A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (15 page)

In front of Bancroft Library a group of five students bounced a Hacky Sack with their feet, laughing and chatting. As usual when I’m on a college campus, I couldn’t keep from looking around at the students and thinking how lucky they were to be here, studying. I was willing to bet that most of them had families that loved them and homes to go for winter break, where they could sleep in to all hours and then awake to delicious-smelling pot roast and potatoes and bicker with their parents and siblings. Normal homes with normal problems.

I had begun to feel so good about myself and my situation in San Francisco. The success of Aunt Cora’s Closet, Maya and Bronwyn and all our friends who hung around the shop; Sailor, and even Carlos and Aidan and Max . . . I had people here who accepted me, more or less, for who I was. And I felt that I was in a unique position to help my community, from time to time, by looking into magical murder and mayhem.

But then something like this came along and suddenly
I found myself linked across the centuries to an ancient crime against women. Had the velvet cape come to me on purpose? Was it meant to be a tie to those long-ago women, a connection that I was intended to discover? And who were these women? Were they simply caught up in the brutality of the time, as Will suggested, or could they have been bent on destruction?

And thinking of that . . . was Deliverance Corydon all that bad? She may have been a bit randy, and perhaps she ran around with other women’s husbands . . . but was that enough to put her to death? And then to cast a love curse upon the house of Woolsey . . . Again, maybe it wasn’t very nice, but it wasn’t along the lines of cooking children, as witches were accused of in parts of Europe—or even in fairy tales, like Hansel and Gretel.

And who was the other one, the Ashen Witch?

My fingertips tingled. I looked down at my hands and rubbed the pads of my fingers with my thumbs. I couldn’t forget the feel of those ashes searing my outstretched fingers.

I arrived at my car and climbed behind the wheel, but hesitated before starting the engine. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the folks at Aunt Cora’s Closet, all those well-meaning people looking for my missing familiar. I pined for Oscar so; it was like a physical ache. If Oscar were with me now, he would be haranguing me to search for gargoyles on the Berkeley campus. He was always on the lookout for his mother, who apparently suffered under a curse that had transformed her kind into stone.

I wasn’t up for such a quest without my little guy by my side, but there was something else in Berkeley that interested me. Bart’s niece, Hannah, had mentioned she worked at the Vivarium, near the busy shopping district of Fourth Street. She loved all the “creepies, crawlies, and critters.”

It wasn’t far, and it would serve as a distraction. Why not?

Parking was why not,
I realized as I circled the block for the second time. Berkeley’s Fourth Street shopping district used to be a series of old factories, but it now featured upscale foodie restaurants and several small, very chic boutiques. A parking space was hard-won, but I finally found one without having to resort to using a magical charm I kept in my glove box for emergencies.

A block off the main drag, the East Bay Vivarium was tucked discreetly back from the street, surrounded by old Victorians and sweet clapboard cottages. A huge mural showing a lizard with its tongue extended, eating a fly, made it clear I was in the right place.

Before I even got through the door I noted the strange, dry smell of reptiles . . . and the distinct odor of rodents that, I guessed, would serve as dinner. All around the shop glass-fronted cages held snakes and lizards, frogs and spiders. I read signs as I walked toward the central counter: There were sunbeam snakes, Indonesian tree snakes, yearling green pythons, emerald tree boas, uromastyxes, rainforest frogs, and a variety of chameleons.

I spied Hannah toward the back of the store. Today she was wearing slightly more formal athletic gear: black stretch pants, a stretchy bright yellow yoga top, and a hoody tied around her muscled, slim waist.

But the most interesting piece she was wearing, by far, was a large, oh-so-albino snake. I didn’t much care for serpents, but of all animals—with the notable exception of one potbellied pig—they were the only creatures that could understand me. Snakes had saved my life—at least once, maybe twice—but nonetheless they still weirded me out. There was something deeply disturbing about the way they moved. This is where we derive the word “creepy,” after all.

“Hi, Hannah . . .” I trailed off, trying to think of something nice to say about her snake. Happily, she beat me to it.

“Oh, wow,
hi
. I didn’t really expect you to actually come! I invite people all the time, but they never actually
come
. Meet my friend Zelda.”

“Zelda’s the snake?”

“Isn’t she beautiful?” she asked, and ducked her chin to give Zelda’s yellow hide a kiss. “She’s an albino Colombian boa. Very rare.”

“Um . . . yes. So unusual.”

“You don’t like snakes?” she asked, half accusation and half question. “Then why are you at the Vivarium?”

“I actually came to see you,” I said. “And I don’t
dis
like snakes, I just . . . I have a lot of respect for them.”

She laughed. “Well, that makes sense. And it’s a better attitude than those folks who come in here thinking they’re buying an instrument to strike terror into the hearts of their neighbors. Matter of fact, I think some of our customers go for the tarantulas because they’re hoping to kill off a mother-in-law or something.”

Hannah was still smiling, but the thought gave me pause. What was to keep someone from buying one of these critters with the express purpose of hurting someone? Then again, I’d heard that tarantulas weren’t as venomous as people thought. Not that I wanted to find out.

“We also have iguanas and dragons.”

“Dragons?”

“Bearded dragons. They’re a kind of lizard,” she said with a gesture toward large lizards with ruffles around their neck. “They puff up if they feel threatened, make a big show. Aren’t they cute?”

I smiled and nodded. Lizards were better than snakes—once creatures had legs, they didn’t seem nearly so creepy. Still . . . “I think I’m more of a frog person.”

“We have a bunch of those, too. Have you been to the new frog exhibit at the California Academy of Sciences?”

“No, I haven’t. Is it worth seeing?”

“Oh, definitely. In fact, tomorrow night they’re having a cocktail party. You should totally come! It’s adults only. My sister works there so I can get in free, and I totally love going, but sometimes you can barely walk because of all the schoolkids. It’s cool to be there with just adults. You should go.”

“Maybe I will.”

I thought back on what the professor had told me about Deliverance Corydon being accused of having a frog familiar. Frogs were popular as witches’ familiars in the old days, probably in part because of their transformational abilities. Not that familiars were usually able to shift—Oscar was a rarity where that was concerned.
Oscar
. His absence had become a constant ache. How I wished he were snuggled in his cubby over the refrigerator at home. I could hear him now:
“A cocktail party? Awesome! I love frogs! And I’m a real museum booster, you know. I’m a card-carrying member.”

But right now everything depended on what happened with Oscar. I wasn’t about to make plans until I had that little guy back in my apartment, eating and making a mess and talking loudly through movies.

“Anyway, what did you want to see me for? Is it about my uncle?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I—”

“He’s harmless, really,” she interrupted, talking while the snake curled around her arm. “He just . . . can’t stop talking about that curse, so everyone thinks he’s crazy. But he managed the family finances just fine most of his life.”

“He said he’s spent most of his fortune?”

“That’s what he says.” She nodded, her eyes shadowed. “If you want to know the truth, I think that’s the
biggest reason people in the family are angry with him. Like they thought they were going to inherit his money or something.”

“But not you?”

She shrugged. “I figure it was his money in the first place, so if he wants to spend it all to dig up information on his family and this supposed curse . . . well, my dad spent his at the racetrack and in bars. At least the apartment Bart lives in is paid for, and he was sensible enough to set aside a dedicated account for the taxes and condo fees, so he won’t be homeless.”

“Well, that’s good, then.”

“As long as we can get that place cleaned up, that is, so he’s not thrown out by the homeowners association. Which, frankly, I think is pretty bogus. I don’t really get condos. Don’t you think it’s strange to pay for a place and then have the condo committee tell you what you can and can’t do?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose so,” I said, thinking that close neighbors wouldn’t much enjoy my middle-of-the-night incantations or the smells of my brews, the more exotic of which could be a little noxious. It was best I lived by myself, with no immediate neighbors to bother.

“Then again, I’m not a homeowner, so what do I know? Anyway . . . is there a problem with the clothes? We could negotiate on the money if they aren’t worth what you paid. You were really generous, but to tell you the truth, it was a help just to get them out of there.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. A deal’s a deal. But could you tell me about selling things to Sebastian Crowley? What made you reach out to him in particular?”

A shadow passed over her eyes. “Oh, Uncle Bart told me about . . . what happened. That is so odd, isn’t it? That I could be talking to someone one day, and the very next day he’s
shot
? It’s . . . disconcerting. Really sad.”

I nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“So, I tried a few antiques dealers in Jackson Square, but they’re pretty snooty. Really, I didn’t know anything about how to go about selling something like that. . . . I asked Uncle Bart, but he didn’t want me to sell the items anyway, so he’s not a lot of help.”

“So your uncle didn’t mention Sebastian to you himself?”

“I mean, Bart’s known Sebastian for a while, but like I said, he’s not up for me selling his things, or giving things away.” She petted the snake. “It’s a battle every time I go over there—you know, he’s pretty upset about the trunk.”

“He can probably have it back as soon as the police release it.”

“What are they doing with it?”

“They were checking it out, in case it served as evidence in Sebastian’s death.”

“Really? So it’ll be one more piece of junk for his apartment. Think how gorgeous that place could be if he’d let me clean it up.” She shrugged, which gave the effect of Zelda-the-yellow-snake levitating on her shoulder. “But as they say in mindfulness training, you can’t control anyone else. We all make our own choices.”

“I’m sorry if this is a personal question, but . . . You’re the only family member who is in contact with your uncle?”

“Pretty much. I mean, my sister goes over every once in a while, when I drag her there. She always claims she’s too busy with work, because she’s a scientist over at the Cal Academy, and I’m just a lowly clerk in a reptile store. But I always tell her that working here has taught me lots about . . .”

Hannah kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. She mentioned that earlier, but it hadn’t really registered. . . . Her sister worked at the Academy of Sciences?

“What does your sister do at the Cal Academy?”

“Nina? She’s a botanist.”

“Do you happen to know one of her colleagues over there? A fellow named Lance Thornton?”

“Yeah.” She made a little face. “He gives me the willies.”

“How so?”

“He’s always staring. Those goggle eyes . . .”

And then, as though embarrassed to have made such a personal comment, she added: “I mean, I guess he’s nice enough. He’s just odd. A lot of scientists are. I think scientists are like artists: willing to take low pay to pursue what they love. They work long hours, passionate about something no one else cares about. I guess it makes sense they end up being sort of misfits, right?”

And then she kissed Zelda-the-albino-boa again.

As I got in my car I thought to myself that a lot of young people are willing to give away more information about themselves than I ever would. But then again, perhaps it wasn’t so much youth per se, as having grown up in a safe and secure situation. What with my childhood, I wasn’t even sure about eating food from unknown sources, much less telling my family history to some woman wandering in off the street.

All the way home, inspired by Hannah’s mindfulness training, I tried to concentrate on the here and now and on not controlling anyone. The fact was that, like Aidan said, Oscar could be anywhere. I wasn’t really his mistress; he was free to go. It would surprise me if he left me, but he might well have his own reasons for doing so, as Aidan implied.

Still, I paused in front of the door to Aunt Cora’s Closet, hoping to see some sign that my missing pig had returned. But the signs were still up, volunteers still milling about. No indication of the celebration I felt sure would accompany Oscar’s return. In fact, it was almost six o’clock, but the store still appeared very much open for business.

When I entered, I discovered why: Some of the volunteers—my money was on the coven sisters—had organized a potluck dinner. They appeared to have no intention of closing down Lost Pig Central anytime soon.

With a heavy heart, I forced myself to walk in with a smile.

But I spent the rest of the evening trying to ignore Oscar’s monogrammed purple silk pillow, pathetically empty.

* * *

“I can’t believe you waited so long to tell me about Oscar,” Sailor said later that evening.

We were seated at Sailor’s cheap laminate kitchen table, eating take-out from one of the best noodle shops in town. Roast duck and dumplings and seared bok choy and noodles with black bean sauce—the food sent up a bouquet of mouth-watering aromas. Despite this, I was picking at my food and trying in vain to work up an appetite. I hadn’t eaten a thing at the potluck, but I still wasn’t hungry.

Sailor’s apartment was in Chinatown, down a little alley into which tourists rarely ventured. Everything smelled of spices and the faint whiff of a ghostly perfume that lingered, evidence of a long-ago perfume factory here in Hang Ah Alley. Once you got past the ghost of a murdered gambler on the landing right outside Sailor’s door, it was a nice place. Urban, but cozy. A neatly made bed, stacks of books, an old TV with a DVD player. The kitchen had only one plate, one bowl, and one set of cutlery, so Sailor was eating straight out of the box with the free wooden chopsticks, which he wielded with mastery.

Normally, I had to practically sit on my hands in order not to offer to fix the place up for him. It wouldn’t take much: a nice set of dishes, some pots and pans, curtains in the window, a pot of basil on the counter and some rosemary at the front door for good luck. For that
matter, I could outfit the place with the vintage kitchenware I kept acquiring, cleaning out a corner of the store while making Sailor’s place into a home.

But things were still new between us, still tender. The last thing I wanted to do was send him screaming to the hills about being beholden first to Aidan, now to me. He hadn’t asked me to decorate or contribute to his comfort. That was why we usually hung out at my place, which was full of herbs and the smells of baked goods, with a snug couch and bed and a funny, smart-alecky familiar. . . .

Oscar—or the
lack
of Oscar—was precisely why we weren’t at my apartment tonight. The shop was one thing—we kept busy and Oscar wasn’t part of every fiber. But upstairs, in my place . . . all I could see was his empty nest in the cubby above the refrigerator, the TV remote control sticky with whatever it was he was eating last, the scratches his claws had left on the brass bedstead. My apartment had become a home with Oscar there; without him, it was nothing but sad.

“The folks I talked to the other day couldn’t tell me much more than what we already know: that Sebastian had made a lot of enemies over the years. But now this thing with Oscar makes me think it’s a lot more complicated than simple revenge. Unfortunately, we both know I’m not as sensitive as I once was.” Sailor looked at me a long moment, as though searching for words. “Now that I’m not with Aidan, I need to reestablish my equilibrium. I need to spend some time with my aunt, not only to help her out while she recovers, but to try to figure this thing out.”

“I thought you didn’t want the powers in the first place.”

“I didn’t. I still don’t, not really. But . . . I tell you what, after what I’ve seen and felt, it’s a little hard to go back to a nine-to-five job.”

Sailor was searching for his place in the grand scheme of things. I was familiar with the dilemma.

“But that said,” he continued, “I’d be happy to go to the tree and see if I can pick up on anything.”

Ironically enough, now that Sailor was willing to read for me whenever I wanted, I cared so much for him that I hated to expose him to such things. I knew how hard it was for him to experience the evil thoughts and impulses of demons and spirits. Besides, since his powers of perception had diminished, I wondered whether he was also less able to keep himself safe. The way he “felt” things was to let them in; without a strong guard, he could well put himself in danger.

“Unless you can talk to the woodsfolk, I’m not sure you can help. You’re better with spirits and the like, right? This is more of a haunted tree situation.”

“Haunted by a spirit?”

“I don’t think so. It’s possible that . . . I’m thinking maybe the ashes of a woman who was burned at the stake for witchcraft were buried at the base of the tree, and . . .” I trailed off and shook my head. Saying it aloud made it sound even more far-fetched than it already did in my mind. “I mean . . . Oscar’s disappearance might not have anything to do with the tree at all. Aidan suggested that the Good People brought Oscar down for a chat. After all, I asked him to introduce me. I insisted, in fact. . . .”

“It’s not your fault,” Sailor said quietly. “And even if I can’t help directly, I’d like to go to the tree with you. How about we go by there in the morning?”

I shrugged again and played with a dumpling, concentrating on holding the chopsticks just right so I could grasp the slippery piece without squeezing so hard that it skittered along the table. I remembered doing just such a thing once while visiting Hong Kong, and how an old woman at the table had laughed and showed me how
to hold the sticks properly. That was back before I had roots and a community. Back before I was embroiled so deeply that I’d do just about anything to keep my loved ones safe.

Though I loved my new life, I felt a fleeting pang of nostalgia for those days of not having to worry about anyone but myself.

“Aidan says time passes differently down there, but that Oscar could return anytime . . . unless he eats something.”

Again, our silence hung heavy with thoughts and fears. Hard to imagine Oscar turning down a faery feast.

“Or he might just have moved on of his own accord,” I continued. “Aidan said he might have just gotten bored and . . .”

“Oscar wouldn’t leave you.”

“I didn’t think so either, but Aidan said—”

“I don’t care what Aidan said. And you shouldn’t either. Even if Oscar was ready to leave you—which I don’t believe for a minute—he couldn’t just take off. He’s still beholden to Aidan.”

“How?”

Sailor shrugged. “Aidan keeps sway over people. You should know that by now.”

“Speaking of which, you never told me how you broke free of him—why did he let you come back to San Francisco after banishing you?”

“I guess he saw the error of his ways. And then once his office burned, he had bigger fish to fry. Hey, guess what I rented?”

He held up a DVD of
Bell, Book, and Candle
, starring Kim Novak, Jimmy Stewart, and Jack Lemmon. Sailor was changing the subject, as he did every time I asked him how he was able to return to San Francisco, and to me. As with so many people—and creatures—in my life, when it came to Sailor, a lot of questions went
unanswered. We magical folk relished our secrets. We were trained from an early age to respect one another’s right to privacy, but it was tough to get close with so much left unsaid.

We sat on the bed to watch the film. Sailor wrapped his arm around my neck, and I rested my head on his shoulder. His scent wrapped around me: clean, slightly citrus, spicy but fresh. Despite—or perhaps because of—his sardonic ways and dark outlook on the world, Sailor had always made me feel safe, even before we were romantically involved.

The movie was a hokey, early-Hollywood look at witchcraft, and—amazingly enough—it actually got a few things right. It was supposed to be funny, but I wasn’t laughing.

I started thinking about Oscar again.

“Hey,” Sailor whispered. “Stay with me.”

“Sorry. It’s just that—”

“Shh,” he said, putting a finger on my lips. “I know how important that little pig is to you. I swear to you I’ll do everything in my power to bring him home. Between the two of us, we’re sure to figure something out. I didn’t find out anything useful today, but I put out some feelers. I’ll go talk to my aunt Renna tomorrow, see if she knows anything, or has any leads for us. She might know something about the woodsfolk—she seems to know something about everything. In the meantime, try to keep your mind off of it.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” I asked.

His mouth came down on mine, and for the next while, I didn’t think about Oscar or enchanted trees or the woodsfolk or the death of an antiques dealer I barely knew.

But later, as I lay in Sailor’s arms, the lights of Hang Ah Alley sifting in through the dusty windowpanes, all I could think about was Deliverance Corydon, and the
Ashen Witch, and whether they could somehow help me get my piggy back.

* * *

“I changed my mind,” I told Sailor in the morning. “If you wear one of my talismans and I go with you, will you try to read the tree?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure? You really don’t mind?”

“Let’s take the bike. I bought you a helmet.”

He tossed the headgear to me. He had tied a red ribbon around it in a bow.

“That’s so . . . sweet. First Oscar buys me a present and now you. Y’all are going to positively turn my head.”

Sailor smiled. “You just go on ahead and let it turn. We’ll keep you in line. You warm enough to ride?”

I nodded, excited at the prospect of becoming a Motorcycle Mama.

“Let’s go talk to the trees and see if we can’t figure this thing out.”

The first thing I noticed when we arrived in Golden Gate Park and walked to the clearing at the oak tree was that the crime-scene tape was gone. I wondered whether the police had officially released the scene, or if it had been taken down rather more informally. Did this mean Carlos wasn’t able to keep it an open crime scene? And if so, would the tree be razed soon?

The clearing was full of young people—most of them appearing homeless, like Conrad—standing around watching, chatting, eating. One played the flute, another strummed—badly—on a guitar. A few had dogs with them, just as scraggly and hungry-looking as they were. I noticed bright pink signs asking
Have you seen this lost piggy?
stapled to several trees, and there was even evidence that one had been stapled to the big oak but then torn off. Only the corners remained.

A man was crouching by the base of the tree. Dressed
in a stained white lab coat, he didn’t fit in with the rest of the ragtag group of young people.

“Lance?” I called. “Hi . . . Do you remember me?”

“Yes. You . . . you were here that day.” He looked up at me with a glum expression in his big eyes. “With . . . with the body.”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m Lily. What are you doing here?”

“Probably the same as you,” he said, eyes flickering rather nervously to a point just beyond me.

I turned around to see that Sailor stood at my back, arms crossed over his chest, glowering. With his motorcycle boots and black leather jacket, he looked formidable. I elbowed him, and he backed away to give us some privacy. I wanted Lance to talk to me, not to be intimidated into silence.

“I just wanted to come take another look,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic. “It was all such a shock.”

My ploy seemed to work; Lance nodded and spoke eagerly. “I was trying to figure out what he might have been looking for under the tree. I know it seems strange. I mean, I didn’t even know him from Adam, but . . . I’ve never seen a man die before.” His voice caught on his final words.

“That’s right. The ground was disturbed, wasn’t it?” I said, noticing the scent of damp, freshly turned earth. But I thought back to finding Sebastian; the ground was moist here, so wouldn’t his hands have been noticeably muddy if he had been the one digging? Could he have interrupted someone while they were looking for something, and had been killed for his trouble?

“The police dug up part of some old box the other day; you think that’s what he was looking for?” Lance asked. “It seemed worthless, probably something that was here since before.”

“It’s really hard to know. I, um . . .” I thought about how to mention the connection through Hannah. “You
know, it turns out an acquaintance of mine is the sister of one of your colleagues. I think the last name’s Woolsey?”

“You know Nina Woolsey?”

“Not really, no. But I know her sister, Hannah, a little.”

Lance shrugged. “I study amphibians. But Hannah likes snakes more than frogs, so that’s the way that goes.”

Unsure of how to respond, I just nodded. Then something occurred to me. “My friend Conrad mentioned that you were trying to save this tree. Do you know anyone at the Parks Department?”

He shrugged.

“I just thought maybe . . . since the Cal Academy of Sciences is so influential with regard to conservation and the environment, that sort of thing . . . and if Nina’s a tree expert—”

“She’s not really a tree expert; she just knows a lot about them.”

I nodded. “It’s just that this tree is slated to be cut down, and I was hoping to get someone to—”

“Cut down? Cut
down
? When?”