“But they’re restricted to the box. Also, there’s a distinct thumping sound coming from the box, from time to time.”
I broke the salt circle and went to the bookshelf, then brought my Book of Shadows back to the coffee table and flipped through the pages.
“Doesn’t say anything about silverfish in particular. Silver is a traditionally powerful metal for witches, as it reflects the light of the moon. And fish can be a sign of abundance and faith, or of fertility. Insects in general can be considered signs of resilience and steadfastness—or destruction and disease.” I shook my head, disappointed. “That’s all it says.”
I rewrapped the box in the rowan and knotted the twine, then stashed it back in the suitcase. Before leaving, I would ask Oscar to make double sure no one came upstairs and started poking around. No one ever had, but just in case, I wanted to be cautious.
“So you still don’t know what Tristan was after, exactly?” Patience asked.
“There’s no obvious bēag, no. I know Renee has been collecting lachrymatories, so perhaps it’s as simple as that. Or there’s the watch—Sailor had a vision with a watch. But that doesn’t tell us much or help me figure out what Tristan wanted from me.”
“So what’s next, then? I’m willing to do what I can to break Sailor out of the slammer, but I don’t have time to sit around.”
“We could go back to the hotel,” I suggested. “Maybe Hervé and I missed something last night. And then . . . it’s not too far from Fisherman’s Wharf. Probably if you’re with me, Aidan will be civil.”
“That’s your plan?”
“It’s not like there’s a handbook, you know. I’m open to suggestions.”
She let out a long-suffering sigh, whipped her scarf around her shoulders, and said: “I’ll say one thing for you, princess—you’ve got a cool car. I’ll drive.”
“When pigs fly.”
Chapter 15
There were three cop cars parked outside the Hotel Marais, so we rolled right on by, continuing down Bush Street. I pulled over in front of Café de la Presse, across from the Chinatown gates.
“You have a sudden need for an espresso?” Patience asked. “A copy of Le Monde to catch up on all the latest French news, perhaps?”
“Just taking a moment to rejigger the plan.”
“Is ‘rejigger’ a word?”
“It is where I come from.”
I was half hoping Patience would come up with some bright idea, but she just gazed out the window, arms crossed over her chest.
“You know, last night the hotel’s clerk, Shawn, told me Tristan hadn’t been feeling well and directed him to an apothecary in Chinatown. The same one Maya saw ‘Sailor’ in once.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “And you haven’t checked it out yet?”
“It’s been an eventful day.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
I navigated the clogged Chinatown streets to the Lucky Moon herbal shop, and then started the search for parking, never an easy feat in this part of town. The sidewalks were crowded: Fishmongers touted today’s catch; produce stands were heaped with a vast assortment of vegetables; golden roast ducks hung in display windows; bakeries featured sesame balls, char siu bau, and cabbage rolls; tourist shops hawked silk robes, postcards, refrigerator magnets, and windup cable cars. Gaggles of women and men pawed through the merchandise, bright pink plastic bags hanging from their arms. Double-parked delivery trucks snarled traffic, and small clutches of tourists lingered on corners, consulting their phones and maps, further slowing down the flow of cars.
We wound up circling the block a few times, rolling past the Lucky Moon apothecary repeatedly. I kept pondering Sailor and Sailor’s double. Self-doubt clutched my heart. What in the world was going on? How could I prove Sailor’s innocence?
I was on the verge of using my parking charm to free up a space when a small hatchback pulled out near the corner of Grant and Sacramento. I parallel parked, smoothly backing my Mustang into the tight space.
“Not bad,” said Patience.
I smiled. I was proud of my parallel-parking prowess—I’d had plenty of practice since moving to San Francisco. And in comparison with parking the bulky shop van, the nimble Mustang was a breeze.
The Lucky Moon was a typical Chinatown herb shop in many ways: An innocuous sign outside displayed the name in Chinese characters, repeated below in smaller English letters. I had been inside a couple of times with Sailor; there were a long counter, and an entire wall full of hundreds of wooden drawers, and shelves lined with dozens of huge jars. Behind the counter stood an old man who served as clerk, diagnostician, and pharmacist. He wasn’t an acupuncturist and was careful to explain that he wasn’t a medical doctor, either. But he filled scripts, mixing ingredients with a mortar and pestle, filling tiny Baggies with herbs and powders, and vials with pressed pellets.
“I love that smell,” said Patience, breathing deeply.
I nodded in agreement. Even with my stuffed-up nose I could sense a bit of the spicy aroma of exotic spices and herbs.
Before we could say anything, the old man called to someone in the back of the store. A boy about thirteen or fourteen, thin and gangly, all elbows and knees, wearing basketball gear, came in to translate for us.
I tried to describe Tristan Dupree, but realized I didn’t have a photo or anything to show.
“Sorry,” said the boy, shaking his head. “We get a lot of tourists in here. Lot of people from out of town, all the time.”
“He was complaining of stomach problems,” I said, putting my hand on my belly to demonstrate.
The old man spoke and placed a small plastic bag full of herbs on the counter.
The boy translated: “He says this tea is good for digestion. Brew five minutes, take after meals.”
“Thank you,” I said, and then sneezed. “But my stomach is fine.”
The boy reached up for a packaged product and pushed the small box toward me.
“Good for colds.”
“Thank you.” I sniffed. “But I’m actually not here for a remedy for myself. I’m interested in the man who came here yesterday.”
The phone rang and the old man picked it up, speaking in Cantonese to the person on the other end of the line.
While we waited, I noticed one of the jars. On a square white label, beneath the Chinese characters, was written Mandrake root. I was no slouch when it came to botanicals, myself, and I was familiar with the mandrake root. In fact, I had used it to make a mandragora—a sort of household imp—for Aidan. I made a mental note to ask Aidan whatever happened to the little guy.
“What is the mandrake root used for?” I asked when the old man hung up the phone.
The boy translated: “He says it is poison.”
I nodded. “I know. That’s why I asked what it can be used for.”
The boy conferred with the old man, who spoke for a long time. Finally the boy turned back to me and said simply: “It’s complicated.”
“Seriously?” Patience rolled her eyes.
I smiled. Whether the boy hadn’t understood what the old man had said, or simply didn’t want to bother to translate, or whether the old man wasn’t willing to give away his secrets, I understood. Like practitioners of magic, those involved in health care had to be careful about sharing their rarefied knowledge.
We were about to leave when I had another thought. I didn’t have a photo of Tristan Dupree, but I carried one of Sailor—a wallet-sized copy of the one that sat on my bedside table. I pulled my billfold out of my bag and flipped it open.