“You’ve got to believe me. She wasn’t like that.” Patricia Cullins twisted her rings nervously, looking so bereft I wanted to comfort her. Instead, Teag and I had come to try to figure out why her friend Joan—Opal Lady—had attacked Maggie, and see if we could learn anything about who tried to kill me.
“When did she start to change?” Teag kept his voice quiet and reassuring. Two days had passed since I’d nearly been done in by a scarf, and I was only starting to feel back to normal. I let him take the lead.
Pat frowned as she thought. I guessed her to be about Joan’s age, somewhere between late forties and late fifties. Pat had blond hair cut in a wedge, and a pair of reading glasses with bright blue frames hung from a beaded lanyard around her neck. Her pink lipstick and matching nail polish made her skin seem too pale in comparison.
“About two weeks,” Pat finally said. “She wasn’t having any health problems—at least nothing she told me about. No big upsets.” She looked up at us, and I caught a hint of defiance in her face. “Joan and I have been friends since high school. Thirty years. We tell each other almost everything. So if she’d had something bad happen in her life to send her off the rails, I’m sure I would have known.”
Pat shook her head. “Joan didn’t get belligerent when she was angry—she broke down in tears. She sucked at being angry. I mean, she couldn’t even give what-for to a rude cabbie.”
“Can you think of anything that was different around the time that Joan started to change?” I probed. I figured that the shawl was behind Joan’s sudden personality swing, but I thought I’d better lead up to that slowly. Not everyone easily buys into the ideas of cursed objects. And besides, I might learn something important if I gave Pat a chance to give me her side of things. “She had come into the store the day before, and she got really angry about us not having opals.”
Pat chuckled. “She liked opals. Her husband bought her one when they started dating, and she always said it was lucky for her. But that’s not something she’d get worked up about—as much as she ever got worked up over anything.”
“We want to figure this out because we don’t think Joan was responsible for her actions,” I said, hoping Pat felt she could trust me. Maggie hadn’t pressed charges against Joan, but she did have a restraining order issued.
“You mean like someone might have slipped her a roofie?” Pat’s eyes went wide.
I smiled. “Not exactly, but maybe a little.”
“I saw this show on TV where a guy hypnotized people and made them steal things,” Pat confided. “Maybe that happened to Joan.”
If a cursed object or hex bag lay behind Joan’s sudden changes, Pat’s guess might be closer to the truth than she’d ever know. “Did she buy anything new or get any presents right about the time she started to act differently?” Teag asked, since what we both wanted to know was how Joan got the pink shawl. “Maybe something she inherited, or a gift from someone?”
Pat looked into the distance, searching her memories. “We went out that weekend, to do a little shopping, have lunch, get a mani-pedi. Girl’s day out, you know?”
“Where did you go?” I urged. “It’s important.”
“We got fancy coffee, and started off at the spa,” Pat said and named a nice salon on King Street. “Then we had lunch.” Their destination, a popular brunch spot, seemed like a low risk for curses or hexes. “And since it was such a nice day, we walked through the City Market.”
Teag and I exchanged a glance. We’d run into troublesome items finding their way into the open air market that lay at the center of the Historic District. Mrs. Teller and Niella usually kept an eye out for problems, since they had a permanent location for their sweetgrass baskets at the doors to one of the buildings. Still, the City Market rambled through several buildings, and they couldn’t keep watch on everyone.
“Did she buy anything? Handle something unusual? Or did you pick up a funny vibe about any of the vendors?” I asked.
Pat seemed on board with playing detective, so if she found my questions odd, she didn’t say anything. “We both bought things,” she said, with a faraway look that told me she was replaying the day in her mind’s eye. “I picked up some pretty cutwork place mats and a set of coasters, plus an adorable bib for my grandbaby.”
“And Joan?” Teag asked.
“She bought some okra chips from that healthy snacks place and a Christmas ornament. It was cute but mass-produced, and I tried to talk her into something handmade, but it struck her fancy.”
Until witches figure out how to run assembly lines, I could probably rule out the ornament, and the food seemed an unlikely culprit. “What about a pink shawl?” I asked. “Was that new?” Joan wore a bright pink handmade shawl when she went off on a rant about the opals, and she had it on when she attacked Maggie. And Teag had mentioned it had a bad vibe, so it was maybe cursed.
Pat gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “Yes. I almost forgot. How did you know?”
“Did she buy it that day?” I asked, conveniently side-stepping her question. I didn’t want to put words in her mouth. And while I didn’t think Pat was in on it, I thought I’d still give her enough leeway to trip up.
Pat nodded. “She got it at one of those stalls in the Market. I didn’t remember seeing that vendor before, and she had a lot of pretty things. Joan wanted me to get a shawl, too, but I didn’t.”
Teag gave her a questioning look. “Why not?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure. I…they didn’t appeal to me.” Pat’s body language told me what she couldn’t quite find the words to express. On some instinctive level, her intuition had recognized something wrong, and that reluctance probably spared her sharing a cell with her buddy.
“Could you go to the market with us, and take us to the stall where she bought it?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to the vendor. If there’s some kind of chemical in the clothing that caused this, we don’t want other people to be affected.”
“Oh dear.” Pat looked so distressed; I doubted she was faking her reaction. “Do you think that might be it?” She glanced at the clock. “If you want to follow me, I don’t mind driving into town. I know right where the table was, because I always stop at the photographer’s booth beside it, and that’s why I knew the shawl seller hadn’t been there before.”
“We’d be very grateful, if you can spare the time,” Teag replied.
“Sure,” Pat said. “Anything to help Joan.” She looked up at us, searching my face and then glancing to Teag. “She really isn’t a bad person. So whatever I can do…”
We thanked her, and followed her to her car, then let her lead the way through the streets crowded with tourists who didn’t know where they were going. Getting a parking spot felt like a minor miracle, but soon enough we were following Pat through the busy market. When we got to the second building, Pat stopped in front of an empty booth.
“I swear, it was right here,” she said, staring at the wooden tables. I believed her, because this wouldn’t be the first time someone intent on causing mayhem found an unsuspecting audience at the Market. People like that generally didn’t fill out all the paperwork or pay a deposit, either.
“Let’s ask around,” I suggested. Pat stuck with me while Teag headed down the other row, and together we canvassed all the merchants in the building.
I recognized nearly all of them as long-time vendors who had been in their spots for years. As we talked to the other merchants, I expected to get an earful about “squatters”—unlicensed sellers who swooped in if a booth’s owner was temporarily absent and set up an illegal shop. The other merchants watch out for each other, and they’d be quick to report someone who did that, but oddly enough, their memories proved vague.
“How can no one remember any details?” I ranted once we got outside. “The person had to be there for at least a whole day!”
“Please believe me,” Pat begged. “I want to help Joan. There was a person there selling woven items—shawls, scarves, ponchos, even men’s ties. They were all nicely done, but I guess I wasn’t in the mood to try anything on,” she said, with a little shiver that I picked up on even if she didn’t seem to notice. Intuition can be a powerful protector.
“We do believe you,” Teag said. “Scam artists are very good at not being memorable.” I was betting more on witchcraft than larceny, and I figured Teag felt the same, but his answer seemed to satisfy Pat.
“What now?” she asked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.” She looked crushed, and I empathized with wanting to help a friend in trouble.
“Here’s my card,” I said, handing her one from the shop. “If you think of anything—or you see the vendor somewhere else, call me. Don’t try to approach the merchant yourself. We need to get the proper authorities.” Pat might think I meant the cops, but I was thinking about Sorren and Rowan.
“Sure,” Pat replied. “I’ll keep an eye out.” She swallowed hard. “Do you think Joan will be all right?”
“I’m sure she’ll be released very soon,” I replied. “But if the police give her back the shawl—don’t let her keep wearing it. See if you can get it away from her, but don’t touch it—we don’t want it affecting you.”
“This is why I don’t trust chemicals,” Pat said, shaking her head. “They’re in everything. Probably something in the dye. Like that food coloring a while back that they said caused cancer.”
A malicious Weaver witch was more likely the cause, but I couldn’t tell her that. “Thanks for all your help,” I said, and we walked Pat back to her car. After she left, Teag and I headed back to find Mrs. Teller and Niella in their usual spot.
“You’re looking better,” Mrs. Teller observed, sparing a glance from her weaving. “Gave us all a scare.”
“Scared me, too,” I admitted. “Did you hear anything about a squatter up in Building Two a couple of weeks ago?”
Niella’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s connected?”
I shrugged. “It’s the only lead we’ve got.”
Mrs. Teller stared down at the basket in her hands, fingers flying as the braid took shape. “If a person with real strong power came to the Market, I’d know it,” she replied. “Unless that person was strong enough to hide what they are. If that’s the case, we’re in for trouble.”
“Maybe the person with power had a minion,” Niella suggested. We were all carefully avoiding words like “magic” or “witch” because the Market was crowded and we had no way to know who might be listening.
“Someone who could handle things and not be affected?” Teag asked.
Niella nodded. “Maybe a charm of some sort for protection. It’s a possibility.”
“Too many possibilities, and no answers,” I said with a sigh. “But if the squatter sold anything like my scarf, I’d hate to be the minion taking chances touching those things.”
“They wouldn’t dare sell something that strong here,” Mrs. Teller said, and I saw anger in her gaze. “I guarantee people would notice if someone bought a scarf and fell down sick.” She looked back down. “No, it’d be subtle. Maybe build over time, so when the reaction came, that buyer’d be well away from here.”
That made sense. Even people who didn’t believe in magic could follow a short chain of cause and effect. If a customer bought a shawl and immediately got into a fist fight, people would make a connection.
“I do remember something, and I bet it’s related,” Niella said. “That one day, everyone seemed so out of sorts. Pretty day, but oh my, people were in foul moods.”
“I do recall,” Mrs. Teller said. “But it didn’t affect us, and I know why. We’ve held this corner for a long time, Niella and me. I put down salt and goofer dust, and say a blessing every week. Say a prayer for protection and good fortune. Draw down some white light. Do that kind of thing every day for years and years, and bad things keep their distance.”
We thanked Mrs. Teller and Niella and headed back to Trifles and Folly. I couldn’t help feeling that we had spent all morning and had nothing to show for it.
“What about those botanicas and New Age shops?” Teag said as we pulled into traffic. “We could hit one or two and see what people are saying.”
Maggie had assured us she could handle the store, so I figured a detour wouldn’t be amiss. I drove to a little shop on a side street in an older part of town that missed out on gentrification. Most of the signs were in Spanish, and so was most of the store’s clientele, but Marcella, the owner, catered to everyone who needed plants and herbs for healing or rituals.
“Hola, Marcella,” I called out in greeting as we entered.
Marcella looked up and grinned when she saw us. “Hiya Cassidy. What brings you out here?” With her dark hair pulled back and her makeup perfect, Marcella looked like she walked out of a telenovella. And whether it was magic or good genes, she also looked too young to have a kid in high school and two more graduated and out on their own.
Teag grabbed a basket and started to make the rounds, picking up supplies. Spending money earned goodwill, and, besides, we went through a lot of protective plants and herbs.
“The usual. Need to stock up. How’s it going?” Marcella’s shop always put me to ease. I figured some of that had to do with the smell of sage, sandalwood, and copal from the incense and candles, and some from good energy vibes.
Marcella came from a long tradition of doulas and brujas, women who healed, delivered babies, and watched out for the people in their communities. Her magic wasn’t flashy, but it had quiet power. The glass case held a collection of saints’ medallions, as well as rosaries and jewelry made with protective gemstones and silver. Behind her, shelves held all kinds of prayer candles. Some had the image of Catholic saints on the glass holder, but closer inspection also revealed Voudon Loas, Wicca ritual candles, and Hoodoo symbols.
Beneath the other counter was a display of spices, herbs, powders, roots, and dried plants used for magic or medicine. On top of the counter were trays of gemstones and crystals. Behind me, tall shelves held books, liquids I couldn’t begin to identify, Tarot cards, and ritual materials. Marcella stocked the good stuff, and her customers appreciated it.
“You didn’t come just for supplies,” Marcella said, tilting her head and eyeing me carefully. I suspect she’s a bit of a mind reader, or maybe an empath. “What’s up?”
“We do need some supplies,” I said with a nod toward where Teag explored the shelves. “But I’m really looking for information. Have you had a run on any particular kind of thing lately?”
She gave a boisterous laugh. “You mean the way protection candles and charms have been practically flying off the shelves? Oh yeah. Don’t know what’s going on, but people are feeling it. Haven’t seen folks this scared since the last big hurricane warning.” Marcella leaned over the counter. “You know something?”
“A little, not enough,” I confessed. “Someone was selling cursed clothing down at the Market. Now the vendor can’t be found. And it’s like there’s something in the water—people’s moods are off without any good reason.”
Marcella nodded. “I hear you. I didn’t know about the cursed clothing—that’s a real shame. Stuff like that’s bad to mess with. The community needs to find that person and shut them down.” I knew when Marcella said “community” that she didn’t mean the Chamber of Commerce. She meant the magical community, a close-knit network that operated under the radar, present but out of sight.
“No argument from me on that,” I agreed. “Have people said what they’re worried about—any particulars?”
Marcella shrugged. “Everything and nothing. What it comes down to is dread. My customers come in saying they have this feeling like something bad is coming, bad things going to happen, but when I ask ‘is it your relationship’ or ‘is it your job’ they say no. It’s in their gut,” she said, putting her hand over her midsection. “Like when animals know there’s going to be an earthquake or a storm, and they leave, get to shelter. Only my customers, they can’t leave, so they buy candles and incense and make offerings at their shrines, and hope for the best.”
“You have any theories?”
Marcella’s dark eyes held old secrets and deep wisdom. But now, she looked worried. “I wish I did, Cassidy. I’ve done the Tarot time and again, looking for insight, and I’ve cast corn and read the omens from eggs. Even when I’ve tranced, it’s the same. There’s a big threat, a storm, a danger, but all I see is the image of a woman with dark hair, and a tall man. I can’t see their faces. But the woman is angry. And the man…his head is the wrong shape. Like a large bird.” She dropped her voice. “My customers are scared. Normally, I find peace in my magic, but all I get are more questions and a warning. If you know something, I’d sure like to hear it.”
“I’ve got all the same questions, and none of the answers,” I replied. “But whoever’s behind this has power—and they’re dangerous. The magic is dark—and it’s strong enough to kill.”