The Flower Bowl Spell (12 page)

“What guy?”

“You know. The guy.”

“Ty, a high school girl has a lot of
crushes.”

He shakes his head. “You and Alice. Passing
your notes, giggling your giggles.”

Alice was sweet, not too bright, totally
trusting, and a bit of a flirt. Some might say a trollop. A
good-natured one. She would have been a wonderful pagan. I was her
straight man, sidekick, and designated driver. I often wonder if it
was her sweet, trusting nature that got her killed, and if my
protection spell, rather than shielding her, amplified the
vulnerable bits of her personality. The ingenuous are so easily
dispatched.

“Come on,” Tyson says. “Letter-jacket
dude.”

“Ah. Jake.” I allow myself a dreamy look, for
Ty’s benefit. Jake. My biggest crush. He was the starting varsity
quarterback. It was practically a graduation requirement that we
pine for him. “I have no idea what happened to him.”

“That’s funny. I thought you would have kept
track.”

“I’ve kept track of very little.” I smile at
him. “I’m not all that sentimental.” But just for fun, I try to
find Jake’s trace. It’s fairly easy—I sense a great weight and
confusion, and then it becomes clear: Jake has acquired a
post-college gut and is stuck in law school in Sacramento.

“I am.” Tyson sits down on the tire. “I’m a
big old sentimental softie.”

We watch the girls as Romola jumps off the
swing and heads for the slides. Cleo, smaller and slower, slithers
off and runs after her sister.

“You’re not going to ask me about Cheradon,”
he says, his eyes still on the girls. “Are you?”

“Do you want to talk about it on the
record?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

I lean back, letting my arms stretch until my
shoulders pop. “Maybe I won’t have to ask you about her at all.” I
know he feels love for her, but just because I know it doesn’t mean
I can publish it. It’ll depend on the tone Ned lets me take.

I sit up. My thoughts are all over the place.
I have the urge to make a list, to corral everything that’s
happening in some concrete way. I look over to the ducks. They are
standing by the fence watching us, and I realize their wings are
clipped and they can’t get away. They flap their useless limbs
anyway, holding them open.

From a distance, the duck in the Dodgers
jacket has snow-white feathers, good enough for angels. But the
other one—the one wearing a vest—is severely disfigured. I have to
look twice to see it. The undersides of his wings look scaly and
raw, like they’re diseased or decaying. There’s something on the
ground in front of them—a perfect white oval. An egg. The ducks
lower their beaks and peck at the egg until a clump of yolk and
clear runny goo as well as something solid falls out from between
the pieces of shell. It’s bloody and dead.

I feel my heart skip a beat and I look to
Viveka’s girls to make sure they aren’t watching. They are tackling
the corkscrew slide, oblivious to everything but the speed of their
descent. I look back at the ducks, and they are looking right at me
with black eyes, their wings folded.

“Hey,” Tyson taps me on the shoulder. “I’m
glad we came to this cool little park. Nice call.”

Chapter Eleven

It’s well established in my mind, though not
something I’ve felt the need to declare or even think about much,
that ducks are a little scary. I trace this opinion to a very
non-magickal childhood incident. Gru kept ducks at her place in
Mendocino, and she gave a duckling to Viveka to keep in the city.
Viveka brought it to one of our coven potlucks, a fluffy yellow
baby. I tried to pet it and it nipped me. The moral of this story?
Soft things can still cause big-time pain.

So I’m not surprised to have encountered some
freaky waterfowl. What gives me pause is their message. Are they on
my side, or some unfriendly type’s? I can’t help but wonder what
this might have to do with Viveka and her daughters. Because I’d be
a real live
idjit
if I thought they weren’t connected.

An hour outside Santa Barbara my cell phone
rings. It’s Ned, and he’s yelling. While I’m used to his sarcastic
style—he’s like a grousing fishwife—the yelling is a new
component.

“Is it true?” he barks.

“Hi, Ned,” I say, trying to hit the
speakerphone button while simultaneously steering into the Highway
1 slow lane.

“Is it true,” he continues, ignoring my
greeting, “that you have
children
with you?”
Children
said like
hookers
.

“What does it matter?” I try for jovial, or
cavalier. I grin stupidly at my dashboard hula girl as if we’re in
cahoots.

There’s a brief silence and for a second I
think I’ve been blessed with a gloriously timed dropped call.
“Hello?”

“What does it matter?” he whispers through
the tinny speaker. “What does it matter?” I’m beginning to get the
idea Ned doesn’t really have any ammo. “What about liability?”

“If you’re going to talk legal talk, then
yes, liability means nothing to me.”

“You are walking a thin, red line, young
miss.”

I glance at the girls in the mirror. They’re
ignoring my hard-to-hear conversation, too wrapped up in feeding
their dolls imaginary bottles of milk.

“Ned,” I say. I wish I could see him, face to
face. In order to bring a subject around, I usually have to have
eye contact. Casting with just my voice has never been my strong
suit, even though Gru always said that sound is the most
underestimated tool a witch has. Speaking something can make it
come true. “Relax. I’m going to do this job, and there’s nothing
you have to worry about.”

“Memphis, it’s not cool. It’s not rock and
roll.” I want to laugh. This coming from Mr. Square Pants. “They’re
not even your kids. You don’t
have
kids. It’s part of the
reason you’re a decent writer.”

“Chad Beane thinks I’m a decent writer. And
he doesn’t mind that I’m bringing the girls.” This is plainly not
true. Chad Beane doesn’t know I have the girls with me. Yet.

“Chad Beane doesn’t know your writing from
Seymour Hersh’s,” Ned says.

Perhaps Ned is suffering from early onset
dementia. “Chad’s the one who liked my writing so much. He’s why
I’m doing this.”

“Yeah, he’s the one who asked for you, but
he’s not the one who read your piece. It was the other one.”

“The other one what?”

“The other manager.”

I’m soundly confused. As far as I know,
Arsenic Playground only has one manager.

“The manager for that other band,” he
says.

It takes me a moment. “You mean Yeah
Right?”

“Yeah, right. Yeah Right.”

Someone is talking to Ned. He doesn’t even
cover up the phone with his hand, so when he yells at that person
it fills the car with its clanging report. “Does it look like I
want a goddamn Frappuccino? Get your imbecilic coffee list out
of—”

I end the call. So much for
psycho-manipulation. With one haphazard eye on the road, I scroll
through my recent calls until I find the number I need. Marisol is
in the office—I can hear Ned in the background still cussing out
what I assume is the
Planet’s
young college intern trying to
make an afternoon coffee run. There’s also the distinct sound of
weeping.

“So, I have a question for you,” I say after
pleasantries are duly exchanged. “Do you know who told Ned about
the girls?”

“Man, is he on a tear,” she whispers. “I’m
trying to get out of here and meet this new guy for drinks at the
Old Ship. What girls?”

That’s right. I haven’t even told Marisol
about Viveka’s visit. I haven’t had time to talk to her since this
all happened. I think of the people who know: Cooper, Viveka,
Auntie Tess, and Tyson. Viveka seems the least likely informant—and
besides, she’s off to who knows where. Cooper is also unlikely.
There’d be no reason for him to do that, and he’s at work and
highly unreachable in his classroom. Auntie Tess—no. That leaves
Tyson. With the added connection of Chad Beane being Ned’s college
friend.

But why would Tyson talk about the girls?

“What girls?” Marisol asks again.

“A friend’s kids,” I say. “I’ll fill you in
when I get back.”

“Playing house with Cooper? His daughter’s
not catalyzing your maternal instincts?”

“Ha ha. Goodbye, Marisol.”

“
Ciao
.”

****

Our Santa Barbara hotel is mid-century in
style and lower-tier fancy, with self-parking, a bellhop, and a
lobby that doubles as a continental breakfast buffet in the
mornings. The windows face the ocean as well as a busy boulevard,
which the landscape architects have tried to block out with
shrubbery. We’re a few blocks from State Street with its trendy
shops and restaurants. There’s the distinct fragrance of surf in
the air, slightly briny, that overpowers the odor of furniture
polish. The bellhop takes our bags and I face the concierge,
name-tagged as Kevin, who bristles with trepidation, excitement,
and a bit of defiance, his aura urine yellow.

“I’m afraid, Ms. Zhang, that the nanny we
arranged for you has come down with a case of tuberculosis,” he
tells me with baleful eyes.

“Tuberculosis!” People in the first world
still get TB? “That’s awful.”

“She and her assistants as well as the
children they usually take care of have been quarantined.”

Quarantined. Like aliens. “Well, isn’t there
anyone else?”

“I’m sorry to say, we don’t have a contract
with another nanny service for the hotel. I’m
so
sorry.”

How can this be? I look at the girls and they
look up at me, and I try to think of alternatives, but I can’t.
Cleo looks a little pleased. I try to tell myself it’s because she
likes me so much. But I’m screwed. My hands reach for Cooper’s
locket. It’s warm from my skin and I run my fingers over the
etching on its surface. Playing with my necklace is a nervous habit
I’ve avoided by not wearing jewelry.

“Perhaps you have friends in town who could
recommend someone?” Kevin simpers.

“We’re here on business.”

The concierge glances at the girls. “I see,”
he says. He follows up with more apologies and offers of
complimentary treatments at a local day spa. Even Cleo can get her
eyebrows waxed and tinted. I shove the gift certificates in my bag
and head to the elevators, the girls trailing.

The interior of the elevator is all mirrors
and wood. Cleo entertains herself by pushing her nose up with her
finger so she looks like a pig. Romola looks up at me.

“We’ll be okay by ourselves, Memphis,” she
says. “Don’t worry about us.” Her words are brave and comforting,
and I would hug her if she or I were huggy people. I’m just about
to tell her how inappropriate it would be to leave two little girls
alone in a hotel room, how I’d probably get arrested and so would
their mother, wherever she is, when Cleo says to herself in the
mirror. “It’s not safe here tonight.”

The elevator doors open on our floor, but we
don’t step out. Romola and I stare at Cleo.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“It’s better not to be here for playtime. But
bedtime will be okey-dokey.” She nods to herself then looks up at
my mirror image. She smiles and chatters her teeth together. “Look,
I’m a monkey.”

The doors start to close and I put my hand
out to stop them. The girls run out. Romola, apparently reassured
enough by her sister’s words that bedtime will be
okey-dokey
, leads the search for our guestroom.

“Cleo. Cleo!” I hurry down the hall after
them. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

She laughs and says it again: “Playtime isn’t
safe here but bedtime is okey-dokey. Okey-dokey, okey-dokey!” She
continues to chant, and I try a couple more times to ask what she
means but finally give up. She’s three—she’s incapable of breaking
her own loop. I wonder, not for the first time, what it is little
Cleo knows and what it is she can do.

In the meantime, there must be something
I
can do. Part of me says,
Cancel
.
Go
home
. But that’s not a part of me I want to listen to. I
actually want to go to this concert, meet my celebrity heroine
Cheradon Badler (fiancée of Tyson Belmonte or not), write this
article, perhaps move ahead in my journalism career, and restore
these little girls to their mother. Now is not the time to wimp
out. I have to think creatively.

I can think of nothing.

The hallway’s forest-green carpeting muffles
the sound of our footfalls and the ocean smell is completely gone.
We find our room and I slide in the key card, which works on the
second try. The bellhop is in our room, busily putting our bags on
luggage stands. He looks a little distracted, as if we caught him
in the middle of something important. But he’s emanating a glowing,
olive aura, traces of which are smeared on the lock of my suitcase.
His chin is blotchy and covered in pinch marks, and I know that
after he failed to open my bag, he sat on the bed and picked at a
whitehead, only hanging around and waiting for the sound of our
arrival so he could get a tip. After he shows us the bathroom, the
TV hutch, and the minibar—as if we couldn’t find any of it
ourselves—I give him a few bucks and he leaves.

Whatever Cleo meant by what she said, she’s
on to something, although the bellhop with his mundane shenanigans
is low on my list of possible baddies. There’s a lingering scent of
weed—if the bellhop isn’t already high, he’s going to be soon. I
can’t leave the girls alone here. Maybe that’s why the ducks
committed eggicide—a reminder to keep the girls close. Maybe.
Skeptics believe nothing is connected and paranoids believe
everything is connected. Me, magick chica, I like the middle
ground. I want to believe Bellhop is a common thief/stoner, but can
life be that clear cut?