A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Everybody ready?” I asked. “Then we’re off like a dirty shirt!”

  * * *

  Sailor and I stood outside of Vintage Visions Glad Rags, peering in through the plate-glass windows at the shop, which looked as neat and glamorous as it had yesterday. There was no sign of the police or a forensics team tearing the place apart. Autumn Jennings hadn’t actually died here, which meant the store wasn’t a homicide scene, but it still seemed odd. Then again, I didn’t know how official things like chain of evidence and whatnot worked. Still, I hesitated to use the keys and boldly walk in.

  “Shall we start with the neighbors?” I asked. “See if anyone there can shed some light on Autumn or her situation?”

  “Cupcakes get my vote,” Sailor said.

  “I do like the way you think,” I said with a smile.

  A young couple was leaving the bakery as we entered: a woman with pale strawberry blond hair and freckles, and a man with a bushy black beard. The man carried a huge pink box tied with twine but held the door for us with his body.

  “Thank you for stopping by, Eleanor, Cody! Isn’t it nice to see politeness in young people?” The woman behind the counter aimed that last comment at Sailor and me. She was about Bronwyn’s age, plump and red cheeked. As soon as the shop door closed behind the couple, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t get the facial hair, though. I mean, really? He looks like he’s out of one of those historic photos of lumberjacks felling the giant redwoods back in the day. You know the ones I mean? Ha!” She laughed at her own joke. “But he’s some sort of high-tech guy, like everyone who can afford to live around here these days.”

  The small storefront had a traditional black-and-white-checked floor on which sat large glass display cases in a U shape filled with colorful and extravagantly frosted cupcakes. The walls were plastered with posters of Buckingham Palace, Big Ben and the Thames, and British manor houses. The Union Jack featured prominently in a wall hanging and on packages of imported tea. Porcelain teapots decorated with flowers adorned a high, narrow shelf that ringed the room. The whole place smelled like freshly baked cake, vanilla, and spice. I took a deep breath. Heaven.

  “So, what can I do you for? I don’t believe I’ve seen you folks here before, have I? I’m Renee Baker,” she said. “I’m known around here as the cupcake lady. But as I always say, with a name like Baker, what other line of business could I go into? I absolutely had to become a baker!”

  I smiled. If that logic held true, I would be working with elephants, or perhaps tuning pianos. And Sailor might well have to take to the sea, though from what I’d seen so far he wasn’t much of one for boats.

  “It looks like the cupcake business is thriving,” I said.

  “Hard to believe it myself. Started just two years ago, and already outgrowing my space. Thinking of expanding, but I’d hate to leave the neighborhood.”

  “Did you know Autumn Jennings, from next door?”

  “Yes! Oh.” She put a hand over her heart and tsked. “I just couldn’t believe it when the police came to talk to me. I mean, she was only about my age, I think, right?” Renee looked to be in her early fifties, though she was so pink and plump and vital it was hard to compare her in my mind to the frail, gray-faced woman I had seen last night. “The poor thing certainly took a turn for the worse recently. She used to adore my maple-bourbon-bacon cupcakes, but lately she hasn’t had the stomach for anything at all.”

  “How recently?” I asked.

  “Maple-bourbon-bacon cupcake?” asked Sailor at the same time.

  Renee winked at Sailor. “Try one?”

  “I honestly don’t know how I could refuse.”

  She reached into the display case and selected a perfectly shaped cupcake topped with a generous dollop of maple-colored frosting and crowned with a strip of bacon.

  “For here, or to go?”

  “To go, please.”

  “Did you know that in Britain they call cupcakes fairy cakes? Isn’t that just about the most adorable thing you’ve ever heard?” Renee asked as she expertly folded a little pink cardboard box. “What else I can get you?”

  “Um, let’s see,” I said. It was nearly lunchtime, and breakfast seemed a long time ago. Besides, it would take a stronger-willed witch than I to refuse the tiny delectable-looking cakes, each with a whimsical name. I pointed out half a dozen different ones: from Granny Bananny Cake to Jack Lemon’s Chiffon to Chocolate Suicide. Given the crowd I run with, I wouldn’t have a problem finding them good homes.

  In fact . . . Oscar was in the van. I ordered a few more.

  “Might as well make it a baker’s dozen,” said Sailor.

  Renee placed the assorted cupcakes on a snow-white doily in a pink bakery box, carefully folded in the sides, and tied the box with twine. A tag on the twine was inscribed, A cupcake a day keeps the doldrums away!

  I paid for the dozen, though she insisted Sailor’s maple-bourbon-bacon cupcake was on the house.

  “So, is there anything else you can tell us about Autumn?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s see . . . We were friendly, but not friends, if you know what I mean. She was a fine neighbor, but we weren’t close. I mean, when you own a cupcake shop you get to know everyone on the block—and I hear some neighborhood gossip, let me tell you!”

  “Did you hear any gossip about Autumn?”

  “Well, now, like I said, she used to come in occasionally for a cupcake, but although I poked my head into her shop from time to time just to be friendly, she didn’t have a single thing I could fit into. I don’t think I was her target audience!”

  “She seemed to have some lovely things in her shop.”

  “Oh, that she did,” Renee said. “And she just got a new lot in, too, just before she passed. She was very excited about it. A great big old trunk that hadn’t been opened in decades, apparently, just chock-full of clothes that had never been worn. She said it was an actual trousseau from the Victorian era. Can you imagine?”

  “A trousseau?” I asked.

  “Don’t you know what a trousseau is? Ah, modern young people just don’t know the old traditions.”

  Of course I knew what a trousseau was. I was surprised because it was rare to find a trousseau from the past intact, precisely because the contents were usually put to use as soon as the owner was married. But Renee was on a roll, so I didn’t interrupt.

  “In the olden days,” Renee explained, “a girl would work on her trousseau from an early age, embroidering linens and lingerie and whatnot and folding them away in a hope chest or armoire, waiting for that most special day when she would be married.” Renee clasped her hands under her chin and let out a loud sigh. She was clearly a die-hard romantic. She was like the anti-Maya.

  “I see,” I said. “So Autumn had acquired an intact Victorian trousseau? Did she mention where she got it from?”

  “Goodness, if she did, I don’t remember. But it contained some lovely things. Not just clothes but all kinds of items, even adorable hand-embroidered tea towels, can you imagine?” Renee continued. “I suppose that was common for a trousseau, all the linens, too. Autumn showed me the items upstairs; she said she was taking her time to price them properly before putting them out on the floor for sale. She tried on one of the ball gowns, which looked beautiful on her. I wouldn’t have minded trying on one myself, but, like I say, those vintage clothes aren’t made for a substantial woman like me. I could have used those tea towels, though.”

  “You should check out Lily’s store,” Sailor said. “Aunt Cora’s Closet, over in the Haight-Ashbury, offers plenty of selections for womanly women.”

  I gawked at Sailor. Who was this person charming bakers, ordering cupcakes, and promoting Aunt Cora’s Closet? Where was the cantankerous, brooding psychic I had met in a dive bar who didn’t have a kind word for anyone?

  “Oooh, ‘womanly women,�
� eh? I like that,” Renee Baker said with another wink. “You’d better watch your man, Lily, or I might cover him in frosting and eat him right up.”

  “Um, yes, well, thank you for the warning,” I said. I had no idea how I was supposed to respond to Renee’s last statement, and I could feel the telltale burning that meant my cheeks were ablaze. “And for your help, Renee. And the cupcakes.”

  “Enjoy! Have a sweet day! Keep the doldrums away!”

  Out on the sidewalk, I turned to Sailor. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “To what, specifically, do you refer?”

  “Why are you being so . . . nice?”

  He chuckled. “I’m a nice guy.”

  “Since when?”

  Sailor clutched at his heart and pretended to stagger. “You wound me most grievously, madam.”

  “There are many ways I would describe you, my dear Sailor, but ‘a nice guy’ is not the first phrase that comes to mind.”

  “I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Don’t they say women don’t want a nice guy?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s that we don’t want a nice guy. It’s just that . . .” I trailed off as I spied a dog walker peeking into the window of Vintage Visions Glad Rags. She had half a dozen dogs on leashes, big and little, all apparently well cared for and pampered. A Dalmatian boasted a sparkling rhinestone collar, a full-sized poodle had a Fifi haircut, and a tiny mop of a dog had blue ribbons in his long, shining hair.

  But it was the woman I most noticed. Where did I know her from . . . ?

  She turned toward us, and her eyes widened.

  It was the woman who had served me with legal papers.

  She dropped the leashes and ran.

  Chapter 6

  One of the smaller dogs tried to run along with her, but his leash was attached to the others, and the bigger dogs weren’t moving. On the contrary, they stood like good little soldiers awaiting orders.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “I need to talk to you!”

  Sailor shoved the box of cupcakes at me and took off after her, but she disappeared around a corner before he caught up. Seconds later the black Ducati zoomed out of the alley and down the street in the opposite direction. She wore no helmet, and her dark hair streamed out behind her. Sailor trotted back to Vintage Visions Glad Rags, where I stood holding the cupcake box in one hand and six leashes in the other.

  “That was odd behavior in a dog walker,” Sailor muttered, taking the bakery box from me and checking the contents. “Friend of yours?”

  “Not hardly. She served me with the legal papers from Autumn Jennings yesterday morning. Why on earth would she run away like that? If anything, I should be the one trying to get away from her.”

  “Maybe she thought we were here to beat her up.”

  I did my best at lifting one eyebrow. “One look at me was enough for her to abandon her dogs and flee?”

  “Maybe not you, but your bodyguard.” He shrugged. “I’m pretty scary looking. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “According to Renee the cupcake lady you’re more yummy than scary.”

  “I feel as though I should be insulted. Okay, maybe it is you she’s scared of. Maybe she found out you’re a witch and is afraid of being hexed.”

  “I never hex,” I scoffed. Then I shrugged. “Well, almost never.”

  He grinned. “I know that. I just like how annoyed you get when I suggest you might. Anyway, I got the license plate of the bike, for what it’s worth.”

  “You’re so smart. I knew there was some reason I allowed you to hang out with me.”

  “That and the bodyguard thing.”

  “Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting,” I said with a smile and a kiss.

  I borrowed Sailor’s phone to call my private investigator, Sam Spade, and asked him to use his contacts to run the plates. Spade didn’t exactly live up to his literary namesake; in truth, he was a pretty lousy private eye. Nonetheless, he came in handy from time to time. He said he would see what he could find out and get back to me.

  “So, what are we going to do with the dogs?” Sailor asked.

  The six canines were sitting patiently, watching us.

  “I suppose . . . if they have tags with addresses, we could bring them home. If not, I don’t know . . . Land sakes, this wasn’t exactly how I had hoped to spend the day.”

  I checked the Dalmatian’s collar, but while he had tags and a phone number, there was no address. Same with the dachshund. Sailor dialed the numbers but received no answer. The poodle had a city-issued dog license but no contact information at all.

  Sailor crouched down in front of a cocker spaniel and spoke quietly. “Hey there, little fella.”

  He caressed the dog’s silky head, then cradled it in his hands for a moment, concentrating.

  After a moment he gave me a rueful glance and a quick shake of his head. “Figured it was worth a try, but all I ever pick up from dogs is thoughts of food and generalized love and affection.”

  I smiled. “Doesn’t sound like a bad way of being, all things considered.”

  The Dalmatian started barking, and the spaniel joined in.

  Renee emerged from her store, drying her hands on a towel. “I saw what happened. That’s the strangest thing! The dog walker usually comes by this time every day and picks up Loretta, Autumn Jennings’s dog. There’s a dog park around the corner.”

  “Do you know the dog walker’s name or how to get ahold of her?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I always waved and said hi, and she waved back, but that was about all. But then, I’m more a cat person. Such a shame she abandoned these little pups like that. I never would have thought it. She seemed so devoted to them!”

  “Do you know where any of them live?” Sailor asked.

  “Only the poodle. His house is down the street,” she said, pointing to a white Victorian. “He belongs to an elderly lady, Mrs. Morgan. Doesn’t get out much. Can’t handle the stairs.”

  “Okay, we’ll start there. Thanks.”

  “Oh, wait just a minute.” Renee ducked back into the store and returned moments later holding a small pink bakery box tied with twine. “Orange-rosemary. Mrs. Morgan’s favorite. Tell her hi from Renee!”

  “We will, and thanks again.”

  Sailor and I headed down the block, each holding a bakery box and the leashes for three dogs. When we reached the white Victorian, I held on to the poodle’s leash and handed the others to Sailor, then climbed the long flight of stairs to the front door.

  It took several minutes for the door to open. Mrs. Morgan was an elderly woman who wore her thinning gray hair in a braid twisted into a bun atop her head. She was dressed in a smart white linen pantsuit and expensive-looking gold jewelry. Behind her I could see a high-ceilinged foyer with a gleaming round table, a small love seat, and a tiled fireplace. Like many of the homes of the elderly I visit, this one also held several boxes and stacks of newspapers and catalogs.

  She lit up at the sight of her dog, who greeted her so enthusiastically I feared he’d knock her over.

  “Oh! Hello, Colonel Mustard! You’re back early!”

  I smiled. “Your dog’s name is Colonel Mustard?”

  “Yes, from the board game Clue.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said, though I’d never played it. My childhood hadn’t included a lot of the standard-issue kid experiences, such as board games or campfires or bake sales. I had spent my time avoiding my peers and learning the fine art of spellcasting at my grandmother’s knee. I couldn’t recite any patty-cake rhymes, but by the age of ten I knew exactly how much dragon’s blood resin to add, and when, while concocting a prosperity charm and how to call on—and keep in line—a helpful demon during a binding ritual.

  “Renee Baker asked me to bring you a cupcake,” I continued, holding out the little box and happy to have a
nice opening gambit. “She says hello. It’s orange-rosemary.”

  “Well, isn’t that thoughtful! My favorite. Thank you.” Mrs. Morgan looked past me, her eyes alighting on Sailor, who stood on the sidewalk with the other dogs. “But . . . where’s Scarlet?”

  “Is Scarlet the dog walker?”

  “Yes. We laughed because my dog is named Colonel Mustard, and she’s Miss Scarlet!” She chuckled.

  I smiled, pretending I understood the reference and making a mental note to look up this Clue game. I would add it to my mental list of Things to Do to Seem More Normal.

  “Do you know how I might get in touch with Scarlet?” I asked. “Or even her last name?”

  “Did something happen? I don’t understand. I pay her ten dollars to take the Colonel to the dog park, and he hasn’t been gone very long; I can’t believe he even made it to the park. Where is Scarlet, and who are you?”

  “I apologize, I should have introduced myself.” I brought out a card. “I’m Lily Ivory.”

  “You’re in the vintage clothes business?” she said as she read it. “Like the shop across the street?”

  “Yes. Do you know the owner of that store, Autumn Jennings?”

  “She bought several things from me last time I cleaned out my closets. I must say she was rather picky. Turned up her nose at some perfectly lovely items, which seemed a bit snooty for someone who sells used clothes, if you ask me. She said she only wanted historic pieces, or those with designer tags.”

  “A vintage clothes dealer’s rationale can be hard to understand,” I said with a nod. I was still outside on the landing; Mrs. Morgan remained in the open door. On the one hand, I thought I might be able to learn something further if I imposed upon this woman for a cup of tea, but on the other . . . Sailor and I had five dogs to escort home, not to mention, Loretta was homeless. Aunt Cora’s Closet was closed for forensics, and in light of Autumn Jennings’s death and Scarlet’s bizarre behavior . . . I was beginning to think something fishy was afoot.