A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (2 page)

“
Dude
, it’s sort of . . . gross.” Conrad nodded. This from the homeless guy who lived in Golden Gate Park and spent the better part of each day on the curb outside of Aunt Cora’s Closet, soliciting spare change.

“All right. All right. I get the point,” I said, realizing that if I wasn’t careful, soon I would become like Sebastian, grumbling about being too nice to people . . . and to objects. “But let’s at least look through the clothes and see what we’ve got. Then maybe I can clean up the trunk and put it on the community bulletin board. Surely
someone
will want such a historic piece.”

“I could call the Oakland Museum,” offered Maya. “If it really did cross the prairies on a wagon train, maybe they could use it in one of their Gold Rush displays. You could donate it, get a tax donation.”

“Now we’re thinking!”

Bronwyn smiled indulgently—fortunately for me, she was far too loving to hold a grudge. “Well, what are we waiting for? Open it up!”

I lifted the lid, and the strong odors of mothballs and cedar wafted out.

“Whoof!”
said Bronwyn, waving a hand in front of her nose.

My miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig—and ersatz witch’s familiar—retreated to his bed and hid his sensitive snout in the monogrammed purple satin pillow Bronwyn had given him. Oscar was one spoiled pig.

“Considering how bad they smell, the mothballs should have done a better job, don’t you think?” asked Maya, grimacing.

“The mothballs are probably a recent addition. Before that . . . well, the cedar keeps insects at bay, but it’s not one hundred percent effective. And these clothes have been in here a very long time. But I’m not worried about moth damage as much as rot. Look at this.”

I reached in and, using two fingers of each hand as gently as possible, lifted the shift that Sebastian had unfolded in his store. It cracked further along the creases, sending more tiny puffs of dust into the air.

Bronwyn and Maya gasped, and I couldn’t help but smile at their reactions. Neither had been particularly interested in textiles, or any aspect of fashion for that matter, when I met them. But there was something about vintage clothing. . . . The blending of tangible history, supreme craftsmanship, and fine lace could be addictive.

“What a
shame
,” said Bronwyn with feeling.

“Are they all that way?” said Maya.

I shrugged. “One way to find out.”

I lay the first item on the counter and removed another: a man’s shirt that was in even worse shape than the shift. Next was a linen shirtwaist in slightly better condition, though not by much.

“Look at those beautiful buttons!” Bronwyn exclaimed. “Dollars to doughnuts they’re bone.”

“I’ll bet my mom could find a use for them,” said Maya.

“Let’s set them aside,” I agreed. Maya’s mother, Lucille, was an expert seamstress—a crucial asset for a vintage clothing store. Lucille had recently established a cottage industry mimicking vintage dress patterns. She sized up
the beautiful old designs to fit today’s women, who were larger and much healthier than their grandmothers. From these designs, she created charming old-fashioned dresses that were also machine-washable—a huge advantage over most vintage, for which only the most expensive dry cleaning would do.

I removed more items from the trunk, but these, too, were beyond repair. Still, we examined each one carefully. Joined by several customers, we
ooh
ed and
aah
ed over the tiny handmade stitches, the bits of exquisite lace and fine embroidery, the surprisingly petite dimensions of adult men and women back in the day. As usual when I dealt with historical items, I kept imagining what life must have been like; in this case, the courage—or foolishness—it took to leave a city such as Boston and set out for the unknown. What had the trunk’s original owners died from? I wondered. Disease? An accident?

At last I reached the velvet I had felt calling to me in Sebastian’s shop. As I held it up there were several audible intakes of breath.

It was a deep gold velvet cape with a purple silk lining. Gold brocade ribbons ran down the interior seams and along the hem, and purple and gold fringe decorated the neckline. A silk-lined hood hung down the back, a large tassel at its crown. An ornate brass frog toggle fastened the cape at the throat. Where the rest of the trunk’s contents had been typical of the merchant class in the nineteenth century—quality construction with modest decorative touches—this cape was something else. It was also much older and appeared to have been fashioned for royalty.

It was not in great shape: The silk lining was shattered and hung in strips, there were numerous moth holes, the velvet had faded unevenly, and there was a large tear at the seam along the left shoulder. Yet even with all that . . . it was an amazing garment.

Unable to resist, I whirled it around my shoulders and only vaguely noticed as Oscar careened toward me, alarm in his pink piggy eyes. I fastened the brass clasp at the neck.

And then . . . I was no longer in the shop.

I felt a shock of freezing cold wash over me, followed by a river of heat. As though in a dream, I saw fuzzy shapes and heard sounds, unintelligible yet very real. As the images coalesced, I realized a mob was surrounding me, pointing fingers, faces distorted in anger and fear. They were jeering, yelling, calling out . . . curses? I couldn’t quite make it out; the sounds were like a recording being played at the wrong speed. It reminded me of being underwater. . . . The lights bobbed and flickered, and sounds were muffled and distorted.

It was nightmarish. What were they saying? I concentrated, straining to hear, trying to make out their words. . . .

“Lily?
Lily!
”

The concern in Bronwyn’s voice cut through the visions and brought me back to the present with a shock. Her hands were on my shoulders, shaking me gently, then nimbly undoing the clasp at my throat. The cloak puddled on the floor.

“Are you all right? What in the world . . . ?”

“Yes, of course. I . . .” Relief washed over me as I realized I was in my shop, surrounded by friends. I swayed on my feet. “Just a little . . . dizzy. I think I forgot to eat lunch.”

“Your blood sugar’s probably low,” Maya said, moving toward the kitchenette in the back room. “There’s some pomegranate kefir in the fridge.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bronwyn said. “The body needs fuel, you know.”

I wrinkled my nose but took a sip of the yogurt drink Maya held out.

“Better?” Maya asked.

I nodded. A customer brought several purchases to the cash register, and Maya and Bronwyn turned away to ring her up now that they were satisfied I was okay.

Picking up the velvet cape, I folded it over my arm and held it close to my chest. In all my years of dealing with vintage clothing, I had never encountered anything like this. Clearly, this was no ordinary cape. What was the nature of its power? Was it positive or negative? Good or evil? Only one thing was sure: I had to learn more about it.

And until I knew its story, it was vital no one else try it on.

I crossed over to the counter, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for Sebastian’s Antiques. I got voice mail but didn’t leave a message; once we closed up for the night, I would go back to Jackson Square and have a little chat with Sebastian about the cloak’s provenance. With any luck he kept decent records, so I would be able to track down the woman who sold him the trunk—and its strange contents—and talk to her directly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Conrad sink onto the velvet bench near the dressing rooms. He leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands.

“Are you all right, Conrad?” I held out the bottle of kefir. Conrad did look a mite peaked, but it was hard to tell if it was out of the ordinary. His eyes were habitually red-rimmed, due to the illegal, or ill-advised, substances he imbibed.

“Dude, I haven’t been, like, sleeping well?”

“Insomnia?” It wouldn’t be surprising. It amazed me that Conrad, along with so many “gutterpunks,” as the homeless young people called themselves, got any sleep at all. I had slept in the forest many times, but an urban park? No matter how thickly wooded, I doubted I’d be able to relax enough to get my REM sleep.

“I got a prime sleeping spot, but, dude, it’s gnarly. I keep waking up from sort of, like, bad dreams? Prob’ly ’cause of, like, I have a lot of work to do. The Con’s not used to it. Not my thing.”

“What kind of work?” Bronwyn asked.

He looked around, his face blank.

“Does it have something to do with the clipboard tucked under your arm?” Maya offered. She hadn’t much cared for Conrad at first, but he had won her—had won all of us—over with his desire to please and the sense of protectiveness he felt toward Aunt Cora’s Closet.

After a moment, realization dawned. “
Dude!
Yes! We’re collecting names for this petition. City plans to kill Ms. Quercus, and we’re, like, totally against it.”

“An execution? Really?” Maya asked.

Conrad nodded.

“Are you sure?” Bronwyn said. “By the city?”

“Totally.”

That sounded odd. There were occasional executions at San Quentin, a maximum-security prison across the bay, but the city didn’t control San Quentin; the state did. Not to mention, the executions were well publicized and engendered loud protests, but I hadn’t heard a thing about this one.

“Could I see the petition?” I asked, and Conrad handed me the clipboard.

The petition, written in red ink in Conrad’s surprisingly neat handwriting, read:
I don’t want the city to remove Ms. Quercus, as she deserves to deteriorate at her own pace rather than having her demise hastened unnaturally.

“It’s a woman?” Bronwyn asked, reading over my shoulder.

“It says ‘Ms.,’” Maya pointed out.

“She’s a friend of yours?” Bronwyn asked Conrad.

“What’d she do?” Maya said.

“Nothing,” Conrad said. “She’s innocent.”

“That’s what everybody on death row says,” Maya muttered.

“The innocent are sometimes unjustly convicted,” Bronwyn argued.

Conrad nodded.

I suspected there was more to this story. “Con, who, exactly, is Ms. Quercus?”

“Not a ‘who,’ dude. She’s, like, totally a tree.”

Now
I understood. Among the Bay Area’s numerous charming quirks was the frequency with which people protested the cutting down of trees. I had never heard of such a thing before moving here.

“So are you tree sitting Ms., uh”—I glanced at the petition—“Quercus?”

“Nah, dude, can’t. She’s, like, an ancient oak, but rotten on the inside, I guess. So she’s, like, dying, which is totally sad, but it’s also, like, the circle of life. Besides . . . you ever seen how much life is supported by a dying tree? Woodpeckers, all sorts of squirrels and lizards, critters hollowing out burrows around the roots. Even frogs. Plus mushrooms! Dude, you’d never believe the mushrooms.”

“Are these ‘magic mushrooms,’ by any chance?” Maya asked.

“Nah, dude. At least . . . I don’t think so.” He frowned, as though in concentration. “Never tried, actually. Not the Con’s style.”

I’d finally put it all together. “So you’re saying that the city wants to take the tree down because they’re afraid it will fall over and hurt someone?”

He nodded. “This tree lady came by and told us Ms. Quercus can’t be cured, but it might take her a while to fall apart completely. So that’s when this other scientist dude says, how come we can’t just put a fence around her, keep people back in case she falls or a branch goes? And me and my friends are like,
dude
. She still has leaves; she’s still a beauty. Besides, I totally sleep under her, no problem. I love that tree. She’s . . . she’s special.”

“How do you know it’s a ‘she’?” Maya asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“Dude.”

Maya, Bronwyn, and I shared a smile. I took the clipboard from Conrad and signed his petition. I was all for woodpeckers and other critters keeping their arboreal homes as long as possible. Besides, surely the city had more productive ways to spend its money. Conrad was right: Why not put up a fence and let nature take its course?

“I’m next,” Bronwyn said.

“Hand it over.” Maya sighed.

“So how do you know her name?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“That tree lady came to take a look,” said Conrad. “She told us all about her kind—they’re called Quercus . . . something or other. I can never remember the full name, but the Quercus part just stuck.”

Conrad paused and perused his petition, full of several new names.

“Okay, then. Thanks for the support. The Con’s got to mosey on down the way and pick up some more signatures. And, dude, let me know if you need help carrying this trunk out to the alley for garbage day. See you around.”

“Bye.”

As he turned to leave, tingles went up my spine and the back of my neck felt cold. Watching Conrad’s back, I suddenly felt as though I was back in . . .
wherever
I went to when I tried on the cloak. I wasn’t a big one for premonitions, but I’d been working on my magical skills, so perhaps I was developing new sensibilities. Whether it was that, or something about that velvet cloak, or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure.

But one thing I knew for sure: Something was wrong.

“Conrad,
wait
.”

He turned back toward me, eyebrows raised in question.

I hesitated, looking around the shop. No one else seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Several customers were absorbed in their search of the racks and shelves of clothing. Bronwyn had returned to her herbal stand, where she was mixing custom tea blends, and Maya was straightening the changing rooms. Frank Sinatra crooned softly in the background, and as always, the air in the shop was scented with the sachets I changed out every week, filling black silk squares with rosemary and rue, or juniper and rose petals . . . whatever herbs or flowers were abundant and in season.

I was safe and sound in Aunt Cora’s Closet, my refuge. So why did I feel like something was seriously amiss?

“Conrad, you mentioned you were having bad dreams?”

He nodded and gazed down at the clipboard.

“And you’ve been sleeping under this oak tree you’re trying to save?”

“Dude.”

I searched my memory for what I knew about oak trees. In European folklore they were said to be home to the woodsfolk, who could be vengeful if their trees were razed. The California live oak was a different breed from the European version, with a small spiked leaf instead of the oak’s classic five fingers. But I had never heard of any species of oak being associated with nightmares.

And this oak tree probably wasn’t, either. More likely, Conrad was suffering the effects of a life spent ingesting too many drugs and too little food, compounded by a lack of sleep.

But then again . . . I rarely had premonitions. And I was too smart a witch not to pay attention when I did.

“Would you show me the oak tree you’re talking about?” I asked. “I’d like to see it.”

“Um . . . Ms. Quercus? Sure. When?”

“Five minutes?”

“Dudette, tell you what. I’ll stroll down Haight for more signatures, and if you don’t catch up with me, I’ll meet you near the horseshoe pits and show you to the tree. She’s not far from there.”

“Perfect, thanks.”

The bell on the front door tinkled as new customers arrived, and Conrad went to ask for their signatures on his petition.

I quickly riffled through the remaining items in the trunk to be certain there was nothing else out of the ordinary, but the velvet cape was the only oddity. I stared at the cape a moment before rolling it up and bringing it upstairs to my apartment over the store, where I placed it in a wicker basket and covered it with a black cloth that had been washed in rosewater and consecrated. Then, just in case, I surrounded it with stones—quartz, Apache tears, and tiger’s eye—cast a quick binding spell, and left it under the watchful eye of Oscar before returning to the shop.

I tried calling Sebastian’s Antiques one more time, hoping to make an appointment to talk with Sebastian, but still no one answered. I realized I would have to take my chances and try to catch up with him later.

“Bronwyn, Maya, do you have a moment?” I said, and they joined me at the register. “I took the cape upstairs for safekeeping. Until I’ve had the chance to study it, I’d prefer no one else knows anything about it, okay?”

“Of course, Lily,” Bronwyn said.

“I know it sounds a little odd . . .” I began.

“No more than a lot of what goes on around here,” Maya commented. “Pretty much par for the course, in fact.”

I smiled, grateful for their support. “I know I’ve been gone all day, but would you two mind if I took off again? I want to see this Ms. Quercus character for myself.”

“Have fun,” said Bronwyn.

“We’ve got plenty to sort through,” said Maya. “I’m itching to see what you found at the thrift stores.”

“Thanks, y’all.”

I glanced over my shoulder as I walked out the door. Happiness washed over me as I took in the sight of Aunt Cora’s Closet brimming with vintage clothes and bustling with customers and friends. Part of me longed to stay and sort through the new acquisitions with Maya and Bronwyn—not only did I enjoy their company, but we always turned these moments into a fun treasure hunt.

Still, it was also a lovely day for a walk in the sunshine. San Francisco’s climate was temperate, though it could be plagued by fog and chill blowing in off the ocean. The spring and fall months, I had learned, were by far the most beautiful, as summer days often were shrouded by heavy blankets of fog.

I walked down Haight Street, passing head shops, a few other secondhand clothes dealers, restaurants and pubs, the Booksmith, and plenty of tourists basking in the hippie hangout of yore. The neighborhood was still filled with young people, like Conrad, who had left their homes in rural Nebraska or downtown Detroit or sunny Florida in search of love and open-mindedness in the City by the Bay. Unfortunately, they also found some of the highest rents in the country and a tight job market. Add the lure of cheap drugs and alcohol, and too many ended up spending their days begging for spare change on the streets of the Haight and their nights sleeping in doorways or in Golden Gate Park. They were frequently dirty, smelly, and pushy to the point of obnoxiousness, but my heart went out to them. I had searched for a home for too long myself not to be touched by their plight.

Just after Amoeba Records I crossed Stanyan and
entered Golden Gate Park, turning right on a curved path toward the horseshoe pits. A couple of boys were playing tag in the grassy field, their young parents sprawled on a picnic blanket. A teenage couple sat on a bench, heads together, hands clasped tightly.

Just then there were two loud popping sounds, like balloons bursting.

A moment later, a pair of women, clad in skirts and heels, ran past. Hot on their heels was a man dressed in a business suit. Not your typical joggers.

Sometimes my body senses things long before my brain catches up. My lips trembled, and I felt another prickling sensation, as if an army of ants was crawling along my arms, then down my spine. I caught a wisp of the cloying, sickly sweet scent of death.

Carefully, I proceeded toward the noise, passing through a small wooded area and entering a clearing dominated by a massive oak. Its thick branches spread wide, dipping close to the ground as though inviting children to climb. The tree’s immense trunk was encircled by orange traffic cones and city-stamped A-frame wooden signs warning people to keep back.

Conrad was kneeling by a prone man near the base of the tree.

Two bright red stains marred the breast of the man’s white linen shirt. Bushy eyebrows were raised as though in surprise; a smudge of dirt marred the bridge of his bespectacled nose.