A Magical Match Read online

  “Thank you, sugar,” I said as I crossed over and gave her a little squeeze. “At the moment I can’t think of a way for you to help, but I surely do appreciate the offer. As will Sailor, I know. What you can do right now is to pick out your bridesmaid dress so Lucille will have time to alter it, if need be. Have you found one you like?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing fits.”

  Selena used to be painfully thin and pinched, but had been filling out recently; like Oscar, Selena loved to eat. Today she wore a sweater studded with sparkly brooches that had once belonged to an elderly woman named Betty, who had been kind to Selena. The style was much too old for her, and despite her worn Levi’s, Selena could not have looked less like her teenage contemporaries if she’d been wearing one of the shop’s spangled, shoulder-padded tops from the eighties.

  “Well, we’ll just have to find you something, then, won’t we?” I looped my arm around her shoulders and urged her out onto the shop floor. It was quiet this morning, with only a single customer flipping through some old leather jackets.

  “Let’s look through this section, here.” Leading Selena to the rack marked DRESSY DRESSES, I said, “I think you may need a larger size than before, that’s all.”

  Her eyes went huge. “I’m getting fat?”

  “No, Selena, not at all. You’re healthy and you’re growing up, that’s all. Women have a different shape than girls. We’re meant to have curves.”

  I patted myself on my “curvy” hip.

  She didn’t look convinced. Given everything Selena had to deal with already—possessing out-of-control magical talent, being abandoned by her parents, growing up without a lot of economic advantages—I had hoped Selena would be immune to the more common concerns of girls her age. I supposed this could be an indication that she was becoming more conscious of the world and social expectations, which in some ways—given how clueless she had been about the impression she made not so long ago—could be a good thing. As long as she didn’t start doubting herself and her own worth.

  Raising children was not for sissies.

  We flipped through the many formal dresses on the rack, and I pulled out several that would fit or could be altered. Selena was attracted to the more garish, poufy-skirted prom dresses, though a more streamlined style would have suited her better. Still, I let her grab whatever she wanted and helped her cart the dresses over to one of the private changing alcoves. She shied away from the communal dressing room.

  I tried to keep my mind engaged in the dress search with Selena, but it was hard to focus on the here and now. What was my next step in the search for Tristan’s murderer? Should I go speak to Renee? If so, I needed Aidan’s help. I thought with a pang about how I’d left his office last night. When would I learn not to lose my temper around Aidan?

  The bell tinkled wildly as a gorgeous woman with flowing black hair and flashing eyes flung open the door and stormed into Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  Patience Blix.

  This was all I needed.

  Chapter 11

  “What in the holy hell is going on?” Patience demanded loudly before commencing to swear a blue streak.

  The bell over the door rang again as the customer who had been perusing the leather jackets scurried outside. Selena emerged from the dressing room clad in an atrocious lime green prom dress that hung awkwardly from her still-bony shoulders.

  “Little pitchers,” I said to Patience, giving her a look while clapping my hands over Selena’s ears.

  “I’m not little,” Selena said, ducking out from my grasp and glaring at me. “And I’m not a pitcher. That’s a stupid saying.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “It was a reflex. But my grandmother used to say that to me, so it’s not stupid.”

  Selena rolled her eyes.

  “Hello?” Patience said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Focus on me, shall we?”

  Patience had a lucrative fortune-telling business and was a bit of a local celebrity. Not only was she a powerful psychic, but she had a flair for the dramatic, and played the role of an exotic fortune-teller with gusto, embracing every Hollywood stereotype: long, flowing skirts, colorful scarves, tinkling ankle bracelets adorning her sandal-shod feet. Her big, dark eyes were lined in kohl, and gold coins glinted from the necklace that graced her low-cut peasant blouse. With their dark good looks and striking features, Patience and Sailor could easily have modeled together for the cover of a romance novel.

  Patience was, in short, everything I was not. I blew out a breath and stroked my medicine bag for strength. This was all I needed, today of all days.

  “What can I do for you, Patience?” I asked.

  “What can you do for me? What can you do for me?”

  “That’s what the lady said,” Maya said with a wry laugh, earning a glare from Patience. Maya shrugged it off with a smile, in typical Maya fashion.

  “May I assume this has to do with Sailor?” I asked. “I spoke with him this morning.”

  “I know you spoke with him this morning. Do you know how I know you spoke with him this morning?”

  “Because . . . you’re psychic?” I suggested.

  “Because I tried to speak with him this morning and they told me he’d already had his one permitted visitor.” She glared at me.

  “I didn’t realize he was only allowed one visitor,” I said. “But I am his fiancée, after all.”

  Patience rolled her eyes. “Is that still happening?”

  “Is what still happening?”

  “This so-called ‘wedding’?”

  “Of course it’s still happening,” Maya said, an uncharacteristic touch of annoyance in her voice. “In fact, Selena and I are going to be bridesmaids. Aren’t we, Selena?”

  Selena nodded but remained mute, apparently a little intimidated by the force of nature that was Patience Blix. I could relate.

  “Great heavens above, someone please tell me that child is not going to be wearing that bilious little number?”

  “Hey,” I yelled, planting myself between Patience and Selena. “Enough, Patience. Don’t you dare pick on Selena. Your argument isn’t with her—it’s with me. She’s having fun trying on dresses, and she looks adorable in anything she wears. Now, please apologize to her.”

  Patience gave me another sour look, then flashed Selena a fake smile. “Sorry. You look super, peaches. You look like you’re ready for a Gypsy wedding. I’ll give you that much.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but figured it was the best we were going to get.

  “Anyway, Lily.” Patience turned back to me. “I only came here to tell you that you’d better figure something out and right quick, or you’ll be spellcasting over the warden for conjugal visits.”

  “I will not be . . .” I trailed off, realizing I was allowing myself to be baited. I stroked my medicine bag again and concentrated on keeping my temper. Patience could be of use to me—to us. “Of course Sailor won’t be convicted. He’s not even formally charged yet. All we have to do is figure out who the guilty person is, and he’ll be off the hook.”

  “Oh, that’s all, is it? Easy-peasy. Best get right on it, then.”

  I nodded. “I’ll grant you, it’s a lot. We have our work cut out for us.”

  “We?” Patience said. “Who are you calling ‘we’?”

  “All of us who care about Sailor,” Maya said.

  “That’s right,” I echoed, warmed by Maya’s defense of Sailor. “Think of it this way: You’re not helping me—you’re helping Sailor.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Have you been able to see anything?” I asked.

  Patience’s drop-dead good looks tended to distract me from the fact that she was tremendously gifted at reading cards and seeing in her crystal ball. Both would be helpful, and neither was my area of expertise.

  A t
rio of college-age girls came into the shop, chatting and giggling. Maya went to help them, while Selena disappeared into the dressing room.

  Patience let out a long-suffering sigh, and gestured with her head toward the back room. We passed through the brocade curtains that divided the workroom from the shop floor, and took seats on either side of the jade green linoleum table.

  “Here’s the problem,” Patience said, looking around the workroom. For a moment I saw it through her eyes: the piles of clothes needing to be laundered or repaired, Bronwyn’s collection of kettles, the small fridge that kept our lunches and snacks cool. A few old thrift-shop oil paintings and some framed drawings of Selena’s studded the walls. They were amateur efforts, but hanging them on the wall added to my feeling of permanence, the sense that this was my forever home.

  She hesitated so long I said, “You realize you haven’t finished your thought, right? What’s the problem? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

  “It looked like him,” Patience finally said.

  “What looked like who?”

  “I was able to see something from that night, and the truth is, it looked like Sailor.”

  “What did you see, exactly?”

  Patience sighed and looked at me as if I were slow-witted. “I went to the hotel where it happened. Hotel Marais, is it? I was able to ‘see’ the bloodied man stalking through the lobby. It was Sailor.”

  Our gazes met over the colorful bowl of fruit I kept well stocked atop the kitchen table, in the vain hope that Oscar would eat something besides cheese and carbs.

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Very. I assume Sailor had good reason to kill the guy. I just can’t figure out why he wasn’t smarter about it. He walked right through the hotel lobby, in full view of several guests?”

  I nodded. “That’s what Carlos says.”

  “Carlos is your friend, the cop?” Her arched brows rose suspiciously.

  “Yes. And good thing, too, since he filled me in on what’s going on. He doesn’t think Sailor did it. Said it sounded hinky to him.”

  “Hinky? What’s that mean?”

  “It means something is odd; the facts don’t add up. Like you, Carlos couldn’t figure out why Sailor had been so stupid as to murder someone in such a blatant manner. But . . . you’re saying you think Sailor is capable of murder?”

  The mask slipped. She grew serious, gazing at the pile of laundry, a faraway look in her eye. She seemed to be weighing her words.

  “Yes and no. Is he capable of killing someone who is a threat? Yes. So am I. And so are you, notwithstanding your Miss Priss ways.”

  “My Miss what—?”

  She waved one hand. “Not important. The point is, Sailor would not kill someone unprovoked, not like that. He wouldn’t lie in wait and ambush someone, much less waltz into a hotel in front of witnesses. Unless”—Patience paused, took an orange from the fruit bowl, nicked the rind with her thumbnail, and sniffed its delicate fragrance—“he was trying to protect someone. You, for instance. Heavens to Murgatroyd, I can’t figure out why he’s such a fool for you.”

  I opened my mouth, but didn’t know what to say.

  “Did the victim—this Dupree guy—did he threaten you?” Patience asked.

  Now it was my turn to weigh my words. “Sort of. He thought I had taken something of his. A bēag.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “You stole something from him? Not too swift, my dear. That guy was bad news.”

  “You knew Tristan?”

  Her mass of shiny near-black curls bounced when she shook her head. “Not when he was alive. But . . . I could feel him there, at the hotel.”

  “I didn’t realize you’re such a talented necromancer.”

  “I have my abilities; you have yours.” After a moment she added, with a grudging shrug, “Actually, I’m not usually able to see dead folks, or things from the past, that clearly. Maybe it’s because of my connection to Sailor.”

  We sat for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts. On the other side of the curtain were the normal, everyday sounds of Aunt Cora’s Closet: the bell tinkling as the front door opened and closed, the murmur of voices, a delighted coo when someone found something she liked, the ringing of the antique cash register, and Maya’s calm voice chatting with customers. They were comforting sounds, and I relished them, drew strength from their quotidian normality.

  “What can you tell me about psychic projection?” I asked Patience.

  “Why?” she demanded, her usual prickly demeanor having returned. So much for being on the same page.

  I hesitated, not wanting to speak out of turn. Sailor, like the rest of us, kept the details of his life close to his chest. But then I reminded myself that Patience probably knew more about Sailor’s training with Renna than I did.

  “Sailor told me he’s been working on projection. Would it be possible for a psychic’s astral self to have gone after someone like that? Could Sailor’s unconscious or id, or whatever you want to call it, have taken over and killed Tristan Dupree?”

  I was hoping the answer would be a definitive no. After all, if Sailor had experienced an out-of-control astral projection, however unconsciously, it would mean he was not responsible for his actions. But good luck explaining that in a court of law.

  “Are you joking?” Patience studied me. “You’re not. You’re serious.”

  “I don’t know a lot about this sort of thing.”

  “Obviously,” she snorted. “Somebody needs to do her homework. Astral projection, my dear little witch, is a form of telepathy. The spirit leaves the body, but the body stays put. Spirits have no substance—they’re immaterial. They can’t affect the physical world. So, no, Sailor’s astral projection could not have killed Dupree.”

  “But Maya thought she saw Sailor the other day, in an herb shop in Chinatown. He claims he wasn’t there, and when I asked him about it, he hesitated and wondered if it was a result of projection.”

  “He projected himself to an herbal store in Chinatown? Why?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Now that you mention it, it does seem odd.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Listen, a powerful psychic—and I mean a very powerful psychic; this stuff isn’t easy—might be able to project an image along with some thoughts . . . but what would be the point? The appeal of projection is it allows you to see without being seen.”

  “A sort of psychic invisibility cloak,” I pondered aloud. I wondered if there was a witchy version. I could dearly use something like that. “Cool.”

  “But seriously, in answer to your question, no, it could not have been Sailor’s psychic projection that killed this guy. For one thing, unless you’re lying to me, Sailor doesn’t have sufficient motive. We both know he’s not a stone-cold killer. For another, unless Sailor were suffering from some sort of schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder, he would have remembered killing a man, no matter what form he took.”

  “He didn’t remember being in the herbal shop, when Maya saw him.”

  Patience shrugged. “That could be something else entirely. If Sailor’s been working on astral projection with Renna, he would start with wandering through areas he knows well, like his apartment or neighborhood, or even this shop. Maybe Maya picked up on his projection, somehow. Does she have abilities?”

  “Maya? No.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “As sure as I can be. She’s never said or done anything to suggest otherwise, and I’m pretty sure she would have told me if she had. But what if it’s not projection at all? Could the man Maya saw in the store have been the same guy? The murderer?”

  “I suppose it’s possible there’s a Sailor look-alike wandering the streets of San Francisco,” Patience said. “So that’s your plan to get Sailor out of jail? Find Sailor’s look-alike, the one who’s the real killer? How do you intend to
do that?”

  “By asking for help. Starting with you. Will you use your scrying skills to find this look-alike?”

  “If it will help free Sailor.”

  “What can I do to help you get started?”

  “This is a tricky one,” Patience said, looking thoughtful. “Usually I have a clearer idea of who I’m looking for. If I search for a fake Sailor, I’m likely to keep finding the real Sailor, if you see what I mean.”

  I nodded.

  “So what I need to do is a more generalized search and then eliminate all the signs that point to Sailor. But how do I distinguish Sailor from Not Sailor?”

  I remained silent, fascinated by watching an experienced and powerful psychic at work. The magic arts are enormously variable, even within specialties. Some witches are experts at chanting to alter reality, for example, while I shine in the art of brewing. I had been tutored as a witch, and had only a general idea of how psychics functioned.

  “Let’s try this: I need something of Sailor’s. No, wait—I need something that carries energy from both you and Sailor. Your combined energy should work better, help to distinguish between Sailor and the Other Guy. . . . Something you associate with him, a sweatshirt, a boyfriend shirt. You have something like that?”

  I glanced at my engagement ring. I hated to take it off my finger for even a moment, but if it would help Sailor, it would be worth it. I slipped the ring off and handed it to Patience.

  Her eyebrows rose. She tried to put it on her ring finger, and I took mean pleasure in the fact that it was too small. Instead, she put it on her pinkie.

  “Please—,” I began, then cut myself off.

  “No worries, princess. I’ll take good care of it. I shouldn’t need it for long.”

  I gazed at my ring for another moment, not liking how pretty it looked on her graceful hand. The ring made me think of the bēag Dupree had been looking for, and I wondered if Patience could help me with that as well.

  Interrupting my thoughts, Patience demanded, “What?”