Connie di Marco's Blog

The young man shivered in the cold storage unit. He rubbed his hands together briskly in an attempt to stay warm and keep his fingers flexible. He must remain steady to complete the delicate work required. A harsh overhead light flooded the space, illuminating from above, but leaving long shadows on the concrete floor. A work light clamped to the bench allowed him a clear view of the shards of pottery laid out before him. He breathed deeply, willing himself to concentrate. These pieces would need to be matched perfectly if these artifacts were to have any value at all. He’d been chosen for this task because of his craftsman-like ability, his extreme attention to detail and his love of these objects. Each piece brought back, smuggled back actually, under great duress. He had no ethical objections as to how all these pieces, perhaps two hundred when all was said and done, were retrieved from their native country. They would be well-cared for, displayed and lauded. Museum quality pieces, in fact. Far better here in the U.S., being restored in an anonymous storage space than laying in the dust of an illiterate and superstitious population. He was sweating in spite of the cold. But now at least his hands were steady as he gently lifted two pieces that promised to fit together perfectly. Some microscopic shards might be missing, but he was sure he could recreate this precious piece almost as it once was when first made. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve and then rubbed his hands on a nearby towel. He pulled thin cotton gloves over his fingers and with the back of his wrist, pushed his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. He was hungry and tired but he didn’t want to stop. This work was too important. If done perfectly, it would ensure his own success at the university. Nothing would stand in the way of his doctorate now. He moved a magnifying glass on a flexible arm closer, studying the two pieces of pottery carefully. He smiled in relief, even the tiny grooves would mesh perfectly. An odor assailed his nose, breaking his concentration. He looked around the utilitarian space. Was something burning outside the unit, some substance that gave off a strange pungent odor? Who knew what went on in a place like this? A warehouse of impersonal rented spaces. For all he knew, people were living here, hunkered down in gritty storage units. He pushed away the thought that these precious items could be in danger from some idiot. Perhaps a homeless person had started a fire to stay warm. Could be anything. He shook his head to drive the thought from his mind and refocus on his work. The smell became stronger. He pulled his eyes away from the magnifying glass and looked around. He was alone in the small space but couldn’t escape the feeling of a presence nearby. A shiver ran up his spine. Nerves, he thought. He was imagining things, but he hadn’t
imagined that odor. He turned back to his task and shuddered as if fingers had stroked the back of his neck. His heart was racing. He took a deep breath and willed himself to concentrate once
more. He really was imagining things. As he bent to his task, he felt it again. Some . .  thing was here. Something was in this space. His hands began to shake. He gently placed the two pieces of pottery on the workbench and stood up, pushing the rolling chair away. He rubbed his eyes. Was that a sound? Perhaps a rat? He shivered uncontrollably. His nerves were getting the best of him. Perhaps he was too exhausted to do the job he needed to do. He should return in the morning after a good night’s sleep. That, and a decent meal.

He eyes swept the space. The odor was gone now, dissipated. But still. He couldn’t shake the impression he was being watched, that someone or something was close to him. Something quite . . . unpleasant. He pulled off the fine cotton gloves and straightened the small work bench. He couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was spooked. It was more than exhaustion or hunger. Something was wrong. What it was he couldn’t put a name to, but perhaps tomorrow, in the light of day, he could shake this feeling. He switched off the work light and pushed the magnifier away. The overhead light left long shadows around the space, empty except for his small work area and a few crates. Yes, he thought, his imagination was working overtime. There was no one here. No one in this unit with him. He shook his head to dispel the feeling. He grabbed his jacket and backpack, fishing his car keys out of his pocket, and lifted the corrugated metal door to the corridor. Blinded temporarily by the bright neon lights, he glanced in both directions. Empty. Not a soul at this hour. He flicked the switch inside the storage unit, plunging it into darkness and stepped out. He closed and locked the entrance and headed down the hallway to the exit door. A sudden chill ran up his spine. He turned quickly only to face a deserted hallway. He regretted his decision to leave but it was too late to go back now. If he was honest with himself, there was no way he wanted to be locked in that storage room. Not tonight. He had to get out of here. A panicked feeling rose in his chest. He hurried down the long corridor, almost in a trot. He’d be fine, he thought, if he could just get to his car. Only a few yards from the rear exit. It would take only a moment or two. He pushed through the outer door and took a deep breath of the chill night air. He felt better immediately. Nothing was wrong. He was just exhausted. He hurried across the concrete parking area and pushed the fob to unlock his car. He glanced back at the brightly lit doorway he had just exited. A man stood by the doorway under a glaring outdoor light. A large bare-chested man with dark skin, his torso covered in markings, glyphs or tattoos that overran the skin of his body, trailing up his neck, his face painted with black and red vertical stripes. Dark eyes burned deep in a solemn face, a heavy collar of feathers, beads and animal claws encircled his neck. A chill ran through him again. The stranger looked like a . . . medicine man, a shaman of sorts from the jungles he had visited not too long ago. What was this strange creature doing here? In San Francisco? It wasn’t just his imagination. Someone had been close all along, had followed his progress down the corridor. The man’s black eyes stared directly at him. A deep sense of fear overwhelmed him. Panicking, he wrenched his driver’s door open. His world went black as the blow struck. The tattooed man was the last thing he would ever see.

I really enjoyed chatting about mysteries and writing with Bill Peschel at Peschel Press! Click one of the links below to listen.

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Cheryl, the manager of The Mystic Eye, signaled to me. I was at the Eye to fill in at the
evening’s psychic fair. She indicated a young woman in a cotton skirt and denim jacket. Her
dark hair was cut in bangs and pulled back in a low ponytail. She wore no makeup and clutched a
small, zippered plastic purse in her hand. I nodded to Cheryl and headed down the narrow side
corridor to the small reading room I had been assigned for the evening, each space protected by a
heavy drape.
I took my seat and cleared my astro program for my upcoming visitor. She was slender,
young, mid-twenties at a guess. Her legs were bare under her cotton skirt and I was sure her
denim jacket didn’t sport a designer label. She was hardly dressed adequately for the chilly night.
Her jaw was clenched and her hands were red and raw, her nails bitten to the quick. As she took
her seat across the small table from me, the collar of her denim jacket pulled away betraying
darkened discolored skin at her collarbone. A bruise? She was so tense she seemed to vibrate.
The electricity was difficult to ignore. Was it anger? Fear? Maybe an unnecessary terror of the
occult? That might explain her tension, but still…that bruise raised a red flag.
I smiled, said hello and introduced myself. She nodded and watched me intently. I asked
if she was familiar with astrology and she said she wasn’t. “Well, let me explain a little. Your
natal chart is a map of the heavens at the time of your birth. It shows the gifts and talents you
bring to this incarnation. It also shows the difficulties you’ll contend with in life. Do you have
your birth information?”
“Yes.” She nodded and passed a slip of paper to me. There were two birthdates, with time
and location, jotted down hastily. She knew enough to offer the information I needed to set up a
chart. Perhaps she wasn’t as clueless about astrology as she first claimed.
“Can I ask you your name?”
“Tracy. Tracy Wyler. The second birthdate is my husband’s.”
“Okay, Tracy.” I plugged the information into the program on my laptop and two charts
were instantly generated. “Would you like to focus on your chart? Or perhaps on your
relationship with your husband?” She nodded but didn’t answer. I clicked on the bi-wheel option
where I could see both charts at once, displayed in inner and outer rings. Then I set up a
composite chart. I didn’t like what I saw. There were connections between the charts that
indicated physical attraction, but I didn’t like the Mars and Saturn and even Pluto connections
from her husband’s chart to her personal planets. I checked the composite chart, hoping
something more positive would be indicated. As often happens in astrology, the composite
echoed the synastry, or comparison, of the two individual charts.
This was not a good relationship for her. Her body language told me a lot, even without
the insight of the charts. There was no choice but to go for it. She obviously needed help and I
had only fifteen minutes to offer her what I could. I had to be blunt. She’d either listen or react
with anger. “Tracy, you already know what I’m about to say. You need to escape this marriage.”
She gasped. Her eyes widened. She nodded her head quickly and tears sprang to her eyes.
“I know things aren’t good but I don’t know what I can do. I have no place else to go.”
“He’s hurt you, hasn’t he?” The Mars and Uranus aspects to her husband’s Sun sign
indicated anger and the possibility of violence if unchecked. There was that, but it was more the
connections between these two individuals that concerned me. She reached over and rolled up
one of the sleeves of her jacket. Dark bruises lined her arm. She craned her neck and showed me
another mark on the side of her neck. “How long has this been going on?”
“We got married three months ago. It started a few days after. He keeps telling me I can’t
do anything right. That I’m stupid.” She stifled a sob and took a deep breath. “He says…he says
I’m so ugly that I better behave because no one else would want me.” Tears were filling her eyes,
her breathing was shallow. I passed a small box of tissues across the table. “But then, when he
cools down, he says he’s sorry, that he really loves me and he won’t do it again…”
“I have to say this, Tracy. I doubt this will change. Even with a lot of psychological help,
even if he was willing…it’s a recurring pattern.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she cried.
“Do you have any family?”
“Only my mother and she’s in Indiana.”
“What does she have to say?”
“She says I should listen to my husband. After all, he works and he supports me.”
I felt a slow rage rise in my chest. What kind of a woman would advise her daughter to
submit to physical abuse? Any kind of abuse? “What he’s doing is against the law, Tracy. You
may not be aware of this, but we have serious laws in California against this type of thing. The
police are required to arrest anyone accused of abuse. It’s not up to the cops to decide. They must
arrest the accused party. All you have to do is call the police, show them what he’s done to you,
and he won’t be coming home.”
“They won’t arrest him. They won’t. He’ll convince them, he’s so persuasive.”
I reached across the table and grasped her hand. “You don’t understand. Here the laws are
different. The police have no choice. He’ll be held, maybe without bail, and he’ll be charged.
That would give you time to get away and find shelter.”
She began to cry in earnest. “It won’t matter. Eventually he’ll get out and come after me.
It’ll be worse than before.”
“All the more reason. Once the police take him away, you can go to a women’s shelter.
Listen….” I had to break through her wall of hopelessness. “I keep lists of all kinds of resources
for my clients.” I quickly opened a document on my laptop. I wasn’t attached to a printer in the
tiny reading room, but I grabbed a notebook from my purse and jotted down the addresses of the
three nearest shelters and passed the slip of paper to her. “The police will even take you there and
they are not allowed to give out your location. And if you want, they’ll escort you home to
retrieve your personal belongings. Do you have children?”
“No,” she said. “Thank God I don’t.”
A dark foreboding swept over me. This woman should not return home tonight. “What do
you say, we go into the office here and call them right now? I’ll stay with you till they arrive.”
“I…I don’t know….” She twisted her fingers together. “He says he loves me, that he’s
sorry. That it’ll never happen again.”
Yeah, right, I thought. Heard that one before. I waited, trying to see which way she’d go.
There were aspects in her natal chart that indicated introversion and shyness. If she had met
another type of man her fate would be quite different, but whoever this guy was…he’d use her
like a punching bag.
“Tracy, do you have any idea how many women are killed by their husbands or partners
in this country? I happen to know these statistics. It’s important in my line of work. Clients come
to me with all sorts of problems.” It’s all well and good to talk about Moon signs and romance
and money opportunities, but some people are already on the ropes, already at their weakest and
most vulnerable, and one of them was sitting across from me right now. “Of the women
murdered in the U.S. alone, ninety-seven percent are killed by their partners or husbands. Every
single day three women die because of domestic violence. Those are real bad odds, Tracy. You
can be safe. You can divorce this man and you can find a way to support yourself. It won’t be
easy, but at least no one will be hurting you. And there are people who will help you.”
“I’m so afraid,” she wailed. “I…there’s something else…. I…oh God, I’ve….” She
stifled a sob. “I’ve met someone else.” At this, she burst into tears. “If my husband ever finds
out, he’ll kill me. He’ll—”
“Look, Tracy, first things first. You need help. You need to get to a safe place. Later, you
can sort out all your feelings, but first you need to find shelter so you can get your head on
straight.”
“I know,” she said, nodding.
“Come on. Come with me. We can have privacy in the office.” I reached out for her hand,
a hand that was ice-cold. She quickly pulled away and clutched the slip of paper in her hand.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered. She stood and ran out of the reading alcove. I hurried after
her, but she was too fast. She had pushed through the front door. I caught a glimpse of her
through the plate glass window, running toward Columbus Avenue. I hurried to the door, hoping
to catch up with her, but when I reached the sidewalk she had already turned the corner at the end
of the block. I ran down the street but she was nowhere in sight. I sighed and walked back to the
front door of The Mystic Eye. If she was afraid to turn her husband in, I hoped she’d at least
head to a shelter to protect herself.

When I began writing the first Zodiac Mystery (The Madness of Mercury), I didn’t intend that the fictional Mystic Eye occult bookshop would become a recurring location.  I should have realized it would as the series went on.  After all, my San Francisco astrologer, Julia Bonatti, discovered her first astrology books there.  Her best friend Gale runs the shop and then later, Cheryl takes a job to manage the bookshop and becomes a dear friend.  On top of that, The Mystic Eye attracts a unique group of psychics, mediums, past life regression hypnotists who have become important secondary characters.

But back up a few decades.  Many years ago, there was a real Mystic Eye Occult Bookshop in San Francisco.  It was just down the street from the fictional one, on Broadway, and across Columbus Avenue.  I remember it well.  It was a one of a kind (at the time) occult shop, selling books, talismans, gifts, candle burning supplies and all sorts of other unique items.  I figured the real shop had been gone for so many years, it was safe to use the same name.  Who would remember?

Guess again – lots of people remember the real Mystic Eye with fond memories and somehow they’ve stumbled upon my books or a blog post about the shop and they’ve written to me about their experiences.  I was thrilled to hear from them!

Ron M. wrote to ask if the Mystic Eye (in the Zodiac Mysteries) had anything to do with the 1970’s San Francisco Mystic Eye Occult Bookshop, next to the Green Turtle Bus Company, owned by Aeryn who had a weekly radio broadcast. 

Susa said it was such a wonderful shop, full of books on magic and mysticism, incense and figurines.  She had a spontaneous mystical experience back in the late 1970’s, and being an Atheist, had no idea what had happened to her.  In trying to research it, she ran across the Mystic Eye.  She said, “I found more than books.  I found a community of Witches and Pagans that changed the course of my life.  I am forever grateful to that mysterious little shop and its staff, and still mourn its closing after all these years!”

Ron L. was a teenager when he discovered the Mystic Eye and would spend his hard-earned money on a book or a piece of jewelry.  He loved the fountain by the window and the candle burning in the center.  He made friends with one of the employees and later did a Tarot reading for her.  He said it was an amazing experience. 

Jem was only sixteen when she first discovered the Mystic Eye.  She was intrigued by the pentagram on the floor and bought her first spell candle that day.  Her path has been “many shades of magic” since then.

Robert L. used to work at the shop.  He wondered what happened to the zodiac mosaic in the floor where he was initiated.  He said, “If that circle could talk. . .” 

Pam went to San Francisco on vacation.  She fell in love with the shop and bought a crystal ball. 

Mo said he had heard there were rumors that the Zodiac Killer worked at the Mystic Eye in the 70s and 80s. 

Micah worked at the Mystic Eye and lived with Aeryn, the owner, from the time he was 14 until he went to college.  He took care of her until her death in 2014.  He said she was an amazing and knowledgeable woman, one of a kind. 

Pamela had her cards read at the Mystic Eye in the late 60’s or very early 70’s. She said the scent of that storefront was so unique, as was the shop itself.  Her husband made a pendant (an upside down cross) for the infamous Anton LaVey.  She said, “Yes those were the days!”

Blake remembered all the mirrors and cool stuff when he walked around North Beach, barefoot in a toga with dragons, tripping his brains out.

Nancy loved the shop and visited often.  She purchased incense, body oils, little pouches of magic roots and herbs.  She can still recall the aroma inside.

Scott loved the shop.  He bought incense and had spells removed.  He once bought a jar of incense that was labelled ‘5 plus cous-cous.’  He said, “How did we ever survive the Haight?  Maybe the 5-plus cous cous gave us eternal life.” 

All these memories!  I too remember the shop well.  I bought candles and a book on candle burning rituals.  Who knew that so many people would remember the real Mystic Eye? 

I only hope the fictional Mystic Eye delivers as many good memories for readers! 



(This post first appeared at Book Diva’s Reads on May 30, 2022.)



With each Zodiac Mystery, I try to find a unique section of the city in which to place a story, or search for historic or unusual buildings.  No problem there, because San Francisco is a city that truly values and preserves its architecture and history.  In the first Zodiac Mystery, The Madness of Mercury, I ‘borrowed’ a mansion on Telegraph Hill.  All Signs Point to Murder highlighted Pacific Heights and the dangerous currents of the Golden Gate straits.  Tail of the Dragon takes place downtown in the Financial District, Enter a Wizard, Stage Left, at a theater in North Beach, and now, Serpent’s Doom, focuses on Chinatown, one of my favorite neighborhoods. 

I was reminded recently of two really unique structures that I hadn’t thought about for years — the windmills of Golden Gate Park.  When I first lived in San Francisco, I spotted them in the distance, as I stood at the curve of Point Lobos leading down to the Great Highway and the Pacific Ocean.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Windmills!  Two of them!  I had never seen anything like it and I couldn’t imagine why there were windmills at the western edge of Golden Gate Park, right across the road from the ocean.  I asked every native San Franciscan I met about them, but never got a satisfactory answer, sometimes a vague reference to wind power to pump water.  Water for what, I wondered?  I investigated further and drove into the Park to get a closer look, or at least as close as I could get because they were off limits at the time, unsafe to get any closer.  They had stood unused for almost a hundred years, the structures and the sails were in terrible disrepair, rotting from insect and water damage. 

But it was those windmills that made Golden Gate Park possible.  Once upon a time, the western end of the peninsula that is San Francisco was absolutely uninhabitable, nothing but miles of sand dunes over bedrock, layered in fog.  The now densely populated and extremely expensive area was considered unlivable.  It was a 25 year old civil engineer, William Hammond Hall, who designed the Park.  The area was so problematic that even the renowned landscape designer, Frederick Law Olmsted, turned the job down. 

The windmills were needed to pump 1.5 million gallons of groundwater per day to irrigate the park.  The Dutch (North) Windmill was built in 1902.  It stands 75 feet tall, somewhat restored, it’s surrounded by thousands of tulips in the Queen Wilhelmina Tulip Garden.  The Murphy (South) Windmill was built in 1907.  Six short years later, a motorized system was installed and eventually, the windmills were no longer needed. 

Finally, in 2011, the Murphy Windmill was beautifully restored, but operates only occasionally, and with caution.  Inside are floors of gleaming wood and stairways leading upward, a cozy lounge with chairs, rugs and a desk, even a shelf with wooden shoes.  Hopefully, no one will throw a sabot into the works of that windmill!  And the view from the top is incredible. 

Years ago, I remember reading a Marcia Muller novel in which her detective hides out for the night in the abandoned and rotting Murphy Windmill!  Now that these are restored, I guess the windmills won’t have the same haunted cachet for a setting in the Zodiac Mysteries.

What do you think?  Could there be a crime there?  Was a worker crushed in the machinery of the windmill?  Did he jump?  Or was he pushed from an upper deck?  Maybe I’ll think about that and see if I can use the windmills in my next story. 

(This post first appeared in Novels Alive on June 13, 2022.)

I’m chatting about Enter a Wizard, Stage Left, the prequel novella to the Zodiac Mysteries, at I Read What You Write.

My interview at ITW’s The Big Thrill, all about the inspiration for Serpent’s Doom.

And just in time — the first review of Serpent’s Doom at StoreyBook Reviews by Erika!

Member Spotlight: Connie di Marco

I’m thrilled that Serpent’s Doom (Zodiac Mystery #4) is featured on Don Herron’s Up and Down These Mean Streets (of San Francisco). If you’re there, make sure you sign up for one of Don’s Dashiell Hammett walking tours. You won’t regret it!

Frisco Beat: Back to Chinatown