He took a seat at one of the computers and started typing. I pulled up a chair and looked over his shoulder, in the process noticing an intricate, tribal-inspired tattoo that peeked out from beneath his sleeve when he moved the mouse around. I wasn’t sure what Ward and June would make of that.
“What is ephemera, exactly?” I asked.
“Ephemera refers to the kind of materials intended to be short-lived or discarded, such as brochures, catalogs, menus, billheads, mining certificates, theater programs, bylaws, political flyers, travel guides, wine labels . . . and sometimes letters. Precisely because they weren’t created to last, they sometimes contain information that is not otherwise documented. Let’s just see. . . .” He squinted at the screen. “Bingo. Here’s one cross- referenced as
Five young nuns from France disappear during earthquake.
”
Looking over his shoulder, I read the facsimile copy on the computer screen. The writing was spidery and unfamiliar, with the swoops and flourishes of another era. But as my eyes grew accustomed to the style, I read more quickly.
On Saturday morning, the Sisters, who had arisen at five o’clock, were dressing when the first shock occurred. The dear old tumbledown rookery withstood the tremor. Of course, plaster and articles fell, but our old Convent remained firm. There followed the usual excitement, and they camped out in the garden that night watching the progress of the flames and snatching winks of sleep. . . . Five French Sisters had swelled our party at St. Peter’s. Poor little frightened, foreign birds. They must think San Francisco a very shaky place. The procession, headed and guarded by the Brothers and some Priests, started walking all the way out to St. Mary’s College. The foreign birds were agitated, carrying with them a number of items they would not let loose.
Of course, hunger and thirst assailed them. Then one of the Priests and a Sister of Mercy escorted the French Sisters by a most circuitous route, taking the entire day, returning to our old tumbledown Convent rather than reaching the ferry and, in the end, Oakland. Only the Priest escaped, having left the women behind. They are there now, all enveloped in silence, if not in smoke. We have not heard from them. However, we possess our souls in patience and pray they are not lost to us.
“Fascinating,” Dean murmured. “Why would they have gone back to the convent, rather than going to Oakland?”
“Good question.”
“Hey, here’s something else—there’s an official note here, disciplining one sister from this convent for ‘un-Christianlike’ acts of pagan religion, just a day before the earthquake.”
I looked over his shoulder at the facsimile of a church document, complete with the stamp of the archdiocese. The handwritten scrawl was faded and hard to read, and there were no details, but Dean was right: A nun had been practicing some sort of ritual unapproved of by the official church.
“Do you know what happened to that part of town in the aftermath of the quake?” I asked. “The old building didn’t burn; it’s now the School of Fine Arts.”
Dean’s expression took on a wary edge. “You’re looking into
that
building?”
“Yes. Why?”
“That’s a whole other ball game.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back and looked around at his colleagues, as though checking to see if anyone was overhearing our conversation. His voice dropped. “I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to ask outright: Do you, uh, have an open mind about . . . certain things?”
“Certain things?”
“There’s a lot of speculation about that building.” His serious, horn-rimmed visage studied me. “Remains were found in the attic. They say it’s haunted.”
“Human remains?”
“Really old remains,” he said, fingers flying over the keyboard once again. “It was like, they did this whole remodel to turn it into the School of Fine Arts, after it had been closed for a number of years after the earthquake. They say some people had died in there, got trapped in an attic room.”
“But there is no attic. Could it be one of the top-floor rooms?”
“Let’s take a look. Here it is: a newspaper reference.” He pointed to the computer monitor. “Hmm, doesn’t say much. Remains were found, but rather than remove them, the building’s owners decided to seal up the room. If that’s not grounds for a haunting, I’d like to know what is.”
No, you wouldn’t
, I thought.
“But why seal in the remains?” And if they were left in the closet, why hadn’t I found bones or mummified bodies?
He shrugged. “Got me,” he said. “Maybe they were scared? There wasn’t time? The cemetery was full? In any event, that seems to be when the rumors of hauntings started.”
“So you’re thinking maybe they died there? The French nuns?”
“Maybe. Oh, look: there’s a photo.” He clicked on the photo file, and it filled the screen.
I leaned forward to see it while Dean dropped back in his chair, as if shoved by an unseen hand. The grainy photo was of the small room where I had been just two days ago. Everything looked exactly the same. And if you looked closely, you could make out a vague image of a woman’s face reflected in the mirror, as well as round balls or streaks of light: orbs.
“Is that—?” Dean asked.
“I think so,” I confirmed.
He looked at me, wide-eyed. “There’s an ancient belief that after someone has died in a house, the mirrors must be covered or else the soul will be trapped in the mirror. Which is bad enough, if you think about it. But it gets worse: The ghost will steal the soul of anyone who admires his or her reflection in the mirror.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” I said. But I had never known whether to believe it. I should spend more time in libraries. Clearly, one can learn a lot.
“Maybe the women went back to the convent,” Dean breathed, “and
died
up there in this room, and their souls are now trapped in the looking glass.”
“We might be getting a little ahead of ourselves,” I said, though I feared maybe old Dean was on to something. That mirror shimmered too brightly, and I had seen something in it myself—as had Luc, and Ginny . . . “The face in the mirror could be a trick of the light, or a flaw in the developing process. Photography was still pretty primitive back then.”
“Maybe,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Hey, did you know that vampires and witches have no reflections in mirrors because they have no souls?”
I looked into his innocent, young eyes. Why did it still hurt so much when people said things like that?
“Everyone has a soul, Dean,” I said, my voice sounding hollow to my ears.
“Not necess—oh.” Realization dawned in his eyes.
“My bad. No offense. Some of my, um, best friends are witches.”
“Personally, I don’t hold with that sort of nonsense,” I joked, hoping to put Dean at ease. Judging by his rapid retreat behind a door marked STAFF ONLY, it’s safe to say I failed.
Chapter 14
Having a world of information at my fingertips should have felt exhilarating. Instead, I felt like scum.
This was because I had moved on to the public library, and opened the
San Francisco Chronicle
’s online database to look up Max Carmichael.
Not that I doubted Max’s intentions, and I certainly didn’t
really
think he had anything to hide. But I felt compelled to check just in case he was a wanted serial killer whose psycho vibrations I had somehow failed to pick up. Or, say, because Deborah was his fifth wife to die under mysterious circumstances. I felt disloyal, but when I was a child,
Blackbeard
had been a favorite, albeit macabre, bedtime story. No wonder I grew up to be so different. The scene of the curious new woman finding the heads of Blackbeard’s previous wives . . . Well, let’s just say I’ve always been too curious for my own good.
I read that Max had been married for six years to Deborah Morales, during which time they lived downtown, near the Ferry Building. Her obituary did not mention a cause of death, but she had been only thirty-two years old. In lieu of flowers, donations had been directed toward Children’s Hospital Oakland. She was survived by her husband, Max, and a truly impressive list of relatives.
Other than the obituary, I found nothing naming Max except a long list of professional accomplishments, and references to his byline on what seemed to be thousands of newspaper and magazine articles. The man was a successful journalist, after all.
Next I turned to the library’s holdings on demonology, which proved to be limited mostly to “New Age” materials. This sort of thing frustrated me. Demonology was a deadly serious subject, not to be treated lightly.
Just before leaving, I remembered to check out a copy of
The Great Gatsby
, as I had promised Susan and Bronwyn. Maybe it would shed some light on Jerry Becker’s character, or, at least, distract me from thoughts of love late at night. And even if not, it would fill a gap in my literary education. An encyclopedic knowledge of fairy tales—most of which were true even though normal humans thought of them as harmless legends—could only take a witch so far.
I parked in the driveway I rented several doors down from my store—parking was impossible in Haight-Ashbury, even for me—and walked back to Aunt Cora’s Closet. As I passed by my neighbor’s shop, Peaceful Things, I remembered the owner’s showing me her copy of the
Malleus Mallificarum
, the witch hunters’ bible. The
Malleus
dealt with witches, not demons, but it reminded me of something: In past centuries, folks knew better how to deal with demons. Medieval monks, unburdened by the distractions or cynicism of the modern world, spent their lives detailing the names, characteristics, and behaviors of demons; most important, they noted methods of exorcising a demon.
That’s what I needed, I realized. An old- fashioned demonology would help me figure out what I was dealing with, and how to get rid of it.
And if that failed, I would have to find a way to force Aidan to tell me what the heck was going on.
Peaceful Things also had an unusual mirror in the front display window: It was framed on only three sides. Such mirrors were used by witches for scrying, or “seeing” as one would in a crystal ball, presuming one had more talent for such visions than I.
I thought about the mirror in the closet at the School of Fine Arts. I knew I couldn’t avoid it any longer; the mirror needed to be destroyed before more innocent folks looked into it.
My mind was burdened by the time I walked into Aunt Cora’s Closet, but as usual I was heartened simply by walking through my front door. I had made new moth-chasing sachets last week, and the whole store was scented with the essence of rosemary and mint. Eight or nine customers wandered the aisles, smiling and talking as they held up outfits to themselves. Bronwyn was chatting with a friend while she packed herbs in a small burlap sack, and Maya was exchanging pleasantries with a customer while she rang up her purchases on my antique register.
I
love
my job.
“Lily, thank goodness you’re here,” Maya said as her customer gathered her bags and left. “A customer is looking for a special dress for the upcoming Art Deco Society ball.”
“Hi, I’m Claudia,” said a woman about thirty years old, with mocha-colored skin, long straight hair, and exotic features. She held out a hand to shake, and a mischievous grin lit up her face. I liked her immediately. “I write the newsletter for the Art Deco Society, so I’ve got a jump on the competition. I need a fabulous dress for the dance at Oakland’s Paramount Theater. Another thing . . . I don’t suppose you or your friend there”—she motioned to Bronwyn—“know anything about love potions?”
“As it just so happens, I do,” I said, a bit breathless. Until a few days ago, I would have denied knowing anything about any kind of spell or charm. I was becoming braver around these Bay Area people.
“The important thing to remember about love spells is that the object of your affection needs to be inclined that way, anyway,” I explained. “A charm can help overcome a hurdle, but it can’t force someone to feel something they otherwise wouldn’t.”
I was not entirely forthcoming. There were stronger “love” spells, more than capable of compelling a person to exhibit a certain kind of behavior . . . but I gave them a wide berth. Such spells crossed the sometimes-too-thin line between heartfelt love and mindless obsession. Witchcraft could be scary.
“I understand,” Claudia said. “I just want him to realize I’m alive and possibly perfect for him, know what I mean?”
“I’ll mix something up. But first things first: I have a couple of dresses in the back that I think would be perfect for you.”
I brought out a few treasures. First was a 1920s gold lamé flapper gown I bought from an estate sale at a Pacific Heights mansion; it was in almost-mint condition, having been worn only once or twice. The gorgeous chemise-style gown was made with an under bodice that snapped closed in front, as well as at the front-left waist. The drape was gathered up into a large bow over the hip and secured with a rhinestone-embellished metal ornament. The dress featured a woven pattern of lotus blossoms, a symbol of the sun and rebirth.
“Cool Egyptian motif,” Maya commented.
“The discovery of King Tut’s tomb in the early 1920s sparked a craze for all things Egyptian,” I explained. “It also influenced interior design and fashion.”
“It’s very nice,” Claudia said, but her voice betrayed her doubt. The twenties style, cut large and meant to drape on the body, tended to look droopy on the hanger. Claudia was more drawn to a full-length bias-cut floral dinner dress in purple and gold, with a surplice-style wrapped bodice, an attached belt with a jeweled buckle, and a plunging back. I could tell it wouldn’t suit her as well, and not for the first time I wondered why we humans were so often drawn to things not right for us.
Recently I had attained a smidgen of local fame for finding suitable items for my patrons by matching the vibrations of clothing to customers’ auras. Most of them just felt better about themselves in the clothes; they didn’t attribute this to anything magical, but to the little lift we all feel when wearing something flattering.