going on, it made sense to play it cool. Besides that, I was starving. I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat since last night. And I was suddenly desperate for coffee.
“Don’t want to be seen with a cop?”
“Just caffeine deprivation,” I assured him, wondering whether it ever hurt his feelings. He was so sure of himself, but one never knew. “So, about the tree, please promise me you’ll get them to wait. It’s essential it not be taken down yet. Just for a little while, until I figure this out.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I can only come up with so many reasons for them not getting down to business. I’ll claim we’re still collecting evidence or some such. With outdoor crime scenes, things can go on for a while.”
“Thank you, Carlos.”
“Here to serve. Here to serve,” he said. “Now, hand over that ledger.”
I did so. He flipped through it, his dark eyes intent. Then he looked back at me. “What’s it mean?”
Time to fess up.
“I don’t understand the symbols myself. But there are some names there. . . . I talked to Bartholomew Woolsey. He’s the one who sold the trunk to Sebastian. And look.” I pointed to the notation for the sale of the trunk. “He wrote down Aunt Flora’s Closet instead of Aunt Cora’s. I think . . . I think that’s what happened. Someone must have read it.”
“You’re telling me you’ve spoken to the source of this trunk without letting me know you knew?” His voice rose the tiniest bit—which, in someone as calm and steady as Carlos, had an alarming effect. “You are coming very close to interfering with a homicide investigation, Lily. You should know better. I could haul you in for something like this.”
“I thought . . . I thought I might be able to figure out the ledger, to see if there were clues that the SFPD might not notice. And Woolsey didn’t really tell me much—just that it was a trunk from his family, that it came over with a wagon train during the Gold Rush.” But Carlos was right. I should have handed it over immediately. “I screwed up. I apologize.”
Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Um . . . I really hate to ask this,” I said. “Especially under the circumstances, but I intended to photocopy the book before giving it to you. But this morning . . . well, it’s been a crazy morning, and I didn’t get a chance. Do you suppose . . . ?”
I trailed off as I realized Carlos was looking at me with a mixture of disdain, amazement, and anger.
“I wouldn’t ask,” I said, now growing peeved myself at his response. “But I still might be able to figure things out. I could still try to read it. What could it hurt? You know as well as I do that I’m often able to—”
“All right. All right. I’ll scan it and e-mail it to you along with the photos of the box. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Ivory?”
“I guess that’s about it for now. Thanks, Carlos.”
He grunted but did not meet my eyes. I climbed out of the car and waved good-bye, feeling guilty and frustrated.
* * *
Coffee to the People was such a quirky mix of past and present that it reminded me of San Francisco itself. Posters of Nelson Mandela, Harriet Tubman, and Mahatma Gandhi blended with calls to action against wars and notices of music gigs. The two regular baristas, Wendy and Xander, were behind the counter today, as on most days. Wendy was a large woman who styled her dyed black hair in severe bangs, à la Bettie Page, and tended to wear slips and lingerie as outer garments. She had a heck of a time looking through our merchandise at Aunt Cora’s Closet, and she also happened to be a priestess in Bronwyn’s friendly Welcome coven. Her fellow barista, Xander, was tall and lanky and always reminded me a little of a German skinhead, except that he was all sweetness and light, belying his outer appearance of painful-looking piercings and metal studs.
The café was so crowded today I wondered whether they were hosting a poetry slam or an acoustic guitarist, as they often did.
“Lily!” cried Xander, holding up a poster. “Look!”
The hand-lettered sign included a cartoonish drawing of a pink miniature potbellied pig and read: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PIGGY? HELP HIM FIND HIS WAY HOME! ANSWERS TO “OSCAR.”
Xander had it set up on a special little side table with a huge jar that was already filled halfway with coins and a handful of dollar bills. A stack of bright pink flyers were there for the taking.
“Jiminy Cricket, this is amazing,” I said. I’d been gone only a couple of hours and they’d already made up a flyer?
Unfortunately, unless I missed my guess, it wasn’t going to help Oscar come home, of course. None of this would. But still, what a wonderful outpouring of support.
“The store’s kicking in fifty bucks,” said Wendy. “And then we’ll add the contributions, and that will be a nice reward. I take it you haven’t heard anything new? No progress?”
I shook my head, concentrating on keeping a lid on my emotions. “I haven’t been back to the store for a couple of hours, but . . . I don’t think so. I have some friends looking into it.”
“Good. That’s good,” said Wendy. She seemed like she was holding back. “Um, one thing occurred to me: Are you sure it’s strictly legal to have a pig in the city limits?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Not that I care, of course. Or any of us. And he’s already been in the paper and all, so probably if it were an issue, it would have come up already. I just wanted to be sure he hadn’t been nabbed by the cops. . . .”
“A pig caught by the pigs!” Xander said with a bright smile, apparently pleased with his own joke.
“Please don’t refer to police officers that way,” I said. I found dealing with the authorities sometimes difficult, even panic-inducing, but now that I knew a few personally, I couldn’t easily jump on the police-bashing bandwagon.
“I thought it was funny,” said Xander. He looked around Wendy at a few customers standing nearby. “Wasn’t it funny?”
They shrugged and nodded.
“I get it,” I said. “I’m just saying . . .”
“Anyway,” said Wendy. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. You want your regular latte, or is it time for chocolate therapy?”
“Chocolate. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” I said.
A few minutes later she handed me a mocha and a bagel, my typical order. I remembered when I first started coming to Coffee to the People, back when I was still new to the neighborhood. I had gotten such a thrill out of finally gaining status as a “regular” here at the café. And now these people were going out of their way to t
ry to help me and Oscar, rallying around, putting up posters, and contributing money to the cause. My heart swelled.
“Thanks, y’all, for everything,” I said. “I really don’t know how to thank you. I’ll let you know just as soon as we hear anything.”
I walked the few blocks back to Aunt Cora’s Closet, hoping with every step, every footfall, that Oscar would be there when I arrived. Knowing him, it was still possible he had been playing a joke of some sort, and would sashay back to the store, flaunting his porcine strut as though nothing had happened. I would kill him. Hug him, then kill him. Or . . . like Aidan said, I supposed it was possible he was in some other magical dimension, as with the woodsfolk, and his sense of time had been lost. Perhaps that was all. Aidan would make contact with them, and Oscar would be home by suppertime. Provided he hadn’t eaten anything. I could feel the panic surging again and took another deep breath.
As I neared the shop, I started to chant: Oh please, oh please, oh please. Not very effective as an incantation, but it was all that came to me.
The flurry of activity at Aunt Cora’s Closet made Coffee to the People’s missing pig project seem understated. There were helium balloons on either side of the door, with a big banner featuring a blown-up photo of Oscar taken from the long-ago newspaper article. And in huge red letters: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS LITTLE PIGGY? Conrad stood outside on the sidewalk, handing bright pink flyers to passersby and explaining the situation.
Inside, there were at least half a dozen of Bronwyn’s coven sisters mingling with a group of art students in paint-splattered clothing. Plus, the entire Jackson clan: Maya’s parents, sister, and several cousins. Her mother, Lucille, came running over to give me a big hug.
“We came over just as soon as we heard,” she said. “We’re going to hand out flyers. Maya’s got a direct line to animal control and the pound, and my niece has an in at a local radio station, so she’s trying to get it mentioned on-air.”
Again, I let my heart swell with the love and caring of my friends and friends of friends. All these people trying to help. If Oscar found out about this, there would be no living with him.
If only it could actually help find him.
On the other hand . . . though I was sure Oscar was being held by some sort of magical force, all this energy and good karma might serve for something. Like the power of prayer, the focused intentions of a large group of people could make a difference—tip the supernatural scales, as it were.
“Conrad, it’s important to keep the pressure on the Parks Department not to take down that tree. Maybe while you’re handing out missing pig flyers, you could talk about that too?”
“Okay. Good idea.”
“How did the effort to save the tree begin in the first place?” I asked.
“The tree lady came by with those other scientist dudes.”
“The ones who were there when Sebastian was killed.”
“Right. They came by before, and the tree lady looked at the tree and taught us a little about it. And then that one dude, with the big eyes, he stopped by all the time and helped us understand why it shouldn’t be taken down.”
Just then the bell rang over the front door, and I was surprised to see Bart Woolsey walk in. He paused in the doorway and looked around, as most people did when they first stepped into Aunt Cora’s Closet. Often I tried to study the place with fresh eyes, to see it the way newcomers did. The crowded shelves, the racks of clothing, the hat stands. Brilliant with color and bathed in a soft golden light at this time of early evening, the place always smelled of fresh laundry and sachets.
But today there was also a chaotic, partylike feeling, a table along one wall laden with tofu dippers and oatmeal-carob cookies—courtesy of the café and members of the Welcome coven—and the table set up specifically for the Great Piggy Search.
Bart’s tired-looking, rheumy eyes fell on me, and he raised one hand in a little salute. Just then, a rack of dresses fell over as the crowd pressed in. Bart crouched down to help Maya right the rod. Clumsily, he tried to replace a trio of dresses that had fallen; their hangers stuck out helter-skelter at crooked angles from the rod.
“This isn’t . . . I mean, is it always like this?” Bart asked as he came to stand near me. “It’s not quite what I imagined of a vintage clothing store.”
“I’m sorry; it’s unusually hectic right now. I lost my pet pig,” I said.
“A pig?”
“A miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig,” interrupted Bronwyn, shoving a flyer into Bart’s hands. “They’re very intelligent and affectionate. . . .” Her eyes filled with tears, and Duke put his arm around her.
Bart glanced back at me, a questioning look in his eyes.
“I know it’s unusual, but they’re really a lot like dogs,” I said, feeling disloyal even as I said so. Oscar hated being likened to a dog, but it was the only way to explain my attachment to what appeared as livestock to most people.
“Oh, I’m . . . sorry to hear that. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“I would appreciate that,” I said. I had a sense I knew why Bart was here, but I had learned long ago not to put words into people’s mouths—or ideas into their heads. Better by far to allow them to speak for themselves. He might be looking for a new smoking jacket, for all I knew. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I . . .” He trailed off, as though fascinated by the overabundance of clothing.
“Did you want your clothes back?” Ever since we took them, I had wondered whether he was really ready to part with them, so I had kept them together in their bag. Will’s words rang in my ears.
“No, not at all. I was . . .” Bart looked over his slumped shoulders, as though to determine whether we were being overheard. Folks milled around us, a few shoppers but mostly people involved in the hunt for one Oscar the pig. No one appeared to be paying the slightest mind to us or our conversation. “I was wondering if I could ask you about . . . the love spell. The curse.”
“You mean the one you believe was cast against you?”
He nodded. “I’ve been asking around, and your name has come up as someone who might be able to help me.”
“Is that so?”
He leaned closer to me and whispered, “Could you help me break the curse? I will pay you.”
Since his niece Hannah had recently been selling off his possessions I wasn’t sure what he was claiming he could pay me with, but I would leave that aside for the moment.
“I’m not really an expert in these areas . . .” I began.
“Sebastian mentioned you once. I just didn’t put two and two together—I didn’t realize who you were when you came to my apartment. You might be a vintage clothes dealer, but I believe you are an even more powerful practitioner.”
I held his gaze for a long moment.
“I thought I felt it when I first met you,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure. I can’t be sure of much of anything anymore. But through my life, through the course of my search for a cure, I’ve met many a practitioner. You have that feel.”
“That feel?”
“Just a way about you . . .”
There was a ruckus at the front door when a large young man lugged in a huge plastic pig, its hide drawn into sections labeled with their butcher names: loin, chops, rump roast, ham.
“This isn’t a treasure hunt,” I heard Maya straining over the crowd to explain. “We’re looking for an actual lost pig.”
The man looked disappointed, but added his pig to a growing collection of ceramic and plastic pigs near the register. He took a flyer from Bronwyn and left.
“Anyway, the point is . . .” Bart was still talking. “Can you imagine what it feels like never to know true love?”
I studied the old man. His blue eyes were watery and red-rimmed, but I imagined they had once sparkled. Hannah had told me Bart had been a handsome young man
, and I could believe it. What would it be like to spend one’s whole life searching for love only to find it elusive? Chances were great that Hannah was right: There was no actual curse and Bart simply hadn’t been able to open up to love, for whatever reason people have—issues stemming from childhood, perhaps, or maybe even from a lifetime of being told you suffered under a curse and would never find happiness.
But what if he was right? What if there really was a curse through the ages, cast upon his family from the lips of a dying witch?
“I don’t know that much about love curses, much less inheritable curses, but . . . I’ll do what I can.”
Now I saw something new in his eyes: hope. “You’ll help me?”
“I’ll look into it,” I said. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you! I can’t thank you enough. Hannah and her sister told me not to bother. She said you wouldn’t help. Do you want a deposit? I can give you money for expenses, that sort of thing.”
“Why don’t we see if I get anywhere first? If I have expenses, you can reimburse me.”
“You can take more clothes if you want. Or sugar bowls.”
“Thanks. But I don’t actually carry that many men’s clothes. We got some nice things from you just the other day, and as for kitchen items . . . you can see I’m running out of space.”
He nodded. “How about looking for your pig? I could at least help with that.”
“It’s really not necessary. There are already so many—”
“I wasn’t raised to expect a free handout. And besides . . .” He looked around the store. “It looks kind of fun.”
I wasn’t sure about the love curse, but it was clear poor Bart was suffering from the curse afflicting so many elderly in this country: He had nothing to do.
“Sure,” I said. “I would appreciate that. The more eyes and ears out there, the better. Duke?”
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 14
