Secondhand Spirits (9 page)

“I even get benefits,” he said with a crooked smile.

“But the bay . . .”

“What about it?”

Okay, Lily, get hold of yourself
. It was true that I suspected something untoward was going on out near the bay, but
La Llorona
stole children, and this was a grown man. Still, the specter had been known to seduce handsome fellows, luring them to their doom when it struck her fancy. And, truth was, there was something out of the ordinary about this Max Carmichael, a distinct energy that was attracting me and might draw spirits. . . .

The bell tinkled as a tall, lithe brunette opened the door. Smartly dressed in a chic dove gray designer outfit that probably cost more than half my inventory combined, she hovered on the threshold as though afraid of catching something.

“Max? You about ready?”

“Be right there,” he said over his shoulder. He looked back at me and winked. “We'll be careful.”

Before he turned away to go I snapped the medicine bundle from around my waist and pressed it into his palm, cupping his hand with both of mine. I fixed him with my gaze. I felt his guard go up against me, but I was strong enough to make him listen, if not obey.

“Do me a favor and carry this with you? Just stick it in your pocket and forget it. Think of it as a lady's favor.”

“
Max
,” the woman in the doorway urged, annoyed.

Ignoring her, Max dropped his gaze to my hands holding his, then back to my eyes.

After a moment he blew out a breath and nodded.

“All right. But I want to talk to you about this.”

“You know where to find me,” I answered just as a premonition hit me. My eyes flew to the front door.

The bell tinkled as the woman left in a huff, and in her place entered two men, one of whom flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

Yikes
.

Chapter 6

Out of habit I grabbed for my medicine bundle, only to remember that I had just given it away.

The two men hesitated in the foyer, just as the woman had. My daily protection spell gave a lot of people pause, especially if they weren't well-intentioned toward me or the store.

“Well, if it isn't Max Carmichael.” The smaller man was the first to cross over to us, a shadow of a smile on his lips. Not much taller than my own five-foot-five, with a shaved head, trim mustache, and near-black eyes, he was attractive in a not-so-tall, dark, and handsome way. He wore black running shoes, khaki chinos, and a thigh-length black leather jacket. “I didn't know you were back in town.”

“Carlos, good to see you,” Max said with a nod but not much warmth. They shook hands.

Carlos turned to the man standing by his side. He was of medium height, husky, and so blond that his eyebrows disappeared against his pale skin.

“This is my partner, Neil Nordstrom. Neil, meet Max Carmichael. Max is a stringer for the
Chronicle
, among other things. Still on government contract?”

“From time to time,” Max said as he shook Neil's meaty paw.

“What brings you here, Max?” Carlos asked. “Looking for a Mardi Gras costume?”

“Yep. I'm in desperate need of a ruffled Victorian petticoat.”

Carlos grinned, teeth flashing very white. “That blue silk bustier would bring out the color in your eyes. Why don't you try it on, give us all a show?”

“Maybe later,” Max said.

The smile dropped from Carlos's face as his dark eyes turned toward me.

“You Lily Ivory?”

I nodded.

“What's this about, Carlos?” Max interrupted.

“Actually we're conducting official business here, Max,” Carlos said without taking his eyes off of me. “Mind waiting outside?”

Max's gaze shifted from Carlos to me, then back again. “What kind of business?”

“None of
your
goddamned business, Max, that's what kind. You two know each other?”

I shook my head. Max nodded.

A look of weary cynicism washed over Carlos's dramatic features.

“After I leave maybe you two can get together and get your stories straight.” He flung an arm toward the door. “Out, Max. Now.”

With one last curious look at me, Max strode out of the shop.

Carlos turned back to me, near-black eyes flat and unapproachable.
Cop eyes
, I thought to myself just as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn leather case, flipping it open to reveal a shiny SFPD badge.

“Are you and Carmichael involved in something together?” he asked.

“No, of course not. He just stopped by for some herbs.”

“And yet you said you didn't know him.”

“I meant in any significant sense.”

The inspector blew out a long breath and looked over at his partner with eyebrows raised. The blond man shrugged.

“I'm Inspector Romero and this is Inspector Nordstrom. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Is this about Jessica?” I asked.

“Jessica?”

“The little girl who disappeared yesterday in Hunters Point?”

Carlos shrugged and shook his head. “Is that your old Mustang parked outside?”

“Do you need me to move it?” I offered, grasping at a final, slim straw of hope that these two might be plain-clothes parking cops.

“Did you use the car last night?”

I nodded. “I . . . I visited a friend of mine who hasn't been feeling well.”

“Who is this friend?”

“Frances Potts.”

“How do you know Mrs. Potts?”

A terrible premonition washed over me. “Is something wrong? Is Frances all right?”

“Why don't you let me ask the questions, okay, Ms. Ivory? Now, how do you know Mrs. Potts?”

“I just met her yesterday through a mutual friend, Maya Jackson.”

“Uh-huh. Any special reason this Maya introduced you two?”

“Frances has two generations' worth of old clothes stashed in her basement. I bought a bunch from her for the store.”

“Was anyone else there at that time?”

“Little Jessica, though she left early. We told that to the police.”

“You're saying something happened with a child and the police were brought in on it?”

I nodded and gave them a brief rundown of what had happened with Jessica's disappearance. Romero jotted down the particulars.

“Was anyone else at the Potts house?”

“Her lawyer, Delores . . . something . . . came later. She stayed for dinner.”

“Delores something?”

“It'll come to me.” This was the one area my memory failed. I was terrible with names.

“Frances Potts was found dead early this morning.”

I looked from Romero to his partner.

“That's not possible,” I croaked. “There must be some kind of mistake. . . .”

“Afraid not. Her daughter found her.”

Guilt washed over me. On its heels came horror. How had this happened? Why hadn't I stopped it? Why hadn't I sensed it?

“How . . . how was she killed?”

“Why would you assume she was killed? Perhaps she died in her sleep.”

“Why else would you be here?”

He shrugged as though conceding me the point. “The city's trying a new pilot program in that area to combat drug trafficking. There's a street camera mounted on the telephone pole right outside the Pottses' home.”

His eyes held mine for a long moment before he asked the obvious question.

“The tape shows someone pulling up in that Mustang and going into the house. You wanna tell me what you were you doing at Frances Potts's home at one in the morning?”

“I went by to check on her. She hadn't been feeling well.”

“She called you?”

“No, I just thought I'd check on her.”

“You don't think that's a little odd, to just drop by at one in the morning?”

“She told us she'd been having trouble sleeping.”

He stared me down for another few seconds, not speaking. I could have sworn Inspector Romero was trying to read my aura, just as I was trying to read his. That surprised me. In my experience cops were by-the-book, logic-is-supreme sorts, with the possible exception of detectives, who relied a great deal on what they liked to call “hunches.”

After a long moment his partner cleared his throat, breaking our connection, and handed me a piece of scratch paper with a five-pointed star inside of a circle, sketched in a dark pencil.

“You know what that is?” the blond inspector—Neil something—asked.

“A star?”

“Yeah, but it's a, whatchamacallit . . . It's used in satanic rituals, right?”

“Pentagrams aren't a sign of Satan; they're an ancient symbol of the human form.” I hated how easily the craft was misinterpreted. I pointed down at the glass counter, to the display of several carved talismans and amulets. There were three in the shape of a pentagram. “You see? Head, arms, and legs. Pentagrams are used more for protection than for curses.”

“Though they are used for curses sometimes, then, right?”

“Occasionally,” I said.

“What are you, some kind of occultist?” interjected Carlos, frowning as he inspected the medallions in the display.

“No. I'm a shopkeeper specializing in vintage clothes.”

“You seem to know a lot about the subject of pentagrams.”

“I know something about the Mustang I drive, as well, but I'm no mechanic.”

“So you're sayin' this star has nothing to do with devil worship?” asked the blond detective.

“It would depend upon who used it, and how. For instance, a lot of Wiccans use the pentagram in their rituals, but most don't believe in the concept of hell, much less the devil,” I said. “Does this have to do with Frances Potts?”

The inspectors exchanged a glance. I had my answer.

“Were there any other signs of black magic or devil worship at the scene?” I asked.

“What kinds of signs?”

“The numbers six-six-six, animal sacrifice, maybe?”

“Those would be a sign of satanic ritual?”

“It's possible. Some people do associate the pentagram with the devil's work. If it's drawn upside down, with two points up rather than standing on two points like a person, it's thought by some to represent a goat with horns.”

His eyebrows lifted in question.

“The goat can be a sign of the devil. It's called Baphomet.”

“So this goat would mean there were satanists there?”

“It's really not that simple.” I took a deep breath and tried to organize my thoughts in a way that would make sense to a cynical sensibility. “Most symbols and spells can be either positive or negative, depending on the intent of the person casting the spell. For instance, this candle”—I gestured toward the tall beeswax candle that I lit every morning with a brief spell of luck for the shop—“can be a simple source of light, or it can affect the course of someone's life, for good or ill, depending on the emphasis people give it.”

Both men's eyebrows raised in a “hoo, boy” incredulous look. Blondie carefully folded the sketch and returned it to his breast pocket.

Inspector Romero resumed his questioning.

“How was Mrs. Potts when you last saw her?”

I swallowed hard again. How could my magic have failed?

“Ms. Ivory?” he urged.

“She seemed fine. She let me into the house, but went right back to bed.”

“According to the security tape you were there for almost an hour.”

“I was cleaning up a little.”

“So that would explain any fingerprints we found at the scene?”

“If you found fingerprints, they aren't mine.” I held my hands up palms out and splayed my fingers. “I was born without fingerprints.”

“You were born that way?” asked Blondie.

“It's called dermatopathia pigmentosa reticularis
.
It's a genetic condition.”

Romero held my hand, palm up, in his. He really was guarded; even when I concentrated fully I felt very little from him other than a pleasant, subtle throb. He scrutinized my finger pads, turning them slightly to the side to look at them in the strong light streaming in through the plate-glass windows.

“I'll be damned.” He looked at his partner. “You heard of this?”

Blondie nodded. “They did a deal on it on the Discovery Channel. It's a pretty rare condition. I'm telling you, Carlos, you gotta watch more television.”

“Spell it for me,” he said to me, then made note of it. Romero's eyes remained on his notepad for several moments before flickering up to his partner. Finally, he continued. “I'll need your friend's information, the one who introduced you to Mrs. Potts yesterday. And the name of the lawyer you said was there. And we'll need to confiscate the clothing you took from the Potts home.”

“The clothing?”

“It might be evidence.”

“Of what?”

“Why don't you leave that up to me?”

With reluctance I led them to the back room, and then helped them to gather up the Hefty bags and cart them through the store and outside, to a battered silver Ford sedan double-parked in front of the store. As we walked by the dressing room alcove I realized that Frances Potts's two wedding dresses still hung on a separate rack. I warred with my conscience for a moment, then remained mute. The gowns wouldn't tell the police anything with regard to Frances's death, I felt sure. If they revealed anything to anyone, it would be to me.