a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (3 page)

“Fortune-tellers and necromancers must be licensed in the city and county of San Francisco. Surely your good friend Inspector Romero has mentioned this at some point.”

“He has, but since I’m neither a fortune-teller nor a necromancer I didn’t pay much attention. So that’s what you do? Help people fill out forms down at City Hall? Surely—”

“It’s all terribly glamorous, isn’t it? Resolving petty squabbles, unraveling paperwork snafus . . . The excitement never ends,” he said with another smile. “But it’s necessary work, and you’re more than qualified to handle it while I’m gone. You’ll find everything you need in there.”

I opened the satchel and took a peek. Inside were what appeared to be hundreds of signed notes written on ancient parchment, a business card with the mayor’s cell phone number written on the back in pencil, and a jangly key ring. I pulled out the keys: One was an old-fashioned skeleton key, but the others were modern and, I assumed, unlocked his office at the recently rebuilt wax museum. “Aidan, what are . . . ?”

I looked up, but Aidan was gone, his departure marked by a slight sway of the curtains. Letting out a loud sigh of exasperation, I grumbled, “I swear, that man moves like a vampire.”

“Vampire?” Bronwyn poked her head through the
curtains, Oscar still in her arms. “Are we worried about
vampires
now?”

“No, no, of course not,” I assured her as I closed the satchel and stashed it under the workroom table. “Sorry—just talking to myself.”

“Oh, thank the goddess!” said Bronwyn, and set Oscar down. Whenever Aidan was around, Oscar became excited to the point of agitation, and his little hooves clicked on the wooden planks of the floor as he hopped around. “Never a dull moment at Aunt Cora’s Closet.”

Bronwyn and Maya knew I was a natural-born witch, and that, when I focused my intentions, I could do things that most humans couldn’t. But they weren’t aware of the full extent of my magical life. For instance, they didn’t know about Oscar’s natural form. I kept them in the dark to shield them, to protect Oscar, and because I was still exploring the scope of my magical abilities. I had still been in training as a teenager when forced to flee my grandmother’s home in a small West Texas town and was now playing catch-up. I knew, for instance, that there were woodspeople and other shape-shifting creatures similar to Oscar. But as I continued my studies—working my way through Aidan’s extensive library on magics as well as learning at the knee of Calypso Cafaro, a gifted botanist—I was honing my powers and sorting out the real from the fairy tale.

And vampires, I knew, were fictional.

And I fervently hoped they stayed that way. Wayward witches, magic gone haywire, and the occasional demon on the rise were plenty enough to deal with.
And now,
I thought as I considered the purpose of Aidan’s visit,
there will be witchy disputes and official certifications to figure out.

Not to mention whatever supernatural storm was ratcheting up here in the beautiful City by the Bay.

I could hardly wait
.

“Vampires scare me,” Bronwyn said. “My daughter used to love all those stories; she thought Dracula was sexy. But fanged creatures that drink blood? What’s sexy about that?”

“It’s a puzzle all right,” I said.

“Anyway, Maya’s here, so I’m going to take off unless you think you’ll need me this afternoon.”

“A hot date?”

“Even better—I’m picking up my grandkids after day camp and surprising them with a matinee at the Metreon. Then we’re going to go back to my place to make pizza and popcorn and tell scary stories with all the lights out!”

“They’re lucky to have you, Bronwyn.”

“
I’m
the lucky one.”

“By all means, go have fun,” I said as we ducked back through the curtains to the shop. “I’ll be here for the rest of the day. Hi, Maya, how are you?”

“Doing well. Thanks,” Maya said as she shrugged off her backpack, a soy chai latte in one hand. She leaned down to pet Oscar and slipped him a bite of her croissant. “I think I aced my exam.”

“That’s great!” I said. “Not that we’re one bit surprised, mind you.”

“Certainly not,” Bronwyn said. “Maya, you’re a natural-born scholar.”

“Nah,” she said, though clearly pleased at our compliments. “I just study hard.”

“If only that was all it took,” I said, remembering
my recent struggles with algebra. I had refrained from using magic to help me pass the GED, but just barely. The temptation to cheat—just a little—had been nearly overpowering.

“Oh! Guess what,” said Bronwyn as she filled her large woven basket with her knitting, several jars of herbs, and assorted snacks. “I have the most wonderful news.”

“What?” asked Maya.

“You remember my friend Charles?”

“Charles Gosnold?” I asked.

“That’s the one!”

Maya and I exchanged glances, and I barely managed to refrain from rolling my eyes. Privately, I referred to him as Charles the Charlatan. Although he claimed to be a clairvoyant, he was about as sensitive to the world beyond the veil as a rhinoceros, and even less graceful when it came to interacting with humans. I couldn’t imagine why Bronwyn would consider him a friend, except that she was so bighearted that she saw the good in just about everyone. Except, perhaps, vampires.

Seeing the good in others, especially when it’s not apparent, was a lesson I struggled to put into practice.

“Well, you’ll never believe this, but for my birthday Charles has arranged for the Welcome coven to spend the night at the Rodchester House of Spirits!”

“The house of what, now?” I asked.

“The Rodchester House of Spirits. It’s a haunted house in the South Bay,” Maya explained.

“Haunted?”

“
Allegedly
haunted,” Maya said.

“
Wonderfully
haunted!” Bronwyn insisted. “You mean you haven’t been, Lily?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t lived in the Bay Area very long and hadn’t managed to visit many tourist attractions. And in any case, haunted houses weren’t high on my list of places to see. I had enough of that in my regular life.

“I went years ago,” said Maya. “My auntie got a kick out of it, but Mom wasn’t thrilled. I remember a staircase that went nowhere, and a door that opened onto a wall. . . .”

Bronwyn nodded enthusiastically. “And six kitchens and
hundreds
of rooms.”

“Why on earth did this Rodchester person need six kitchens?” I asked.

“She didn’t, really,” Maya said. “According to legend, the Widow Rodchester kept building, adding on to her house because she was afraid to stop.”

“Exactly.”
Bronwyn nodded. “Sally Rodchester’s husband made his fortune manufacturing the famous Rodchester rifles, the ones that were said to have ‘won the West’—which meant, essentially, killing the people who used to live here. After both her husband and her baby died young, Sally consulted a medium who told her the souls of those killed with Rodchester rifles were angry. The only way she could stave off further bad luck was by continually adding onto her house. Which, by the way, was already huge.”

“How would adding on to her house appease disgruntled spirits?” I asked.

“I can’t remember the rationale, exactly . . . ,” said Bronwyn.

“My guess is the medium’s brother was a carpenter,” said Maya. “But then, I’m a cynic.”

“Oh, silly! But can you believe we get to spend the
night
there?” Bronwyn may have been in her fifties, but when she got excited about something, she glowed like a little girl. And spending the night in a haunted Victorian mansion was just the sort of thing to excite her sense of wonder. “What a magnificent birthday present!”

“Bronwyn, that sounds . . .”
Dangerous,
I thought. My life hadn’t been characterized by the love and kindness my dear friend had known, so I tended to see things in a more complex light. “. . . interesting. How did this even come up?”

“I happened to see a brochure for it the other day and thought to myself, I haven’t been there in
ages
. I mentioned it to Charles, and he surprised me with the arrangements! We’re going to form the circle and call down the moon. . . . Oh! And mix cocktails!”

Cocktails.
Of course.

“What could possibly go wrong?” said Maya, smiling but shaking her head. “The Welcome coven, cocktails, and the spirits of angry gunshot victims?”

“You two will join us, won’t you?” Bronwyn asked.

“I say this with the greatest of respect and affection, my friend,” said Maya, “but: No. Freaking. Way. How ’bout I take you out to lunch for your birthday? Empanadas?”

“Well, I’m disappointed you won’t be there, but I accept your offer of lunch with pleasure. Lily? How about you? This sounds right up your alley.”

“Bronwyn,” I began. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why not?” Bronwyn looked crestfallen.

“It just . . . seems like a bad idea; that’s all,” I said, unable to articulate the peril I sensed lurking on the dark horizon of my consciousness, elusive but no less real
because of that. But then, as I had just been telling Aidan, I wasn’t a fortune-teller. I was probably just put off by the idea of a haunted house. “Won’t you rethink it?”

“But everything’s all arranged. The whole coven’s going! Please say you’ll come! I know it’s late notice, but they had a cancellation, which is how we got in. It’s on Saturday, my actual birthday!”

Traipsing around haunted tourist venues on a lark wasn’t my idea of a good time. I dealt with enough supernatural weirdness and danger as it was. But could I let my friend—and her coven—go into a potentially hazardous situation without me?

I rubbed the back of my neck. It was barely noon, and I’d already been slapped with a piggy lawsuit and burdened with Aidan’s bureaucratic responsibilities, and now I was faced with the prospect of chaperoning Bronwyn’s coven overnight in a haunted mansion.

As Mama used to say: Don’t some days just starch your drawers?

Chapter 2

Happily, the afternoon was mellow at Aunt Cora’s Closet. We had a steady stream of customers, three or four at a time: a trio of college students browsing the sale rack; a mother and teenage daughter looking for a retro prom dress; a woman seeking an extra-special sundress for a cruise with her fiancé. None of them needed much help, so Maya and I sorted through my latest acquisitions from the 1940s and ’50s, a special haul I had had to fight for at an estate auction.

The vintage clothes business used to be easy: I would spend a few hours scouring thrift stores and garage sales for inexpensive items that needed a little love and attention, give them a thorough cleaning and the occasional nip and tuck, and sell them at a generous markup. Nowadays, though, the competition was growing ever fiercer as word spread that Granny’s jam-packed attic might just be a potential gold mine. Aunt Cora’s Closet wasn’t an upscale boutique—nor did I want it to be—but finding
inventory that was appealing and affordable was getting tougher every day.

After emptying out the plastic bags on the counter, we divided the clothing into four piles: machine washable, hand washable, in need of dry cleaning, and in need of repair.

“Why is the machine-washable pile always the smallest?” Maya asked with a sigh.

“That’s life in the vintage clothes business. It makes a person realize how lucky we are nowadays to have machine-washable clothes, not to mention the machines to toss them into.”

“Well, sure,” said Maya with a rueful smile, “if you want to look on the
bright
side.”

I chuckled. “Ask me how I feel on wash day, when my hands are raw and my arms ache from scrubbing and wringing out wet clothes. I might well be singing a different tune.”

“I prefer my mom’s dresses. Every label has those three magic words . . .”

“Made by Lucille?”

“Wash and wear.”

“So true! I love you in the one you’re wearing—that’s one of Lucille’s creations, right?”

“Yes, isn’t it great?” The turquoise halter dress was covered in little sprigs of cherries, and on Maya it looked like she was on her way to some sort of fabulous picnic. Like me, Maya used to be a staunch T-shirt-and-jeans gal, but she couldn’t resist her mother’s reproduction fashions.

Lucille had joined Aunt Cora’s Closet as our expert seamstress, an essential asset for a vintage clothes store since so many older garments needed to be altered to
fit today’s stronger, healthier bodies. Charmed by some dresses that were too far gone to save, she had started deconstructing them to create patterns she then scaled up to fit the larger dimensions of many modern women. Fashioned out of retro-patterned materials, the dresses were an instant hit with my customers, who loved the way they combined old-fashioned elegance with machine-washable comfort. Although she continued to do alterations on our vintage clothes, Lucille had hired and trained several former residents of the Haight-Ashbury women’s shelter to craft her designs in her spacious sewing loft. One whole corner of Aunt Cora’s Closet was now dedicated to showcasing Lucille’s Loft Designs: By and for Real Women.

The afternoon passed quickly and by twenty to six the customers had departed, the new acquisitions had been sorted, and we’d begun our evening ritual of straightening up the shop preparatory to closing for the day. I planned to go speak with Autumn Jennings face-to-face, but I took a moment to enlist Maya’s help with some background research online. While I was getting better with computers, I still didn’t like—or trust—them. All those electrons bouncing around . . . it made a witch like me nervous. Too many ghosts in those machines.

“Here it is,” Maya said. “The Web page for Vintage Visions Glad Rags. That’s her store, right?”

I nodded.

“It’s in a nice part of town: not far from the Presidio, near Pacific Heights,” Maya pointed out. “Her rent must cost a fortune. Either her business is doing well or she’s a trust-fund baby.”

“Anything else you can tell me about her?” I asked.

Eyes glued to the computer screen, Maya clicked the mouse rapidly as she moved from one Web site to another. “From what I see here, I’d say she’s more of a dealer than a shop owner. She’s sold some pretty rare and valuable items to museums. This article mentions a Parmelee Riesling; ever heard of her?”