A Magical Match Page 10

  Chapter 10

  My mind raced as I drove back to Aunt Cora’s Closet. Sailor’s faith in me made it all the harder, somehow.

  Just a little pressure. Most brides stressed out over flower arrangements, the reception menu, and the guest list. I was worrying about how to spring my fiancé from the hoosegow. And as if that weren’t enough, I still hadn’t found the right wedding dress. Which reminded me . . . I had an appointment this afternoon to preview an estate sale in Pacific Heights, and supposedly there were two wedding dresses in the lot, one from the 1940s, the other from the early 1960s. Two of my favorite fashion eras.

  I had been looking forward to going for the past week, but at the moment it was hard to think about anything except how to help Sailor. I didn’t even know where to start.

  Also, Selena was scheduled to come by the shop to try on dresses. I had considered postponing when Hervé reminded me of our date last night, but I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her, no matter the circumstances. Not only did I feel obligated to fulfill my promise to a young girl, but also because Selena didn’t react well to disappointment. Controlling her emotions—rather than allowing them to spill out into the world around her, causing all manner of mischief—was one of the things we were working on.

  For that matter, it was one of the things I was still working on.

  I parked the Mustang in the driveway I rented and walked around the corner to Haight Street. Sweeping the sidewalk in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet was a tall, lanky young man dressed in dirty clothes. Conrad’s eyes were rimmed in red, his dishwater blond hair was shaggy, and a straggly goatee studded his chin. He had recently confided in me that he feared he would never be able to grow a decent beard.

  He lived on the street, slept in nearby Golden Gate Park, but fretted over facial hair. I would never understand it.

  “Good morning, Conrad,” I said as I approached.

  He paused in his sweeping, leaned on the broom, lifted his chin, and replied, “Duuude.”

  Conrad is one of the army of “gutter punks” who pepper the streets of the Haight. He was addicted to something—possibly several somethings—but wasn’t ready to accept my offers of help. I was sometimes tempted to force temporary sobriety upon him, but I knew it wouldn’t last. My magic is strong, but human nature is stronger. Real change had to come from within. As hard as it was to see Conrad like this, and as much as I wanted to take matters into my own hands, I had to wait for him to make the decision.

  Despite all that, Conrad—or “the Con,” as he referred to himself—was a good friend, and had become an unofficial part-time guardian of Aunt Cora’s Closet. When he wasn’t doing odd jobs for me, his usual post was on the curb outside the shop. He might not be particularly effectual, but he was brave and loyal. And that counted for a lot.

  I sneezed.

  “Dude. Getting a cold?”

  I shook my head. “No. Probably just allergies.”

  “I tell you what: the way I hear it is that a cold means you’re resisting dealing with something important. See, it’s all in your mind, dude. You can overcome anything with positive thinking. Choose happiness—that’s my motto.”

  I smiled. “Maybe I’ll try that. Thanks. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Maya already brought me a muffin and a Flower Power. Thank you. Oh, and Selena just got here.”

  Darn. I had been hoping to have a little time before Selena arrived. Among other things, I wanted to make a few phone calls without her interested ears overhearing. My semi-adopted little sister was a handful.

  Selena wasn’t a typical teenager. Selena wasn’t a typical . . . anything. At fifteen years old, she was a powerful but troubled young witch who hadn’t been trained to control her abilities. She reminded me a lot of myself at the same age, but in my case, Graciela had taken me firmly in hand. Selena lived with her own grandmother, a botanica owner who understood and respected magic but was not a sufficiently strong practitioner to be able to train Selena appropriately. So I had been doing my best to help, as had Aidan. Privately, I thought the biggest influence upon Selena’s changing attitude toward the world was her volunteer work at the San Francisco animal shelter. She connected with the animals on a deep level, no words needed. The young witch and the homeless pets had a calming effect on one another.

  There was one animal, though, that Selena didn’t much care for: Oscar. The young witch and the gobgoyle had a sibling-type relationship, primarily teasing and arguing, and only occasionally on the same page.

  I paused, my hand on the door latch. Before leaving to visit Sailor this morning, I had cast my usual spell of protection over the store, cleansing and smudging and lighting a candle. Now, as I stood looking through the window at the vulnerable necks of Selena and Maya, and Oscar’s chubby little form snoring on his pillow, Carlos’s words of caution came back to me. I decided to add a little more protective magic to the store. Just in case. I couldn’t do a total protection spell, or it would keep everyone at bay, including customers. But a wreath of stinging nettles and a second sage-bundle smudging couldn’t hurt.

  “Good morning, Selena,” I said as I walked in. Selena was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register, polishing silver jewelry and cutlery with ketchup. She loved handling silver and liked it to sparkle.

  “Hi, Maya,” I continued.

  “Good morning, Lily,” said Maya. Her eyes were full of questions—I’m sure she was dying to ask about Sailor—but for Selena’s sake said nothing.

  Oscar snorted. “And hello to you, too, little guy.”

  He closed his eyes, let out a long sigh, and was snoring again before his head hit the pillow.

  Selena didn’t even look up, but that was par for the course. She was what people in the Bay Area called “socially awkward.” Back home we called it “touched.”

  “Selena?”

  After a pause, she glanced up at me. “What?”

  “I said good morning. What do you say in return?”

  “Buenos días,” she said in a slightly mocking tone, wagging her head.

  “Y buenos días a tí,” I answered.

  I was glad to see Selena still wore the Gutta Cavat Lapidem talisman I had given her months ago. The teardrop-shaped pendant helped focus her scattered adolescent energies.

  “Has the bus checked in this morning?” I asked Maya, noting a new pin on the map.

  “Yep,” said Maya. “They’re headed to Sacramento.”

  “What’s in Sacramento?”

  “State capital,” said Selena.

  “Yes, thanks, Selena. I actually do know it’s the California state capital. I’m just wondering why the grandmas are headed there.”

  “They mentioned something about joining a protest march,” Maya responded. “They said they’d be another day or two.”

  “A protest march. Seriously?”

  “That’s what the text said,” said Maya with a smile. “Can you imagine the busload of grandmas with signs in hand? Those state legislators don’t stand a chance. And they aren’t even constituents!”

  I returned her smile at the image of the coven descending upon hapless lawmakers. Still . . . “What are they up to, do you suppose?”

  Maya shrugged and handed me her phone to show me the text. “It says they’re joining the march, and afterward they plan to visit the California State Railroad Museum in Old Sacramento. That’s all.”

  “Huh. Who knew they were such train enthusiasts?”

  On the one hand, given what I was dealing with at the moment, it was nice not to have to worry about what would no doubt be the boisterous arrival of thirteen elderly witches. Not to mention my mother. On the other hand, the waiting and the anticipation were starting to get on my nerves. Also, I could use some advice. And I couldn’t help but wonder if they were just being dotty, or if there was something else behind their erratic route.


  “Done,” said Selena, the now-sparkling jewelry and silverware fanned out around her. Hers was a rare metal magic. As Selena polished the metal, she imbued it with subtle whispers of energy. Customers could feel it, though they didn’t understand the source of their reactions. The items Selena polished flew off the store’s shelves—occasionally, quite literally.

  I had quickly run out of silver objects for her to work on—Aunt Cora’s Closet was a clothes store primarily, not a jewelry store—so I had taken to buying old cutlery and other small silver items at garage sales, just to give her something to do.

  “Isn’t that pretty? Thank you, Selena,” I said. “Now, please put the jewelry back in the display case, and the cutlery can go on the shelves with the kitchen items. If we have enough, maybe we’ll use it for the Magical Match Tea.”

  Instead, Selena craned her neck to look up at the wall behind the counter. She gazed at the map.

  “It’s a picture,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “Their path is making a picture, see?”

  I stood back and looked at the map. She was right; the red thread strung around the pins was starting to look like a figure of some sort.

  “What is it?” asked Maya.

  The three of us stood in front of the map, tilting our heads this way, then that way, but the shape didn’t make sense. There was no obvious figure emerging.

  “Huh,” I said. “It doesn’t look like anything yet, does it?”

  “Prob’ly they’re still working on it,” said Selena.

  “I think it’s more likely just chance,” said Maya. “The thread was bound to start looking like something to an active imagination. You know, like when you look up at the clouds and suddenly see the spitting image of your great-uncle Ollie?”

  Maya was a natural skeptic. And normally I would have ceded her point. But these were the grandmas. And Graciela. She rarely did anything by chance. It was a witchy characteristic.

  “Okay, well . . . ,” I said as I hung my sweater on the antique brass coat-tree behind the counter. “I suppose we’ll just have to trust they know what they’re doing. And frankly, at the moment, I’m just as glad not to have to deal with them. I’ve got a few other things on my plate.”

  Maya raised her eyebrows, but we held our tongues in front of Selena.

  “Maya, could you look up Tristan Dupree on the Internet?”

  “Sure. With a name like that, I don’t imagine he’ll be hard to . . . Bingo. He’s got a Facebook page.”

  “Tristan Dupree has a Facebook page?”

  “I told you, Lily. Everyone and their brother has a Facebook page.”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s my point.” Maya had been building a Facebook page for Aunt Cora’s Closet, insisting it would benefit the business. I believed her, but computers scared me. Too much scattered energy zinging around in cyberspace. Just like cell phones.

  Not for the first time, I wondered whether I was a witch meant for an earlier time. Then again, I thanked the stars not to be living back during the burning days.

  “Unless this is a different Tristan Dupree,” Maya said. “Hard to imagine there’s more than one person walking around with that moniker.”

  “You never know,” I said. “It’s a big world.”

  I peered over her shoulder as she scrolled through Tristan Dupree’s Facebook page. His privacy settings wouldn’t allow us to view much, but the profile picture was Tristan, all right. I would recognize those pale emotionless eyes anywhere. His location was listed as Füssen, Bavaria.

  “Isn’t Bavaria in Germany?” she asked. “Why not just say Germany?”

  “I think it’s a regionalist thing,” I said. “You know, like people saying they’re Northern Californians to distinguish themselves from LA. Does it tell us anything else?” I asked.

  Maya shook her head. “Unless he ‘friends’ us, the rest of the information is private.”

  “He’s not likely to ‘friend’ anybody at this point.”

  “I’ll search the Web further, see if I can find anything else.”

  “Thanks. While you’re online,” I said, “could you look up Renee’s cupcake shop?”

  “Sure. Didn’t Wind Spirit mention ordering some cupcakes for the Magical Match Tea? That’s a great idea.”

  “I don’t agree. In fact, Renee’s sort of . . . bad news.”

  “The cupcake lady?” Maya asked, still typing. “She stopped by my mom’s shop just the other day.”

  “Did you see her?”

  Maya nodded. “Yeah, I was there.”

  “Did Renee do anything odd?”

  She shook her head. “Dropped off a dozen cupcakes, as a matter of fact. The chocolate one was pretty astonishing. You should have seen it. I think I may have dreamed about it last night. Also, there were a few savory treats, too, little meat pasties. She said she was developing a new product line. Why?”

  “I can’t give you many details. . . .”

  Maya gave me a look. “It’s like that, is it?”

  “I think we all need to be cautious around her, that’s all.”

  “She doesn’t look like much of a threat, I have to say,” said Maya as Renee’s smiling countenance popped up on the computer screen, her round face friendly and welcoming. Renee posed in front of shelves of colorful intricately decorated cakes and pastries. She was chubby, like someone who enjoyed her own food a little too much, and about Bronwyn’s age. I knew only too well what Renee was really up to, but even so, it was hard to look at her and convince myself she was trouble.

  Excellent disguise, cupcakes. They hid a multitude of sins.

  Selena had wandered off and was now teasing Oscar with a muffin, holding it over his head. Oscar snorted and looked about ready to head-butt her. I decided to let them sort it out themselves.

  I turned back to the computer screen. What was I hoping to get from looking at Renee? Some glimmer of what was going on?

  “What did Renee do while she was at Lucille’s Loft?” I asked Maya. “Did she say anything, ask questions about me, maybe?”

  “Um, let me think,” Maya said. If my questions struck her as odd, she didn’t mention it. Maya had grown used to my bizarrely inquisitive ways. “She admired the fabrics, the dresses, the rainbow of thread choices. She asked for a few samples, and had some questions about prices. Nothing out of the ordinary that I can think of.”

  “You ate one of the cupcakes? You didn’t feel strange in any way?”

  She shook her head. “Other than dreaming about it? No. I ate a meat pasty, too. So did you, as a matter of fact.”

  “I did? When was this?”

  “Day before yesterday, I think? I brought you one, remember? Flaky pastry, ground meat, onion, carrots, mushrooms, cheese . . . I’m getting hungry just thinking about it,” Maya said.

  I did remember, and it was delicious. Maya often brought me things from home, or from the café down the street. It hadn’t occurred to me to question its origins.

  “Are you worried about it?” continued Maya. “I don’t think any of us are suffering any ill effects.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But in the future, we should all be a little wary of Renee and her baked goods. One more thing.” I dropped my voice. “Would you look up a man named Henry Petulengro? He has a law office in San Francisco. I need his phone number. He’s Sailor’s lawyer.”

  “Have you seen him?” Maya whispered as she located the lawyer’s Web site. “Is he okay?”

  I nodded, jotted down the lawyer’s number, then ducked into the back workroom to call his office. As the phone rang, I noticed several of Selena’s drawings scattered on the table. Each featured a cupcake with black icing. Selena drew a lot; this probably didn’t mean anything special.

  Petulengro’s voice mail picked up, and I left a me
ssage saying I was Sailor’s fiancée, and asking him to get back to me.

  I turned around to see Selena standing just this side of the curtains, staring at me.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “Nothing, I . . .” I was about to brush her off but noticed the matching polka-dot dresses Selena and I had picked out for the Magical Match Tea. She was so much like I was at her age: old enough to pick up on things, but not experienced enough to know how to interpret them. Fifteen was a confusing, disorienting age in general, but even more so for someone like Selena, who didn’t have friends her own age to bounce worries off, much less to share carefree activities with.

  She deserved the truth.

  “Sailor has been arrested,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “For . . .” Okay, the truth was one thing, but the whole truth was something else. I didn’t want to scare her. “For a crime he didn’t commit. He’s in jail, but I’m fixin’ to figure this out and get him released.”

  She stared at me for a long moment. Emotions filled her near-black eyes, but the rest of her affect remained flat. Not long ago her grandmother had been held in jail, and Selena had been homeless for a brief time. Just the memory of this vulnerable young woman—barely more than a girl—wandering the streets of San Francisco on her own made my heart skip a beat.

  “I like Sailor,” she said.

  “I do, too.”

  “You got my abuelita out of jail.”

  “I was able to help her, yes.” And now, I thought, I had to help Sailor. I had to. There was no other choice. If only I had a clue how to go about it.

  “You said I could be a bridesmaid. Me and Maya.”

  “And you will be,” I said, hoping I wasn’t lying. “You’ll be a great bridesmaid. Selena, what made you draw these cupcakes like this?”

  She shrugged. “I like cupcakes.”

  “Are they . . . burned? Why are they all black?”

  “I dunno—that’s how they were in my head. So . . . can I help? I mean, with Sailor?”

  My heart surged. For Selena to worry about someone else—and to offer to help—showed a lot of growth.