A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Read online

  “What’s this? Do you know?” I asked.

  Sebastian shrugged. “I didn’t look through it, to tell you the truth. The girl who brought it in said her uncle was desperate for cash, and the whole trunk came across from Boston back in the day, with the pioneers. Probably some cockamamy story. Tell you what. I have too big a heart; that’s my problem. She sold me a few decorative items that might be worth something, so I just took this as part of the deal.”

  “Would you mind if I examined this velvet piece?”

  Sebastian rubbed his hands together. “How ’bout you buy the lot, and it’s yours? Think about it: This trunk came from Boston with the pioneers! Just imagine the history, the stories it could tell. There’s bound to be something really great in there.”

  “I thought you said that was a cockamamy story the seller made up.”

  “Doesn’t mean it couldn’t be true.”

  “So if the trunk came across the prairies all the way from Boston, how come it’s still packed? Why wasn’t it opened and the clothes worn?”

  “The owners died on route.”

  I glanced up at him, surprised.

  “Leastways, that’s what the gal said.” Sebastian stuck out his receding chin. “She said the way she heard the story, her relatives were in a party of wagon trains coming overland, and this trunk and a few other items belonged to a family who died before they got here. Buried somewhere en route. I guess their stuff was picked up and carried the rest of the way by other relatives and eventually ended up here in San Francisco. Listen, I tell you what I’m gonna do: seventy-five bucks and the trunk’s yours, contents included. You can’t beat that.”

  I hesitated, calculating the available floor space at my store. The shop was already jammed with racks upon racks of dresses, coats, skirts, jackets, and blouses and shelves upon shelves of hats, gloves, purses, and shoes. There were umbrellas and parasols, shawls and scarves, and a sizable selection of secondhand jewelry. I also had a weakness for antique kitchen gadgetry, which meant a growing collection of vintage cooking items now crowded a cupboard in one corner. Much of the inventory turned over quickly, but the quirkier items collected dust in nooks and crannies and display windows. So crowded had the shop become in the last few months that my friend and coworker, Bronwyn, had threatened to pack up her herbal stand and leave.

  Which was why I sympathized with Sebastian Crowley. Honestly, left to my own devices, my shop would look as bad as his.

  “I can’t take the trunk, but I’ll take the clothes.” It was possible we would be able to salvage something from the shattered garments: a few buttons or bits of lace. We might even be able to copy some of the designs to make re-creations. And there was something about that velvet item. . . .

  “Hundred bucks.”

  “You said seventy-five!”

  “That’s for the trunk and its contents. Contents without the trunk are a hundred.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Hey, you know how this works!” Sebastian was referring to auctions, where patrons bid on numbered lots that contained numerous items. If you wanted one particular item, you had to take the whole lot. Afterward, you were stuck figuring out what to do with the rest of the stuff. Problem was, few of us junk-hounds were able to toss the worthless items into the nearest Dumpster. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” were words we lived by, which explained why so many of our shops resembled Sebastian’s Antiques.

  “These clothes really aren’t worth anything, Sebastian. Let me give you fifty for the clothes, and you keep the trunk.”

  “Seventy.”

  “Fifty-five.”

  “Sixty-five, and you help me carry this beautiful, historic trunk out to the curb. Tomorrow’s trash day.”

  I studied the chest one more time. If it really had come across country on the overland route—and it certainly looked old enough—it seemed wrong for it to meet its end in the gutter.

  “Oh, fine,” I said with a sigh. Giving in to the inevitable, I handed him three twenties. “Sixty, and you help me carry it out to my van.”

  Sebastian beamed. “Pleasure doing business with you, Lily Ivory.”

  * * *

  “That’s it,” declared Bronwyn as my friend Conrad and I dragged the heavy trunk through the front door of Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  Bronwyn was a proud fiftysomething Wiccan with frizzy brown hair, which today was adorned with a garland of Shasta daisies.

  “You were given fair warning, Lily. I am hereby tendering my notice to vacate these premises. Forthwith and forsooth and all that. Maybe Sandra next door has room for my herb stand in her store.”

  “I’m not going to keep it,” I said, trying to keep the chagrin from my voice. “I just want to find it a good home.”

  “You make it sound like a lost kitten,” said our young coworker, Maya, with a laugh. “When in reality it’s . . . a creepy old trunk.”

  I had at last returned to Aunt Cora’s Closet after stops at Goodwill, the Salvation Army, and two garage sales. As a result, in addition to Sebastian’s trunk I was in possession of several large bags of clothing. Fortunately, most of these would require little more than washing and steaming or ironing to be ready to sell for a neat profit. Still, I was disappointed; back when I first started my business, a person could pick up a slightly tattered example of a 1940s skirt suit for a song and 1930s satin cocktail dress for not much more. Even labeled items from Oscar de la Renta and Armani used to find their way into my basket at bargain prices. No longer. The competition for quality vintage items had become fierce.

  “Really, Lily, I don’t know where you think you’re going to put this thing,” said Bronwyn.

  “It’s historic,” I said. “It came across the prairies. On a wagon train.”

  Bronwyn and Maya looked skeptical.

  “Really,” I said.

  “That may be, but it’s big.”

  “And ugly,” Maya chimed in.

  “And smelly,” Bronwyn continued.

  “Dude, it’s sort of . . . gross.” Conrad nodded. This from the homeless guy who lived in Golden Gate Park and spent the better part of each day on the curb outside of Aunt Cora’s Closet, soliciting spare change.

  “All right. All right. I get the point,” I said, realizing that if I wasn’t careful, soon I would become like Sebastian, grumbling about being too nice to people . . . and to objects. “But let’s at least look through the clothes and see what we’ve got. Then maybe I can clean up the trunk and put it on the community bulletin board. Surely someone will want such a historic piece.”

  “I could call the Oakland Museum,” offered Maya. “If it really did cross the prairies on a wagon train, maybe they could use it in one of their Gold Rush displays. You could donate it, get a tax donation.”

  “Now we’re thinking!”

  Bronwyn smiled indulgently—fortunately for me, she was far too loving to hold a grudge. “Well, what are we waiting for? Open it up!”

  I lifted the lid, and the strong odors of mothballs and cedar wafted out.

  “Whoof!” said Bronwyn, waving a hand in front of her nose.

  My miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig—and ersatz witch’s familiar—retreated to his bed and hid his sensitive snout in the monogrammed purple satin pillow Bronwyn had given him. Oscar was one spoiled pig.

  “Considering how bad they smell, the mothballs should have done a better job, don’t you think?” asked Maya, grimacing.

  “The mothballs are probably a recent addition. Before that . . . well, the cedar keeps insects at bay, but it’s not one hundred percent effective. And these clothes have been in here a very long time. But I’m not worried about moth damage as much as rot. Look at this.”

  I reached in and, using two fingers of each hand as gently as possible, lifted the shift that Sebastian had unfolded in his store. It c
racked further along the creases, sending more tiny puffs of dust into the air.

  Bronwyn and Maya gasped, and I couldn’t help but smile at their reactions. Neither had been particularly interested in textiles, or any aspect of fashion for that matter, when I met them. But there was something about vintage clothing. . . . The blending of tangible history, supreme craftsmanship, and fine lace could be addictive.

  “What a shame,” said Bronwyn with feeling.

  “Are they all that way?” said Maya.

  I shrugged. “One way to find out.”

  I lay the first item on the counter and removed another: a man’s shirt that was in even worse shape than the shift. Next was a linen shirtwaist in slightly better condition, though not by much.

  “Look at those beautiful buttons!” Bronwyn exclaimed. “Dollars to doughnuts they’re bone.”

  “I’ll bet my mom could find a use for them,” said Maya.

  “Let’s set them aside,” I agreed. Maya’s mother, Lucille, was an expert seamstress—a crucial asset for a vintage clothing store. Lucille had recently established a cottage industry mimicking vintage dress patterns. She sized up the beautiful old designs to fit today’s women, who were larger and much healthier than their grandmothers. From these designs, she created charming old-fashioned dresses that were also machine-washable—a huge advantage over most vintage, for which only the most expensive dry cleaning would do.

  I removed more items from the trunk, but these, too, were beyond repair. Still, we examined each one carefully. Joined by several customers, we oohed and aahed over the tiny handmade stitches, the bits of exquisite lace and fine embroidery, the surprisingly petite dimensions of adult men and women back in the day. As usual when I dealt with historical items, I kept imagining what life must have been like; in this case, the courage—or foolishness—it took to leave a city such as Boston and set out for the unknown. What had the trunk’s original owners died from? I wondered. Disease? An accident?

  At last I reached the velvet I had felt calling to me in Sebastian’s shop. As I held it up there were several audible intakes of breath.

  It was a deep gold velvet cape with a purple silk lining. Gold brocade ribbons ran down the interior seams and along the hem, and purple and gold fringe decorated the neckline. A silk-lined hood hung down the back, a large tassel at its crown. An ornate brass frog toggle fastened the cape at the throat. Where the rest of the trunk’s contents had been typical of the merchant class in the nineteenth century—quality construction with modest decorative touches—this cape was something else. It was also much older and appeared to have been fashioned for royalty.

  It was not in great shape: The silk lining was shattered and hung in strips, there were numerous moth holes, the velvet had faded unevenly, and there was a large tear at the seam along the left shoulder. Yet even with all that . . . it was an amazing garment.

  Unable to resist, I whirled it around my shoulders and only vaguely noticed as Oscar careened toward me, alarm in his pink piggy eyes. I fastened the brass clasp at the neck.

  And then . . . I was no longer in the shop.

  I felt a shock of freezing cold wash over me, followed by a river of heat. As though in a dream, I saw fuzzy shapes and heard sounds, unintelligible yet very real. As the images coalesced, I realized a mob was surrounding me, pointing fingers, faces distorted in anger and fear. They were jeering, yelling, calling out . . . curses? I couldn’t quite make it out; the sounds were like a recording being played at the wrong speed. It reminded me of being underwater. . . . The lights bobbed and flickered, and sounds were muffled and distorted.

  It was nightmarish. What were they saying? I concentrated, straining to hear, trying to make out their words. . . .

  “Lily? Lily!”

  Chapter 2

  The concern in Bronwyn’s voice cut through the visions and brought me back to the present with a shock. Her hands were on my shoulders, shaking me gently, then nimbly undoing the clasp at my throat. The cloak puddled on the floor.

  “Are you all right? What in the world . . . ?”

  “Yes, of course. I . . .” Relief washed over me as I realized I was in my shop, surrounded by friends. I swayed on my feet. “Just a little . . . dizzy. I think I forgot to eat lunch.”

  “Your blood sugar’s probably low,” Maya said, moving toward the kitchenette in the back room. “There’s some pomegranate kefir in the fridge.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Bronwyn said. “The body needs fuel, you know.”

  I wrinkled my nose but took a sip of the yogurt drink Maya held out.

  “Better?” Maya asked.

  I nodded. A customer brought several purchases to the cash register, and Maya and Bronwyn turned away to ring her up now that they were satisfied I was okay.

  Picking up the velvet cape, I folded it over my arm and held it close to my chest. In all my years of dealing with vintage clothing, I had never encountered anything like this. Clearly, this was no ordinary cape. What was the nature of its power? Was it positive or negative? Good or evil? Only one thing was sure: I had to learn more about it.

  And until I knew its story, it was vital no one else try it on.

  I crossed over to the counter, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for Sebastian’s Antiques. I got voice mail but didn’t leave a message; once we closed up for the night, I would go back to Jackson Square and have a little chat with Sebastian about the cloak’s provenance. With any luck he kept decent records, so I would be able to track down the woman who sold him the trunk—and its strange contents—and talk to her directly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Conrad sink onto the velvet bench near the dressing rooms. He leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands.

  “Are you all right, Conrad?” I held out the bottle of kefir. Conrad did look a mite peaked, but it was hard to tell if it was out of the ordinary. His eyes were habitually red-rimmed, due to the illegal, or ill-advised, substances he imbibed.

  “Dude, I haven’t been, like, sleeping well?”

  “Insomnia?” It wouldn’t be surprising. It amazed me that Conrad, along with so many “gutterpunks,” as the homeless young people called themselves, got any sleep at all. I had slept in the forest many times, but an urban park? No matter how thickly wooded, I doubted I’d be able to relax enough to get my REM sleep.

  “I got a prime sleeping spot, but, dude, it’s gnarly. I keep waking up from sort of, like, bad dreams? Prob’ly ’cause of, like, I have a lot of work to do. The Con’s not used to it. Not my thing.”

  “What kind of work?” Bronwyn asked.

  He looked around, his face blank.

  “Does it have something to do with the clipboard tucked under your arm?” Maya offered. She hadn’t much cared for Conrad at first, but he had won her—had won all of us—over with his desire to please and the sense of protectiveness he felt toward Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  After a moment, realization dawned. “Dude! Yes! We’re collecting names for this petition. City plans to kill Ms. Quercus, and we’re, like, totally against it.”

  “An execution? Really?” Maya asked.

  Conrad nodded.

  “Are you sure?” Bronwyn said. “By the city?”

  “Totally.”

  That sounded odd. There were occasional executions at San Quentin, a maximum-security prison across the bay, but the city didn’t control San Quentin; the state did. Not to mention, the executions were well publicized and engendered loud protests, but I hadn’t heard a thing about this one.

  “Could I see the petition?” I asked, and Conrad handed me the clipboard.

  The petition, written in red ink in Conrad’s surprisingly neat handwriting, read: I don’t want the city to remove Ms. Quercus, as she deserves to deteriorate at her own pace rather than having her demise hastened unnaturally.

  “It’s a woman?” Bro
nwyn asked, reading over my shoulder.

  “It says ‘Ms.,’” Maya pointed out.

  “She’s a friend of yours?” Bronwyn asked Conrad.

  “What’d she do?” Maya said.

  “Nothing,” Conrad said. “She’s innocent.”

  “That’s what everybody on death row says,” Maya muttered.

  “The innocent are sometimes unjustly convicted,” Bronwyn argued.

  Conrad nodded.

  I suspected there was more to this story. “Con, who, exactly, is Ms. Quercus?”

  “Not a ‘who,’ dude. She’s, like, totally a tree.”

  Now I understood. Among the Bay Area’s numerous charming quirks was the frequency with which people protested the cutting down of trees. I had never heard of such a thing before moving here.

  “So are you tree sitting Ms., uh”—I glanced at the petition—“Quercus?”

  “Nah, dude, can’t. She’s, like, an ancient oak, but rotten on the inside, I guess. So she’s, like, dying, which is totally sad, but it’s also, like, the circle of life. Besides . . . you ever seen how much life is supported by a dying tree? Woodpeckers, all sorts of squirrels and lizards, critters hollowing out burrows around the roots. Even frogs. Plus mushrooms! Dude, you’d never believe the mushrooms.”

  “Are these ‘magic mushrooms,’ by any chance?” Maya asked.

  “Nah, dude. At least . . . I don’t think so.” He frowned, as though in concentration. “Never tried, actually. Not the Con’s style.”

  I’d finally put it all together. “So you’re saying that the city wants to take the tree down because they’re afraid it will fall over and hurt someone?”

  He nodded. “This tree lady came by and told us Ms. Quercus can’t be cured, but it might take her a while to fall apart completely. So that’s when this other scientist dude says, how come we can’t just put a fence around her, keep people back in case she falls or a branch goes? And me and my friends are like, dude. She still has leaves; she’s still a beauty. Besides, I totally sleep under her, no problem. I love that tree. She’s . . . she’s special.”