“More like roast chicken. I’m starving. Lunch?”
I laughed. “Lily Ivory, you are a woman after my own heart.”
“Tacos? That way we don’t have to park again; there are a million places around here.”
“True, but I was thinking. . . . The students had dinner at El Toro on Haight on the night before Adam died. He mentioned he’d had too many margaritas. I’ve never eaten there, so I’m not sure it holds a candle to anything here in the Mission, but it’s close to Spooner Mansion.”
“Vamanos. Let’s go.”
El Toro’s was a small, rustic place with a dining room jammed with tables, and one thing I presumed crucial to its success: a well-stocked bar.
We snagged a table near the front window and ordered tacos. After a few pointed questions, we tracked down Janella, a young waitress who had worked that night. Her dark hair, deep red lipstick, and exaggerated eyeliner gave her a retro vibe.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the group?” I asked her when she joined us at the table.
She shook her head. “The police came by, and I told them everything I could think of. It was a bunch of college kids and one older guy.”
“How big was the group?”
“It was a six-top.”
“The five students, and probably Adam’s uncle Preston,” I said. “Was the older guy blond, kind of good-looking?”
She nodded. “Preston Wyzek was the name on the credit card. Left a big tip.”
“And they drank a lot?”
“They ordered two pitchers of margaritas, but not everyone in the party was drinking. The older guy, the one with the credit card, ordered a Diet Coke, and so did one of the girls. The real pretty girl drank margaritas with the other guys.”
“So two pitchers between four drinkers?”
“The older guy said he was driving, so I was like, whatever.”
“Did you notice anything unusual, overhear something, maybe . . . ?”
“We were kind of slammed that night, so I didn’t pay that much attention to them. They seemed pretty mellow. Except . . . wait, that’s right.”
“What?” Lily asked.
“One of the guys kept making my pen disappear.”
“Excuse me?”
“He was fooling around with the napkin, making stuff disappear or whatever. Then it would come out behind someone’s ear. My granddad used to do that with silver dollars; I hate that sort of crap, especially when it’s busy.”
“Which guy was this?”
“Not the old guy, one of the others.” She shrugged and glanced toward the kitchen. “Your order’s up, and I gotta get back to work before I get in trouble.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for talking to us.”
Lily and I were quiet, each lost to our thoughts as we dug into our food. After polishing off her first taco, Lily said, “This is good, but not like the truck at Yosemite and Jennings.”
“I like the one at the Goodwill parking lot in Oakland. Great carnitas.”
“I used to love carnitas, but I don’t eat them anymore because of my pet pig. So, what do you think of this Preston fellow?” Lily asked.
“He’s always struck me as kind of . . . off. But maybe it’s just that I find it a little strange that he’s hanging around young college students. He’s at least thirty. Doesn’t seem to have a job . . .”
“I imagine the police are looking into his background if he was with Adam that night.”
“I hope so. If it’s presumed to be suicide they might not be looking very hard, but . . . I’m sure they’re poking around, just to be sure. The inspector on the case is smart, and thorough. Annette Crawford. Do you know her?”
She shook her head.
“Is it weird that one of the guys was doing magic tricks? Seems kind of coincidental considering Reginald Spooner’s history.”
“Hard to say; lots of folks like magic tricks. I meant to ask you: Have you ever sensed the ghost of Reginald in the house?”
“No. I wondered about that, too; even tried to send out signals, as best I could. I didn’t sense anything, but the truth is, ghosts usually find me, not the other way around. I haven’t figured out how to exert any control over them, assuming that’s even possible. If Reginald is around and up to no good, he could easily hide from the likes of me.”
Janella arrived to clear our plates and urge us to consider dessert.
“None for me, but I’d love a cup of espresso—if it’s really good,” I said and Lily nodded.
“The owner says it’s the best in the city,” Janella said. “Which isn’t true, not by a long shot, but it’s decent. Two espressos, coming up.”
“Okay . . . so what are we thinking?” I asked Lily as the waitress walked away. “The Spooners were dying from the flu and Reginald decided to impart their energy into the dolls? But why?”
“Maybe he was grief stricken, didn’t want to let them go? Imagine losing your entire family in a few short days. But, once their physical selves were actually gone, perhaps Reginald couldn’t live with what he’d done: trapping part of their souls in the dolls.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
We both leaned back as the espressos arrived. I sipped the brew, savoring its warmth and bitterness.
“It’s also possible his motives weren’t as pure,” said Lily.
“Meaning what? He hated his family and wanted to control them?”
“Not all families love each other, Mel.” Something in her tone of voice suggested that, unlike myself, Lily had not grown up surrounded by love.
“If so, what does that mean for the present situation?”
“That there are spirits trapped in those dolls and they need to be released. It’s also possible that they somehow influenced whoever killed Adam.”
“Or inspired him to kill himself.”
We finished off our espressos and sat for another long moment of silence, both feeling glum.
“What now?” I asked.
“Retail therapy.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have the perfect dress for you at my shop.”
“Thanks, Lily, but my odd fashion sense notwithstanding, I’m not really much of a shopper.”
She grinned at me. “You haven’t been to Aunt Cora’s Closet yet. I’m great at matching people with the right clothes. And the store’s just down the street. C’mon, Mel: Trust me.”
Chapter Eight
Aunt Cora’s Closet was jammed with racks of dresses, tops, and skirts. Shelves were crowded with gloves, scarves, shoes, and purses. Large urns held parasols and umbrellas, and metal trees boasted hats and berets of all types. In one corner was a stand offering herbal teas and natural botanical remedies for afflictions such as sleeplessness and anxiety. A sign behind it read: AN IT HARM NONE, DO WHAT YE WILL. I recognized this as the amiable Golden Rule of the Wiccan Rede.
“How’d it go?” asked Maya, standing behind the register at the horseshoe cabinet full of jewelry, which also appeared to serve as a checkout counter. “You two figure it all out?”
“Not hardly. As much is learned, much more is confused,” said Lily with a rueful smile. “Mel, this is my other coworker here in the shop, Bronwyn.”
“What a pleasure!” Bronwyn gushed. Purple gauze fluttered out behind her as she crossed the shop floor to give me a vanilla-and-cinnamon-scented hug. “Oh my goddess! Maya’s told me all about you and the wonderful work you’re doing at Spooner House. I was so very sorry to hear about the tragedy.”
“Thank you,” I said, a bit startled but flattered by her warm welcome. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Something bumped against my legs and I jumped. I looked down to see a pig. I jumped again.
“Don’t be afraid!” said Bronwyn. “That’s our little Oscaroo. He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“It’s a . . . you have a . . . pig?”
“I told you I had a pig,” said Lily.
“I thought you were kidding. Wow, it’s a real pig. He’s so cute.”
“His name’s Oscar. He won’t relax until you fuss over him.”
I leaned down to pet the little oinker. He looked up at me with pink piggy eyes that seemed to gleam with intelligence. I couldn’t help but note that this stood in stark contrast to my own pet, a former stray named, simply, Dog. Dog had one special quality: He saw ghosts. The fact that he sensed them, as I did, made me feel less crazy, less alone when confronting spirits. But other than that, Dog wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. He wasn’t even much good at being a dog: didn’t chase balls, or fetch sticks, and he got carsick. But we loved him beyond reason.
Oscar-the-pig, for his part, seemed to be following the conversation.
“This is the dress I was thinking would be perfect for you,” said Lily as she held up a simple shift lined with fringe and tiny diagonal stripes studded by bugle beads; it looked like a cross between a flapper outfit and a go-go dress.
“You’re absolutely right. I love it!”
“Lily’s got a gift—if she says it suits you, it really does,” said Maya.
“You’re going to love it even more when you’re wearing it,” said Lily. “Want to try it on?”
“How could I refuse?”
“Hey, while we’re at it,” said Lily, “I think we should nail down our costumes for the Spooner House fund-raiser.”
I looked at her, surprised. Nothing about Spooner House lately was putting me in a party mood.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Lily continued. “Halloween’s the anniversary of Reginald Spooner hanging himself in the mansion. If he really is active, then it’s the perfect time to be there. In fact, if he’s malevolent, the party would present him with a rare opportunity to . . . I don’t know, wreak havoc. Someone could get hurt.”
“Do you need the coven as backup, Lily?” Bronwyn asked. “Halloween’s a big night for us, but we could spare some time if you need our help.”
“No, thank you, Bronwyn,” Lily said, her expression thoughtful. “Mel’s an expert in this sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t say exp—,” I began, but she cut me off.
“Mel and I can handle it.”
I feared Lily was putting far too much faith in my shaky abilities.
“I’m not even going to volunteer,” said Maya. “I mean, I guess I could muster the courage if you need my help, but as you know this isn’t in my comfort zone. And besides, I’m taking my nieces trick-or-treating.”
“I thought as much,” said Lily. “No, I really think with the proper preparation, Mel and I can handle it.”
If only I had her faith, I thought.
For the next forty minutes I pushed the doubts from my mind and indulged in what Lily referred to as “retail therapy.” I had to admit she was right: Though I wasn’t normally much of a shopper, hanging out in Aunt Cora’s Closet was a different experience altogether. No harsh fluorescent lights, no funky recycled air. On the contrary, the lighting was soft and flattering and the whole shop smelled like flowers and herbs and fresh laundry.
Lily plucked armfuls of dresses from the racks with abandon and carted them into the communal dressing room. Bronwyn and Maya ran back and forth, bringing us not only dresses but belts, sashes, bustiers, and feathers boas. . . .
I surrendered to my fate and allowed the eager staff of Aunt Cora’s Closet to dress me as they would. Eventually, after half an hour of feeling like a kid playing dress-up, I wound up looking like a vintage gypsy. With my “curvy”—read, plump and busty—figure, it worked. Lily looked more sedate in an Edwardian-era light sage green dress complete with a high collar, lacy yoke, and about two hundred tiny little buttons that marched up the back.
“Et voila,” said Bronwyn as she held out two molded leather masks: one cream and gold decorated with faux jewels and the other a deep red with an ostrich plume. I took the red, Lily the cream.
We stood back and admired ourselves in the mirror: We looked like we had just stepped out of a different time.
“This is what I love about costumes,” Lily said softly. “When you change clothes, you really change. The way you hold yourself, the way others see you . . . it’s fascinating.”
And so was she, I thought. Unfortunately, my mind slipped back to the purpose of finding costumes— the Haunted Halloween Ball, which, I feared, might be far more truly haunted than any of us had banked on.
“Lily,” I said in a low voice. “I’m not sure how to put this, but I really am not an expert in the whole ghost thing. In anything, really, other than historic renovations. I’m great at unclogging toilets, for example. But spirits and such . . . ? I just sort of muddle my way through.”
“You and me both. I never finished my training, so a lot of what I do is by the seat of my pants. I told Bronwyn we’d be okay on our own because if this is what I think it is, her coven sisters might be at risk. They’re open to supernatural influences—it’s part of what makes them so great. But in situations like this when I’m not sure we’ll be entirely in control of whatever forces are in that house . . . well, anyway, I think it’s better like this. I think what we need for backup will be the SFPD.”
I nodded. “So, it sounds like you’re cooking up a plan.”
“Not a plan, exactly. But I’m thinking we should be there on Halloween night, at the fund-raiser. The line between the worlds is thin on Samhain, and since it’s also the anniversary of when Reginald Spooner hung himself, it seems the natural time to make contact with any spirits inhabiting that house.”
Great, I thought. Just great.
Oscar-the-pig snorted and bumped my leg with his head.
“I really do like this little guy,” I said, scratching him behind his ears.
“Here’s the thing about Oscar,” said Lily. “He can be helpful, as strange as that may sound. He can often sense things.”
“Sense things? You mean ghosts?”
She nodded. “As well as other things.”
I felt a tingle on the back of my neck. “What kinds of things would those be?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, casual-like, as she started to hang up our castoffs. “You know, spirits, demons, that sort of thing.”
“Demons?” I blanched. I might be an up-and-coming ghost buster, but demons were out of my league. Way out of my league.
“I’m just saying, we should go in prepared. As my friend Herve was saying, it’s unusual to find poppets representing the dead. Depending on Reginald’s motives, well . . . there might be something dangerous at hand. Oscar might be able to help us figure out what we’re dealing with.”
I was tempted to throw up my hands and leave this conundrum to the police. But then . . . I thought of Adam standing at the window of Spooner House, looking out at the world, hurt and confused, and trying to call his mom. That forlorn image spurred me on.
This is what I get for volunteering, I thought. As my father always said: “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Now that you mention it . . . my dog’s pretty good at ghost sightings, too,” I said. “Maybe we should take our pet brigade to the house, see what they make of the situation.”
“My thoughts, exactly.”
***
Lily, Oscar, Dog, and I arrived at Spooner House to find a shrine had sprung up on the porch. There were shiny helium balloons, cuddly teddy bears, and garish posters written in sparkly glue: RIP ADAM; GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN. A large banner had a drawing of the comedy and tragedy masks, both weeping, along with a quote from Shakespeare: “Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.”
“The quote’s . . . nice,” sa
id Lily, in what I was learning was her funny way of understatement.
I nodded. Theater types.
Duff and Byron were sitting on the steps; Tess had her head on her knees. Riley was taking pictures of the shrine with her bubble gum pink iPhone. None were talking.
“Hi, guys,” I said. “This is Lily Ivory . . . and this is Oscar, and Dog.”
The students’ glum mood was momentarily lifted as they interacted with the animals—especially Oscar-the-pig, of course.
“You look familiar,” said Riley to Lily, still petting Dog, who was leaning up against her. Dog didn’t realize how big—or how heavy—he was.
“I own Aunt Cora’s Closet, down the street,” Lily said. “Maybe I’ve seen you there?”
“Ohmigod, I love that store!” said Tess. “In fact . . . I was planning on buying a special vintage dress for when Adam and I went away.”
At these words her lower lip started to quiver, tears filled her eyes, and she put her head back down on her knees. Oscar snorted and nosed under her arm until she hugged him.
“Sorry, but all of us are, like, so whack by this,” said Riley. “It’s so totally random. I’ve . . . I mean, a couple of kids killed themselves in high school, but not in college. And, not anyone we really, like, knew.”
“Have any of you seen Preston lately?” Lily asked.
“He’s coming in a while,” said Tess. “He’s driving the truck with the supplies, so we can start decorating later.”
“Hey, Mel, Duff was saying that, like, Spooner House might be sold?” said Byron. “Is that true?”
“Where did you hear that? I haven’t heard anything about selling the place.”
“I heard a rumor,” said Duff, “that the board is going to have to sell. Guess they’re out of money and someone offered to buy the house. Maybe that’s why they wanted you to fix it up?”
“That would be . . .” Scummy, I thought to myself, but said: “hard to believe.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, I guess Lurch is determined to go through with this fund-raiser no matter what.”
A Haunting Is Brewing Page 6
