Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery by Juliet Blackwell Page B

never would be. I was finally learning to ask him outright about what he might know or might have heard, since my otherwise garrulous familiar tended to play such cards close to his chest.
    “Oscar?” I prompted him.
    He twisted his little muzzle, baring his teeth in a display that would have been frightening if I didn’t know him. It was his thinking expression.
    “Moreno’s pretty good. That kid who hangs around her, though, that’s her secret weapon.”
    “You mean Selena?”
    “Like I was saying, you really should ask Maaiiister Aidan.”
    “I’m asking you. So, do you think Moreno is the type to get involved with fraud? Or to put her clients in harm’s way?”
    “Usually it’s more the fortune-teller people than the
curandera
people that do that sort of thing. If I were you, I’d follow up with that doll.”
    “I intend to. But wait. The doll doesn’t have anything to do with Moreno, does it?”
    He shrugged and avoided my eyes.
    “Oscar?”
    He started picking at his talons, a sure sign that hewasn’t planning on talking anymore about the subject at hand. A few seconds later, he pulled another card, grimaced, and yelled,
“Gin!”
    Just then we heard the sound of boots on the stairs, and I was enveloped by the unmistakable fragrance of roses.
    It was my very own gentleman caller, come to dinner.
    *   *   *
    The next morning Sailor looked at me over the plate of scrambled eggs I’d made with goat cheese and fresh herbs from my terrace garden. The kitchen was aromatic with the scents of fresh-brewed coffee—strong, with chicory—and thick slabs of buttered toast, Texas style.
    “And why, pray tell, do you want to go harass an old man?”
    I hadn’t wanted to ruin the evening last night with talk of suspicious suicide, much less voodoo dolls. Better to broach this subject over breakfast.
    “He may be an old man, but if he sculpted a voodoo doll of his beloved Betty, he could be dangerous.”
    “Does Romero know about this?”
    I took a sip of my coffee. “Hmm?”
    “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”
    “This isn’t a homicide. At least I hope it isn’t. All I have is a vague suspicion concerning a voodoo doll; it’s hardly enough to bother Carlos over.”
    “Seems to me I’ve heard that line of reasoning before.”
    “Since when did you become such a fan of Carlos Romero?”
    “I’m no fan, but the man knows homicide, and you should tell him what’s going on.”
    “I will, if and when we discover there really
is
something going on. Maya gave me Fred’s address, but shedidn’t have a phone number. I just want to talk with him, to be sure he wasn’t involved with making that doll. Will you go with me?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “We all have choices,” I said in my sweetest voice. “For instance, I have a choice regarding whom I cook for, and spend my time with, and lo—
um
, like.”
    Sailor fixed me with a long, smoldering look. I jumped up, practically spilling my coffee in my haste. If I didn’t go downstairs to open the store right this very moment, chances were good I would get distracted and open late, as I had many times since Sailor came into my life.
    I fixed an extra plate of eggs, toast, and fruit and hurried downstairs. Conrad was a friend who slept in nearby Golden Gate Park and spent a good portion of every day on the curb outside Aunt Cora’s Closet. He often did small chores for me, like sweeping the sidewalk or helping me carry in heavy bags of clothes, and I tried to make sure he had breakfast at least most days.
    “Good morning, Conrad. Hungry?”
    “
Duuuude
,” was all he said. This wasn’t uncommon for Conrad—aka “the Con”— especially first thing in the morning.
    I sat on the curb with him for a few minutes, pulling a turquoise polka dot sweater tighter around me against the morning chill.
    “Anything new with you?” I asked.
    “
Dude
.”
    And that was the extent of our conversation.
    When Conrad had finished, I took the plate