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

glean from him about the trunk.
    The good news was he didn’t seem dangerous. The bad news was I doubted this visit would be particularly fruitful, murder-solving-wise. Then again, you never knew. As they say back in Texas, every fish ever caught had its mouth open.
    “Did you want to see the clothes?” Hannah urged from the hallway.
    “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Maya and Sailor would love to check them out. I actually . . . I was hoping to speak with your uncle for just a moment.”
    Smooth, Lily, real smooth
. Fortunately, Hannah didn’t appear to care very much what I did. “Okaaaay.” She dragged out the word as she led the way out of the room. Maya followed. Sailor cast me a long look before joining her.
    “Hannah, don’t . . . don’t throw away anything until you ask me,” Bart called out after his niece, craning his neck to watch her walk down the hall.
    A muffled, “whatever” floated back from the direction of the hallway.
    “She wants to get rid of all my things,” Bart said, his voice anxious.
    “I think she’s just trying to help you sort through all your . . . um . . . everything,” I finished lamely.
    “I agreed to sell some of the old clothes that don’t fit anymore, but there’s a lot of other stuff I don’t want to . . . I’ll be right back,” he said as he rose and hurried out of the room.
    I was left with the young professor.
    He smiled and shook his head. “Poor old guy. He’s a sweetheart, but he does have a bit of a problem.”
    “You mean the . . . uh . . .”
    “The hoarding. I mean, whether or not he’s really a pathological hoarder is hard to say. It’s not like there’s a lot of filth, or neglected animals or anything. Just lots and lots of . . . stuff.”
    I nodded. There were framed pictures covering almost every inch of wall space, stacks of newspapers and manila folders and notepads. Besides the books, knickknacks filled the tops of mismatched side tables and bookshelves. Not exactly a Zen aesthetic, but as a collector myself, I understood the impulses that led to such a state.
    “I know Hannah’s trying to help, but I fear it’s making things worse,” Will continued. “Hoarders need to be part of getting rid of their things; otherwise they can end up feeling alienated and out of control.”
    “You teach psychology?”
    He laughed. “No, I’m a professor of religious studies, actually. I was just spewing a little pop psychology I learned from too much late-night television. I don’t actually know anything. Feel free to ignore me—my students always do.”
    I returned his smile. “So you’re working with Bart? As a . . . professor of religious studies?”
    “Seems odd, right? But I’m part historian, part anthropologist. . . . My specialty is the lives of early settlers in religious communities in the United States.”
    “Like the pilgrims?”
    “Yes, the pilgrims, Puritans, Shakers, Mennonites, Amish. Among others. Bart has an impressive lineage; his family’s been in the United States for generations. And he’s got tons of paperwork, far more than you normally find passed down through families. You don’t come across this sort of thing very often among Americans, especially not here in California.”
    A million questions sprang to mind, but I didn’t getthe chance to ask a single one. Bart walked back into the room.
    “I love my niece,” Bart said, clearly agitated, “but she’s bossy. Don’t you agree that she’s bossy?”
    I didn’t know what to say to that one. Luckily for me, Bart didn’t wait for a response.
    “The other day she sold a bunch of stuff to an antiques shop. Right out of the blue. I didn’t say she could.” Bart looked at me, his rheumy blue eyes questioning. “Do you think that’s right? I’ve still got my mind, no matter what she might think. Last night I actually slept through the night, first time in years, and now I feel sharp as a tack.”
    “She means well, Bart,” said