“Thank you. You’ll call me when you set up the meeting with the psychic? The sooner, the better.”
“Of course. Anything else I can do for you? A nice little massage, perhaps?”
“That’ll do for now. See you later.”
After several more quarters, and several more calls, I finally got Carlos to call me back. It turned out he was in the building, so he asked me to meet him outside on the sidewalk. He handed me a large canvas shopping bag containing the wooden box that held my Hand of Glory, and my woven Filipino backpack.
“I don’t even want to know what that alleged ‘candleholder’ is all about,” Carlos said.
“I think that’s best. Thank you so much for getting all this back for me.” I checked the backpack; my keys and wallet were still there.
“I live to serve. Protect and serve, actually—that’s our motto. Let’s stash that bag in your trunk and take a walk,” he said.
Jail #2 is not in a pretty part of town. There were a number of industrial buildings and a couple of twenty-four-hour bail bonds offices, but not a lot of restaurants or café options. We walked down Seventh Street, passing a hot dog vendor.
“May I buy you something to eat?” I asked.
“No, thanks.” Carlos shook his head and kept walking. “So, it looks like Dupree didn’t die from the beating, after all.”
“What did he die from?”
“He was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? How— Wait. You mentioned finding some roots and powders in his hotel room, didn’t you?”
Carlos nodded. “We took them in for testing, but they turned out to be standard herbal remedies for digestive problems, that sort of thing. According to the hotel staff, he had been complaining of not feeling well. But the toxicology report says Dupree died due to complications from mycetismus.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a kind of mushroom poisoning. There are several local mushrooms that are deadly—Destroying Angel and Death Caps, to name just two with evocative names. They’re in the amanita family.”
Okay, Lily. Remember to breathe. Should I tell Carlos that someone who looked remarkably like Sailor had tried to buy deadly mushrooms in a Chinatown shop the other day? Or . . . should I play along, at least until I got an inkling of what was going on?
“Where would Dupree have come into contact with poisonous mushrooms?” I hedged.
“That’s the ten-thousand-dollar question. Apparently they grow in the woods around here. They look a lot like edible mushrooms. Every year people mistake the poisonous ones for the safe ones, and fall ill from mycetismus completely by accident.”
“You’re not suggesting that Tristan arrived at SFO on a flight from Germany and immediately went mushroom hunting?”
“No,” Carlos said with a smile. “I’m suggesting that someone else went mushroom hunting, and somehow Tristan ingested some. Problem is, no one else has shown up at the emergency room with symptoms. Usually with this sort of thing, you see whole families or groups of people who’ve eaten spaghetti with mushroom sauce, something like that.”
“You said Tristan bought things at an herb shop in Chinatown,” I said. “The Lucky Moon. Could he have bought suspect mushrooms at the same time?”
“It’s possible. But the medical examiner says it’s more likely he bought the herbs because his stomach was already queasy from the effects of the poison. That was early in the afternoon, which means he probably ingested the mushrooms sometime in the morning, or even earlier.”
“How long does it take for the poison to kill?”
“According to the ME, with amatoxins—the poison present in the amanita mushrooms—it’s anywhere from five to twenty-four hours for the victim to become symptomatic. So we’re working with a pretty broad window.”
“If he had gotten to a hospital . . .”
Carlos nodded. “If he’d gone to a hospital, he’d probably be waiting for a liver transplant now, instead of a funeral. But he didn’t seek medical attention. Also, it appears he wasn’t in great shape to begin with. The medical examiner says Dupree had the heart of a much older man.”
“So the question is, how—and when—did he ingest the poisonous mushrooms?”
“That’s it in a nutshell. We know that he ate lunch at the hotel restaurant that day, and ordered the special: pasta with mushroom sauce. But we questioned the chef, who cried like a baby and swore up and down he’d bought the mushrooms from his regular supplier, and his story checks out. We also interviewed the waitstaff, who said Dupree ate lunch by himself, and the security tapes confirm he was alone at a table for one. None of the other customers who ordered the dish had problems.”
“So he could have eaten them anywhere.”
“He got off the plane that morning, and no one else on board felt any ill effects, so we’re assuming it happened at some point after that.”
“Did you know if he went by Renee’s cupcake shop?”
“It’s possible. Why?”
“Renee Baker is sort of . . . a suspicious character.”
“I remember you telling me that with regards to her neighbor’s arsenic poisoning, but that turned out to be something else entirely. Any reason you have a bee in your bonnet about this particular cupcake lady?”
“Let’s just say she strikes me as ‘hinky.’ Anyway, so you’re saying we’re no closer to figuring out Dupree’s killer.”
“Every step is a step closer. At the very least, this new information may be enough to get the murder charge against Sailor dropped. Unless the DA wants to claim he was responsible for the poisoning as well—but that would be quite a stretch, and an obvious source of reasonable doubt.”
Speaking of doubt, self-doubt shot through me. I felt like I was betraying Carlos by not telling him what I knew about the ersatz “Sailor” asking for amanita mushrooms at the Lucky Moon. But on the other hand . . . I couldn’t bring myself to betray Sailor by spilling the beans. Besides, what purpose would be served by helping to frame an innocent man?
“The ME estimates several hours elapsed between when Dupree consumed the poison and when he died,” Carlos continued. “So at the moment, at least, it’s looking like the worst-case scenario for Sailor is a charge of assault and battery.”
“Which is an improvement, but not exactly what I was hoping for.”
“Baby steps, Lily. Baby steps.”
Chapter 23
I was late getting back to Aunt Cora’s Closet, but luckily Bronwyn and Duke had already arrived and opened the doors for business. Even though weekday mornings were slow, I liked to open on time. One never knew when a customer would be in a mad rush to find just the right dress.
Also, we’d be closed tomorrow to prep the shop for the Magical Match Tea on Sunday. So today was the last day for customers to find true vintage matching outfits in time for the event, and we still had a few outfits up for grabs.
“Maya and her cousin Kareem are due to arrive within the hour,” Bronwyn said. “So please don’t worry; you do whatever you need to do, and we’ll be just fine and look after the place.”
The bell over the front door tinkled as Selena walked in.
“Hi, Selena,” I said, though in truth my stomach dropped. I had hoped she would stay clear of the shop for a while—at least until things were settled. “What are you doing here?”
“School’s off. And I still don’t have a bridesmaid’s dress. You left yesterday, ’member?”
“Yes, right. Of course. Good idea. Let’s get you outfitted.”
I turned to the “Dressy Dresses” rack and started rummaging through it with gusto. There was one thing in this life I was still good at: finding the right dress. If I couldn’t do it for myself, the very least I could do was to come through for Selena.
As usual, Selena gravitated toward rather garish flounces, but I convinced her to take a f
ew of my choices into the dressing room as well.
The first was a late-1950s claret red sleeveless number with a wide skirt and charcoal gray fabric roses peppered along the neckline, down to the waist, and over the straps. The next dress was a simple ice-blue tea-length A-line chiffon, with a sweetheart neckline and a swishy skirt. The last was a true antique, a genuine flapper-era dress. The top was made of the palest blush silk with satin ribbon and lace details, and a vintage lace sash. The long skirt was made of ashes-of-roses cotton embellished with appliqués and overlaid with a pink cut silk velvet overskirt, with pink tulle and lace trim at the hem. It was finished with a large pink satin rose at the waist. Unfortunately, the last dress, in particular, hung rather limp and uninspiring on the hanger.
“I’m telling you as a professional, Selena: Not many women can wear true vintage from the twenties. You should try it on, see if you like it.”
“I guess,” she said with a shrug. “Want to try on your wedding dress again? We could use the big dressing room, together.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’d love to.”
We passed the next forty-five minutes trying on dresses, laughing as Bronwyn added more items to our rack, urging us to try on silly items from the sixties, seventies, and eighties. We had the shop to ourselves this morning, so it was like playing dress-up. I reveled in such a relaxed, unguarded, normal time with Selena.
As I had predicted, the twenties ensemble was exactly right for Selena. It needed to be taken in a bit here and there, and the cotton skirt was much too long, but otherwise, it was perfect.
She emerged from the dressing room to show Bronwyn and Duke, delighted and blushing as they made a fuss over her.
“I do look pretty good, don’t I?” she asked shyly, observing herself in the three-way mirror.
“So good I’m going to have to keep up my search,” I declared. “Otherwise you’ll outshine me at my own wedding!”
She grinned, and light danced around her.
I had put on the dress Wind Spirit brought again, because Selena asked me to, though I had already decided no amount of alteration would transform it into what I wanted. I considered several of the fancy dresses in the shop—who said I had to wear an actual wedding gown? In the old days, people simply wore a nice dress that they could wear again and again for special occasions.
As we were changing into our everyday clothes—a few customers had arrived, so it was time to get back to work—Selena wrinkled her nose.
“That wedding dress smells kind of funny.”
“It does?” I sniffed, but didn’t pick up on anything. “My sense of smell is terrible these days. What does it smell like?”
“Like . . . musty, sort of. And kind of like cupcakes? But in a bad way. Burned cupcakes.”
“Like the ones in your drawings?” I asked, concerned.
“How did you know they were burned?”
“I saw some burned cupcakes recently, and they reminded me of the ones you drew. I just can’t figure out what it means. Do you have any thoughts about it?”
“I see things, sometimes, that’s all,” Selena’s tone was defensive, and a blush stained her cheeks. “I don’t know what they mean, but I feel like I want to draw them. Like how you smell things, or at least you used to, and the scents tell you things. It’s not like I’m weird, at least no weirder than you are.”
Selena turned away and ducked out of the changing room.
“Selena, wait.” I followed after her, wrestling with the wedding dress, trying to get it to stay on its hanger. “No one said you were weird.”
The shop phone rang, and Bronwyn answered.
I watched as Selena disappeared into the back room, clearly unwilling to talk. For the third time, the wedding dress slipped off the hanger before I could manage to tie it on. I swore under my breath as I picked it up from the floor.
“Patience, Lily,” said Bronwyn.
“I’m trying, believe me. But I’m so frustrated by—”
“No, no,” Bronwyn said with a laugh. “I meant the phone is for you. It’s Patience.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
“I made an appointment with Juna at eleven,” said Patience when I answered the phone. “Pick me up in half an hour. And bring your credit card, ’cause Juna’s not cheap.”
* * *
• • •
When I first arrived in San Francisco, I assumed the neighborhood known as Russian Hill would be home to a lot of Russians. While that may have been true at one time, these days “Little Russia” referred to an area of the Inner Richmond, along Geary, where Russian restaurants and bakeries flourished. There was an occasional sign in Cyrillic, and a higher-than-average number of hunched, scarf-wearing elderly women making their way along the sidewalks. But the neighborhood’s most obvious cultural marker was the spectacular Russian Orthodox Holy Virgin Cathedral, also called Joy of All Who Sorrow. Its onion-shaped domes were covered in gold metallic tiles, and tall mosaics of saints adorned the cathedral’s facade.
Geary is a busy commercial boulevard, but the narrower side streets are lined with stucco row houses. We parked on Twenty-seventh Avenue and walked around the corner, where Patience paused in front of the cathedral’s open doors.
“Do you mind if I go in, just for a minute?” Patience asked.
“Of course not,” I said. We stepped into the hallowed space. The ambience was hushed inside, with a few solitary worshippers in the pews. Patience walked toward the front. I lingered near the entrance, taking in the colorful murals and the elaborately carved, gold-leafed woodwork.
In general, witches had a fraught history with traditional churches; my own personal experiences hadn’t been particularly positive, either. On the other hand, some of the best people I knew were believers. People of faith had accomplished some amazing—some might even say miraculous—things for the betterment of humanity. I supposed it was like what Patience had said with regard to the Russian psychics; it was best to take people as individuals, rather than as members of a group.
Patience came back to join me, and we walked out the tall doors together.
“My mother never passed a church without lighting a candle for her mother. It used to drive me nuts. Now I find myself doing the same.”
“Has your mother passed?”
“Car crash on my sixteenth birthday.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Sailor didn’t tell you? My mother was with Sailor’s mother; they both died. That’s why Renna stepped in, tried her best to be our mom. But Sailor . . . he’s complicated. He distanced himself from the Rom for a while and has only recently come back into the fold. And even then . . .” She trailed off with a shrug, and pressed her lips together.
This was the first time I had heard about the death of Sailor’s mother. Once again, I realized how many things he and I should probably talk about before we actually tied the knot. Presuming I could figure out how to prove his innocence.
“Did Renna say anything about Sailor’s situation?” I asked. “Any ideas how to get him out?”
“She’s working it on her end. She keeps ‘seeing’ Sailor at the crime scene, just like I did, though she thinks he looks short.”
“What does she mean, he looks short?”
“She says the ‘Sailor’ she sees in her visions is too short. And he uses his left hand.”
“Carlos mentioned this guy appeared to be left-handed as well.”
“I thought maybe it was just symbolic,” Patience said. “For you guys, left-handed means evil, right? Although that hardly seems fair.”
“Sometimes we refer to the ‘left-handed’ way when we speak of negative magic, it’s true. I think that’s based on some outmoded beliefs that it was somehow unnatural to be left-handed.”
Patience nodded. “That’s what I figured. Anyway, I told Renna to lay off the lawyer. A
lso, she’s lining up family to stand behind Aidan for whatever showdown is coming, for what that’s worth.”
“Did she see anything with regard to Renee?”
“Black cupcakes? Something about a rain of blood . . . basically, not good things. Anyway.” She gestured to a nail salon, and I noticed she still wore my engagement ring on her finger. “Over there is where Juna’s grandmother, and then her mother, used to run their famous Russian bakery. Blintzes and pierogis to die for. Now it’s for pedicures—how depressing is that?”
“Could I . . . Do you still need my ring?”
“What?”
“My engagement ring?”
“Oh. Oh, right.” She took it off and handed it to me. “I couldn’t see any more than I had before. I mean, I saw cupcakes, but that’s not helpful. Sorry.”
“Worth a shot,” I said as I slipped the ring on my finger. I let out a sigh. It felt good to have it back. “Thanks for trying.”
She shrugged. “Juna’s place is right down here, in the back of the jeweler’s shop.”
I couldn’t help thinking of Selena as I walked through the store. Though most of their jewelry was gold, there was one whole section of silver necklaces, rings, and brooches arranged on a black velvet cloth, twinkling under the bright lights of the display.
Also on display were a number of watches, some antique, others new and shiny. One pocket watch made me think: Why had the doppelgänger stopped to check his watch? Apparently he’d done so when walking out of the hotel, after assaulting Dupree, which seemed like odd behavior for a murderer fleeing the scene of a crime. Had he paused simply to give witnesses a chance to see him, the better to finger Sailor? If not, why would he be so concerned about the time?
I followed Patience down a narrow hallway to the back of the building. She rapped on a plain wooden door, then walked in without awaiting a reply.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting from a Russian psychic’s office, but it wasn’t this. Patience’s fortune-telling business was located in an old Victorian, with the mystical accoutrements one might expect of such an establishment. But then, given the way Patience dressed, I supposed that was no surprise.
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