A Cast-Off Coven Page 29

  “There are thirteen chairs around the table,” I added. “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 think it’s cursed.”

  I decided not to point out that lying atop a table, and reclining with one’s feet toward the door in what was traditionally considered to be “the corpse position” were also bad omens.

  “Yeah, whatever. What else do you see?”

  “I need a minute,” I said, and the inspector gave me an “after you” gesture. I wasn’t ready to take a close look at the body, in part because it was a corpse, but mostly because I sensed there was something not right with it.

  How to describe it? It . . . shimmered. There was something off about the former Malachi Zazi.

  I took a breath and wandered around the apartment, sidestepping the crime scene investigators who were dusting for prints and photographing possible evidence. Apart from the staccato camera flashes, the only light in the room was the dim amber glow of the hand- blown sconces. The apartment reeked of cigar smoke combined with aromas from the late- night supper. Tall windows were covered by tasseled red velvet drapes that blocked the afternoon sun; muted oriental rugs covered generous portions of the dark mahogany floor; vivid oil paintings in ornate frames lined the paneled walls; and plush leather armchairs invited visitors to linger by the carved stone fireplace. The whole apartment looked like a stage set for a Victorian play about a convoluted murder mystery.

  “For the record, we’re on the fourteenth floor,” Romero said as he trailed after me. “Not the thirteenth.”

  “Only because the building doesn’t have a thirteenth floor,” I pointed out. “Otherwise- right-thinking architects pretend there’s no thirteenth floor when they build buildings. It’s a holdover from a less rational era. It’s almost charming.”

  “Not for Mr. Zazi. Man was in here with all these bad luck signs, and now he’s dead. Stabbed in the heart. Look, Lily,” the inspector said with a half-embarrassed, half-weary expression, “you know it pains me to ask for your help, but I thought you might be able to offer certain . . . insights into this case. So give it to me straight. I can take it.”

  “Fair enough. You noticed the bad luck signs, but except for the mirror, the ladder, and the bird, those are mere superstitions. They wouldn’t lead to murder. And even the real bad luck omens are subtle and tend to work on some sort of time delay.”

  “So he was just an eccentric guy who thought bad luck signs were amusing? You don’t . . . feel anything?”

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

  “Go ahead.”

  I laid the fingertips of my left hand on Zazi’s cold, waxy forehead, closed my eyes, and concentrated, filtering out the static from the various people in the apartment whose nervous energy was bouncing off the walls. I focused my powers, subsumed my conscious self, and allowed myself to be a conduit.

  Nothing.

  Which was not good.

  People—normal human people—give off sensations for hours after death.

  Turning Malachi’s hand palm up, I searched for his fingerprints. The tips of his fingers were slick—like a doll’s.

  I examined his palm: no creases, no lifeline. Nothing.

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

  The inspector nodded. “What are you looking for?” “Confirmation that he doesn’t have any.”

  “Any what?”

  “Fingerprints.”

  “What, you mean like you?”

  “Like me.”

  Our eyes met.

  Some humans—not many—are born without fingerprints due to a rare medical condition. Others, rarer still, are born without them even though they show no other signs of that condition. Like me. I used to think it was caused by something metaphysical, a cosmic sign that I was meant to go through life without leaving a trace. But then I decided I was just an oddity.

  So, apparently, was Malachi Zazi.

  “Probably also a good idea to check out his DNA.”

  “Why? What am I looking 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 entrance startled the cat, who disappeared beneath the bed.

  One hand on the door, as though holding it closed by force, Romero blew out a frustrated breath.

  “What do you mean, make sure he’s human? What else would he be?”

  I shrugged.

  He swore under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Please tell me we’re not talking about . . . a demon?”

  I flinched. In my world, it’s best not to throw around words like “demon.” You just never knew who might take that as an invitation to drop in.

  “Of course not,” I said. The inspector relaxed until I added, “Well, probably not. Could be anything, really.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “A doppelganger, a changeling . . . maybe just a freak.” I looked at Romero pointedly. “Like me.”

  I wandered around the bedroom, checking it out. An ornate cherry armoire drew my attention, its open doors revealing a bonanza of silk and satin ladies’ gowns and gentlemen’s suits from another era. Late eighteen hundreds, I thought. They were stunning, and it was rare to find them in such good condition.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “Don’t know and don’t particularly care unless it has something to do with my murder investigation.”

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

  Clothes were usually an easy read. They emitted a discernible hum, alive with the energy of the past, whispering traces of the mortals who had worn them. But not these. These were as soulless as the dead man on the dining room table.

  I drew back, as unsettled by the clothing’s lack of vibrations as a normal person would be to discover her T-shirt and cargo pants humming.

  “What’s wrong?” Romero asked.

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what to make of it all.

  “Okay, this guy was supposedly the head of something called the Serpentarian Society—the thirteen members all had dinner here last night,” Romero said, consulting his notebook. “What can you tell me about that?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. I’ve never heard of the society. But Serpentarius is the thirteenth sign of the zodiac. There used to be thirteen months in a year, each with twenty-eight days, like February. Think about it: thirteen times twenty-eight is three hundred and sixty-four.”

  The corners of Romero’s mouth tugged up in a reluctant smile. “You do that equation in your head? I’m impressed.”

  “Then you’re also gullible.” I returned his smile. “Math and I don’t get along. Anyway, each month was associated with a sign: Serpentarius was the last one, following Sagittarius.”

  “You think this guy Serpentarius is somehow significant with respect to this murder?”

  “The only thing I know about Serpentarius is that, unlike the other horoscope signs, he was a real man. A medical man, I believe. I’ll find out more about him if you like, and let you know.”

  The sparrow appeared from wherever it had been hiding and fluttered around the room, the cat’s eyes following its moves closely. I went to the window and pulled back the velvet curtains, a pair of dusty sheers, and a heavy-duty blackout shade until I finally reached a casement window that probably hadn’t been opened for years. After a brief struggle it opened, and I stood back, hoping the bird would take note of the light and air and leave this unnatural place.

  Instead it landed on my shoulder. The cat leapt onto the regal four-poster bed, its green-eyed gaze fixed on the sparrow, as though ready to pounce on it—and on me.

  “Go on now, sugar,” I turned my head and said to the bird. “Away with you.”

  The sparrow took me in with one bright eye, lifted its wings, and flew out the
window. The cat bounded up to the window ledge and watched its quarry disappear.

  “Did you just talk to that bird?” Carlos asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You talk to animals now?”

  I laughed. “A lot of people talk to animals, Inspector. It doesn’t mean they understand. Watch: Come down from there, cat,” I said to the feline preening on the window ledge. The cat ignored me. “See, the cat didn’t obey.”

  “Cats never obey.”

  “True.”

  “The way the windows were covered up, maybe Zazi was afraid of the light. Like a vampire.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed. “There’s no such thing as vampires.”

  “Of course not. Changelings and ghosts and demons and doppel-whatzits? Sure—no problem. But no vampires.”

  “It’s not the same at all,” I protested, though I saw his point. How does one separate superstition and folktale from nature and the supernatural? All sorts of supposedly imaginary creatures are, in fact, real: unicorns and elves and brownies and faeries. But others were inventions of the always fertile human imagination. Since I had never finished my witchcraft training, I was unclear on a lot of the finer points of supernatural genealogy. Looked as though I should check in with a higher authority: Aidan Rhodes, male witch and unrivaled leader of the Bay Area spooks. Speaking of whom . . .

  I glanced at my vintage Tinker Bell watch, which I’d picked up for a song at a garage sale in Sunnyvale. I was late for my lesson with Rhodes, who had agreed to complete my training. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him with a banishing spell, but I did need him. Among other things, he might be able to shed some light on the late Malachi Zazi, if not upon the identity of the murderer.

  “I’ve got to get going, Inspector. I’ll ask around, see what else I can find out,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful; I don’t feel much, and that worries me. Normally I would be on sensory overload.”

  “Okaaaay,” Romero said, a cynical note in his voice. He had asked me here, which was no small thing, and I hadn’t come through for him. It’s not every day that a vintage clothing dealer and witch is called in to consult with the SFPD.

  I had recently moved to San Francisco and opened a vintage clothing store, Aunt Cora’s Closet, in the former hippie haven of Haight Street, near Ashbury. Though I had hoped to keep my witchcraft under wraps, Fate had other plans for me, as she so often did. Not only did I have a whole new group of friends who admired, rather than reviled, my talents; but now even the police had come to me for help. This was heady stuff for a woman who, a few short months before, had been friendless and adrift, afraid to embrace what she could not outrun: that she was a witch, through and through.

  On my way out, Carlos Romero stopped me. “You want this?”

  The black cat hung limply in Romero’s hands, gazing at me with huge yellowish green headlamp eyes.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m allergic to cats.”

  “I thought you witches loved cats.”

  “Even among witches I’m a freak.”

  The cat meowed. Sort of. It was more like a raspy squeak than a proper meow.

  “Don’t you need a pet?” I said. “I think it likes you.”

  Carlos gave me a look. “What would I do with a cat?”

  “Same thing I would?”

  “Listen, Lily, it’s a black cat. You’re a witch. Allergy or not, you two go together like white on rice. Tell you what: Take it home with you; give it a try. It’ll keep your potbellied pig company.”

  “I am not taking a cat.”

  “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Kind of a shame, though.”

  “Why? What are you going to do with it?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll call animal control. They’ll take it to the pound.”

  “And the pound will find it a home?”

  He shrugged. “They’ll try, but they always have too many cats. Plus, black cats are the hardest to place. People get funny about them. Bad luck and all that . . .”

  “But if they can’t find a home, then . . .”

  “It’ll be euthanized. Don’t worry—they’ll make it quick.” Romero stroked the cat’s soft, thick fur. It purred. “Sure hate to see it happen to this li’l fella. Zazi wasn’t the murderer’s only victim.”

  I knew he was playing me. I knew it.

  “You are an evil man, Inspector.”

  I took the cat.