Hexes and Hemlines Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Teaser chapter

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JULIET BLACKWELL

  THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES

  A Cast-off Coven

  “If you like your mysteries with a side of spell casting and demon vanquishing, you’ll enjoy the second title in Blackwell’s Witchcraft mysteries.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This awesome paranormal mystery stars a terrific heroine.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  Secondhand Spirits

  “Juliet Blackwell provides a terrific urban fantasy with the opening of the Witchcraft Mystery series.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor, creating a cozy that is a must read for anyone with an interest in literature with paranormal elements.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”

  —The Herald News (MA)

  THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION SERIES

  If Walls Could Talk

  “This book is filled with quick wit and chuckles throughout, and is one of the best cozy reads out there.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “This is the first entry in the Haunted Home Renovation series, and it promises to be a load of fun.”

  —Romantic Times (four stars)

  THE ART LOVER’S MYSTERIES BY JULIET BLACKWELL WRITING AS HAILEY LIND

  Brush with Death

  “Lind deftly combines a smart and witty sleuth with entertaining characters who are all engaged in a fascinating new adventure.”

  —Romantic Times

  Shooting Gallery

  “If you enjoy Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum books, Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy series, or Ian Pears’s art history mysteries . . . then you will enjoy Shooting Gallery .”

  —Gumshoe

  “An artfully crafted new mystery series!”

  —Tim Myers, Agatha Award–nominated author of

  A Mold for Murder

  “The art world is murder in this witty and entertaining mystery!”

  —Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of

  Holiday Grind

  Feint of Art

  “Annie Kincaid is a wonderful cozy heroine.... It’s a rollicking good read.”

  —Mystery News

  ALSO IN THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERY SERIES

  Secondhand Spirits

  A Cast-off Coven

  THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERY SERIES

  If Walls Could Talk

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, June 2011

  Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2011

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51549-5

  Excerpt from If Walls Could Talk © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2010

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Jane Lawes

  Thank you for the magic—

  I miss you so.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my wonderful editor, Kerry Donovan—and congratulations on the new human, Reed! And to my literary agent, Kristin Lindstrom, who is unflagging in her support.

  Special thanks to R.G. for allowing me to witness your spell casting and to glimpse a bit of your world. And to Renna Santini for answering my numerous (and no doubt obnoxious) questions about the Rom and traditional healing spells. Muchísimas gracias a Cathy Romero por enseñarme en las tradiciones mexicanas.

  We authors require many supportive shoulders on which to lean, and ears in which to whine. . . . I couldn’t manage without my fellow writers. Many thanks to my fellow Pens Fatales (www.pensfatales.com). To Mario Acevedo, Rachael Herron, Nicole Peeler, Cornelia Read, Steve Hockensmith, and so many more for promoting my witchy ways. And to Sophie Littlefield for putting up with all my secret nastiness . . . and making it seem like a feature rather than a failing. You are amazing.

  And to the long list of friends and neighbors that I thank in almost every book—you know who you are, and you all serve to make this life an adventure. I am privileged to know you, and it’s no exaggeration to say I could never be what I am without your love and support . . . and cocktails! You are my family.

  To my mother, Jane, and father, Bob, and sisters, Susan and Carolyn. Thank you for giving me the kind of start in life that everyone should be lucky enough to have. And for continuing to be there for me, even wh
en I’m crazed. Your support means more than you know.

  To Jace, for making me laugh just about every day—and for whipping the next generation of schoolchildren into shape. And to my guy, Sergio . . . you are, were, and always will be an inspiration to me.

  And finally to Oscar, my neighbor’s little black cat . . . I put “smoked ham” on the grocery list.

  ’Tis the night—the night

  Of the grave’s delight,

  And the warlocks are at their play;

  Ye think that without

  The wild winds shout,

  But no, it is they—it is they.

  —ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE

  Chapter 1

  It didn’t take a witch to figure out something was very, very wrong on the thirteenth floor of the Doppler Building.

  It wasn’t called the thirteenth floor, of course. It was the penthouse, and Malachi Zazi lived there. Or . . . used to live there. At the moment his body was splayed atop a long banquet table, a jagged shard from a shattered mirror protruding from his chest. Deep red blood spatter created a gruesome Rorschach pattern on the snowy white Belgian lace tablecloth.

  I took a deep breath and concentrated on not losing my lunch.

  Most days I deal in vintage clothing, not corpses. I may be a natural-born witch, but I’m no more comfortable around violent death than any other mortal merchant on Haight Street.

  I was here only because SFPD inspector Carlos Romero had asked for my help. I now understood why.

  “When was he found?” I asked.

  “This morning,” said Inspector Romero. “By his housekeeper.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Medical examiner hasn’t determined that, but the victim had guests for a midnight supper. The last ones apparently left around two thirty.”

  “The body hasn’t been moved? The legs were pointed toward the door like this?”

  The inspector nodded. “Everything’s as it was found. Including the bird.”

  “What bird?”

  As if on cue, a small brown sparrow swooped past me and landed on the table near the corpse. It chirped and hopped about, then flew away. I jumped when a black cat sprang onto the tabletop and gave chase. Feather and fur disappeared into the bedroom.

  I clutched my medicine bag and whispered a quick protective chant.

  Romero scoffed. “I didn’t think witches were scared of black cats.”

  “I’m not. But a sparrow trapped in the house is a sign of death at hand.”

  “Yeah, well, we got a dead guy on the table.”

  “But the bird . . .” I shook my head. “Death is still lurking. It’s a bad sign.”

  “That’s nothing,” the inspector snorted. “So far we’ve got a ladder positioned in front of the door to walk under in order to pass into the room. There’s a broken mirror over the fireplace, an open umbrella in the corner, and a black cat. Even I know these are alleged signs of bad luck.”

  “Don’t forget the thirteen chairs at the table,” I mused. No point in mentioning that lying atop a table is considered bad luck, and lying down with one’s feet pointed toward the door is referred to as the corpse position. “And we’re on the thirteenth floor. Not that there’s anything unlucky about the number thirteen; quite the opposite. But a lot of people seem to think it’s cursed.”

  I wasn’t yet ready to take a close look at the victim. Both because he was dead and what all . . . and because there was something decidedly wrong with the body.

  Even from a distance, I could sense that there was something different about Malachi Zazi.

  I took a moment to look around the apartment, sidestepping the emergency personnel, who were dusting for prints and photographing possible evidence. Besides occasional staccato camera flashes, the only light in the room was a dim amber glow from hand-blown sconces. The apartment reeked of cigar smoke and carried the slight aroma of last night’s dinner. Tall windows were covered by heavy gold-tasseled red velvet drapes that blocked the afternoon sun; muted Oriental rugs covered generous sections of the dark wood floor; vivid oil paintings lined the paneled walls; and plush leather armchairs invited weary visitors to linger by the massive carved fireplace. There were vases of lilies as well as bright orange marigolds—both were flowers of death: the lilies in many Western cultures, the marigolds in Mexico for Day of the Dead. The whole apartment looked like a stage set for a Victorian play—for some convoluted murder mystery, to be precise.

  “Officially, we’re on the fourteenth floor,” Romero mentioned as he trailed after me. “Not the thirteenth.”

  “Only because otherwise rational men and women pretend there’s no thirteenth floor when they build buildings. It’s such a holdover from another time. . . . It’s almost charming.”

  “Charming or not, a man was in here with all these bad luck signs, and now he’s dead. Stabbed in the heart. Look, Lily,” the inspector continued with a half-embarrassed, half-weary look on his face. “You know it pains me to ask for your help, but I thought you might be able to offer certain . . . insights into this case. Can you tell me anything?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “You already know about the bad luck signs. But those are mostly superstitions—except for the mirror, and the ladder. Oh, and the poor bird. But even if they were potent, they wouldn’t lead to murder. Bad luck omens are more subtle than that, and they tend to work on a bit of a time delay.”

  “So he was just an eccentric guy who liked signs of bad luck? You don’t . . . ‘feel’ anything?”

  I took a deep breath and approached the body. “May I touch him?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I reached out and laid the fingertips of my left hand on Zazi’s cold, waxy forehead. He looked only a little older than I, maybe early thirties. Despite the grayish tone of his skin, it was clear he had once been good-looking. Dark hair and delicate wings of eyebrows set off even, romantic features.

  Closing my eyes, I concentrated on filtering out the static caused by all the people in the apartment; their nervous energy bounced off the walls and filled the available air. I focused my powers, subsumed my conscious self, and allowed myself to be a conduit.

  Nothing.

  People—normal people—give off sensations, even several hours after death.

  Malachi’s hands were soft, no calluses or signs of a man who worked with his hands. He wore a ring, a tarnished silver snake that wound around his left finger. Turning his hand palm up, I looked for the faint lines of fingerprints, the markings common to most every normal human on the earth.

  The skin was slick, almost shiny. Even the palm showed no lifelines; nothing.

  “Could someone roll him for prints?” I asked Carlos.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t think he’ll have any.”

  “What, you mean like you?”

  “Like me.”

  Our eyes met.

  Some of us are born without fingerprints. There is a documented, albeit rare, medical condition associated with the lack of such lines. Still, I sometimes wondered whether there was something metaphysical about it, as though certain folk are meant to go through life without leaving a trace . . . but then I’d decided I was just strange.

  Apparently, so was Malachi Zazi.

  “Maybe you should check out his DNA,” I mentioned.

  “What for?”

  “Make sure he’s human.”

  Romero glanced around at the crowd, took me gently by the upper arm, and hustled me into the bedroom. Our sudden entrance startled the cat, which ran under the bed.

  His hand still on the door, as though holding it closed by force, Romero blew out a frustrated breath and fixed me with his skeptical cop gaze.

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “I just think it would be helpful to know for sure what we’re dealing with.”

  “If he’s not human, then . . .” He swore under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “What would he be? Please tell
me we’re not talking about . . . a demon?”

  I flinched. In my world, people don’t go around casually invoking the names of demons.

  “Of course not,” I said. The inspector visibly relaxed. Until I added: “I mean, I doubt it. Could be anything, really.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “A doppelganger, a changeling . . . or maybe just odd, like me.”

  Avoiding Romero’s eyes, I started poking around the bedroom. It was a masculine room, full of polished antiques like the rest of the apartment. My interest was immediately caught by an ornate cherry armoire, its doors open to reveal a bonanza of silks and satins—ladies’ gowns and gentlemen’s suits from another era. The late 1800s, I would say offhand. The clothes were gorgeous, and incredibly rare in such good condition.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t particularly care, if it doesn’t have to do with the vic’s murder.”

  I reached into the closet, hugged several of the items to my chest, and concentrated on the garments.

  Clothes were usually an easy read for me. They hummed, alive with the energy and whispered traces of the people they had adorned. But not these. These clothes were as soulless as the dead man on the table.

  I recoiled, as disturbed as a normal person would have been to suddenly feel vibrations coming from their T-shirt and cargo pants.

  “What’s wrong?” Romero asked.

  I just shook my head. I didn’t know what to make of it all. “Could I . . . would it be possible for me to have these?”