A Magical Match (A Witchcraft Mystery #9)
Juliet Blackwell
Chapter 1
The week had started out with such promise. But now my fiancé was in the slammer, my grandmother’s coven had gone missing, my supposed witch’s familiar was acting loopy, my powers appeared to have dissipated, and the future of my beloved adopted city of San Francisco was hanging in the balance. Oh, and a man had been murdered.
Maybe I should start at the beginning.
Not long ago I was a simple vintage-clothing-store owner feeling as if she needed to hire an event planner. My own rapidly approaching wedding was on my mind, plus I’d been working with my friend Bronwyn’s Welcome coven to plan a mother-daughter matching-outfit brunch, called the Magical Match, as a fund-raiser for the Haight Street women’s shelter. It was coming up this very Sunday, and yet it had taken us an hour to agree upon the newly designed flyers.
At long last, we were moving on to item number two on the day’s agenda.
We sat in a circle, breakfasting on homemade muffins and sipping strong cappuccinos and fragrant jasmine tea. Surrounding us was a cascade of crinolines and prom dresses, Jackie O hats and patent leather pumps—all part and parcel of the inventory of Aunt Cora’s Closet, my shop in San Francisco’s famed Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. Oscar, my miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig—and ersatz witch’s familiar—snored faintly on his purple silk pillow on the floor.
“My issue is, it feels a bit exclusive to restrict the party to mothers and daughters,” Bronwyn mused. “What about fathers and sons?”
“True! After all, gender is fluid,” said a coven member formerly known as Amy. Recently Amy had changed her name to Wind Spirit, but I kept forgetting to call her that.
“Or chosen families, for that matter?” interjected Starr, and several women nodded and mmm-hmmed in agreement.
“But I thought everyone was supposed to wear matching outfits,” said Wendy, getting back to the point. “How’s that going to work?”
A spirited discussion among the members of the Welcome coven followed. This was the Bay Area, after all, and a lot of us who’d landed here were searching for a sense of family and community that reached beyond the lines of blood and tradition. Besides, the women of the Welcome coven were an inclusive bunch and didn’t want to leave anyone out.
All of which made it hard to adhere to a talking point.
Bronwyn Theadora Peters was a voluptuous fiftysomething Wiccan who favored gauzy purple tunics and chunky natural stone jewelry. Today her frizzy brown hair was crowned with a garland of now-wilting daisies and cornflowers. She ran an herb stand in one corner of Aunt Cora’s Closet but was much more than a coworker to me—truly she was one of my best friends. Bronwyn was one of the first people I’d met when I arrived in San Francisco, and she had welcomed me with a warm bear hug that blasted through my carefully cultivated reserve. Ever since then, Bronwyn had stuck with me through thick and thin, magical and mundane. I adored her, appreciated her, and respected her.
And sometimes she drove me crazy.
This was one of those times. A pair of sweet polka-dot numbers that had come into the store a couple of months ago had reminded me of the early 1960s fad of matching mother-daughter dresses. The garments inspired me to suggest the Welcome coven sponsor a simple brunch fund-raiser for the Haight Street shelter and I offered to hold it at Aunt Cora’s Closet. The idea soon took on a life of its own, ballooning into a gala event with such complicated logistics that sometimes I wondered if we were organizing a simple tea or invading a small nation. Planning the event had already taken up far too much of my time and energy, in no small part because—although I loved the Welcome coven—their nonhierarchical structure and commitment to consensus didn’t lend itself to quick decisions.
This was not our first meeting. The Magical Match Tea was only four days away, but we were still working out details, such as who was allowed to attend.
I sneezed.
“Blessed be!” rang out around the room, accompanied by a few “Gesundheits” and a single “Bless you,” which engendered an animated debate over the proper Wiccan response to a sneeze.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting Bronwyn’s offer of a tissue and sneaking a glance at my antique Tinker Bell wristwatch. I had a lot to do today, not the least of which was to prepare for the arrival of my grandmother and her coven of enchanting, effusive, but elderly witches. Ten days ago the thirteen women had climbed onto an old school bus and taken off on a road trip from Texas to California. Just this morning they had sent selfies to Bronwyn’s cell phone—I didn’t carry one, because I worried its energy would interfere with my magic—from an In-N-Out Burger drive-through in Salinas, California.
I wasn’t entirely sure how they had ended up in Salinas, which was not on the most direct route from Texas to San Francisco, but thought it best not to ask. Miss Agatha, the designated driver of the ancient school bus, didn’t especially like driving but had the best eyesight of the bunch. Miss Agatha also had no sense of direction, and so a two-day road trip from Texas stretched into ten days as the busload of elderly witches zigzagged its way through the Western states to San Francisco. Still, Salinas was not far away, and barring any unforeseen problems or yet another spontaneous side trip—at one point they had veered off to see the Cadillac Ranch on Route 66, and they had lingered two whole days in Vegas—they were due to arrive this afternoon, at the latest.
“Sorry?” I said when I realized Bronwyn had asked me a question.
“I saaaaaiiid,” Bronwyn teased with a smile, “did you ask Lucille about her progress on the matching outfits for those who couldn’t find something in the store that fits?”
The tinkle of the bell over the front door was a welcome interruption.
“I checked in with her yesterday morning,” my assistant, Maya, answered for me as she entered the shop, a to-go cup of steaming chai tea in her hand. “She hired a few extra helpers, so they’re on track, and still accepting some last-minute orders.”
Maya’s mother, Lucille, had recently moved her small production team into the space next door to Aunt Cora’s Closet. Lucille’s Loft Designs specialized in reproducing vintage fashions, which was great since many women today could not fit into the older, typically more petite clothing.
Chalk one up for good nutrition. Not to mention potato chips.
“Oh, good. I’ll be sure to touch base with your mother,” I said, jotting down a note to myself. “Thanks for checking.”
“Guess who else was there when I stopped in,” continued Maya. “Renee Baker, the cupcake lady.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“I looooove those cupcakes!” said Amy—er, Wind Spirit. She was short, plump, and sweet-faced, favored ruffled baby-doll dresses, and never let a coven meeting go by without making sure there were ample baked goods available. “Hey, would it be too late to ask Renee about contributing to the Magical Match Tea? I’ll bet she wouldn’t mind donating a dozen or two.”
“Honestly, I don’t think we need another thing to eat at this tea,” I asserted. It was hard to explain to one and all why I was wary of Renee Baker. But the truth was, the cupcake lady was dealing in more than sugar. “Or no one is going to fit into their dresses.”
No two ways about it: the Welcome coven had a sweet tooth. The circle of women was even now feasting on Wind Spirit’s chocolate macadamia “health biscuits,” which tasted a lot more like dessert than breakfast.