The knowing look in Aidan’s eyes was insufferable. I avoided it while I rummaged in my bag for Carlos Romero’s card and called his number. The inspector wouldn’t talk about the case over the phone, but to my surprise, he suggested we meet at the Buena Vista Café in ten minutes.
“What did I tell you?” Aidan asked after I had hung up and handed him his phone. “A witch like you cannot maintain a serious romantic relationship. If it doesn’t destroy you, it will destroy him. Frankly I’d rather it be Sailor than you, but ultimately it’s not good for—”
“Listen, Aidan. If you can’t—or won’t—help me,” I said, enraged, as I grabbed my still-unopened shoe box and stormed out of the office, “thenstay out of it.”
I slammed the door behind me.
• • •
The Buena Vista Café sits at the corner of Hyde Street and Beach Street, not far from Fisherman’s Wharf and the wax museum. Since it was past midnight on aweeknight, I found a parking spot almost directly across the street, just above Aquatic Park.
Carlos was waiting for me on the corner. I parked and jogged over to him.
“What happened?” I demanded as soon as I was within earshot. “Where is he? How do I get him out? I need to talk to him.”
“And a good evening to you, too, Lily.”
“Seriously, Carlos. What in the world happened? Sailor didn’t kill anybody.”
“If you don’t know what happened, how do you know he didn’t kill anybody?” Carlos asked.
“He wouldn’t do that.”
Are you sure?a tiny voice in my head asked. Could Aidan be right? How well did I know my fiancé, after all? Sailor had a temper—a sometimes volatile temper. Was it possible he had lost control while facing an adversary?
Once again I sneezed. I was worn-out, tired. It was late, and I was still feeling the aftereffects of melding magic with Aidan, but truthfully I had been feeling off all day. What was going on with me?
“Please, Carlos, tell me what happened.”
“It’s still under investi—”
“Is it your case?”
“Come, buy me a cup of coffee and we’ll chat.”
“At this hour?”
“We’ll make it Irish coffee. A little whiskey will be good for what ails you.”
“I want to see Sailor.”
“All in good time. Let’s talk first.” He gestured to the battered box under my arm. I hadn’t wanted to leave it in the car. Just in case. “What’s that?”
“A shoe box,” I said.
“I can see that. Is it time for show-and-tell?”
I shook my head. “Just worried about car break-ins. It’s a... project I’m working on.”
His eyebrows rose a smidgen, but he didn’t pursue it. Carlos held the door open for me and I led the way into the Buena Vista.
Even at this late hour on a weeknight, the place was jumping, with most seats occupied. To the left was a long bar reminiscent of an old-timey saloon, and in front of the windows were tables. We grabbed a small one not far from the door, and I stashed the shoe box on the seat next to me. Until I figured out what was in it, I wanted to keep it close.
“They say the fishermen used to drink here because they could see when the boats came in,” said Carlos after ordering two Irish coffees from the bartender.
“I’ve never been here,” I murmured, not in the mood for small talk. “But what—”
“You’ve never been to the Buena Vista?” Carlos asked. “It’s a genuine San Francisco watering hole, made famous by columnist Herb Caen. He used to ride the cable car down Hyde Street and stop in for Irish coffee. Which was invented right here at the Buena Vista, by the way.”
