A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (6 page)

“You must be from the thrift store,” she said upon opening the door, her blue eyes puzzled as they raked over our trio. I doubted we were what she expected of a thrift store crew.

“Yes, I’m Lily, and this is Maya and Sailor. Thank you for having us.”

“I’m Hannah; I think we talked on the phone. I’m helping my uncle Bart get cleaned up in here. He’s been a little . . . challenged.”

She opened the door wider and invited us into a warren of pathways through stacks of newspapers, books, and plastic bags like giant balloons. Collectibles and antiques were gathered in organized groupings: ceramic
figures, silver pieces, painted plaques. I thought Sebastian Crowley’s antiques store looked like a hoarder’s lair, but Bartholomew Woolsey’s place was even worse. At least it assured me that I was not, in fact, a hoarder myself.

“Ignore the mess,” Hannah continued. “It’s a work in progress.”

It wasn’t as closed-in smelling as Sebastian’s shop had been, but I noted the distinctive musty smell of old books. I saw the reason why as I turned the corner: a dining room table sat amid—and under—stacks and stacks of old books.

Huddled with their heads together over a book- and paper-strewn table were two men: one white haired and elderly, the other boyish and scholarly looking, complete with an argyle sweater-vest and wire-rimmed glasses.

Both looked up as we entered.

“Uncle Bart, these are the people from the thrift store.”

“Oh . . .” He glanced down at the watch on his wrist. “Already?”

“It’s eleven o’clock, Bart,” Hannah said. “Remember? I told you they were coming.”

“Hello, Mr. Woolsey. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lily Ivory. We spoke on the phone earlier. . . .”

“Yes, yes,” he said. His hair stuck out here and there on his balding head, and his eyebrows were bushy. Tall and apparently once quite strong, Bart had kindly, crinkly blue eyes behind aviator lenses that looked out of place—if not for the modern eyewear, he might have been the kindly shoemaker in a fairy tale, complete with an open vest over his striped shirt. “I remember. I don’t get a lot of visitors. Except for Williston, of course. Williston’s a professor over at . . . where was it?”

“UC Berkeley,” said the young man as he stood and
shook our hands. “But please, call me Will. No need to be as formal as Bart. Nice to meet you.”

Darn
. I had hoped to speak with Bart Woolsey alone to see what information I could glean from him about the trunk.

The good news was he didn’t seem dangerous. The bad news was I doubted this visit would be particularly fruitful, murder-solving-wise. Then again, you never knew. As they say back in Texas, every fish ever caught had its mouth open.

“Did you want to see the clothes?” Hannah urged from the hallway.

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Maya and Sailor would love to check them out. I actually . . . I was hoping to speak with your uncle for just a moment.”

Smooth, Lily, real smooth
. Fortunately, Hannah didn’t appear to care very much what I did. “Okaaaay.” She dragged out the word as she led the way out of the room. Maya followed. Sailor cast me a long look before joining her.

“Hannah, don’t . . . don’t throw away anything until you ask me,” Bart called out after his niece, craning his neck to watch her walk down the hall.

A muffled, “whatever” floated back from the direction of the hallway.

“She wants to get rid of all my things,” Bart said, his voice anxious.

“I think she’s just trying to help you sort through all your . . . um . . . everything,” I finished lamely.

“I agreed to sell some of the old clothes that don’t fit anymore, but there’s a lot of other stuff I don’t want to . . . I’ll be right back,” he said as he rose and hurried out of the room.

I was left with the young professor.

He smiled and shook his head. “Poor old guy. He’s a sweetheart, but he does have a bit of a problem.”

“You mean the . . . uh . . .”

“The hoarding. I mean, whether or not he’s really a pathological hoarder is hard to say. It’s not like there’s a lot of filth, or neglected animals or anything. Just lots and lots of . . . stuff.”

I nodded. There were framed pictures covering almost every inch of wall space, stacks of newspapers and manila folders and notepads. Besides the books, knickknacks filled the tops of mismatched side tables and bookshelves. Not exactly a Zen aesthetic, but as a collector myself, I understood the impulses that led to such a state.

“I know Hannah’s trying to help, but I fear it’s making things worse,” Will continued. “Hoarders need to be part of getting rid of their things; otherwise they can end up feeling alienated and out of control.”

“You teach psychology?”

He laughed. “No, I’m a professor of religious studies, actually. I was just spewing a little pop psychology I learned from too much late-night television. I don’t actually know anything. Feel free to ignore me—my students always do.”

I returned his smile. “So you’re working with Bart? As a . . . professor of religious studies?”

“Seems odd, right? But I’m part historian, part anthropologist. . . . My specialty is the lives of early settlers in religious communities in the United States.”

“Like the pilgrims?”

“Yes, the pilgrims, Puritans, Shakers, Mennonites, Amish. Among others. Bart has an impressive lineage; his family’s been in the United States for generations. And he’s got tons of paperwork, far more than you normally find passed down through families. You don’t come across this sort of thing very often among Americans, especially not here in California.”

A million questions sprang to mind, but I didn’t get
the chance to ask a single one. Bart walked back into the room.

“I love my niece,” Bart said, clearly agitated, “but she’s bossy. Don’t you agree that she’s bossy?”

I didn’t know what to say to that one. Luckily for me, Bart didn’t wait for a response.

“The other day she sold a bunch of stuff to an antiques shop. Right out of the blue. I didn’t say she could.” Bart looked at me, his rheumy blue eyes questioning. “Do you think that’s right? I’ve still got my mind, no matter what she might think. Last night I actually slept through the night, first time in years, and now I feel sharp as a tack.”

“She means well, Bart,” said Will. “Remember, you agreed that I would help you go through your papers and books, and she’s helping with the clothing and household items.”

“I guess so,” said the older man as he returned to his seat at the table. “What are you two talking about?”

“I was just telling Lily about my research and how you’re sharing your family history with me.”

“You believe that?” said Bart. “Man’s being paid by the taxpayers to study something like this. Why anyone would be interested in my genealogy besides my family, I’ll never know. In fact, the family doesn’t seem to care. . . . Hannah’s more interested in cleaning out my closets than learning about her ancestors.”

“I should get out of your hair,” Will said, gathering up a stack of papers and a couple of books. “And let you two have a visit. Nice to meet you, Lily.”

“Same here.”

Bart saw Will to the door. It was easier to speak about yesterday’s events without a witness; worried we’d be interrupted soon, I started in as soon as Bart came back to the table.

“Speaking of the things Hannah has sold,” I began. “I
wanted to ask you a few questions about a trunk that she brought to Sebastian Crowley’s shop.”

“Do you have it?” he said, sitting up straighter. “My niece sold it by accident. I’d like it back. I tried calling Sebastian, but he never picked up.”

“I, uh . . .” The vision of Sebastian under the tree washed over me. Should I tell Bart Woolsey about Sebastian Crowley’s death? Was it my place? I couldn’t believe I didn’t think of this beforehand. What should I say to the man? “No, I’m sorry. Actually, the police have the trunk.”

“The police? Why?”

“They thought it might be connected to a crime. I . . . Mr. Woolsey, I—”

“Please, call me Bart.”

“Bart, did you know Sebastian Crowley?”

“A little. I’ve known him for years, through a cousin who buys and sells antiques. Not like we get together to play pinochle or anything. Why?”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he was found in Golden Gate Park yesterday. He had been attacked.”

“Attacked? Is he all right?”

“No, I’m sorry, he’s not. He was killed.”

“Oh. Oh my. Poor guy.” Bart looked down at a stack of papers he held in shaky hands. “Though . . . Sebastian really was a bit of a character. I imagine he’s made some enemies through the years. Have the police talked with his clients?”

“Clients?” I asked, wondering whether Bart might know something about Sebastian’s occult activities, the ones to which Sailor and Oscar had alluded.

“He always bragged about buying things cheap, claiming they were worthless and then turning around and selling them for a fortune. There was one time . . . what was it? Something about telling the owner of priceless Limoges ceramics that they were cheap knockoffs. Then he made a bundle off the deal he finally brokered. Dangerous stuff. Trust an old man when I tell you: Greed can drive people to extremes.”

I nodded. Maybe it was as simple as that, I thought. Maybe Sebastian had dealt on the wrong side of things one too many times and had made a dangerous enemy—the kind who packed a gun. This might be liberal California, but it still didn’t seem all that difficult to obtain a
firearm. Even if you didn’t actually intend to
kill
someone, in a moment of rage, what could be easier than pulling a trigger?

The one thing that still made no sense, however, was that Sebastian was found under a tree across town from his ransacked shop.

When it didn’t seem as though Bart was going to volunteer any further information, I added, “Could I ask you where the trunk came from?”

“That trunk . . . Well, now, let me see. . . .” He nodded and continued with sorting through a stack of papers. His attention seemed to wander. I wondered precisely how long this cleanup process was going to take—and how long it had already gone on. “Seems to me that trunk came on the overland route, with relatives coming here from Massachusetts to settle in California.”

“What year was that?”

“The caravans, had to be during the 1850s. I believe it was my great-grandfather on my father’s side. . . . His name was Woolsey as well. Very old name.”

I was almost certain the visions I had took place much earlier than the 1850s. I wondered how the cape was connected—if it was at all.

“Wasn’t gold discovered in forty-nine? So, your relatives came to California during the Gold Rush?”

“Yes, that’s what I was told. But according to family lore, some of the items in that chest had been in the Woolsey family for decades, maybe centuries. I’m the last of the name. Can you believe that? Never had any children. Luckily, all the latest generation are girls. That’s good. They won’t carry the name.”

“You don’t want the name to continue?”

“No male descendant in the Woolsey clan will ever be able to find true happiness in love.”

“Oh . . . really?” I said lamely. I was unaccustomed to old men talking about finding love; it was a
conversational gambit I associated with teenage girls more than men Bart’s age.

“No happiness in love? Why is that?”

Just then Hannah came into the room and rolled her eyes. “Not going on about that again, are you, Uncle Bart? Listen, I’m going to put the kettle on for tea. Lily, would you like tea or coffee?”

“I’d love a cup of whatever’s easy,” I said.

“Maya and Sailor are looking through a pile of things on the bed,” said Hannah. “I just culled them from his closet. Bart doesn’t have much occasion to wear tuxes these days, do you, Uncle Bart?”

Bart seemed distracted, as though he was only registering a fraction of what we were talking about. He and Hannah might drive each other crazy, but I was glad Bart had family; in my line of business I met a lot of older people who didn’t seem to have anyone at all. It was a constant worry to think of them alone in this world, especially when their mental faculties began to slow and confusion set in. When they started goin’ ’round the bend, as we used to say back home.

Hannah disappeared into the galley kitchen. Bart seemed intent on his search through the documents, as though newly on task. I started inspecting the spines of the books piled on every horizontal surface: Right in front of us was a stack focusing on early US history, including several volumes on the Salem witch trials.

My eyes landed on a gold-edged, slim volume of
The Crucible
.

I had read the play in one of my last high school classes, before I was forced to drop out and flee my small hometown of Jarod, in West Texas. I remembered sitting in English class, trying to become part of my chair, not moving, in hopes that my classmates wouldn’t connect the story with me. But it didn’t take much. After all, my peers had been calling me
witch
since I was eight years
old. They snickered and turned in their chairs, then continued to torment me in the halls, pointing their fingers in accusation and malice. I tried explaining to them that they were proving Arthur Miller’s point: that the witch hunts were an unfair hysteria that led to terrible injustices. Unfortunately, that argument was far too rational for their closed minds.

I looked up to find Mr. Woolsey staring at me. “You know that story, of course.”

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“It’s a dramatization, but it’s based on true history. If you don’t believe me, just ask the professor. Where . . . where’d he go?”

“He had to leave, but he said he’ll see you again soon.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right. I don’t think he liked . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes slewed over to the swinging door that separated the kitchen. “A lot of people don’t like me to talk about the curse.”

“The curse?”

“I have suffered under a curse all my life. Many generations ago, my ancestors were among the Puritan settlers in what would become Massachusetts. I presume you’ve heard of the Salem witch trials?”

I nodded and hoped I looked outwardly calm, though my heart skipped a beat. When you’re a witch, these things were not just fascinating yet gruesome historical tales. They were examples of the persecution and violence that powers like mine, and those of my ancestors, have inspired in those around us. Their memories ran in my blood.

“Salem wasn’t the only place that sort of thing occurred, I’m sorry to say. The people in my family’s settlement, they believed in witches, too. After all,
‘Suffer ye not a witch to live.’
If you believe in heaven and hell, and God and the devil, you must therefore believe in witches.”

“But Saint Augustine argued that while witches might be guilty of idolatry, the belief in their powers was tantamount to heresy. In short, he argued that anyone who feared witches didn’t have enough faith.”

He barked out a rusty laugh. “Very good. Very good. But I think it’s safe to say my family didn’t listen to Saint Augustine, even if they’d known about what he’d said, which I’m sure they didn’t. It was a different world back then. They didn’t exactly sit around with religious scholars debating the meaning of the Bible. Small-mindedness was the way of it; most people were raised to believe what they believed, and if anyone challenged those thoughts, they were cast out.”

“Or killed.”

“Yes, or even killed.”

“And . . .” I paused, wanting to choose my words carefully so I wasn’t leading him to say anything. “Was the trunk from that time period in your family’s history?”

“The trunk’s old, not sure exactly how old. But the clothes, yes, I think there were one or two items in there that might have been much older. And there was my family Bible, of course, but I kept that.”

He held my eyes, as though expecting me to interrupt or disclaim what he was saying, perhaps to decry it. But I knew my history in this regard.

“And, back from that time, ever since then,” continued Bart, “there’s been a family curse that no male descendant will ever find true love.”

I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I doubted I’d succeeded.

“I know it sounds silly. But this is our fate.”

“And yet you’re here to tell the tale,” I said. “So there must have been some affection in your family line.”

“Procreation is not the same thing as true love; surely you know that. In fact, marriage and partnership without love, isn’t that the most painful thing of all? Never to
know the solace and comfort of someone who cares more for your own welfare than their own? Someone who thinks of you first, who believes the sun rises and sets on your head?”

Now I was reading the titles of the books stacked on the table in an attempt to distract myself from this line of thought. I didn’t want to think too much about love and all it entailed. It was too frightening, making me wonder—not for the first time—whether Sailor and I had something real, or if I was fooling myself. Could a misfit like me ever find true love?

With effort, I wrested my thoughts away from Sailor and focused on what Bart was confiding in me. Truth was, I didn’t know a lot about ancient curses, and part of me doubted their existence. Not that I didn’t think there were witches powerful enough to cast through the ages, because I knew different. Though we witches are mere mortals, our power comes from our connection to our ancestors, to the living streams of power that pass through the veils of time and space.

No, what I really doubted were modern humans who understood enough of their own past—and that of their family—to understand what the curse was, who had cast it, and why. In the old days, such tales were handed down from generation to generation, the family history recounted and retold over and over through the ages, so people felt a rock-solid connection to the generations that had gone before. But today? In modern-day San Francisco? Children no longer sat at the knees of their grandparents, hanging on every word of their family lore; instead, most were able to recite the detailed features of whatever video game they were playing. As the professor had noted, it was rare to find an intact family history in these parts.

Since few people knew much beyond their grandparents’ names, the knowledge of ancient curses seemed almost inconceivable.

“So how might a person go about breaking this curse?” I asked.

Bart let out a hoarse bark of laughter. “If only I knew! I have spent all the adult years of my life in the pursuit of just such magic. Recently, I . . .”

“Uncle Bart,” said Hannah as she walked into the room with a tray holding a gleaming silver tea set that looked to be antique. The only piece that didn’t match was a little porcelain sugar bowl. “Enough with all that. Remember, we talked about this. People don’t want to hear old folktales about such things.”

“The professor does. The taxpayers pay him for this sort of thing. You believe that?”

“Oh, darn it, I forgot the cream,” said Hannah, as Sailor and Maya joined us at the dining room table. “Could you go check the fridge to see if you have any, Uncle Bart?”

Bart heaved himself up from his chair and shuffled off toward the kitchen. Sailor hurried to clear a space at the table for Hannah to put down the tray. When the door swung closed behind her uncle, Hannah spoke in a low voice.

“I swear, like it’s not bad enough that he spent every dime he has looking to cure this ‘curse.’ Half the family won’t even talk to him anymore, or want to institutionalize him. But the thing is, he’s a sweetheart, as you can see. Just . . . deluded.”

“So you don’t believe in ancient curses?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes again and started pouring tea from the silver pot into delicate, eggshell-thin china cups. “I think if he’d lived like a normal person, he would have had no trouble finding love. He was born into a wealthy family, and he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. And he’s a decent fellow, very sweet, in fact.”

“Was your father a Woolsey too?”

“You mean, was
he
able to find true love?” She laughed
softly and handed me a teacup. “I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead, but my father wasn’t nearly as sweet as my uncle. He had other priorities. Anyway, love isn’t some concept out of the blue; it’s something you work at with communication and determination.” She handed Maya a cup of fragrant Darjeeling. “Right?”

Maya shrugged. “I’m not the person to ask. That’s for these two.” She gestured to me and Sailor. I was busy avoiding eyes and was back to reading the spines of the books. But Hannah was probably right. Despite my propensity for seeing magical interventions everywhere I went, I would have put Bartholomew’s tales down to the imagination of an old man . . . if there hadn’t been a murder, and that darned cape, associated with an old trunk he had sold to Sebastian.

Actually,
she
had sold those things.

“Hannah, could you tell me anything about the trunk you sold to Sebastian Crowley?”

“Anything, like what? It was just an old trunk. Smelled funky. I wanted to toss it, but my sister said it might be worth something, so I took it down there with a bunch of other things. If he wants it back, though, I mean, whatever. Sebastian only gave me twenty bucks for it. No big deal.”

“So you don’t know anything about its history, where it came from?”

She shook her head. “You’ll have to ask my uncle if you want that sort of information. He’s the family historian. He might be vague about what’s happening here and now, but he’s got a million old stories about the family.”

As if on cue, Bart walked in and joined us at the table.

“I looked, but I think we’re out of cream,” he said. “I may have used the last of it on my strawberries this morning.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for looking. One thing I’ll say
for the Woolseys; they always lay a nice tea service, right, Bart?”

He nodded and dropped several sugar cubes into his cup of tea.

“I just love the little sugar bowl,” I said.

“Do you? I couldn’t find the silver one, so I just used this. Bart has a million of these things.”

“Family stuff,” said Bart. He shook a finger in Hannah’s direction. “It’ll all be yours one day if you play your cards right. Yours and your sister, Nina’s.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bart,” said Hannah. “But as you know, I have other interests.”

Bart snorted loudly. “You call those snakes an ‘interest’? How are you gonna find yourself a husband hanging out with snakes all day?”

“I work at the East Bay Vivarium, in Berkeley,” explained Hannah.