A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (4 page)

Our eyes held for a long moment. He blew a long, noisy breath through his nose.

“Why would Crowley have your business card in his pocket?”

“As I said, I gave it to him this morning. . . .”

“At his shop.”

“Right.”

He nodded and consulted his notebook, then went over my timeline once more. There were about three hours between the time I left Sebastian’s shop and when Conrad found him. Three hours in which he came—or was brought—to Golden Gate Park and was shot under the outstretched arms of Ms. Quercus, condemned oak tree.

I felt as jumpy as spit on a hot skillet, but I tried to clamp down on my impatience as I watched Carlos ponder his notes. Among other things, I was itching to wash up and to cast a protection spell over Aunt Cora’s Closet. Unless I missed my guess, that extraordinary garment might have something to do with all of this. It was too much of a coincidence to find Sebastian shot to death right after experiencing the strange visions from a cloak he had sold me earlier in the day.

I reached up to fiddle with my ponytail and realized with a sickening jolt that my hands were still stained with Sebastian’s blood. As were Conrad’s . . . Surely Carlos didn’t truly suspect him. Did he?

“We’ll keep an eye on Aunt Cora’s Closet for the next couple of days,” said Carlos. “Until we figure out the connection between you, the trunk, and the victim. If there is one. It could just have been a random attack. Patrol went by the victim’s store and says the door was unlocked and the register had been emptied out. Place was such a mess it was hard to tell if anything else had been taken.”

“But why would someone rob Sebastian at his shop, then bring him here just to . . . kill him?”

Carlos’s dark eyes rested on mine for a long moment. “An excellent question.”

Not that I was the best judge, but I didn’t believe robbery had been the motive for Sebastian’s murder. Not only would a robber not march Sebastian all the way out here, but he’d have to be pretty desperate to target Sebastian’s Antiques in the first place. The Jackson Square neighborhood was full of high-end antiques stores, the kind that sold vast dining room tables for tens of thousands of dollars and petite pencil cups for several hundred. Why would a criminal rob the one shop on the lane that looked as though it had been abandoned for years? Especially if that criminal was hard-core enough to kill?

“Anything else you might be ‘forgetting’ to mention? Now’s the time,” Carlos said. Although the inspector and I were on good terms and had worked well together in the past, we’d also worked at cross-purposes on occasion. Carlos was a professional and held himself apart. We were alike that way.

I shook my head.

“How about the guy who helped you with Crowley?”

“Lance?”

“You know him?”

“No. We just met over . . . over Sebastian.”

“Yet you’re on a first-name basis?”

“We introduced ourselves.”

“When was this?”

“While we were waiting for help to arrive. I was trying to calm him down, so I chatted with him. He looked a bit beside himself.”

“Never met him before?”

I shook my head.

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m sure I would have remembered meeting him before. He’s . . . a little unusual-looking.”

“Was he alone?”

“He was with a couple of coworkers, um . . . Nina and Kai were their names.” I tried to remember what they looked like, but all that came to mind were a couple of very pale visages in lab coats, the woman tall, the man in heavy glasses. “Lance told me they all work at the Cal Academy of Sciences. They were coming to check on the tree. Apparently, it’s supposed to be cut down.”

“A dying tree. A death tree.”

Every once in a while Carlos broke out of restrained cop mode and got poetic. I found it a little bit charming and a whole lot disconcerting.

“Were they on the scene when you arrived?” he continued.

“Maybe, but I . . .” I paused and searched my memory. “There were a few people here before me, but I was focused on Sebastian. Now that I think about it, the killer could have been standing right there with a smoking gun and I wouldn’t have noticed. I’m sorry. I guess I wouldn’t make a very good cop. It was all a little . . . shocking.”

“Huh.”

“Is Lance a suspect?” I thought back to the stricken look on the man’s face. I hadn’t seen anything to suggest Lance and his colleagues were anything other than hapless passersby. And what was the likelihood a trio of scientists from the Cal Academy would be walking through the park armed and bent on murder? I hated to deal in stereotypes, but how often do scientists form street gangs?

Carlos shrugged. “You know my motto: Until I find the killer, my own
grandmother
is a suspect.”

“I’d really like to meet this nefarious grandmother of
yours someday,” I teased in a weak attempt to cut the tension. “She sounds like a fascinating woman. Maybe I could riffle through the contents of
her
closet.”

Carlos gave me a tiny half smile and returned to the crime scene. I had been dismissed.

I had hoped to see Conrad when I returned to the shop, but he wasn’t in his customary spot on the curb. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for hours, or even several days at a time; still, I wished I could speak with him further about what had happened. I had the sense that the police in general—Carlos in particular—weren’t finished with him yet.

After explaining everything to Bronwyn and Maya, we closed the shop for the day. I locked up behind them and cast a special spell of protection over the store. Unfortunately, though my witchy charms were strong, they weren’t foolproof. I couldn’t lock down Aunt Cora’s Closet completely because it was, after all, a retail establishment. If I cast too strong a spell no one but an equally powerful practitioner would be able to enter. That would wreak havoc with customers searching for 1950s cocktail dresses.

I knew that if someone wanted to get in badly enough, they could find a way. It had happened a few months ago, and I still felt vulnerable. It was not a nice feeling. But it was one I had to deal with.

After casting, I crossed the shop into the back room and climbed the stairs to my small apartment over the store.

“Mistress!”
Oscar greeted me as I walked in the door. “Where have you
been
? I’m starving!”

My familiar was a gobgoyle—half goblin, half gargoyle—who appeared as a pig when in public. At home he was his natural scaly gray-green self. He had been given to me as a witch’s familiar, but he wasn’t an ordinary familiar. He wasn’t my ambassador to the world beyond or the embodied extension of me and my powers. Instead he was just . . . Oscar.

At the moment said pseudo familiar was staggering about as if on the verge of fainting from hunger.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Oscar,” I said. “Didn’t you eat the snack I left for you?”

“You mean the
apple
? You call that a snack?”

“Apples are good for you.”

Oscar made a very rude noise, but when I glared at him he grimaced, which was his gobgoyle version of a smile.

“It’s your turn to make dinner, mistress. I would have cooked something, but you said you wanted to.”

He’s right,
I thought guiltily as I headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get right on it. How’s roasted chicken sound?”

“With cheese and potatoes?”

“How about a salad?”

Oscar sighed.

“I’ll let you grate the cheese for it,” I said, and he sprang onto the kitchen counter.

I’ve never had a pet, so when Oscar first came to live with me, I forgot to feed him once or twice—what with running around town after suspicious spirits and all, it plumb escaped my mind. So I set about teaching my familiar how to cook a few things for himself, and though he was an enthusiastic chef, his specialties consisted
exclusively of some form of carbohydrates combined with cheese: grilled cheese sandwiches, mac and cheese, potatoes au gratin, cheesy baked potatoes. In an effort to inject a few vegetables into our bodies—Oscar claimed his kind didn’t need anything green and leafy, though I wasn’t buying it—I had called dibs on making dinner tonight.

So although I was anxious to learn more about the velvet cape, I decided to put it off until after dinner. A hungry gobgoyle was not a happy gobgoyle. Besides, after what Conrad and I had found in the park . . . well, a little time to regroup would help calm and center me and restore my energy.

I rubbed an organic free-range chicken with olive oil, garlic, and fresh herbs from my terrace garden, then popped it in my old Wedgewood oven. Afterward I started pulling together the ingredients to make a Caesar salad—one of the few leafy dishes Oscar would eat, as long as I put enough parmesan cheese on it. I handed him a head of romaine, which he dutifully washed and put in the salad spinner as I’d taught him; then he tore the crunchy lettuce leaves and tossed them into a huge hand-thrown blue ceramic salad bowl.

“How do you know how to make that dressing?” Oscar asked as I started mixing lemon juice, a raw egg, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and anchovies in a large glass measuring cup.

“My grandmother taught me. She claimed that Caesar salad had been invented in Mexico. One of the northern resort towns—Tijuana or Rosarito, if I remember correctly.”

“Is that true?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted with a chuckle as I measured out a cup of green-gold extra-virgin olive oil. “Apparently, a
lot
of people claim to have invented Caesar salad. Graciela also said Thomas Alva Edison was
Mexican—that’s why his middle name is Alva. I think it’s best not to fact-check one’s grandmother.”

Oscar smiled his ugly gobgoyle smile. “Oh, mistress, I forgot to tell you! I bought you a present.”

“A present, for me? That’s so sweet, Oscar. I’m . . . I’m so surprised. What’s the special occasion?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“What?” I stopped chopping garlic and stared at him. It had never occurred to me that my familiar had a birthday. Though of course he did. He had a mother, after all. “It’s your
birthday
, Oscar? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We don’t do that.”

“How old are you?”

“We don’t talk about that.”

“Okay, little guy, if you say so.” I laughed and let it go. As someone with my own share of secrets, I like to respect others’ privacy.

Oscar retrieved the present from his cubby over the fridge. It was wrapped in a surprisingly sleek way, in fuchsia-colored tissue paper with a raffia bow, sprigs of rosemary and rue crossed atop it. Really lovely.

“Thank you, Oscar. But if it’s your birthday, shouldn’t I be giving
you
a present?”

“You humans! I’ll never figure all y’all out.” Oscar had recently taken to mimicking my accent and was developing a pretty authentic Texas-style twang.

“Your kind don’t get presents for their birthday?”

He waved his hand and cackled. “’Course not. We
give
presents on our birthday. Makes much more sense.”

“Well, I surely do appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

“Rip it open!” My familiar urged me on impatiently, but I opened the package with care. When I was growing up, my mother had insisted I open gifts painstakingly so she could reuse the wrapping, and it had been a struggle to restrain my enthusiasm to rip into the brightly colored paper. As an adult I found myself sympathizing with my
mother. In her honor, I peeled back first one side of the paper, then the other, taking care not to tear the pretty tissue.

Inside was a manila envelope addressed to Oscar.

I paused and looked at my familiar, wondering what on earth it contained.

“Open it!” he repeated eagerly, his big glass-green eyes fixed on the present.

Peeking inside the envelope, I saw what looked like small squares of cloth. Patches to repair rents in my vintage clothing? I tipped them out onto the kitchen table.

“Labels?” I asked, examining them. One was marked “Valentino,” another “Versace,” another “Balmain.” There were dozens. “Couture labels?”

Oscar nodded. “Aren’t they awesome? Got ’em off the Internet, real cheap.”

“But . . . I don’t understand.”

“You sew ’em into any old dress, and then people think they’re
designer
dresses and pay you gobs of money for ’em. Guy sold ’em to me says an Estevez dress can go for six hundred and fifty dollars. Not sure who Estevez is, but apparently the man can make one heck of a dress.”

“Oscar, this is very sweet of you, but . . . that’s fraud.”

“Come again?” He tossed the last of the torn romaine into the bowl. As was usually the case when Oscar and I cooked together, we had enough salad to feed an army, and there was half a head of lettuce littering the floor as well.

“Sewing false labels into dresses constitutes fraud.”

“They’re not false! They’re real labels!”

“I mean, sewing a label into a dress where it doesn’t belong. . . . That’s a crime.”

“But you could make a load of money.”

“I can’t make money by fooling people into thinking their dresses are something they aren’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I meant to say I
won’t
.”

“I don’t see the problem. Your customers’ll think they’ve got a collector’s item for a great deal, and you make buckets of cash. Everybody wins.”

While I pondered how to explain this to my morally dubious familiar, I studied the labels more closely. As far as I could tell, they appeared to be genuine and had probably been removed from unwearable clothing or minor items such as scarves. I was no expert, but I’d learned a lot about vintage clothing since I’d been in the business. These labels belonged to garments that were well out of my league. Not only were originals hard to come by and extremely expensive, but they required a level of care I simply could not provide. I might see the occasional Chanel or Oscar de la Renta come through my doors, but nothing like a Madame Grès. That was museum-quality stuff.

“You don’t like my present,” Oscar grumbled.

“I love that you thought to give me a present, Oscar. It’s just . . . it concerns me that it’s possible to buy designer labels on the Internet. That could lead to some serious vintage clothing fraud. But thank you so much for thinking of me on your birthday. And happy birthday!”

He picked at his scaly claws, clearly offended.

“Wait a minute—you know what occurs to me?”

Oscar shrugged, still grumpy.

“It occurs to me that a birthday requires a birthday cake. How about it? Chocolate cake with coconut icing?” Oscar had been on a coconut kick ever since we had watched
Cast Away
during an impromptu Tom Hanks film festival with Maya and Bronwyn one night after closing.

I didn’t have to ask twice. Like Bronwyn, my familiar couldn’t hold a grudge. Not if there was food involved.

“Real coconut? Not from a package?” He leaped up to perch on the kitchen counter. It was a bad habit I’d
tried to break him of—like standing on the stove while he cooked, apparently impervious to the heat—but needless to say, I’d failed in my attempts.

“Is there any other kind?”

“Oh, and, mistress? Another thing.”

“Yes, Oscar?”

“Don’t forget you’re taking the GED on Saturday.”

“I’ll be there.”

“It’s just that you kept forgetting to register, remember? So I thought I should remind you.”

“Thank you. I haven’t forgotten.” How could I? My friends, and Oscar, were practically hounding me about the subject. All because a fit of absentmindedness had led me to miss the exam once. And I had forgotten to register for the next one until it was almost too late.

They knew the truth: I didn’t want to take it. I was afraid of algebra.

Fortunately, I had no such fear of cooking. I brought down my old battered tin canisters of organic flour and cocoa from a high shelf and took out some whole milk in the old-fashioned glass bottle and a couple of brown eggs I’d bought at the farmers’ market.

“Want me to drive you to the test?” Oscar asked.

“No
.
”
I mixed the dry ingredients, then combined them in a large mixing bowl with the milk and eggs and turned on the mixer, enjoying the old machine’s familiar cranking sound. “Wait. You know how to drive?”

“’Course I know how to drive! I just had a birthday. I’m no kid.” Oscar stuck one long bony finger into the batter and brought a chocolate dollop to his mouth.

“But—”

Suddenly my heart sped up, I could hear pounding in my ears, and I smelled roses. Not long ago, I might have been afraid I was experiencing a seizure of some kind. But I now knew the signs: a certain sexy, grumpy psychic named Sailor must be nearby.

There was a smart rapping on the door of my apartment.

Last week, in a gesture of trust I could scarcely believe myself, I had given Sailor a key to Aunt Cora’s Closet, as well as to my apartment above the store. Still and all, he always knocked. He was a gentleman that way.

I hurried to open the door, then stepped back, embarrassed by my own eagerness.

“Well, aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes,” Sailor growled, setting down his motorcycle helmet and taking me in his arms. He smelled of fresh laundry, leather jacket, and that indefinable scent that was just . . . Sailor. He had dark eyes and hair, was tall and lean but strong, and I was obsessed with a different body part every time I saw him. Lately it was his forearms. They were broad and capable and covered with dark hair.

We kissed for a long moment, the connection deepening until he pushed me gently up against the wall, leaned into me, and—

“Ahem,”
said Oscar from the kitchen, his arms folded over his scaly chest.

Oscar liked Sailor, even had a bit of hero worship for him, but he wasn’t fond of what he called “PDA,” or public displays of affection. The fact that we were in my apartment and not on a crowded street didn’t matter. If Oscar could see something, he considered it “public.”

“Ever hear the saying: Don’t count your change in front of the poor?” Oscar groused.

“Sorry, little guy,” I said with a smile. In fact, my familiar had stolen that saying from me.

Sailor shot him a dirty look. “Maybe it’s time you moved out, found your own place.”

Oscar’s eyes grew so wide you could drown in their bottle-glass green depths.

“Mistress,”
he breathed. “Mistress, tell me you’re not planning on making me—”

“Of course not,” I said, hitting Sailor lightly on the shoulder. He just grinned. “You bully, don’t be mean.” I turned to my familiar. “Oscar, as long as I have a home, you have a home. And even if we didn’t have a place to live, we’d be each other’s home. We’re family.”

Oscar’s bony shoulders sagged in relief, and he moped back into the kitchen to turn off the mixer, mumbling as he went, “Batter’s prob’ly past ready.”

“You can’t say things like that to him,” I scolded Sailor in a low voice. “He’s sensitive.”

“He’s a gobgoyle.”

“He’s a
sensitive
gobgoyle. Now we’ll have to spend the whole night making it up to him.”

“Don’t worry so much. As soon as I make him one of my famous grilled cheese sandwiches, all will be forgiven.”