A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  “That sounds like trouble.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But this is related to an arsenic death how, exactly?”

  “I have no idea, but the dog walker was the one who served me with legal papers, and she turned and ran when she saw me the next day. Why would she do something like that?”

  “Maybe she was scared of you.”

  “Why in the world would she be scared of me?”

  He smiled and inclined his head. “I’m scared of you.”

  “That’s what Sailor said. But I don’t believe either of you.”

  “How is Sailor?”

  “He’s okay. Why are you asking?”

  “Just a friendly inquiry. Say hi to him for me. Speaking of your dubious men friends, I hear Aidan Rhodes left town suddenly. You don’t happen to know where he went?”

  “Aidan? Is he in trouble?”

  “Just like to know where he is,” said Carlos, his eyes not leaving the road. “And . . . where he isn’t.”

  “Carlos, what can you tell me, for real, about Aidan?”

  “Not much,” he said with a shake of his head. “Certainly nothing I can pin on him. I just know he’s a player in this town, and I don’t exactly know how, and that makes me nervous.”

  “What?” I let out a little nervous laugh. “Are you saying he’s involved in organized crime or something?”

  Please say no, Carlos.

  “Here’s an interesting factoid,” said Carlos after a beat. “Did you know San Francisco is unique in that, as a major city, it has very little organized crime?”

  “Didn’t I hear something about criminal brotherhoods in Chinatown?”

  “Yes, some of the tongs were the famous exception, but while they might have exerted some influence in Chinatown at different points in history, they don’t have much pull in the city as a whole.”

  “So . . . are you saying Aidan is involved in organized crime?”

  “I’m saying I like to know where he is. And where he isn’t.”

  As much as I liked to think of Carlos as a friend, he was a cop first. So there was really no way to get him to spill the beans—about a crime, or a certain wickedly handsome witch—when he wasn’t ready to do so.

  “Aidan’s afraid there’s something . . . afoot lately.”

  “Afoot?”

  “Some sort of supernatural threat brewing in San Francisco.”

  Carlos pulled to a stoplight and turned and gave me a look.

  “Is this something I want to know about?”

  “Just thought I should give you the heads-up. Unfortunately, as is often the case, I don’t actually know enough to make any helpful suggestions. It’s more a free-floating worry at the moment.”

  “Then we’ll just have to cross that bridge when—and if—we come to it. In the meantime, back to this dog walker . . .”

  “Scarlet.”

  “Right. So, Scarlet saw you and turned and ran. Anything else seem suspicious or out of the ordinary?”

  “Well . . . she was volunteering at a clothes show at the Legion of Honor, so that was the connection to Parmelee. And the folks at the dog park said she was looking ill, too. I wish I could track her down, if only for the sake of her health.”

  He nodded. “Good point. If we’re talking an accidental poisoning, and your dog walker was exposed at the same time as Jennings . . .”

  “Autumn Jennings and Scarlet the dog walker were both pretty petite,” I said. “Maybe they both tried on the ball gowns and managed to poison themselves.”

  “Why would they try them on?”

  “That’s half the fun in this business.”

  Carlos grunted. “A toxic trousseau. But would it have been that easy to poison themselves? Just by trying on a dress? Riesling mentioned sweat and exertion.”

  “Maybe that’s where the curse comes in?” I suggested.

  “But what does any of this have to do with Rodchester House of Spirits?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Join the club.”

  “What makes you think all these things are connected?”

  I blew out a long sigh. “I guess you’re right; maybe none of this is connected. It just seems like a whole lot going wrong all at once, and in my experience these coincidences do not bode well.”

  A long moment passed. Carlos drove along Fell Street toward the Haight. I watched the scenery: rows of Victorian houses on one side, the lush Golden Gate Park Panhandle on the other.

  “I don’t really believe in coincidences,” Carlos said finally.

  “I’m beginning to think that way myself.”

  Chapter 14

  Out of habit Carlos pulled up to the front of Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  “I forgot,” he said, “you have to go in the back, right?”

  “No worries, I’ll walk around. It’s not worth you trying to make an illegal U-turn. Besides, just because you’re a cop doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want, whenever you want.”

  He gave me a smile.

  “Lily,” he said, just as I was climbing out, “I’ll let you know what I find out about all of this. But in the meantime, be careful.”

  “Sounds like you don’t think Autumn Jennings’s death was an accident.”

  “We both know what I said, and it wasn’t exactly that. It probably was an accidental poisoning, but . . . you’re right that something about this feels a little hinky.”

  “I’m like a hinky magnet.” I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be careful. And, hey, on the off chance that you get a call from the San Jose police on Saturday, would you mind vouching for me?”

  “This the coven birthday party you mentioned?”

  “That’d be the one.”

  He chuckled softly. “Tell Bronwyn happy birthday from me, and tell her to be careful, too.”

  “I will.”

  The sight of the Closed for Inventory sign and the chaos I knew lay beyond my shop’s front door depressed me. But as tough as it was for me, I believed Oscar was the one suffering most from the current situation; though he slept most of the day away on his purple silk pillow, he really did enjoy his time in the shop: the squeals of shoppers when they spotted him, the petting, the peeks he attempted to steal under the curtains of the communal changing room.

  He had plenty of books and movies in the apartment to keep him occupied. Not to mention snacks. Still—it didn’t seem fair that I got to traipse around town all day while he was closed in.

  On the other hand . . . as Sailor had pointed out, Oscar was more than able to get himself around, somehow, without being seen. Many’s the time I had come home and found him gone, especially now that I had released him from servitude to Aidan. He stayed with me and acted as my familiar because he chose to, not because he was forced. So if every now and again he went gallivanting off somewhere, that was his right. And I had given him the travel cloak, of course, which he had the power to use to go wherever he wanted, apparently.

  So I shouldn’t feel too bad about not allowing him to accompany us to the Rodchester House of Spirits, I decided. I was almost sure about that one.

  Sandra was standing outside her shop, bouncing up and down on her toes in apparent agitation, looking irate. With her was a tall man about forty years old, with a paunch and a mustache and a shock of black hair. Last time I had seen Khalil Singh was when I signed a ten-year lease on my store. Since then I hadn’t heard a peep, but, then, I hadn’t asked for anything, either. This was the sort of landlord-tenant relationship I could get behind.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, addressing them both.

  The man gave me a toothy grin, but Sandra scowled.

  “Of course, of course, no problem,” said Khalil in a lilting British-Indian accent. “May I introduce myself? I am Mr. Khal
il Singh, Esquire. I own this beautiful building.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m Lily Ivory, one of your tenants—I own Aunt Cora’s Closet, right here?”

  “Oh, yes, of course! I thought you looked familiar.”

  It was actually sort of refreshing to be forgotten. I was used to sticking out in crowds and spent a lot of time trying to fit in and seem normal so I could pass unnoticed—which was why I had decided to settle in the Haight, traditional home to iconoclasts and freethinkers of all stripes. I figured it was my best shot at floating under the “normal” radar.

  It was odd to feel the other side of things, to be overlooked. Perhaps I’m fitting in more, I thought.

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two women approach the door to Aunt Cora’s Closet. One wore an honest-to-goddess big black pointy witch’s hat, and the other some sort of black lace number. It was nowhere near Halloween, and even on Haight Street they seemed a little out of place.

  “We’re here for the head witch. Is that you?” asked the one with the purple eye shadow and some sort of gold chest plate.

  Khalil turned his dark eyes on me. “Head witch?”

  So much for fitting in.

  “It’s an honorary title,” I said to Khalil. Then I turned to the women. “Give me just a minute, please. I’ll be right with you.”

  Finally, I looked back to Sandra. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s saying he won’t let me out of my lease,” she said in a whiny voice. “I want to go to Carson City!”

  Khalil lifted his shoulders to his ears, splaying his hands in a “What can I do?” shrug.

  “Surely it wouldn’t be hard for you to rent this space, right here on Haight Street?” I said.

  Another shrug. “I live up in Napa. I do not like to have to come down here all the time to show the place, run credit checks. I am no longer a young man. It is a full-time job, looking after all my properties.”

  “Oh, I see.” Must be tough, having all those properties. “Do you mind my asking, how much time do you have left on your lease, Sandra?”

  “Almost two years,” she said, her voice scaling up. “How was I supposed to know how I would feel back when I signed it?”

  “But signed it you did, and that is the way business works in this marvelous country of yours.” He leaned toward me and winked. “Land of opportunity. Best country in the world! Long live the USA!”

  “Um, yes . . . thank you,” I said, unsure how to respond.

  But something had been simmering in the back of my mind since Sandra first mentioned she was interested in moving out, and now it came to the fore. “Khalil, what if I were to buy out Sandra’s lease? You already know me, so you wouldn’t have to run another credit check or anything like that . . .”

  His eyes gleamed and he actually rubbed his hands together, as in a cartoon. “Well, now, perhaps we could work something out. Would you like to rent this place?”

  “I was thinking perhaps of taking over Sandra’s lease, at her current rent.” Last thing I wanted him to do, now that he had come south from Napa, was to decide to check the market rate. “And it would be for a good cause—I’d like to add an annex, for the new clothes made by my friend Lucille and her employees, and they could move in here and use it to produce their dresses.”

  Khalil looked dubious.

  “It’s a woman-owned business, and her employees are from the Haight Street women’s shelter. It could be great publicity for you, at a time when people are vilifying landlords.”

  “That’s because they’re making everything into expensive loft spaces,” muttered Sandra.

  “But this place wouldn’t qualify for that sort of thing,” I said hastily, lest Khalil got any bright ideas. “No way to rezone it or get the permits to radically alter a historic building. Trust me on this: not worth the hassle and it wouldn’t succeed anyway.”

  “I suppose that’s true . . .” Khalil trailed off.

  “Indeed.” I started murmuring under my breath a little, just a quick charm to make him more open and amenable. I felt justified in doing so because this man didn’t need to raise the rent, and I was a good tenant. And Lucille and her employees needed those jobs.

  Khalil agreed to think about it. I bid farewell to him and to Sandra and went to join the two women waiting for me.

  The one in the hat had her arms crossed firmly over her chest, the picture of stubbornness. The other one was looking through the glass.

  “That’s a real mess in there,” she said, as though I hadn’t noticed.

  “We’re closed for inventory.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Looks more like it’s been ransacked.”

  “You wanted to see me?” I asked, not wanting to engage in this conversation.

  “Yeah, Aidan says you’re the head honcho for the interim.”

  “That’s what he tells me.”

  They both looked me over, clearly unconvinced. As was the case whenever Aidan stopped by, I didn’t want to simply say, “What can I help you with?” because of the implied obligation. It’s a witch thing.

  So instead I made a show of checking the time on my antique Tinker Bell watch.

  “Indigo wants to allow men into our coven, even though there’s an affiliated men’s group already.”

  “Not men. Just man. One single man. Pablo is special.”

  “Just because you have the hots for him doesn’t mean he’s special.”

  “Also, don’t you think it’s time we moved beyond gender? I mean, who’s to say what we are in our hearts? Is biology really destiny? What about all the trans-everything out there?”

  “If Men and Women are good enough for every restroom sign in America, it’s good enough for me.”

  “I was in the airport in . . . Chicago, I think? And I saw a restroom with a sign that didn’t say Men or Women. It simply said: Human. I like that.”

  “There’s something special about the femininity of the circle,” the first one insisted, then turned to me. “Tell her.”

  I was supposed to weigh in on this eternal debate about inclusiveness and gender and equality? “I think—”

  “We’re a feminine circle,” the one in the hat cut me off. “Feminine, as in the crone, the mother, and the daughter. Where in there does it say boyfriend?”

  “You are being completely unreasonable! What about your friend Geronimo? You weren’t so picky when we were talking about him—”

  “Geronimo was totally different! If your boy toy goes trans, then we’ll talk. But as long as he’s got what he’s got between his legs—”

  “Hold it!” I finally yelled.

  “Hey, there’s a pig in there.”

  I could see Oscar inside, standing at the door, even though I’d closed the door to the back and told him to stay off the shop floor. Still, the police tape was down so maybe they’d finished. I hoped so.

  “You’ve got a pig?” The woman in black started laughing, and the other joined in. “Cute little fella!”

  I unlocked the front door and Oscar came out, his little hooves clacking on the sidewalk as he hopped around in excitement. The two witches were enthralled.

  With tempers somewhat defused, I tried again.

  “I’m not trying to pass the buck here,” I said, “but isn’t this issue best resolved by the decision of the coven?”

  “The vote was evenly divided,” said Indigo.

  “Don’t you have thirteen for the coven?”

  “Fern dropped out. She went faerie last year and we haven’t replaced her.”

  “Which is why Pablo should be allowed to be our thirteenth. He’s willing to do the apprenticeship.”

  “Okay,” I said in a commanding voice, fearing yet another ratcheting up of the argument. I tried to sound like Aidan. “Let me consult my, er, crystal ball and the satchel and I’ll give you
my decision tomorrow.”

  “The satchel?” said Indigo in an awed whisper.

  “Why the satchel?” asked the other, clearly afraid.

  “I, um . . .”

  “You know what?” said Indigo, backing away. “Never mind. I mean, why mess with tradition, right? We’ll leave things as they are—my kid sister has been asking about maybe joining the circle, so we’ll just do that. Pablo can join the men’s drumming circle.”

  “Yeah. Great, great. Thanks. That’s perfect. Thanks a lot, Lily. Bye, piggy.”

  Oscar snorted loudly as the two women walked down the sidewalk.

  I glanced down at Oscar; he looked up at me. “I guess I just resolved another witchy conflict. Problem is, I don’t know what I did.”

  He snorted again.

  Since the police tape was down, and Oscar had already violated the scene, I led the way into the store through the front entrance, locking the door behind us.

  On the glass display counter was an envelope addressed to me. Inside was a note from Inspector Stinson.

  Thank you for your cooperation. Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience you might have suffered. The scene is hereby released.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the letter.

  “Stinson,” a man’s voice answered.

  “Hello, Inspector. This is Lily Ivory, from Aunt Cora’s Closet. On Haight Street.”

  “Yes, hello, Ms. Ivory. Did you see we released the scene?”

  “I did, yes. So, that means we’re off the hook?”

  There was a pause. I could hear police station noises behind him: phones ringing, someone yelling, the sound of a printer spitting out a document. “I believe the case has been closed. Thank you for your cooperation, and I apologize for any inconvenience.”

  As I surveyed the mess, I fought the urge to request city-funded housekeeping services to put the place back in order. But I did have one pertinent question for the inspector.