Finally, I bathed and dressed in all black, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my coffee table. I grounded myself, stroked my medicine bag, and prepared to scry, or see beyond the here and now, to concentrate while allowing my mind to wander.
My crystal ball was beautiful, and easily my most expensive possession. The base was hand-wrought gold, encrusted with jewels. A grateful client had given it to Graciela, and she in turn had gifted me with it when I was forced to leave Texas.
But all the beauty in the world couldn’t improve my scrying. Most witches had at least some natural ability with this sort of thing, but not me. I could brew with the best of them, but seeing something useful—whether in the crystal ball or in a black mirror or in standing water—was almost always beyond my ken.
Tonight was no exception. I had hoped to spy a glimpse of Sailor, or Tristan Dupree, or even the cupcake lady, aka Renee Baker. But all I saw, as ever, was a few fleeting shadows, the significance of which remained frustratingly out of reach.
I turned to the shoe box.
At the moment, I was tempted to open it, but I feared I wasn’t strong enough to face whatever it contained, all by myself. Especially now, with the sneezing and fatigue and strangely challenged magical energy.
I cringed at how I’d left things with Aidan. When would I learn not to antagonize him? But I pushed that thought away. Best to focus on the problems at hand. For lack of a better idea, I rewrapped the rowan around the shoe box, braided some threads and knotted them with whispered incantations, added a string of holly and stinging nettles, then put the box back into my suitcase and hid the suitcase in the back of my closet. It would be safe there.
I hoped. Normally I had confidence that my apartment was so protected it was virtually immune to intruders. But since I hadn’t been exactly feeling myself lately . . . I wondered whether I should have taken up Aidan on his offer to safeguard the box. He would probably still agree to do so, if I asked him nicely.
I yearned to talk with Graciela, and to convene her coven of elderly wisewomen. Surely they could offer some insight into what was going on? If only they were here and could help me to open the shoe box, figure out what was plaguing me, find a murderer, and get Sailor off the hook.
My mind cast back to the red thread spiderweb forming over the map behind the register. What in the world were the women doing?
Had the coven simply been sidetracked by burgers and sea otters, or was there something else—something more sinister—going on?
Chapter 9
Early the next morning, I headed out to the jail.
The street was quiet at this hour of the morning. Haight Street’s boutiques, bookstore and record shop, and myriad bars and restaurants catered primarily to a later crowd. But Lucille’s Loft, right next door, was already bustling.
I had hoped to rush past—Sailor was paramount on my mind—but Lucille noticed me and came to the door.
“Good morning, Lily,” she said. Lucille is a lot like her daughter, Maya: calm, kind, and smart. Lucille carried a few more pounds and many more laugh lines, and her hair was graying, but other than that, mother and daughter could have been sisters.
“Good morning, Lucille.”
“Is everything all right?”
“I—” I wondered whether to launch into the whole story. I didn’t have much time. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go around telling people my fiancé was in the slammer. A big part of me expected—hoped, anyway—that Carlos would stumble across some huge hole in the case, the SFPD would apologize profusely, and Sailor would be home in time for dinner.
“A friend’s in trouble,” I said simply.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” she said.
“Me, too. Thanks. Oh, Lucille,” I said as something else occurred to me. “Maya mentioned that Renee Baker had dropped by the other day?”
“The cupcake lady? Yes, she did.”
“Could I ask what she was looking for?”
“She wanted to know if we would be available to do some alterations for her.”
“Really? That’s . . . odd.”
Lucille’s brows rose and she smiled. “Lucille’s Loft is the best, after all. Why wouldn’t she come to us?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that!” I blushed.
She chuckled. “I know. Renee’s cupcake shop is across town, so why would she come all the way here? She mentioned she was in the neighborhood visiting a friend who’d placed a big order for an upcoming event.”
“Did she say who?”
Lucille gave me an searching look. “Are you sure everything’s all right, Lily?”
“There’s . . . Not really, no. Sailor was arrested last night.”
“Sailor? Is he all right?”
It didn’t escape my notice that Lucille didn’t even ask what Sailor had been accused of. He had fans. It did my heart good.
“I think so. I’m on my way to visit him.”
“And you think Renee’s somehow involved? The cupcake lady?”
“Not really. I’m just . . . Things are off-kilter right now, so I’m keeping an open mind.”
Maya didn’t share a lot of the details of my life with her mother, and that was probably best. I doubted Lucille would be on board with the whole witchcraft thing. She was open-minded and openhearted, but she was an active member of her local Baptist church—and in any case, my brand of witchy was a little tough for most people to swallow.
“Did you happen to notice anything odd about Renee’s visit? Did she ask anything, do anything in particular, that struck you as”—I couldn’t think of a more apt word— “odd?”
Lucille shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lily. Nothing comes to mind. She admired our collection of fabrics, asked about prices, and then left us with a lovely basket of assorted baked goods.”
“Did you eat them?” I demanded, a strident note in my voice.
“Sorry I can’t offer you any—they didn’t last long.” Lucille laughed and patted her stomach. “I know I shouldn’t, but I had a meat pasty for lunch, and two cupcakes for dessert, and enjoyed them thoroughly.”
“And you’re feeling all right?”
“Lily . . . what is going on?”
I had debated whether to tell my friends and acquaintances that Renee was bad news. To all external appearances, she was simply a bakery owner whose intricately iced cupcakes had become wildly popular, and whose baked goods were in high demand all over the city. How did I tell people Renee might well be involved in some sort of supernatural battle for the soul of San Francisco? And that her cupcakes might, or might not, be suspect?
“Nothing, Lucille,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m just jumpy, and worried about Sailor. But if Renee comes back, would you let me know?”
She nodded, her soft brown eyes gazing at me intently. “Of course. Please give Sailor my love, and let me know if there’s anything at all I can do. I have a niece who works for the sheriff’s office. I’d be happy to make a call if you need a personal contact.”
“Thank you, Lucille,” I said. “I appreciate that, and I know Sailor will, too.”
* * *
? ? ?
The prosaically named County Jail #2 is located on Seventh Street, not far from the freeway. Many’s the time I’d been stuck in traffic in the approach to the Bay Bridge, and gazed at the serpentine building with its partially fogged windows, thinking of those inside, awaiting their fate.
I had been here a few times to visit prisoners.
It dawned on me that my father had once been accused of murder. My fiancé currently stood accused of murder. Perhaps I should wonder about the men in my life.
The check-in process for visitors always seemed to take forever, but at long last I sat at the counter, waiting.
Sailor shuffled in; his dark hair stuck up, uncombed, and whiskers shadowed his jaw in blue-black. He looked pissed off. But that was nothing new. Sailor had his great moments—amazingly great—but his default way of looking at the world was grumpy, and his general attitude had not been helped by a night in jail.