Secondhand Spirits (15 page)

I jogged back to my car, got in, and reached for the ignition, but hesitated before turning the key. Frances's house was less than a block away, its silhouette a soft black against the evening sky. What had Tomás meant? Sweet little Frances, an evil witch? Impossible. Among other things, I was with Frances when Jessica was snatched; the old woman couldn't possibly have been involved.

Despite my fear of implicating myself further in the eyes of the police, I wanted—I
needed
—to take a good look around that house. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that the vibrations were off on the night I was there. And then there was that invisible entity. . . .

I always carry several items in the trunk of my car for emergencies. Grabbing a dark blue cotton athletic bag from the trunk, I climbed into the backseat of my Mustang and transferred a flashlight, a few candles, a black silk bag, an extra couple of talismans, and a charm bag into my backpack. Finally, counting on the darkness to keep me from being obscene—luckily there wasn't a soul out on the street nearby—I pulled on a pair of old jeans under the skirt of my dress. Scooting down as far as I could into the footwell, I whipped the dress over my head and yanked on a worn UC Berkeley sweatshirt.

Feeling much more suited to the task at hand, I pulled an amulet over my head, tucked a charm bag in the front pocket of my jeans, and cast a quick protective spell over the vehicle. This didn't seem like the best neighborhood to park a vintage Mustang after dark, and I really love my car.

Then I jogged along the quiet street to the Potts house, drawing the fresh salt air of the bay deep into my lungs.

I passed a couple small groups of young men gathered on stoops, but no one seemed to pay me much attention. One of the definite pluses of being “different” is not having to fear humans under normal circumstances, so I'm not frightened of wandering alone in the middle of the night, even in a not-so-great part of town. Don't get me wrong: As far as I know I'm as mortal as the next person, but I can hold my own against your average low-life /druggie/mugger, especially when prepared with a charm bag and a backpack full of consecrated amulets and talismans.

Conscious of the street camera Inspector Romero had told me about, I climbed over the low iron fence and slipped into the overgrown side garden of the Pottses' corner lot and lingered for a moment amidst broken beer bottles, crack vials, and cigarette butts. I didn't want to get caught on tape again—that would be tough to explain. I bided my time, assessing the structure from the safety of the brush. Just ahead, between where I was now and the back door, was Frances's small kitchen garden. In the light of the streetlamp I could make out what looked like neat rows of herbs, vegetables, and, as luck would have it, a mature mandrake plant.

That was a happy surprise. It must have been left over from the garden's old Mediterranean planting scheme, where plants such as mandrake and wolfsbane were common. Perfect for Aidan's mandragora. Mandrakes had to be approached carefully, however, and I didn't have the necessary supplies with me. I would have to come back for it later.

Hunkered down amidst the bushes, I waited, watching the structure for another ten minutes. Police tape crisscrossed the back door and cordoned off the gates in the iron fence, but no one was guarding the place. I imagined everything was locked up tight; I could probably unlock the doors magically, but I'd rather not take the time. Glancing up at the second story, I noticed a double-hung window was slightly ajar.

An old wooden trellis ran up the back of the building, supporting the fat, snaking branches of a vine long since dead. Leaving the protection of the bushes, I scooted to the back of the house and shook the trellis as hard as I could. It felt sturdy, the wood dry but sound.
What the heck
. . . If it was good enough for generations of actors in movies, it was good enough for me. I grabbed on, got a foothold, and hoisted myself up.

Hand over hand, step by step . . . the unfamiliar stretch and strain of climbing brought to mind a visceral memory I would just as soon forget: the moment I realized I wasn't just a simple misfit. The day I learned I was a witch.

I was in the third grade. We were on a school camp-out, the kind of event my mother eventually stopped forcing me to attend once she finally admitted her daughter was a freak. The morning had dawned cold and damp, and the camp leaders had made a great batch of oatmeal. My mother had raised me on oatmeal served with salt and pepper, the way her own Scottish mother had prepared it, but that morning I was handed a bowl that already had sugar and cinnamon on it. The idea of the sweet on what I knew as salty made me queasy, so I asked the girl next to me, Terry Buckmiller, to trade me for her still-plain bowl. She refused. Terry was a pam pered violin virtuoso and had always been the smartest kid in class until I had displaced her. She had never liked me.

I concentrated, making her bowl so hot that it burned her fingers. When she dropped it I caught it, and I handed her my own in what seemed to me a fair exchange.

“You're a
witch
is what you are! A nasty old
witch
!” Terry pointed at me and shouted.

I was enraged. I had been raised with the same images as everyone else in our small Texas town: Witches were ugly hags in league with the devil. But her accusation struck a chord. Fear of the truth fed my fury.

A sudden gust of wind blew sparks and embers up from the fire, landing in Terry's lap and hair. As the grown-ups rushed to her aid, the other children moved in on me, accusing, shouting, pushing. Hating.

I backed away from them until I had nowhere else to go—our campsite was at the base of a sheer cliff. I turned toward the wall of stone as the children descended upon me, and I started to climb the steep, vine-strewn wall. The vines twined around my hands and wrists, helping me, pulling me up. When I made it to the top I looked down over the precipice, and with the perfect illogic of a young child cast a loud curse down upon the lot of them, even while denying I was a witch.

Every single child on that trip, except for me, came down with a virulent case of food poisoning. Officially the oatmeal was to blame, but soon afterward I was sent to live with Graciela on the outskirts of town. I spent the next several years learning to admit to myself that I was a witch, to control my temper, and to hide my talents from normal humans. I was still only partially successful at the latter two.

Which might explain why I was currently scaling the side of a house.

My mind came back to the task at hand. With much more effort than it had taken as a child—these vines were not helping me at all—I finally made it up to the second-story window. I hoisted it open and climbed inside the dark house, landing at the end of the second-story hallway.

Breathing hard, I stood for a moment and assessed the shadowed interior. There was a dank, closed-up smell, mixing with the still-lingering scent of pot roast. The last meal. And there was another odor, the sickeningly sweet aroma of death.

My skin tingled and again I felt the creepy sensation of ants running along my spine. The place was alive with spiritual energy.

I didn't bother with the flashlight, since there was plenty of dim illumination from the streetlamps outside, and my night vision is better than average. I started down the broad, high-ceilinged hallway toward Frances's bedroom, the next-to-last door on the left.

I had never before knowingly stepped into a recent crime scene. Perhaps they all felt this ominous. Maybe it was my imagination. If only I were a necromancer, I could call on Frances's spirit and ask her what happened. I felt sure that, since the death was so recent and had not been natural, her spirit would still be hanging around. But I have never been able to talk to the human dead. Sense them, yes, but not hold a conversation as though you were talking to your favorite auntie.

Since I was now sure Frances hadn't been killed by
La Llorona
, I wanted to know whether witchcraft had been involved, or whether it was just regular old homicide. I needed to see the murder scene.

A strong, stinging citrus scent assailed my nostrils. Something flickered in my peripheral vision. A sense of movement passing a doorway, preternaturally quickly. An entity flew over my head, taunting, making my hair stand up on end. There was a soft, barely audible
whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
sound, like a heartbeat on a fetal monitor.

A figure materialized in the doorway.

Chapter 10

Swallowing a scream, I held out my right hand and let fly a blast of energy.

In a scene worthy of an old Keystone Kops movie, Charles the charlatan crashed backward into Max the mythbuster and they both went down on their butts, landing sprawled on the threadbare bedroom carpet.

“What in the world are y'all
doing
here?” I asked in an urgent whisper, my heart pounding as I watched the two men climb to their feet.

It was rare for someone to be able to sneak up on me like that, but I had been so focused on the dead—and the undead—that I had once again forgotten to consider the living.

“I might ask you the very same thing,” Charles responded, brushing off his pants. “I promised Mr. Carmichael here a haunted experience, and I'm a man of my word.”

“Hi, Max.”

“Lily.” He nodded with a bemused smile. “What a surprise.”

“Would you excuse us for just a moment, please? Charles and I have something private to discuss.” I grabbed Charles by the arm and started pulling him out into the hall.

“What's your problem, Lily?” Charles demanded.

“
My
problem? You're trespassing for the sake of your ghost tours?”

“What's your excuse?”

“Someone was
killed
in this house, Charles,” I whispered when we were several feet away from Max's curious ears.

“What?”
Charles looked aghast.

“Just last night. So what—”

“But I had an arrangement with the owner of this house. She said I could lead tours as long as I made sure no one brought cameras.”

“She did?”

“Yup. Your neighbor on Haight Street, Sandra, introduced us. It's my backup plan when other things fall through. Great old place.”

“Let me get this straight: I paid you not to take Max out, and rather than give him his money back, you brought him here? You're a sleaze; you know that?”

“Lily, let's not be hasty. . . . The owner—”

“The owner was killed last night.”

“
You're saying
Frances
was killed
?”

“Didn't you notice the fluorescent yellow police tape at the doors?”

He shrugged. “I thought it was part of the shtick. It lent an air of authenticity to the whole thing.”

“Charles, this is a crime scene—”

“Someone was killed here?” interrupted Max, who had managed to sidle up to us without my noticing.

“Last night, a friend of mine—” I began.

A door slammed at the end of the hall.

Max crouched as though ready to fight, then reached into his waistband and pulled out a pistol.

“Put that thing away!” I said.

“Who else is here?” Max demanded, even while starting off in the direction of the noise. I grabbed his arm to stop him.

“You should both get out of here immediately,” I said.

“It's not safe.”

Just then there was rustling overhead.

“Good idea,” said Charles, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He turned and headed for the stairs, speaking over his shoulder. “Max, I happen to know of a nice ghost over at the Queen Anne Hotel. You could even bring your film crew. You coming?”

“Either we all go,” Max said, “or I'm staying with Lily.”

The hallway light flickered on and off.

“Suit yourself,” Charles said, scurrying down the broad stairway with impressive speed for a large man.

“Max, you really should go with him,” I said. “I appreciate the whole gallantry thing, but I guarantee you I can take care of myself.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you, a friend of mine—”

“A friend getting killed is reason to cry in your beer, not to trespass on the crime scene.”

I heard a faint whispery sound, and saw a subtle flash of light in my peripheral vision. We weren't alone.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Max asked me.

“Max, do you still have the medicine bundle I gave you? Is it in your pocket?”

“As a matter of fact it is.” He patted his breast pocket.

“Keep it. And here.” I rooted around in my backpack until I felt a smooth circle of wood. I slipped the medallion over his head.

“What is all this?”

We both froze when we heard scratching and rustling overhead.

“
Bad spirits
,” I whispered.

“Or rats in the attic,” Max, the cynic, replied. He strode down to the end of the hall, where an attic access door was apparent in the ceiling, a string dangling down from it. Before I could stop him he yanked down the retractable stairs and climbed halfway up, his head and shoulders disappearing into the hole. He shone a large, powerful flashlight around the periphery.

“Nothing,” he declared.

“How much nothing?”

“Some old picture frames, chairs, kid stuff.”

The black rectangle of the opening swallowed him whole as he climbed the rest of the way up.

After a moment of hesitation—this was where the scratching sound had come from, after all—I followed.

Aside from stacked cardboard boxes and miscellaneous furniture shoved under the eaves, the area was set up as a child's playroom. A rocking horse, a small easel with a chalkboard, a stack of board games. What surprised me was the number of dolls and toy cars strewn about the floor as though abandoned where they lay, not stored away in boxes. But everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. No one had been up here for a very long time. Using the beam of my flashlight I studied an intricate Victorian dollhouse, a detailed replica of the house we were in. It held a family of dolls: a man and woman and two girls. A chill ran up my spine.