Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 4

  Pandemonium.

  Small fires were burning in several corners, unaffected by the overhead sprinklers soaking everything below. And yet the flames did not appear to be spreading.

  One display table was lit as though a puddle of gasoline was burning right in the center of the tablecloth. Another fire was so hot that the solid gold pieces in a locked display case had melted, the small puddles of molten metal flowing into one another. Still, the flammable tablecloths and posters were not catching fire.

  The loudspeaker squawked. “Do not be alarmed. Please allow the officials through. Move in an orderly fashion toward the exits. Do not panic.”

  Soaked visitors streamed out of the exits in a more or less orderly fashion, though a few were crying and clearly on the verge of panicking. More than one paper bag, sodden from the sprinklers, had split open and spilled its contents onto the floor; the items were then kicked and stomped by the shuffling crowd.

  Frantic merchants were gathering their valuable wares as frightened security personnel tried to convince them to abandon their items and insisted that everyone leave the building immediately.

  I untied the rope around Oscar’s neck, telling him to meet me at the van so I wouldn’t have to worry about him while I checked things out. Under the circumstances I figured he could take care of himself better than I . . . and in all this bedlam I doubted anyone would be overly concerned with a free-roaming pig.

  I spotted Johannes in the fleeing crowd, ketchup staining his white shirt. All of us were soaked by now; the water made the ketchup run down in streams, like blood. But it was the fearful look in his eyes that worried me.

  “Johannes,” I grabbed his arm as he rushed by. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

  “Ich . . . I don’t how to say it in English . . . it’s eine Hexenjagd! Come away!”

  I don’t speak much German. But I know one word for sure: Hexen. As in hex. As in witch.

  “Is Griselda all right?” I asked, feeling a tingle of premonition at the back of my neck. “Where is she?”

  “Come, now! Vorsicht!” He grabbed my upper arm, gallantly trying to persuade me to leave with him. “Come!”

  When I pulled away, he hurried toward the exit without a backward glance.

  Again I thought that a normal person would be a fool to remain in a burning building, and I’m usually not a fool. But there was something about these fires . . . they weren’t spreading. Neither were they extinguished by the sprinklers, which by now had rained down so much water that little streams were running on the concrete floor.

  Hexen. Witches. And Oscar had sensed something demonic.

  I had to see if the security guards needed my help. One thing was for sure: They were trained to deal with things like crowd control, not the kind of havoc demons—and witches—can wreak. Turning toward the back of the hall, I started to fight my way through the throng like a salmon swimming upstream, stroking the medicine bag I wore on a braided belt around my waist and chanting charms of protection.

  Griselda’s jewelry stand had been abandoned. Its contents appeared to have been tossed, as though someone had rifled through, looking for something. Or perhaps it had merely been ravaged by the water and the rushing crowds, like so many other displays out on the floor.

  Among scattered medallions and brooches, I noticed a gold cuff link on the ground. Picking it up and weighing it in my hand, it felt surprisingly heavy, in the way of real gold. I looked for its mate, wondering if it could be part of Griselda’s merchandise. But no—the cuff link was slick, with a modern angular design, not an antique. I held it in my hand and concentrated, and thought I felt distinctly modern vibrations. I felt these sensations quite clearly, which shocked me. In fact, there was something so familiar about the sensations, they tugged at the edges of my consciousness.

  The massive blue curtains that cordoned off the back from the show floor swayed in toward me, as though blown by a wind from behind.

  A lock of egg-yolk yellow hair tumbled from under the curtain to land at my feet.

  Unlike everything else in the hall, the hair was dry. I stared down at it for a long moment. The sounds of chaos, the screams and shouts, the sirens faded from my awareness as I stared down at the errant lock of hair. I was afraid to reach down toward it.

  Finally, I took a deep breath, reached out slowly, and parted the curtains.

  It took me a moment to recognize what I was seeing. Two large plywood boards, one on the ground, the other on top of someone with yellow hair.

  Placed on the top board were several cinder blocks and more than a dozen boxes of what I presumed to be heavy jewelry.

  Griselda was sandwiched between the boards. Crushed.

  Chapter 3

  The two security guards who had chased Oscar earlier were standing in an open side door. The plump one was looking outside, as though waiting for something.

  The younger one was doubled over, retching.

  Convinced the men were too distracted to notice me, I rushed over to Griselda. Grimly, I realized that having been born without fingerprints—a hereditary condition that made basic paperwork, like getting a driver’s license, a bureaucratic nightmare—was an asset for things like poking around crime scenes without leaving identifiable traces.

  Despite my own revulsion, I reached out a shaky hand and placed it on the arm that was sticking out between the boards, hoping to read Griselda’s vibrations.

  She was gone. Dead. But the vibrations were strong, not yet completely faded. I felt a wave of overwhelming fear and pain and . . . suffocation.

  Griselda had been “pressed.” During the European witch hunts, an accused person might be placed beneath a heavy board to secure her confession. Heavy rocks were piled, one by one, on top of the plank to increase the pressure until the victim admitted her knowledge of and complicity in magical practices. Although pressing was intended to be a form of torture, not a method of execution, it was not unusual for it to result in a prisoner’s slow, painful death from internal injuries and suffocation.

  Griselda’s death seemed to have been aided by the athame I had seen at her stand. The ceremonial knife’s bejeweled handle stuck out from between the planks, and a thin ribbon of blood had been carried onto the floor by the relentless water raining down.

  The scene was horrifying.

  I swallowed hard and took a deep, steadying breath. Stroking my medicine bag, I tried to find the calm amid the chaos. But as I knelt beside Griselda, the water from the sprinklers dripping down my face mimicked the tears I could not shed, and black spots danced in front of my eyes. I could feel myself react not only to the immediate, grisly death of this poor woman, but to the link it represented to the persecuted witches, healers, wise women, and outsiders throughout time and across cultures.

  As a natural-born witch, I carry that history of violence in my bones.

  The far-off sirens grew louder, their shrill whine reaching a deafening crescendo, followed by a screech of brakes. I could see the blue and red flashing of emergency-vehicle lights through the open door.

  For a second I considered staying to assist the SFPD. I could even try calling on my sort-of friend, Inspector Carlos Romero, in the homicide department for help. But the truth was that I knew nothing about what had happened and could contribute nothing to a murder investigation.

  And besides . . . I was too shaken by what I had seen.

  I slipped back through the blue curtain, concentrating on breathing and trying to slow my pounding heart.

  Was Griselda’s death an isolated, gruesome incident . . . or could it be the beginning of a witch hunt in San Francisco?

  • • •

  I was still shaking by the time I reunited with my friends in the parking lot, so I handed the keys to Maya.

  She and Bronwyn had corralled Oscar when he ran out of the Cow Palace. The potbellied pig—who was not nearly as miniature as his breed name would suggest—was now contentedly snuggling in Bronwyn’s lap while she petted him a
nd spoke to him in a high-pitched, baby voice, calling him her “widdle bitty Oscaroo.”

  Oscar adored Bronwyn. It was no wonder: Everyone adored Bronwyn.

  Maya drove swiftly through the streets of San Francisco, hopping on the 101 Freeway briefly, then exiting at Octavia and Fell and turning left onto Haight Street.

  With each city block we put between us and the Cow Palace, I pulled myself together a bit more. But I was still stunned by what I had seen.

  “Well, at least no one was hurt,” said Bronwyn. “I know it looked like a stampede, but I think everyone got out okay.”

  “It’ll be a huge mess,” said Maya. “Good thing they had a sprinkler system, though. What do you suppose started all those fires?”

  My pig and I glanced at each other.

  Disparate, small, superhot fires triggering sprinklers, panic, and general pandemonium.

  It smacked of a demon at play.

  Still . . . the way Griselda was killed didn’t seem like the actions of a demon. Rather, this was the sort of scenario humans came up with when they were frightened, angry, or greedy enough to be inhuman to each another.

  Maya double-parked the purple van in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet, near the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Known locally as the Haight, the neighborhood had been the birthplace of the Summer of Love in 1968 and was still something of a hippie haven. The area had once housed rock legends like Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, and the Grateful Dead; more recently, it was experiencing a wave of gentrification as people rediscovered and renovated the charming old Victorians that sat cheek by jowl in rows on the side streets. Moneyed yuppies preoccupied with home design now mixed with older hippies in a strained coexistence with the self-proclaimed “gutter punks,” or young people living on the streets, begging for change.

  I adored the idiosyncratic Haight. The moment I arrived, after years of a nomadic existence, I knew I had found a place where a witch like me might actually fit in, find friends, and become part of the community. And I had. It felt great to be home.

  If only I could shake that visual of Griselda.

  As I walked through the front door of my shop I was greeted by the scent of fresh laundry mingling with the sachets of rosemary and sage that I had hung throughout the store. Humming vibrations reflected the complicated histories of the clothes on the racks, enveloping me like whispered hugs. Throughout my years of solitude, the vibrations of cast-off clothing had kept me connected to humanity, and I responded to them as you would to a dear old friend who had seen you through many moments of crazy, yet remained by your side.

  Maya, Bronwyn, and I toted in bags of beads and jewelry, my Bakelite bonanza, and the cardboard box from Griselda. Just looking at that box made me queasy.

  “Check out these great shell buttons I got for Mom,” said Maya as she started unpacking her bag. Maya’s mother, Lucille, was a whiz with a needle; she did alterations for our customers, and had recently launched a new venture making reproduction dresses in the style of vintage clothing. Antique details such as buttons, lace, and embroidery made Lucille’s modern creations a cut above the competition.

  I tried to feign interest in Maya’s purchases, but kept seeing Griselda’s body in my mind’s eye.

  “Lily, forgive me for mothering you, but you look like you could use a little lie-down,” Bronwyn said. She came over to give me a bear hug, enfolding me in warmth and today’s natural herbal scent: tea rose and myrrh.

  “She’s right,” said Maya, looking at me with concern. “Are you okay?”

  I noticed Bronwyn appeared a bit bedraggled, and I suspected I wasn’t much better. Only Maya looked great, her black locks seemingly impervious to the effects of an indoor rain shower.

  I nodded and took a deep breath to steady myself. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “Was it the fire? It scared you?”

  I nodded again.

  “Witches and fire don’t mix,” Bronwyn said with a sage nod over my shoulder to Maya. “How about you go upstairs for a bit? Maya and I can handle the mad Sunday crowds.”

  She was joking. There wasn’t a soul in the store but us, which was typical for midday on a Sunday. Customers would start trickling in later this afternoon, but early Sunday was always dead.

  I glanced at my watch, which, I was relieved to see, had survived today’s dousing. Luckily, a couple of weeks ago I decided to cast a protective spell over it. I figured it could use all the help it could get, considering my life lately.

  “I guess I could use a break . . . but I think some air would do me more good than a lie-down. I’ll go move the van, then take a walk in the sunshine, if you really don’t mind.”

  “You go on along, now,” said Bronwyn, unconsciously mimicking my Southern phrasing. I’d noticed my accent was rubbing off on my friends.

  I took a moment to fix myself up in the mirror; applied some lipstick, combed my hair and put it up in a neat ponytail, then tied it with a patterned silk scarf.

  Oscar wanted to come with me, of course, but I left him at the store. I needed to debrief him further about what he had sensed at the Gem Faire that had motivated him to burst in on us. I couldn’t help but wonder what the connection might be to poor Griselda. But that could wait until after the store had closed—I was already off my game, and a discussion about demonic activity wouldn’t be conducive to putting up a brave front for my friends and customers.

  A stroll in the fresh air and sunshine, on the other hand . . . that could cure any number of ills.

  After moving the van around the corner and parking it in the driveway I rented for a small fortune, I strolled several blocks down Haight Street, passing by head shops, a brew pub, and several cafés.

  I should contact Inspector Romero. We weren’t friends, exactly, but we were at least friendly. And, most important, he believed in my powers. Sort of. At the very least he kept an open mind, and wouldn’t laugh me out of the Hall of Justice for suggesting that Griselda had been killed by a traditional method of torturing a witch. But still . . . I didn’t know what I could add to any official investigation. I kept going over my interaction with Griselda at the fair, but there had been nothing obviously suspicious about it beyond vague sensations and the feeling that she had been looking behind me. I hadn’t even recognized her as a practitioner until I made the assumption when I saw the athame. It was possible she wasn’t a witch at all; perhaps she had been killed for entirely different reasons.

  Absorbed in my thoughts, I turned down a quiet side street lined with the simple but intricately painted Victorians so typical of the neighborhood. With a start, I realized I was only half a block down from where Griselda mentioned she was staying, at the Morning House B and B.

  I had noticed the inn on previous walks through the neighborhood. It was painted in many shades of lavender and pink, with touches of gold gilt on the gingerbread trim. The building was larger than the row houses surrounding it, but what made it really stand out was its expansive yard. Set on a double lot, it was surrounded by trees and lawn and ringed with planters full of blossoming flowers and bushes. The garden was well tended, a lush urban oasis surrounded by a white picket fence; the arch over the gate was covered by a fragrant climbing lavender rose. A colorful border boasted orange nasturtiums, blue coral bells, and purple pansies. Fuchsia bougainvillea trailed along the roof over the broad front porch, which held several rocking chairs and a porch swing.

  Next to the gate was a white wooden sign that read, MORNING HOUSE. A BED AND BREAKFAST. WELCOME! Below it a sign read NO VACANCY.

  Had my subconscious brought me here, or was it simple coincidence? Either way, as I walked past I noted the sort of thing the authorities would no doubt overlook: loops of rowan, a magical plant, hung on the spikes of the fence and the little gate. When looped in this fashion, rowan was a traditional protective talisman against witches.

  My eyes darted around, looking for other signs meant to fend off my kind. The colorful garden wasn’t typical of a witch-repelling palette;
traditionally, gardens meant to protect against sorcery were monochromatic, with yellow and white plantings meant to invoke the sun, which was supposedly anathema to magical folk, who were more commonly associated with the moon and nightfall.

  The assumption being that witches are aligned with the night and shun the light.

  I noticed a line of salt across the threshold and a bundle of stinging nettles on the porch. These were general protection charms; according to custom they were imbued with power by chanting, and could be made by witches as easily as against them. But the loops of rowan were something else.

  First Griselda was killed by pressing, a traditional way to torture a witch . . . and now loops of rowan were adorning the bed-and-breakfast where she had been staying. Still standing at the gate, I took a deep breath and stroked my medicine bag for strength and calm while I tried to decide what to do.

  “Come on in. Don’t be shy!” I looked up to see a smiling fellow with a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache, male-pattern baldness, and chubby cheeks. He wore a fuzzy fleece outdoor vest over a plaid shirt and held gardening sheers in one gloved hand. Abandoning the orange trumpet vine he had been trimming, he strode across the small lawn toward me. “I’m Lloyd, the owner. Sorry to tell you, though, we have no rooms available at the moment. We’re pretty much full up all the time these days—you have to call weeks ahead of time to secure a reservation.”

  “I . . .” What should I say?

  Surely he wouldn’t have heard of Griselda’s death yet, and if I started asking questions about her . . . wouldn’t it seem suspicious? Still, what with the mode of Griselda’s murder and now the antiwitch charms, I couldn’t suppress the feeling that there was something seriously scary afoot . . . something akin to a witch hunt. And just as I had recognized the rowan loops, I might notice some other obscure evidence to help with the investigation into her death.

  “I’m not looking for a room, actually. But . . . a friend of mine from out of town is staying here, and I believe she might have left something for me.”