Free A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery by Juliet Blackwell

hapless guy unaware of the contents of his historic trunk.
    Maya came along to help with the clothes; she had a way with seniors, and made a point of collecting their stories and writing down their oral histories. I tried to talk Sailor out of accompanying us, but there was no way he was going to stay behind. I decided that on the offchance that Woolsey really was bad news, it would be helpful to have Sailor along so I was sure I wasn’t putting Maya in danger.
    Woolsey’s address was an apartment in a surprisingly graceful historic building on Broadway in Pacific Heights. A doorman let us in, called ahead, then ushered us into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor.
    As we
wooshed
up, Maya looked at me, eyebrows raised. “I thought you said he was desperate for cash.”
    “That’s what I was told. Who knows? Maybe he’s . . .” I shrugged. “Maybe he owns his apartment but can’t make the condo fees?”
    The hallway to Woolsey’s apartment featured crown molding, muted taupe carpet, and what appeared to be original, handblown amber sconces. It smelled like scented candles and cleanliness. It was hard to believe anyone who lived here was selling off possessions for cash.
    A woman about my age answered our knock on the door. She was attractive, tall and strong-looking, wearing athletic clothes: orange Lycra shorts and a bright blue stretch tank. Could this be the woman Sebastian had referred to as a “pretty little thing”?
    “You must be from the thrift store,” she said upon opening the door, her blue eyes puzzled as they raked over our trio. I doubted we were what she expected of a thrift store crew.
    “Yes, I’m Lily, and this is Maya and Sailor. Thank you for having us.”
    “I’m Hannah; I think we talked on the phone. I’m helping my uncle Bart get cleaned up in here. He’s been a little . . . challenged.”
    She opened the door wider and invited us into a warren of pathways through stacks of newspapers, books, and plastic bags like giant balloons. Collectibles and antiques were gathered in organized groupings: ceramicfigures, silver pieces, painted plaques. I thought Sebastian Crowley’s antiques store looked like a hoarder’s lair, but Bartholomew Woolsey’s place was even worse. At least it assured me that I was not, in fact, a hoarder myself.
    “Ignore the mess,” Hannah continued. “It’s a work in progress.”
    It wasn’t as closed-in smelling as Sebastian’s shop had been, but I noted the distinctive musty smell of old books. I saw the reason why as I turned the corner: a dining room table sat amid—and under—stacks and stacks of old books.
    Huddled with their heads together over a book- and paper-strewn table were two men: one white haired and elderly, the other boyish and scholarly looking, complete with an argyle sweater-vest and wire-rimmed glasses.
    Both looked up as we entered.
    “Uncle Bart, these are the people from the thrift store.”
    “Oh . . .” He glanced down at the watch on his wrist. “Already?”
    “It’s eleven o’clock, Bart,” Hannah said. “Remember? I told you they were coming.”
    “Hello, Mr. Woolsey. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lily Ivory. We spoke on the phone earlier. . . .”
    “Yes, yes,” he said. His hair stuck out here and there on his balding head, and his eyebrows were bushy. Tall and apparently once quite strong, Bart had kindly, crinkly blue eyes behind aviator lenses that looked out of place—if not for the modern eyewear, he might have been the kindly shoemaker in a fairy tale, complete with an open vest over his striped shirt. “I remember. I don’t get a lot of visitors. Except for Williston, of course. Williston’s a professor over at . . . where was it?”
    “UC Berkeley,” said the young man as he stood andshook our hands. “But please, call me Will. No need to be as formal as Bart. Nice to meet you.”
    Darn
. I had hoped to speak with Bart Woolsey alone to see what information I could