A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

“Now, just never you mind,” I said, but I made a mental note for our next Mystery Date.

  We wandered along, marveling at the items in the glass display cases. One held a pair of mannequins dressed for a night out on the town, Victorian-style. The woman held a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses and was dressed in a gown of long green organza with a silk-satin border and imitation-pearl glass beads. According to the sign, the male mannequin was wearing a Gentleman’s Suit (Coat, Waistcoat, Breeches), France. Silk cut, uncut, and voided velvet on satin foundation.

  “You’d look pretty spiffy in something like that,” I said. If the man wanted to see me in a corset, turnabout was fair play. I loved his motorcycle gear, but it would be fun to see him all dressed up.

  “That getup reminds me of your pal Aidan.”

  “Yes, Aidan does look nice in formal wear. Not this formal, of course.”

  Sailor gave me an odd look.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “What have you heard from him?”

  “Nothing, and I wish he’d get back. I walk the streets in fear someone will flag me down and ask me to bribe the mayor or some such.”

  “Just say this: ‘I’ll get right on that.’ Repeat as necessary.”

  “Think that’ll work?”

  “Nine out of ten bureaucrats approve.”

  I laughed. “I’ll give it a try.”

  We moved on to the next showcase, which held a black moiré silk and jet mourning gown with a black lace veil.

  “That’s so sad,” I sighed.

  “The Victorians died early and often,” Sailor said. “They had a lot of rules and traditions for mourning. Check out the lacrimatory.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He pointed to an elaborate glass tube decorated with silver and gold filigree. “You don’t know about lacrimatories?”

  I shook my head.

  “They’re tiny bottles to collect tears. Examples were found among the ancient Romans, and the Victorians revived the tradition.”

  “How in the world do you know about something so obscure?”

  “My aunt was intrigued by them for a while, even tracked down a couple of used ones. They can be utilized in some magical systems, though she was never able to figure out exactly how to use them. Lacrimatories are equipped with special stoppers that allow the tears to slowly evaporate. When the bottle’s empty, the mourning period is over.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” I was imagining the power such a bottle could have, holding so much grief and love, as well as the very real physical connection of a person’s salt residue in the glass.

  “It says here,” Sailor continued, reading from the catalog, “‘The widow hidden under her black mourning clothes and behind her veil invited not only sympathy, but also predacious behavior. As an unmarried woman with sexual experience, she was intriguing to the men of her social circles, and beyond. But as such, she was also considered by many to be a threat to the status quo.’”

  “Well, that stinks,” I said. “She loses her husband, has to put up with unwanted sexual advances, and is considered a threat to society because of it?”

  “Society has had a hard time with independent women. Witness the way witches have been treated through the ages. Things are better these days, but there’s still a double standard. An independent man is admired but an independent woman is often pitied or considered suspect.”

  I squeezed his hand. “You are an extraordinary man.”

  “Maybe that sort of statement is simply calculated to coax you into my bed—ever think of that?”

  “Are you making predacious male advances?”

  He grinned. “If you were a grieving widow I’d be all over you. . . .”

  I shook my head. “You are capable of many things, Sailor. But that? I think not.”

  “And as I’ve said before, you are awfully trusting for one who’s seen so much.”

  “It’s not trust so much. It’s more that you don’t need subterfuge to coax me into your arms.”

  “‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly . . . ,” Sailor quoted, and I giggled until I snorted, even though we were in a museum.

  Before we left I made sure to ask everyone who was staffing the exhibit, from security guards to ticket takers to the gift store operators, whether they knew a woman named Scarlet. A couple of people thought the name sounded familiar, but they had no information about her.

  “Well, that was a fascinating exhibit, but I don’t think it told us anything,” I said on the way back to the parking lot. “Although . . . the catalog lists Parmelee Riesling as one of the curators of the exhibit.”

  “You know her?”

  “Carlos introduced us. She’s a clothing conservator at the Asian Art Museum, and Maya saw her name mentioned on Autumn Jennings’s Web site. I should probably see what she can tell me about Autumn, and maybe about Scarlet as well.” I shrugged. “Probably just another dead end.”

  “Don’t get discouraged there, supersleuth. It’s your first day out. You did a pretty handy job getting those dogs back home.”

  “We were a good team,” I said, smiling. The ocean wind whipped my hair; here the elements were more primal than by the bay. The open sea beckoned and made itself known.

  “And besides, if you think about it, the only thing that’s happened to you directly is that a dog walker reacted oddly. You’re not actually involved in Autumn’s death, except that it freed you from a lawsuit. You could just walk away.”

  “I appear to have inherited her dog. Or Maya has, if I’ve played my cards right. Besides, I saw Autumn. She seemed so frightened . . . and alone. I feel compelled to help. And I think there’s more to this: Don’t forget, Autumn’s name was in Aidan’s satchel.”

  “That’s right.” He ran his hand through his hair, rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, that’s interesting.”

  “What does it mean? If someone’s name is in that bag?”

  “That they’re into Aidan for something. Could be a lot of things, but usually it’s something major.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” I gazed out at the golf course down the hill from the museum. A couple of old men scooted by in their electric cart. “I was wondering . . . What if . . . what if something were to happen to the satchel while Aidan was away?”

  We headed toward the purple van, which loomed on the other side of a tiny Smart car. Sailor gave a low chuckle and shook his head.

  “It’s not that I don’t like where your head’s at, tiger, but I am nowhere near strong enough yet to protect you if you burn Aidan’s satchel. Nowhere. Near. And besides, we’re supposed to be working with Aidan these days, not against him, remember?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  “Not always.”

  “Often enough to make it a habit.”

  “Sailor . . . What kind of danger do you suppose is coming?”

  He shrugged. “Patience and I have been trying, but whatever—or whoever—it is, they’re cloaked. But we’ll face it together. You, me, Oscar, Aidan, Selena, Patience . . .”

  Ugh. Patience.

  “. . . all the cousins . . .”

  “I don’t suppose we could confront the coming danger without your family and assorted ‘cousins’?”

  He smiled and ruffled my hair. “They’re not that bad. They’re sort of an acquired taste, I’ll grant you. But then, so are you, my fine, fair witch. Now, this is precisely why we’re on our way to the beach. Make hay while the sun shines, and all that.”

  We stopped at a corner store whose inventory suggested they were popular with folks heading to the beach for a picnic. In addition to thick deli sandwiches, assorted chips and cookies, and drinks to quench every thirst, the store sold sweatshirts and beach blankets, little pla
stic pails and shovels. Sailor unearthed a bottle of Anderson Valley Zinfandel and even remembered to purchase a corkscrew.

  We parked at the lot across from the beach, where a sign indicated that dogs on leashes were allowed. Local ordinances would no doubt frown on a pig’s mere presence on the beach, but I still insisted Oscar wear the hated leash. Still, all the cutbacks in the park department’s budget meant no one official was around to enforce the rules.

  Sailor had been right: Few people were braving the chill at the beach. The fog had rolled in, cold and damp, making it hard to remember it was June. The three of us ran along the water’s edge just to get our blood pumping, Oscar squealing as he dashed in and out of the surf, but the icy Pacific made our feet numb. We used a few of Oscar’s blankets to make a nice pallet on the beach, wrapped our coats around us, and ate our picnic while gazing out at the sea.

  The cupcakes were delicious. Oscar mowed through half a dozen before I even noticed.

  Sated, the three of us huddled together, lulled by the sight and sound of the crashing waves. A bee came buzzing by, buffeted by the ocean winds, and landed on the sleeve of my coat. She tip-tapped on her tiny feet until I lifted my arm and she alit, flying out toward the ocean.

  I watched as she disappeared into the gray horizon, which blended so well with the overcast sky that there seemed to be no separation at all, just a never-ending stretch from the Pacific Ocean all the way up into the heavens.

  Chapter 9

  It was late afternoon by the time we got back to the Haight, where we found a small group clustered on the sidewalk in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet. We parked around the corner in the driveway I rent for my vehicles and walked back to find Conrad, Bronwyn, and Bronwyn’s boyfriend, Duke, gazing at the sign hanging in the window: Closed for Inventory.

  “Duke and I had a late lunch down the street,” said Bronwyn, “and thought we’d drop off a doggy bag for Conrad. This is such a shame. And I can’t believe it about poor Autumn!”

  “Did the police speak with you?” I asked.

  “Yes, they asked a lot of questions about the scones and tea I brought her in the gift basket.” Bronwyn paused, looking troubled. “Lily, you don’t think . . . I mean, there couldn’t have been something in there by accident somehow, could there?”

  “No, of course not,” I assured her. “You wouldn’t make a mistake like that. You’ve been mixing herbs for a long time and never had any problem.”

  “Listen to Lily,” Duke said, concern for Bronwyn written all over his lined, sun-burnished face. Duke was a retired fisherman, but still enjoyed sailing. “She knows how careful you are.”

  “I make sure to buy from certified organic, non-GMO sources! Only the very best!” Bronwyn’s expression showed her horror at the idea that she could have harmed someone.

  “I know you do. Carlos says it’s all standard procedure; they just have to rule out the obvious suspects. And sad to say that through me, you had motive, because of the lawsuit she was bringing against me and the shop.”

  “How long are they planning to keep the shop closed?” asked Conrad.

  “Not more than a couple of days, I hope,” I said.

  “Ooooh, what’s going on?” asked Sandra Schmidt as she approached our group.

  “Nothing,” Bronwyn and I said in unison.

  Sandra’s store, Peaceful Things, was right next door to Aunt Cora’s Closet. It featured vaguely Haight-Ashbury-inspired items, like tie-dyed T-shirts and love beads and imported handmade carvings from Thailand and Nepal. Unfortunately, despite its name, I had never found the space particularly harmonious, probably because of Sandra herself. A nervous sort, she had a habit of standing too closely, speaking too intently, and rising on her tiptoes and dropping down again as though her energy had nowhere else to go.

  “I thought maybe someone broke in and vandalized the place!” Sandra breathed out. “Again!”

  Sandra was prone to exaggeration, but in this case she was right: It looked like a bomb had gone off inside my shop. The forensic team clearly hadn’t held back—from the window we could see they’d not only searched Brownyn’s herbal stand but had knocked over entire racks of clothes as well. I felt my temper rise, and I struggled to control it.

  “We’re doing inventory,” I said.

  “But then why are you all standing out here instead of inside, working?” Sandra asked.

  None of your goldurned business, I felt like saying, but Sailor stepped in. “Because I swept Lily off for a romantic picnic at the beach,” he supplied smoothly. “Bronwyn and I worked together to fool her into closing for inventory for a few days.”

  “Oh,” said Sandra, looking disappointed. Apparently she’d been hoping for something more scandalous. “But I don’t understand. If you’re closed for inventory, why aren’t you here working on inventory? And why’s there such a mess?”

  “Cupcake?” Sailor asked, holding out the pink box and lifting the lid. Only four cupcakes had escaped Oscar’s clutches.

  “Ooooh,” Sandra said, peering into the box, distracted.

  “Did you know they call these ‘fairy cakes’ in Great Britain?” Sailor said. I smiled at him, and he gave me a wink. “I highly recommend the white cake with sprinkles.”

  “Isn’t that just too adorable!” She took the white cake topped with a generous dollop of pink frosting dusted with multicolored sprinkles and a little candy fairy perched on top.

  “How have you been, Sandra?” I asked. “It’s been a while.”

  Sandra dropped by Aunt Cora’s Closet occasionally, and I ducked into her shop from time to time as well because it was important to be on good terms with one’s neighbors. But she and I would never be true friends. Sandra was often unkind to Conrad, calling him my “pet hobo.” Conrad ignored her, but I found it difficult to forgive such rudeness. And she was forever asking questions about things that were none of her business. And she had a fascination with literature such as the Malleus Maleficarum—a witch-hunting manual from the bad old “burning times”—which I simply couldn’t get behind.

  But still, we were neighbors, and as such, we all worked at getting along.

  “To tell you the truth,” Sandra said, her mouth full of cupcake, “I have news. I’m considering closing my shop. My sister has an antiques store in Carson City and I was thinking of joining her there. Rents and everything are just too expensive in San Francisco nowadays. And”—she cast a glance toward Conrad—“the Haight’s gotten a bit too urban for my taste.”

  “Oh . . . um, Carson City sounds like fun,” I said. “It’s a small town?”

  “Why, it’s the capital of the state of Nevada!”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said, embarrassed. “I wasn’t ever much good at naming the capitals.”

  “The capital of Wyoming is Cheyenne,” said Conrad helpfully. “No one ever remembers Wyoming. Or Wisconsin, for that matter, which is Madison. Maybe it’s a W thing? Washington’s is Salem, of course.”

  “Dibs on you for partner next time we play Trivial Pursuit,” said Sailor.

  “Dude, you are very wise. I know all fifty capitals. And don’t get me started on the state birds and flowers.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “Mind like a steel trap.”

  “How come no one ever wants me as a partner for Trivial Pursuit?” I asked.

  My friends laughed.

  “Well, anyway, I suppose I should get back to the salt mines,” said Sandra. “I’m just glad to hear that you didn’t suffer a break-in. What with the way things are these days . . . I was worried.”

  “Let’s be sure to get together before you go,” I said. “I mean, if you do decide to make the big move. We could try the pub around the corner. My treat.”

  “Thank you. I’d like that,” said Sandra, nodding at everybody before heading back into her shop.

  After she left, I wondered aloud, �
�What do you suppose Sandra meant by ‘too urban’? This is San Francisco, after all. What does she expect?”

  “Dude, urban means full of people you don’t want to associate with,” said Conrad. “Like me.”

  “Oh,” I said, realization dawning. Conrad’s placid expression didn’t change, but I felt bad for him. “I’m sorry, Conrad.”

  He shrugged. “Dude. Been called worse, and probably thought of as much worse. If it fazed me I guess I’d change my way of life.”

  I nodded. I supposed that was a pretty good way to approach such things.

  “On the bright side,” Bronwyn said as she left with Duke, “with Aunt Cora’s Closet closed for ‘inventory,’ now’s the perfect time to spend a night at the Rodchester House of Spirits!”

  “Oh, hey, that reminds me,” I said. “Bronwyn, how did the idea for this sleepover occur to you? You mentioned you saw a brochure somewhere. Was it at Autumn’s store, by any chance?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. How did you know?”

  “I noticed the brochure there. Did you and Autumn talk about it?”

  “Well, let’s see . . . I believe I mentioned I hadn’t been there in quite some time, and Autumn said, ‘If you do go, be careful because it can be dangerous.’”

  “Dangerous? Did she mean physically, or in terms of spirits, or . . . ?”

  “She didn’t say. She seemed very tense, but I got the feeling that was her usual mode of interacting with the world. And as I said before, I thought she might be sick. Which, given what happened, she was. Poor soul. I felt sorry for her.”

  “Because she was sick?” I asked.

  Bronwyn shook her head. “Because she seemed so afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything.”

  * * *

  As Oscar, Sailor, and I climbed the rear stairs to my apartment, Sailor said, “What’s all this about a sleepover at the Rodchester House of Spirits?”

  “I sort of forgot to mention that.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “You should be afraid. Especially when I ask you to chaperone.”