Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (27 page)

Keep reading for a preview of the next novel in the bestselling Witchcraft Mystery Series by Juliet Blackwell,

A Toxic Trousseau

Available from Obsidian in July 2016!

“G
ood morning,” Aidan said as he joined us. “Lily . . . stunning as always. I do like that color on you. It’s as joyful as the first rays of dawn.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing and avoiding his eyes. The dress was orangey-gold cotton with a pink embroidered neckline and hem, circa 1962, and I had chosen it this morning precisely because it reminded me of a sunrise. “Aren’t you just the sweet talker?”

You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar
, my mama used to tell me. Did this mean I was the fly and Aidan the fly catcher?

“Is everything all right?” Aidan asked. “Am I sensing trouble? Beyond the norm, I mean.”

“Dude, Lily just got
served
,” Conrad said.

“Served? I fear we aren’t speaking of breakfast.”

“A lawsuit,” I clarified.

“Ah. What a shame. What ever happened?”

“Oscar head-butted a customer.”

“That’s . . . unusual.” Aidan had given me Oscar and knew him well. “Was this person badly injured?”

“I wasn’t there when it happened, but according to Bronwyn and Maya, the customer seemed fine. But now she’s claiming she sustained ‘serious and debilitating neck and back injuries that hinder her in the completion of her work and significantly reduce her quality of life,’” I said, quoting from the document.

“That sounds most distressing. Might I offer my services in finding a resolution?”

“
No
. No, thank you.” The only thing worse than being slapped with a slip-and-fall lawsuit—the boogeyman of every small-business owner—was being even more beholden to Aidan Rhodes than I already was. Besides . . . I wasn’t sure what he meant by “finding a resolution.” Aidan was one powerful witch. Autumn Jennings might very well wind up walking around looking like a frog.

“You’re sure?” Aidan asked. “These personal injury lawsuits can get nasty—and expensive, even if you win. As much as I hate to say it, you may have some liability here. Is it even legal to have a pig in the city limits?”

“Don’t worry about it; I’ve got it handled,” I said, not wishing to discuss the matter any further with him. “Was there some reason in particular you stopped by?”

Aidan grinned, sending sparkling rays of light dancing in the morning breeze. He really was the most astonishing man.

“I was hoping we might have a moment to talk,” he said. “About business.”

My stomach clenched. Time to face the music. I did owe him, after all. “Of course. Come on in.”

The door to Aunt Cora’s Closet tinkled as we went
inside, and Bronwyn fluttered out from the back room, cradling Oscar to her ample chest. She was dressed in billows of purple gauze, and a garland of wildflowers crowned her frizzy brown hair. Bronwyn was a fifty-something Wiccan, and one of the first—and very best—friends I had made upon my arrival in the City by the Bay not so very long ago.

“Hello, Aidan! So wonderful to see you again!” she gushed.

“Bronwyn, you light up this shop like fireworks on the Fourth of July.”

“Oh, you do go on.” She waved her hand but gave him a flirtatious smile. “But, Lily! Our little Oscar-oo is very upset, poor thing! I think it has something to do with the woman with the motorcycle helmet who was just here—what was that about? He’s never reacted this way to
Sailor’s
helmet. . . .”

“She was serving Lily with legal papers,” said Aidan.

“
Legal
papers?” Bronwyn asked as Oscar hid his snout under her arm. “For what?”

“Remember when Oscar head-butted Autumn Jennings a couple of weeks ago?” I said.

Oscar snorted when I said “butt.”

“Of course, naughty little, tiny piggy-pig-pig,” Bronwyn said in a crooning baby voice. “But I have to say she really was bothering all of us. But . . . she’s
suing
you? Seriously?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Well, now, that’s just bad karma,” Bronwyn said with a frown.

“You said she wasn’t hurt, though, right?”

“She was fine!” Bronwyn insisted. “She fell into the rack of swing dresses. You know how poufy those dresses are—there’s enough crinoline in the skirts to cushion an NFL linebacker, and Amber Jennings is, what, a hundred
pounds, soaking wet? I saw her just the other day when I brought her some of my special caramel-cherry-spice mate tea and homemade corn-cherry scones. Come to think of it, when I arrived she was up on a ladder, and she certainly didn’t seem to have any back or neck injuries. She was a little under the weather, but it was a cold or the flu.”

“When was this?”

“Day before yesterday, I think. . . . I thought I should make the effort, since you weren’t even here when it happened. I just wanted to tell her I was sorry. Plus, to be honest, I was curious to check out her store, after what she said about our merchandise. Very nice inventory, but if you ask me not nearly as warm and inviting as Aunt Cora’s Closet. The whole place was too snooty for my taste, by half. And expensive! Too rich for my blood.”

“Did anything happen while you were there? Did she say anything in particular?”

Bronwyn frowned in thought, then shook her head. “Nothing at all. She didn’t seem particularly bowled over by my gift basket, but she accepted it. But like I say, she told me she was a little under the weather, so maybe that accounts for her mood. She did have a very sweet dog, and I always say a pet lover is never irredeemable.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, blowing out a breath. “If you think of anything else, please let me know. Aidan and I are going to talk in the back for a moment.”

“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Bronwyn said, lugging Oscar over to her herbal stand for a treat. Oscar was a miniature pig, but he was still a porker.

In the back room Aidan and I sat down at my old jade green linoleum table. I bided my time and waited for Aidan to speak first. In witch circles simply asking “What may I help you with?” can open up a dangerous can of worms.

“I have to leave town for a little while,” he said.

“Really?” Even though I knew perfectly well that he had lived elsewhere in the past, including when he’d worked with the father who had abandoned me, in my mind Aidan was so associated with San Francisco that it was hard to imagine him anywhere else. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“And here I was rather hoping you would beg me to stay,” he said in a quiet voice, his gaze holding mine.

“Far be it from me to dictate to the likes of Aidan Rhodes.”

He smiled. “In any case, I need a favor.”

Uh-oh
.

“While I’m gone I need you to fill in for me and adjudicate a few issues. Nothing too strenuous.”

“Beg pardon?”

He handed me a heavy well-worn leather satchel tied with a black ribbon. “You’re always so curious about what I do for the local witchcraft community. Now’s your chance to find out.”

“I never said I wanted to find out. I’m really perfectly happy being in the dark.”

Aidan smiled. “Why do I find that hard to believe? In any event, find out, you shall.”

I sighed. As curious as I was about Aidan’s world, I hesitated to be drawn into it. However, I was in his debt and the bill had come due. “Fine. I’m going to need more information, though. What-all is involved in ‘adjudicating issues’?”

He shrugged. “Little of this, a little of that. Mostly it means keeping an eye on things, making sure nothing gets out of hand. Handling disputes, assisting with certifications . . . valuable job skills that really beef up the résumé—you’ll see.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, skeptical. At the moment I didn’t
need a more impressive résumé. I needed a lawyer. “What kind of certifications?”

“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 personal 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’s green Formica-topped 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. 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 final 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 onto 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 onto 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!”