Secondhand Spirits

by Blackwell, Juliet

  “Could you tell me what happened last night, when Jessica disappeared?” I urged.

  “I just came home from work,” Felipa said. “I brought groceries, mopped the kitchen before I made dinner. The front door was open, but I . . . I sent the children outside. I told them, ‘Stay on the stoop.’ They were supposed to stay on the stoop. . . .” She began to weep again.

  “The other children began to scream, ‘La Llorona’; that’s when we knew,” the young man said.

  I spoke directly to the little boy who had brought me the coffee.

  “Did you see her?” I asked.

  He nodded solemnly, huge eyes so reminiscent of Jessica’s that I felt my stomach clench as I remembered what was at stake.

  “Could you describe her to me?”

  He craned his neck, looking to his mother for permission. She nodded.

  I had to lean forward to hear him, for he spoke barely above a whisper. But he used his pudgy hands to clarify, holding them up to his scrunched-up face like claws. He described the ghostly spirit, her horrifying face, the gaping mouth, and the faraway-sounding cries for her children.

  Presuming I could believe the child, I now knew for certain that La Llorona had absconded with Jessica. Whether that meant more or less hope for the girl’s salvation, I wasn’t so sure.

  Just then the door banged open and in walked a large young man in a bright white sleeveless undershirt and black pants slung low on narrow hips. Intricate tattoos ran up his forearms, biceps, and onto his neck. He was the one who was holding Felipa while she cried after Jessica’s disappearance last night.

  He walked in as if he owned the place. The tone in the room shifted.

  “¿Qué pasa?” he demanded, lifting his chin in my direction. “What’s going on? Who’s she?”

  Immediately Felipa and the man launched into a heated exchange. My Spanish was nowhere near strong enough to keep up with their intense discussion, but I understood the word botánica, and made out that the fellow was angry at Felipa for believing in “ridiculous magic” that wouldn’t help. He scoffed at the mere mention of La Llorona. I also learned the man’s name: Tomás.

  Tomás was right that no amount of paraphernalia from a botánica would help bring Jessica back, but it could bring consolation to the family. In any event, it couldn’t hurt.

  I pulled a small black leather charm bag out of my backpack and gave it to Felipa, wrapping her hands around it, then my own around hers. I looked into her eyes and said a brief incantation of protection, comfort, and solace. Still weeping, Felipa thanked me repeatedly, and blessed me.

  Tomás made a disgusted noise and stormed out of the apartment.

  I thanked everyone for speaking to me, then hurried to follow Tomás into the night-shrouded street.

  “Tomás, wait, please!” I yelled to his back as he strode down the cracked sidewalk. He didn’t slow his pace. I jogged up behind him. “Tomás, is there something more you can tell me about Jessica’s disappearance? Could it have something to do with the men who were here that day?”

  He turned toward me as I caught up to him. “What men?”

  “I saw you last night. Jessica had just disappeared; you were holding Felipa on the stoop. There was a group of scary-looking characters right over there, across the street, glaring at you.”

  He laughed. “ ‘ Scary-looking characters’? Scary like me?”

  “Scarier. You’re not all that frightening.” He was trying to be, but I sensed something else under the simmering anger: something almost noble.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I’m looking into Jessica’s disappearance.”

  “Why? What do you care about my little cousin? You’re no cop.”

  “No.”

  “Reporter?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then why? Someone hire you?”

  “I was visiting Frances Potts when Jessica disappeared. Did you know Mrs. Potts?”

  “Oh, yeah, I know her. That old lady’s unnatural, is what she is.” He turned and started walking away again.

  Unnatural?

  “That ‘old lady,’ as you call her, was killed last night,” I said to his back.

  He stopped, his shoulder blades contracting under his undershirt, revealing his tension. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was cold wearing so little out here near the bay. Why were young men always wearing either too much or too little? Down jackets in the summer, nothing but undershirts in the winter . . .

  “I saw the police Do Not Cross tape. I’m not blind,” said Tomás. “And I’m not surprised.”

  “Why not?”

  “A lotta people wanted her dead.”

  “Dead? Why?”

  “They wanted her land. And she was a snitch.”

  “A snitch?”

  “Ratted out the homeboys. What the hell is she doing in this neighborhood, anyway?”

  “She’s lived here a long time. Why shouldn’t she be in this neighborhood?”

  “There’s something wrong in that house.” His hands low on his hips, he shook his head and met my eyes for the first time. “Last Halloween some kids broke in there. . . . You mark my words. She’s like that . . . how do you call her? In the fairy tales? The evil witch that lures kids in and they’re never seen again.”

  “We’re talking about Mrs. Potts here? Frances Potts?”

  Just then a beautifully detailed, candy-apple red Ca dillac pulled up, bass pounding to the beat of a Latin rap song. Without another word, Tomás climbed in and was gone.

  I jogged back to my car, got in, and reached for the ignition, but hesitated before turning the key. Frances’s house was less than a block away, its silhouette a soft black against the evening sky. What had Tomás meant? Sweet little Frances, an evil witch? Impossible. Among other things, I was with Frances when Jessica was snatched; the old woman couldn’t possibly have been involved.

  Despite my fear of implicating myself further in the eyes of the police, I wanted—I needed—to take a good look around that house. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that the vibrations were off on the night I was there. And then there was that invisible entity. . . .

  I always carry several items in the trunk of my car for emergencies. Grabbing a dark blue cotton athletic bag from the trunk, I climbed into the backseat of my Mustang and transferred a flashlight, a few candles, a black silk bag, an extra couple of talismans, and a charm bag into my backpack. Finally, counting on the darkness to keep me from being obscene—luckily there wasn’t a soul out on the street nearby—I pulled on a pair of old jeans under the skirt of my dress. Scooting down as far as I could into the footwell, I whipped the dress over my head and yanked on a worn UC Berkeley sweatshirt.

  Feeling much more suited to the task at hand, I pulled an amulet over my head, tucked a charm bag in the front pocket of my jeans, and cast a quick protective spell over the vehicle. This didn’t seem like the best neighborhood to park a vintage Mustang after dark, and I really love my car.

  Then I jogged along the quiet street to the Potts house, drawing the fresh salt air of the bay deep into my lungs.

  I passed a couple small groups of young men gathered on stoops, but no one seemed to pay me much attention. One of the definite pluses of being “different” is not having to fear humans under normal circumstances, so I’m not frightened of wandering alone in the middle of the night, even in a not-so-great part of town. Don’t get me wrong: As far as I know I’m as mortal as the next person, but I can hold my own against your average low-life /druggie/mugger, especially when prepared with a charm bag and a backpack full of consecrated amulets and talismans.

  Conscious of the street camera Inspector Romero had told me about, I climbed over the low iron fence and slipped into the overgrown side garden of the Pottses’ corner lot and lingered for a moment amidst broken beer bottles, crack vials, and cigarette butts. I didn’t want to get caught on tape again—that would be tough to explain. I bided my time, asse
ssing the structure from the safety of the brush. Just ahead, between where I was now and the back door, was Frances’s small kitchen garden. In the light of the streetlamp I could make out what looked like neat rows of herbs, vegetables, and, as luck would have it, a mature mandrake plant.

  That was a happy surprise. It must have been left over from the garden’s old Mediterranean planting scheme, where plants such as mandrake and wolfsbane were common. Perfect for Aidan’s mandragora. Mandrakes had to be approached carefully, however, and I didn’t have the necessary supplies with me. I would have to come back for it later.

  Hunkered down amidst the bushes, I waited, watching the structure for another ten minutes. Police tape crisscrossed the back door and cordoned off the gates in the iron fence, but no one was guarding the place. I imagined everything was locked up tight; I could probably unlock the doors magically, but I’d rather not take the time. Glancing up at the second story, I noticed a double-hung window was slightly ajar.

  An old wooden trellis ran up the back of the building, supporting the fat, snaking branches of a vine long since dead. Leaving the protection of the bushes, I scooted to the back of the house and shook the trellis as hard as I could. It felt sturdy, the wood dry but sound. What the heck . . . If it was good enough for generations of actors in movies, it was good enough for me. I grabbed on, got a foothold, and hoisted myself up.

  Hand over hand, step by step . . . the unfamiliar stretch and strain of climbing brought to mind a visceral memory I would just as soon forget: the moment I realized I wasn’t just a simple misfit. The day I learned I was a witch.

  I was in the third grade. We were on a school camp-out, the kind of event my mother eventually stopped forcing me to attend once she finally admitted her daughter was a freak. The morning had dawned cold and damp, and the camp leaders had made a great batch of oatmeal. My mother had raised me on oatmeal served with salt and pepper, the way her own Scottish mother had prepared it, but that morning I was handed a bowl that already had sugar and cinnamon on it. The idea of the sweet on what I knew as salty made me queasy, so I asked the girl next to me, Terry Buckmiller, to trade me for her still-plain bowl. She refused. Terry was a pam pered violin virtuoso and had always been the smartest kid in class until I had displaced her. She had never liked me.

  I concentrated, making her bowl so hot that it burned her fingers. When she dropped it I caught it, and I handed her my own in what seemed to me a fair exchange.

  “You’re a witch is what you are! A nasty old witch!” Terry pointed at me and shouted.

  I was enraged. I had been raised with the same images as everyone else in our small Texas town: Witches were ugly hags in league with the devil. But her accusation struck a chord. Fear of the truth fed my fury.

  A sudden gust of wind blew sparks and embers up from the fire, landing in Terry’s lap and hair. As the grown-ups rushed to her aid, the other children moved in on me, accusing, shouting, pushing. Hating.

  I backed away from them until I had nowhere else to go—our campsite was at the base of a sheer cliff. I turned toward the wall of stone as the children descended upon me, and I started to climb the steep, vine-strewn wall. The vines twined around my hands and wrists, helping me, pulling me up. When I made it to the top I looked down over the precipice, and with the perfect illogic of a young child cast a loud curse down upon the lot of them, even while denying I was a witch.

  Every single child on that trip, except for me, came down with a virulent case of food poisoning. Officially the oatmeal was to blame, but soon afterward I was sent to live with Graciela on the outskirts of town. I spent the next several years learning to admit to myself that I was a witch, to control my temper, and to hide my talents from normal humans. I was still only partially successful at the latter two.

  Which might explain why I was currently scaling the side of a house.

  My mind came back to the task at hand. With much more effort than it had taken as a child—these vines were not helping me at all—I finally made it up to the second-story window. I hoisted it open and climbed inside the dark house, landing at the end of the second-story hallway.

  Breathing hard, I stood for a moment and assessed the shadowed interior. There was a dank, closed-up smell, mixing with the still-lingering scent of pot roast. The last meal. And there was another odor, the sickeningly sweet aroma of death.

  My skin tingled and again I felt the creepy sensation of ants running along my spine. The place was alive with spiritual energy.

  I didn’t bother with the flashlight, since there was plenty of dim illumination from the streetlamps outside, and my night vision is better than average. I started down the broad, high-ceilinged hallway toward Frances’s bedroom, the next-to-last door on the left.

  I had never before knowingly stepped into a recent crime scene. Perhaps they all felt this ominous. Maybe it was my imagination. If only I were a necromancer, I could call on Frances’s spirit and ask her what happened. I felt sure that, since the death was so recent and had not been natural, her spirit would still be hanging around. But I have never been able to talk to the human dead. Sense them, yes, but not hold a conversation as though you were talking to your favorite auntie.

  Since I was now sure Frances hadn’t been killed by La Llorona, I wanted to know whether witchcraft had been involved, or whether it was just regular old homicide. I needed to see the murder scene.

  A strong, stinging citrus scent assailed my nostrils. Something flickered in my peripheral vision. A sense of movement passing a doorway, preternaturally quickly. An entity flew over my head, taunting, making my hair stand up on end. There was a soft, barely audible whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound, like a heartbeat on a fetal monitor.

  A figure materialized in the doorway.

  Chapter 10

  Swallowing a scream, I held out my right hand and let fly a blast of energy.

  In a scene worthy of an old Keystone Kops movie, Charles the charlatan crashed backward into Max the mythbuster and they both went down on their butts, landing sprawled on the threadbare bedroom carpet.

  “What in the world are y’all doing here?” I asked in an urgent whisper, my heart pounding as I watched the two men climb to their feet.

  It was rare for someone to be able to sneak up on me like that, but I had been so focused on the dead—and the undead—that I had once again forgotten to consider the living.

  “I might ask you the very same thing,” Charles responded, brushing off his pants. “I promised Mr. Carmichael here a haunted experience, and I’m a man of my word.”

  “Hi, Max.”

  “Lily.” He nodded with a bemused smile. “What a surprise.”

  “Would you excuse us for just a moment, please? Charles and I have something private to discuss.” I grabbed Charles by the arm and started pulling him out into the hall.

  “What’s your problem, Lily?” Charles demanded.

  “My problem? You’re trespassing for the sake of your ghost tours?”

  “What’s your excuse?”

  “Someone was killed in this house, Charles,” I whispered when we were several feet away from Max’s curious ears.

  “What?” Charles looked aghast.

  “Just last night. So what—”

  “But I had an arrangement with the owner of this house. She said I could lead tours as long as I made sure no one brought cameras.”

  “She did?”

  “Yup. Your neighbor on Haight Street, Sandra, introduced us. It’s my backup plan when other things fall through. Great old place.”

  “Let me get this straight: I paid you not to take Max out, and rather than give him his money back, you brought him here? You’re a sleaze; you know that?”

  “Lily, let’s not be hasty. . . . The owner—”

  “The owner was killed last night.”

  “You’re saying Frances was killed?”

  “Didn’t you notice the fluorescent yellow police tape at the doors?”

  He shrugged. “I thought it w
as part of the shtick. It lent an air of authenticity to the whole thing.”

  “Charles, this is a crime scene—”

  “Someone was killed here?” interrupted Max, who had managed to sidle up to us without my noticing.

  “Last night, a friend of mine—” I began.

  A door slammed at the end of the hall.

  Max crouched as though ready to fight, then reached into his waistband and pulled out a pistol.

  “Put that thing away!” I said.

  “Who else is here?” Max demanded, even while starting off in the direction of the noise. I grabbed his arm to stop him.

  “You should both get out of here immediately,” I said.

  “It’s not safe.”

  Just then there was rustling overhead.

  “Good idea,” said Charles, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He turned and headed for the stairs, speaking over his shoulder. “Max, I happen to know of a nice ghost over at the Queen Anne Hotel. You could even bring your film crew. You coming?”

  “Either we all go,” Max said, “or I’m staying with Lily.”

  The hallway light flickered on and off.

  “Suit yourself,” Charles said, scurrying down the broad stairway with impressive speed for a large man.

  “Max, you really should go with him,” I said. “I appreciate the whole gallantry thing, but I guarantee you I can take care of myself.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you, a friend of mine—”

  “A friend getting killed is reason to cry in your beer, not to trespass on the crime scene.”

  I heard a faint whispery sound, and saw a subtle flash of light in my peripheral vision. We weren’t alone.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?” Max asked me.

  “Max, do you still have the medicine bundle I gave you? Is it in your pocket?”

  “As a matter of fact it is.” He patted his breast pocket.

  “Keep it. And here.” I rooted around in my backpack until I felt a smooth circle of wood. I slipped the medallion over his head.

  “What is all this?”