Bewitched and Betrothed Read online

  I wrapped up a couple of buttered biscuits and handed them to him. “Take these with you, at least.”

  “Thanks.” He tucked them in his large jacket pocket.

  We stared at each other for another long moment.

  “I should go, then,” he said, gesturing to one of Selena’s drawings on my refrigerator. It was a calla lily sprouting from a seed. “Oh, by the way, that drawing? That’s the lily I saw when I held that binding braid you gave me.”

  I nodded. It made sense. Selena was intuiting the same thing that I was. We were all obsessed with alcatraces—and Alcatraz—at the moment.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I said as he moved toward the door.

  “No need,” he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “You get yourself some breakfast and relax before work. How about . . . tomorrow night? Are you free?”

  I nodded. “Sure. Tomorrow night.”

  “We’ll talk. For real.”

  He kissed my forehead and left, his boots beating a thunderous tattoo on the wooden stairs.

  I collapsed in a kitchen chair and put my head on the table. Oscar reached out one oversized mitt of a hand and awkwardly caressed my hair.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Imma book the Slovenian Hall, just in case. They have a liberal cancellation policy.”

  Chapter 12

  I jumped up and hurried to the window, indulging a superstitious faith that if I watched from the window when Sailor left, it would keep him safe.

  He stopped to speak with Conrad, who was sitting on the curb in front of the store. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the two men talked for a few moments, then Conrad stood, and they shook hands. Sailor strode across the street to his motorcycle. He threw one leg over the seat of the bike then glanced up at the window.

  I fought the impulse to hide, as though I were doing something wrong. Instead, I waved. He smiled, waved back, pulled on his helmet, and roared off.

  It was hardly our first fight, but it made me sad. Especially since I was already so worried about the handfasting.

  I prepared three biscuits with eggs, cheese, and roasted poblano peppers, grabbed the jar of brew, and went downstairs to join Conrad outside on the curb.

  “So, what were you and Sailor chatting about?” I asked oh-so-casually as I passed him the plate and brew.

  “Thanks, Lily, this looks awesome.” Conrad took a huge bite, making mmmming sounds. “Sailor congratulated me on getting sober, said he knew it wouldn’t be easy but he didn’t have to be a psychic to know that I was strong enough to make it all the way. Helluva nice guy.”

  I smiled. Sailor was many things, but “helluva nice guy” was not a common description.

  “Also, get this: He asked me to stand up with him at your wedding.”

  “He what?”

  “I guess he didn’t have a best man yet. Imagine me being someone’s best man. He must be a little hard up for friends if I’m his best option—no offense.”

  I reached out and squeezed his hand. “Not at all, Conrad. I think you’ll make a wonderful best man. It means you’ll support us, and our union. You’ll do a great job at that.”

  “Dude,” Conrad said. He looked miserable. Not high, but miserable. Ill. “You know, one of the problems with getting sober is that all the problems you got high to forget are still there, waiting for you. Worse than before.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say. Substance addiction wasn’t my particular burden to bear, but I had seen its effects often enough to know how easily it could destroy lives. My brew helped with the fever and shakes, the flulike symptoms that came with detox, but didn’t have much effect on the actual addiction. As much as I wished I could force Conrad to stay sober with my magic, it wouldn’t last. Fundamental change had to come from within, from the Con’s heart.

  “I tried calling my mom,” he said.

  “Is that right?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral. “How did that go?”

  “She hung up on me.”

  “Oh, Con, I’m so sorry. That’s wretched.”

  He smiled. “I like the way you talk, Lily. Always have, but even more so now that I’m sober. Oh, hey, I sound like it’s all about me and my problems, right? Is there any word on that poor lady who was kidnapped?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Dude.”

  I lingered while Conrad finished his breakfast, enjoying the feeling of soft morning sunshine on my cheeks. Summer mornings in San Francisco were typically foggy and gray, so the sunny weather was a nice change. Haight Street was mellow at this time of day, with a handful of shopkeepers sweeping the sidewalks outside their establishments, a few folks rushing to work, to-go coffee cups in hand.

  “You know, I noticed the poster in your window,” said Conrad as he wiped his mouth with the napkin and set down the plate. “That dude’s a good guy.”

  “Who? Kyle Cheney?”

  He nodded. “He’s helped us gutter punks a lot, funds some shelters, soup kitchens, things like that. He’s helped finance some small local businesses, too.

  “Coupla dudes I know actually got jobs with him.”

  “Really? What kinds of jobs?”

  “Co-Opp Industries, is what it’s called.”

  “It’s a cooperative?”

  “Nah. It’s like, security, I think? Which is kind of funny, since usually it’s the security guys running us gutter punks out of places.”

  “A job’s a job, I guess.”

  “Sounds like quite the party out on Alcatraz, right?” Conrad said, then hung his head, deflated. “Not that I party anymore. This sobriety thing is a drag.”

  I refrained from pointing out that it had been only a few days. “One day at a time. Isn’t that what they say?”

  He nodded. “One crappy day at a time.”

  Maya arrived, chai latte in hand. After greeting Conrad, she turned to me: “Anything new?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I’ve heard.”

  We went into the shop and I performed my daily cleansing and protection spell while Maya started sorting through the remaining items from the Hefty bags.

  “I feel responsible,” said Maya, her voice tight. “You told me that shirt was dangerous. I should have believed you. I never should have let Elena leave with it.”

  “Maya, we have no reason to believe the shirt was the reason this happened. And even if it was, it is most certainly not your fault.”

  “I read more about Alcatraz online last night when I couldn’t sleep. Do you know that there were a bunch of Hopi from New Mexico held in a military prison on Alcatraz, long before the federal penitentiary opened? Some people say their ghosts still linger.”

  “Were they executed there?”

  “I don’t think so. Can ghosts remain anyway?”

  “I’m really not sure. We might run that one past Charles Gosnold. I’m willing to bet he’d have an opinion.”

  She gave me a reluctant smile. “Ghosts or not, Mark Twain said the island was ‘as cold as winter, even in the summer months.’”

  “What can you tell me about Cole Albright?”

  “He and his brother and one other prisoner made papier-mâché heads—complete with human hair they got from the barbershop—and put them in their beds to fool the guards. Then they crawled out through the ventilation grilles, which they had pulled out and broadened by hacking away at the crumbling concrete. They managed to float away one night on a raft made out of raincoats, shrouded by thick fog.”

  “And they were presumed drowned?”

  “Yes, but because the raft was found, but the bodies weren’t, some people think they got away. There were a few supposed sightings of them in South America. And a few years ago a letter was delivered to the FBI, signed by one of the escapees, in which he said he would turn himself in, in return for health care because he had canc
er.”

  “Did they think the letter was genuine?”

  “It doesn’t look like it, at least not in the official story online. But who knows?” Maya said, shaking her head. “I’m going crazy. I thought about calling in sick, but sitting around at home would be worse. And classes are out until next month so I don’t even have homework to distract me.”

  “That reminds me, have you been to the School of Fine Arts lately?”

  “Not for a couple of weeks. Why?”

  “Did anything seem amiss to you last time you were there? Any rampant arguing, wild love affairs, that sort of thing?”

  She cocked her head. “I thought you put an end to all that.”

  “I think I did. I was just wondering.” What with the woods folk agitated, and the goings-on out on Alcatraz, I was starting to wonder if there might be some sort of generalized gathering of malicious spirits. Or something.

  Sailor was right. We needed a demonologist on this paranormal team.

  Bronwyn arrived at Aunt Cora’s Closet with a bag of bagels and Charles Gosnold in tow. Charles was tall and rather pear shaped, his well-padded shoulders shoved into an ill-fitting jacket. Charles wasn’t a bad person, I reminded myself. But when it came to the paranormal he was “all hat and no cattle,” as folks would say back in my hometown of Jarod, Texas.

  “Aren’t you amazed that Charles has been asked by none other than Kyle Cheney to lead the ghost tours for the Festival of Felons?” Bronwyn asked, holding up her coffee mug in salute. “To Charles!”

  “Is that still on?” I asked. “The Festival of Felons, I mean.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Charles asked.

  “I heard . . . never mind. Just wondered. Congratulations, Charles. That’s really . . . quite an honor. Kyle Cheney, huh?”

  “He called and asked me personally,” Charles said, puffing out his chest.

  “Charles is going to make commemorative T-shirts!” gushed Bronwyn.

  “Indeed I am. Alcatraz ghost tour T-shirts to commemorate the occasion. I’m thinking bright blue. The spirits are fond of blue.” Charles jumped back as Oscar came over to him and snorted. “Oh! That pig is sort of an ugly little thing, isn’t he?”

  “He can hear you, Charles,” Bronwyn admonished him. “And besides, he’s not ugly, he’s beautiful. He’s our beautiful itty-bitty Oscaroo.”

  I glanced at Maya, who was looking decidedly glum.

  I turned to Bronwyn and asked: “Bronwyn, would you be okay looking after Aunt Cora’s Closet today? With Oscar’s company, of course.”

  “I’d be happy to. It’s quite a social day for me: Charles and I are going to catch up over bagels, and Susan’s coming by later to set up the photo shoot for the paper. And I imagine Duke will be in later as well.” Duke was a retired fisherman and “Bronwyn’s fella,” as he liked to call himself. He often hung out with us at Aunt Cora’s Closet, his outdoorsy mien adding a nice note to the atmosphere and making the shop more welcoming to men.

  As Gosnold launched into a long-winded—and loud—tale about his latest ghostly encounter, I said in a low voice to Maya: “I might just have a cure for what ails you.”

  “No offense, Lily, but I’m really not up for a spell. That brew you whipped up for the Con smells a little . . . pungent.”

  “I was thinking more like action. Let’s try to figure this out.”

  “Where would we even start?”

  “How about with the woman who sold you the shirt?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mrs. Archer’s house was on 19th Street off Geary, not far from the Russian neighborhood I had visited with Patience not long ago. It was a nondescript stucco structure that shared its walls with its neighbors, as the town houses tended to do in this area. There was a garage at street level, so we climbed a flight of steps to the entrance on the second floor.

  Mrs. Archer—“call me Emmy Lou”—met us at the door. “That’s a nice van you’ve got there. Good for your line of work, I’ll bet. I like the color.”

  Worn, vaguely gray wall-to-wall carpet smelled of stale cigarette smoke and many generations of cats, and Emmy Lou wore a wig of glossy black hair that highlighted her strong features. Her eyes were slightly cloudy with age, and her hands soft as velvet.

  Not long ago I’d been fooled by a sweet-seeming old woman, so I tried to keep up my guard, but it was tough around Emmy Lou Archer.

  “I was born up in Plainfield, New Jersey, one of six children. My father moved the family here to Richmond to work in the shipyards during World War Two. But then he dropped dead from a heart attack when I was eight—ate red meat, butter, and fried foods every day; folks didn’t know from cholesterol back then—so my mother became a genuine Rosie the Riveter, can you imagine?” We had all taken seats in the living room, whose worn upholstered furniture had been spruced up with tatted doilies. “She worked sixteen hours a day building ships for the war effort. We grew up with a sense of responsibility to give back, that we did. So as soon as I was of age, I went into the navy myself.”

  “Mrs. Archer received a Good Conduct Medal,” Maya said.

  “That’s impressive,” I said.

  “I served in an entertainment troupe, singing and dancing; then went on to work in a photography lab, a few other jobs here and there. But I don’t mind telling you, I did a mean tap dance back in the day.”

  “Shirley Temple, eat your heart out,” said Maya with a warm smile.

  Emmy Lou laughed, a deep rumble. “I feel bad for the folks who gave their lives, and their health—physical and mental—for their country, when all I did was dance and develop photos, that sort of thing. But lucky for me we weren’t in combat at the time, and keeping morale high is an important job as well.” She sat forward in her chair. “Maya, help yourself and your friend here to some cookies. My friends from church brought them over. And there’s some Nescafé if you want coffee.”

  “Thanks. Would you like a cup?” asked Maya, moving into the kitchen. I watched her go, admiring the ease with which she interacted with the elderly. They all seemed to want to mother her, which amused me since Maya was one of those rare young people who seemed very much on top of things.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked Emmy Lou.

  “My late husband and I bought this place with our retirement savings,” she said, stroking an orange tabby that jumped into her lap. “Been nearly thirty years now. It belonged to a friend of my late husband’s cousin. He left a pile of stuff here . . . that was part of the deal, why we got the place so cheap.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Oh, I . . . don’t really remember. He had a Polish last name, that’s all I recall. After he got sick he just didn’t want to be bothered packing things up.”

  “That’s why there were boxes left in the attic,” Maya called out from the kitchen.

  Emmy Lou nodded. “We cleaned up most of the house, but never got around to those boxes. I always meant to look through them, but they’re out of sight up there in the attic. . . . Take it from me, girls: Time slips away before you know it.”

  “That’s good advice,” I said.

  Maya returned with a small plate of homemade snickerdoodles and two small mugs of coffee. I took one from her.

  “So you have no idea how the former owner might have come by the inmate’s shirt from Alcatraz?” I asked Emmy Lou.

  “I’m sorry, I really don’t know.”

  “And you don’t remember his name, other than that it was Polish?”

  Emmy Lou cast a slightly distressed look toward Maya, and I caught myself. I was getting better with age and practice, but my intensity had a way of putting people on edge.

  “We’re sorry to be so pushy, Mrs. Archer,” said Maya. “It’s just important that we try to figure this out. It’s hard to say whether it might be involved, but a woman
was kidnapped yesterday, so we’re following up on any lead we can think of.”

  “Kidnapped?” Her dark eyes widened in alarm. “Why, that’s dreadful!”

  “It is,” said Maya. “And it’s unlikely the clothes from the attic boxes are involved, but we’d like to be sure.”

  After a long pause, Emmy Lou said: “Well, I can’t imagine how those old things would be involved in a kidnapping, but I’ve lived long enough to know all kinds of things can happen. I can’t remember the previous owner’s name, but I could probably find it. It must be on the deed of sale for the house, right?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, we’d appreciate it,” Maya said, her tone gentle. “I’d be happy to help you look.”

  “In the meantime, would it be all right if I went up into the attic?” I asked. “I know it’s an imposition, but it would really mean a lot to me.”

  She nodded. “If you want to, have at it. I’ll warn you, though: I haven’t been up there in years. Even when I was younger, I didn’t like to go up there. It’s always given me the creeps. Maya can tell you what a state it’s in.”

  “I guarantee you, I’ve seen worse,” I said. “Dusty attics are an occupational hazard, right, Maya?”

  “You can say that again. I’ll show you the way.”

  “If you find anything valuable, like an old painting, bring it on down. I could use the cash,” Emmy Lou called out after us.

  The attic was accessed through a small hatch in the ceiling of the upstairs hallway. Maya pulled the string down, unfolded the wooden stairs, and we climbed up, switching on the light at the very top.

  “I swept this place out when I finished looking through everything,” said Maya. “The boxes over here seem to hold family mementos: Christmas ornaments, photographs, children’s artwork, that sort of thing.”

  I looked around the small attic space. The ceiling was low, and we had to hunch over to avoid hitting our heads on the sloping eaves. Emmy Lou had been right: There was nothing much to see.

  “Where was the box with the prison shirt, do you know?” I asked.