Free Hexes and Hemlines by Juliet Blackwell Page B

Closet, Conrad—or “the Con,” as he called himself—and I sort of adopted one another. He was one of the hundreds of young people who flocked to the Haight each year in search of freedom. What they usually found, instead, was a sort of homeless, in-between existence. They called themselves gutter punks, and were generally reviled by the merchants and permanent residents of the neighborhood. Part of me understood why—their panhandling and general lack of hygiene left a whole lot to be desired. But they tugged at my heart, not unlike a recently orphaned black cat I could mention. In my estimation people, and animals, should never be treated as throwaways.
    Though Conrad wasn’t ready yet for my help in fighting his obvious chemical addictions, he watched over my store and did small tasks for me, while I made sure he had breakfast most days, and I welcomed his friendly, mellow presence outside my shop.
    “Enjoy your sandwich.”
    “Duuude,” Conrad repeated, this time by way of “thank you.”
    I retrieved the San Francisco Chronicle from the concrete stoop and went back inside.
    Perching on a high stool, I spread the paper out on the glass counter and searched the pages to see if Zazi’s death had rated a story. I was just about to give up when I found a brief article, relegated to page nine. According to the story a man had been found dead in his apartment, an apparent homicide. There was no mention of bad luck symbols, but it did refer to Malachi Zazi as founder of the famous—or notorious—Serpentarian Society dinners. There was even a picture, a black-and-white image of several men and women in period attire. I counted: There were thirteen members, including Malachi Zazi himself.
    Then I noticed the byline on the story: Nigel Thorne. Nigel was a senior journalist who had spoken to me a while back about a series of missing children in the Hunters Point neighborhood. Why would he write this short, nothing article about a homicide? Could he be working on a bigger story? Nigel had become the unofficial go-to guy for strange things—paranormal things—for the San Francisco Chronicle .
    I checked my watch: It was still early, before nine. I made a mental note to call him a little later. And as soon as Maya and Bronwyn got here, I would go talk to Gregory and try to figure out what was going on. And to Inspector Carlos Romero. Had he known I was connected to Gregory when he asked me to weigh in?
    But in the meantime there was plenty of work to do. Witch or no witch, I still had to fill out paperwork and payroll and health benefits and sales tax. Running a retail shop of any kind, I was learning, was no easy thing. Good thing I loved it so much.
    The little bell on the door tinkled when Maya arrived a little before ten, a chai latte in hand.
    “Good morning, Lily. Hey, who’s this?” Maya asked, picking up the black cat and cradling it in her slender arms. I could hear its raspy purring from where I stood.
    “I sort of agreed to find a home for it. Looks like you two are hitting it off—would you like to keep it?”
    “I wish I could. I live in a no-pet building. It’s adorable, though. You should keep it here as a shop cat!”
    “Black hairs on the merchandise? I don’t think so.”
    “I guess you’re right,” she said with a smile. “Too bad it’s not a bookstore.”
    As though to prove my point, Maya put down the cat and brushed a few stray black hairs off her saffroncolored sweater. She went to the back room to wash her hands; clean hands are an occupational necessity in the vintage clothing business.
    Mondays at Aunt Cora’s Closet were typically mellow. Within half an hour of opening a half dozen women were perusing the merchandise, and a couple of college students were trying on skirts in the communal dressing room, which was cordoned off from the rest of the store by heavy velvet curtains. Most of the customers were dressed in the uniform common to local students and artists: old jeans or