Secondhand Spirits

by Blackwell, Juliet

  “Why would they do that?”

  “To cast suspicion elsewhere? Who knows? Anyway, I want to dissuade you from going after La Llorona. There have been some recent developments.”

  “What kind of developments?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Suffice it to say, you’ll be in over your head. Unless you take me with you, of course.”

  “Would you work with me on this?”

  “Only if we could reach some kind of agreement. This would be asking a lot. And in any case, I need a few more days to assess the situation.”

  “All right. Thank you, Aidan. I do appreciate it.”

  I hung up the phone, feeling as though Aidan was something of a witchy Godfather, making me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I sighed, then brushed my teeth and hair, and took a moment to change into a fresh sweater and straight skirt—circa 1960—before returning to the living room.

  When I saw Max, I stopped short.

  Chapter 11

  Max held my Book of Shadows in one large hand, steadying himself with the other. Since I never bring anyone to my apartment, I’m not in the habit of hiding things. Stupid of me. I had left my Book of Shadows out last night, wide-open on the counter.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A, um, recipe book.”

  “Uh-huh. Here’s a recipe that includes gecko skin.”

  “A lot of people eat reptiles. Bugs, even. I used to travel a lot, and I wrote things down.”

  “And eye of newt?”

  “That’s actually an herb. Sounds creepy, though, huh?”

  Max fixed me with a long, searching look. Then his light gray eyes scanned the room, noting the charms over the doors and mirror, the gazing ball, and the cauldron washed out and left to dry near the sink.

  He snapped the book closed, tossed it onto the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and blew out a breath.

  “Why does every interesting woman in this town have to be into witchcraft?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “For chrissakes, Lily. This is what I do. I may have been blinded to it for longer than usual because I . . .” He shrugged. “I was distracted. But I’ve done my home-work. I recognize the signs.”

  “Then I reckon you know that historically, ‘witch’ was a derogatory term for a woman healer.”

  “And I take it you fancy yourself a healer?”

  “Good thing for you, or you’d be at San Francisco General with a cotton-pickin’ tube down your throat and a catheter up your—”

  Max let out a loud bark of laughter. I couldn’t help but notice the sparks in his light eyes.

  “I think I forgot to thank you,” he said, holding his side.

  “You’re welcome. Come sit down, let me fix you some breakfast, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Max brought a chair into the kitchen and watched me as I prepared a quick omelet with fresh vegetables from the farmers’ market, artisan Gruyère cheese, and thin-sliced imported olives. I boiled a batch of grits and whipped up some scrambled eggs for Oscar. I put thick slabs of my homemade whole-wheat bread to toast and squeezed oranges for juice. Finally, I poured us each second cups of coffee.

  Any witch worth her salt, in my estimation, is a good cook. In fact, people who possess no magic at all can in-still their home-cooked meals with love and security and health, transforming ingredients and bringing disparate people together as family and friends. There’s a reason that when opening one’s home to guests, the first thing you do is offer food and drink. Cooking is a kind of everyday magic.

  As I brought the coffee to the table, I saw Max sneaking Oscar a bite of omelet and patting him on the back.

  “He’s already eaten twice this morning,” I said. “He’s going to get fat.”

  “He’s a pig. He’s supposed to be fat. He’s a cute little fellow—reminds me of a dog.”

  At which Oscar reared back and glared at Max.

  “Do you have a pet?” I asked.

  “I used to. And it looks like I’m on the verge of inheriting my father’s old mutt. She rides around with me a lot. Loves the truck.”

  I smiled and picked at my own food while I watched Max dig in, eating heartily. I told myself I was interested because an appetite was a good sign after such an injury. But the truth was, it fascinated me to watch big men eat with abandon. This one, in particular. Finally, Max sighed, leaned back, and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “You’re quite a cook.”

  “Thank you.”

  “All right, I’ll repeat my question: Why do all the interesting women have to be witches?”

  “I might as well ask why all the interesting men are married or gay.”

  “Not all the interesting men.”

  He smiled and held my eyes.

  “So assuming you’re not gay,” I played along, “it begs the question: Why aren’t you married?”

  A shadow crossed over his face. He stirred a lump of raw sugar into his coffee, licked the spoon, and leaned back in his chair.

  “My wife died four years ago, August eighteenth.”

  I reached out and placed my hand over his, casting a comforting spell without even thinking about it.

  Max looked up at me, startled. We both seemed at a loss for words.

  He took his hand away, leaned back, and I felt his guard slip up.

  “Tell me what happened last night.”

  “You remember the altar?”

  He frowned. “Just barely.”

  “We were attacked.”

  “By whom?”

  “Not whom, exactly. More like what. You don’t remember?”

  “Nothing after the door slamming and locking us in.”

  I avoided his eyes, taking our dishes into the kitchen. He stood up to help but I waved him back down. He might not be feeling the effects of his wound, but it was more serious than he thought. My magic was making it numb.

  “You should lie down.”

  “Just tell me, Lily.”

  I stood at the counter, my hands flat on the cold tile.

  “Forces attacked us. Spirits, demons, maybe. I’m not sure. I’m not that familiar with the voodoo pantheon.”

  He fixed me with a look. Several seconds ticked by.

  “What happened is that somebody jumped us,” Max asserted. “What are you trying to cover up? Was it Gosnold?”

  “Of course not. Listen, it’s not that simple, Max—”

  He snorted.

  “I know it’s hard to understand. I—”

  “Lily, please.” He pushed the chair out with a screech and stood up. “It’s one thing to play around with gecko skin and charms, quite another to pretend that something clearly human is on a different dimension altogether.”

  “I really think you need to keep an open mind in this case, Max. There is evil in the world, and—”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Look at what’s happening in Darfur. Hell, you don’t have to go that far. Look around any city: drug addiction, mothers neglecting babies, fathers molesting their kids, people shooting each other—that’s true evil.” He leaned in toward me and spoke very softly. “But it’s plain old human evil. Nothing magic about it.”

  I was at a loss for words in the face of such disbelief. I wasn’t accustomed to trying to convince people of the supernatural world; usually it was the other way around. But after what we’d survived together in Frances’s house, it seemed ludicrous to deny it.

  “Tell me what happened, Lily.”

  “I don’t know. But whatever it was wasn’t human.”

  “You’re saying we were attacked by ghosts?”

  “Not ghosts, but spiritual forces of some sort.”

  Max let out a loud breath and drew his hands through his hair.

  “I can’t deal with this,” he grumbled, stalking to the door.

  Oscar shifted to his gnome form and stood beside me. Together we watched as Max strode out without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.

>   “Sheesh. You were up all night tending to him, and that’s all the thanks you get?” Oscar growled. “Cowan ingrate.”

  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

  “Dude. The walk of shame.”

  “The what?” I had trailed Max down the stairs of my apartment, through the store, and out into the cold morning sunshine. By the time I got outside he was already halfway down the block, striding along as though he hadn’t been seriously injured a very few hours ago.

  Sitting with his back up against the wall of Aunt Co ra’s Closet, Conrad elucidated. “Duuuude. When they leave early in the morning wearin’ last night’s clothes, it’s called the walk of shame. Least, that’s what we used to call it back at school.”

  I had to smile. “It’s not like that.”

  “No? Too bad. He’s cute.”

  “You think he’s cute?”

  “Oh, yeah. Tall, dark, and handsome—standard hot-tie. Watch out, though. He must have a jealous wife or something. Those dudes across the street were taking his picture when he left. Prob’ly private eyes.”

  I followed Conrad’s gaze to the beat-up silver sedan parked outside the shoeshine store across the street. Inspectors Romero and Nordstrom were eating bagels and drinking coffee, making no effort at subterfuge. In fact, Romero gave me a little wave. Clearly they had been watching as Max left the store.

  That was just great. I had no idea what dealings Max had with Carlos Romero, but I had the sense it didn’t help my case to be considered too friendly with Max the mythbuster.

  “You want me to sweep?” Conrad offered.

  “That would be great, thanks. Would you like something other than a bagel this morning? I could make you an omelet.”

  “Nah, thanks. A bagel would just hit the spot.”

  On my way to the café I stopped by the silver sedan. Just because they were investigating me didn’t seem like a reason not to be neighborly. I tapped on the driver’s-side window. Inspector Romero rolled it down.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Romero with an amused half smile.

  The blond practically choked on his old-fashioned glazed.

  “Can I get you boys anything? I was just on my way to the café.”

  “You want anything, Neil?” Romero asked his partner.

  Still clearing his throat, Neil shook his head.

  “I guess we’re good. Thanks for asking.”

  “Anytime. Don’t work too hard, now,” I said as I turned to walk away.

  “Ms. Ivory,” I heard Romero call out, and the sound of his car door opening.

  I stopped and he walked toward me.

  He looked at me for a long time, dark eyes assessing, then glanced around as though to see if anyone would overhear us. When he spoke, he kept his voice low.

  “Let me ask you something straight out: Are you some kind of witch?”

  “Witch?” I hesitated. Despite my recent coming-out to Bronwyn, and even Max for that matter, this wasn’t the sort of thing I bandied about. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I called up the sheriff in a little town called Jarod, in west Texas. Isn’t that where you’re from?”

  I looked away. Even the name of that town hurt my heart.

  “People there sure as hell think you’re a witch, or some other freak of nature.”

  “Gee, thanks so much, Inspector.”

  “And there was an incident. . . .”

  “Those charges were dismissed and found to be baseless.”

  “They were dismissed, but whether or not they were baseless is a matter of opinion. A lot of people seem to think you cast some sort of spell to change the mind of the county prosecutor.”

  “I never understood how people claim not to believe in witchcraft, and then accuse witches of casting spells. How does that work, exactly?”

  He shrugged. His intelligent eyes seemed to be mulling something over.

  “So are you going to charge me with a decade-old crime, Inspector, or arrest me for practicing witchcraft without a license?”

  “I just want to know what the hell’s going on.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Ms. Ivory—”

  “Please call me Lily.”

  “Ms. Ivory, as far as I know it’s not against the law to practice witchcraft. Just tell me: Do you consider yourself a witch?”

  “A lot of people call me that. I don’t know what I am, exactly.” I blew out a breath and came to a decision. “I know I have certain abilities that set me apart. I’ve had them since I was a child.”

  “Abilities?”

  “I imagine you’ve seen a lot of unexplainable events in your line of work, Inspector. Is it so hard to imagine there might be something more out there?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back against the brick wall of the building next to us, looking very tired. Suddenly I realized: He believed me. Who knew a homicide detective could believe in witches?

  “Prior to the other night, did you have any relationship at all with Frances Potts?”

  “No. I just met her.”

  He nodded. “So what motivation could you have to kill her?”

  “Is that why you’re stalking me? Because you think I’m a witch, or you think I killed Frances, or both?”

  He shrugged, looking like Mr. Innocent. “Just needed a place to sit and eat breakfast,” he said with a smile as he moved back toward the car. “No reason at all.”

  Overnight I had become a minor celebrity at Coffee to the People. As a measure of my new status, a few students even looked up from their laptop computer screens when I walked in.

  “Hey, Lily, did you see the paper yet?” asked the barista Xander. He was tall and thin and dressed in a sort of Bavarian punk style, favoring black leather, silver spikes, and so many facial piercings that I cringed when I looked at him. Still, he had sweet eyes and an appealing though frenetic energy. He reminded me of a lanky, self-mutilated puppy.

  Wendy waved her copy of today’s Chronicle.

  So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that I had forgotten all about the article in the paper. Aunt Cora’s Closet was right there on the front page of the Style section, with a huge color photo of Oscar ringed by lovely young women in their vintage attire. There was even a photo of yours truly helping to fit one of the bridesmaids—I’m not very photogenic, but I was happy to see that this picture wasn’t bad.

  I was just starting to read the article when Sandra rushed into the café, waving the newspaper section in one hand, an empty coffee mug emblazoned with, My other car’s a broom, in the other.

  “Lily! You must be just swooning over this,” Sandra said eagerly, wide eyes fixed on mine.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty amazing.”

  If only I could work up the appropriate enthusiasm. I hadn’t slept much for the past few nights, but truth to tell, that didn’t usually affect me very much. My funk, I felt sure, had more to do with the fact that I was either losing my powers, or up against something much stronger than I was. Never before had I so regretted not finishing my training at the feet of a master. There was a tiny part of me that wondered . . . would Aidan help to train me? Could I trust him enough to learn from him?

  “Where was I when all this was happening? You should have called me over; I could have helped,” continued Sandra, bouncing up on her toes. Her restless energy wrapped around me. “I would love to show her—what’s her name? Susan Rogers?—I wanted to show her my store. Do you think you could mention it to her?”

  “I’m sure I could—”

  “I just think this sort of attention should be for everyone, don’t you?” Sandra interrupted.

  “Leave it alone, for God’s sake, Sandra,” said Wendy, rolling her eyes and snorting. Wendy had wandered into Aunt Cora’s Closet once or twice and always stopped to chat with Bronwyn, but hadn’t shown much warmth toward me. I had the sense she was wary about new businesses in the neighborhood. Like many in the
Haight, she was protective of the rare sense of camaraderie here.

  “Maybe we could get the paper to do a story on the whole Haight,” I said. “All of the merchants’ association members.”

  “What a fabulous idea! Let’s do it. Will you call her?” said Sandra.

  “I’ll try to mention it next time I talk to her,” I said, then ordered bagels for Conrad, and drinks for both of us. Xander asked me about Oscar, and I invited him to come over anytime to say hi. Wendy tossed a vegan cookie, on the house, into the bag before handing it to me with a smile and the directive to “have an awesome day.”

  I felt a little thrill. Was I finally “in” with the Coffee to the People crowd?

  “Thanks for the bagels, Wendy. Bye, Xander. Bye, Sandra.”

  “I’ll walk you back,” said Sandra as she shadowed me out the café door and across the street. “Could I take a look at those clothes yet?”

  “Clothes?”

  “You got a bunch of new stuff in, remember?”

  “Oh, right.” I hesitated, not wanting to tell her the police had confiscated the whole lot. I had the sense that anything Sandra discovered, the whole world would soon know, and just as I was starting to fit in, the last thing I wanted was for the merchants’ association to find out I was under suspicion of murder. “Things have been really busy lately, so I still haven’t done much.”

  “What is there to do? Run them through the wash? I’d be glad to give you a hand.”

  I tried to swallow my annoyance. Sandra wasn’t a bad person. She was just needy. And pushy. And what with a demon snatching children and people dying under my protection and Max being skewered with a ritual knife and cops breakfasting outside my store, I wasn’t in the greatest mood.

  “Thanks, Sandra, but as I told you before, I’ll let you know when they’re ready. I have my own process, and I’d like to keep it that way. I have to go now and get ready to open for business. Nice to see you; good-bye.”

  I traded the little paper sack of bagels along with the Flower Power drink to Conrad in exchange for the broom, then hurried back into my store, hoping Sandra would take the hint and go away. I headed into the back room to put the broom away, but on second thought I tucked the old-fashioned straw-bristled sweeper against the wall right behind the door, then crossed over to Bronwyn’s counter for a small pinch of salt. Placing the salt on the broom, I concentrated on Sandra. The next time she came into the store, the broom should keep her focused more on her own shop than on mine, and help motivate her to leave promptly. I might need to do a stronger spell to keep her at bay, but I decided to wait for a few days to see what happened. I didn’t yet trust my assessments of interpersonal relationships.