A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Keep reading,” I said.

  “‘The telling of fortunes, forecasting of futures, or reading the past, by means of any occult, psychic power,’ yada yada yada . . .” He handed the paper back to me. “I don’t do none of that hocus-pocus.”

  “You didn’t read the second paragraph,” I said, reading aloud: “‘It shall also include effecting spells, charms, or incantations, or placing or removing curses.’”

  “Lemme see that,” he said, taking the paper back. He started mumbling: “‘. . . or advising the taking or administering of what are commonly called love powders or potions in order . . . to get or recover property, stop bad luck, give good luck, put bad luck on a person or animal . . . ’” He looked up at me. “Dang.”

  “This is what I’m telling you. You’re not licensed, you’re breaking the law. You need to attend to the necessary paperwork,” I said, feeling like a bureaucrat. “Don’t make me go looking through the satchel for your name.”

  He looked from me to Sailor. When he spoke, his voice was edged with awe. “What’s she doing with the satchel?”

  Sailor shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. With his heavy-lidded stare he sent out very subtle yet distinct warning pulses, wafting through the air right alongside the bay breezes.

  Jamie’s already sloping shoulders slumped further. He folded the paper several times and put it in his pocket. “A’right. I’ll take care of it.”

  “See that you do.”

  Chapter 16

  The next morning Sailor helped me to put right some of the heavier items on the shop floor but then had to leave for an appointment. We made arrangements to have lunch together.

  Just as he was leaving, Bronwyn and Duke arrived with bagels and cream cheese, Conrad in tow, offering his services. I put on a mix of Nina Simone, Édith Piaf, and Spearhead—Conrad’s current favorite—while Bronwyn brewed a pot of coffee, and we got to work sweeping and picking up, with Oscar somehow sleeping through it all, snoring contentedly on his bed.

  Twenty minutes later, Maya arrived with Loretta.

  Maya placed the dog’s little rug in the area behind the counter, and after sniffing lazily at a few racks of clothing she plopped down. Oscar awoke with a snort and nosed at her, his little hooves clopping on the wooden floors as he circled her a few times, but Loretta just gave him a few thumps of her tail, closed her eyes, let out a long sigh, and went to sleep.

  “I don’t think even you, Oscar, can work up much animosity toward such an easygoing animal,” I said with a chuckle.

  “Mom and I took Loretta to the vet yesterday to have her checked out,” said Maya as she started smoothing and folding a bunch of scarves that had been shoved into a heap on one of the shelves. “Tell you the truth, part of me wondered whether her lack of energy had something to do with . . . whatever happened to Autumn Jennings. I mean, who knows whether a dog could be poisoned by the same things we can? I know they eat putrid, disgusting things, but . . .”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Arsenic’s probably a whole different ball game.”

  “Arsenic?” asked Bronwyn.

  I nodded. “The police think Autumn Jennings was poisoned by arsenic.”

  “Sounds like something the Borgias did to each other,” said Maya.

  “That’s what I said.” I picked up a couple of silky slips that had been knocked off their hangers. We’d tied their spaghetti straps together with blue ribbon to keep them from slipping off, but the result wasn’t foolproof.

  “I’ve read that arsenic was so popular back in the day it was referred to as ‘inheritance powder,’ or ‘revenge powder,’” said Bronwyn, as she finished sweeping the floor around her herbal stand. The forensics team had taken samples from most of her jars, resulting in a lot of dried herbs and teas scattered here and there but no major damage. “More than one servant punished an unfair master by adding a little to the gravy. Imagine living your life knowing that the people who prepared your food might be ready to off you at any moment!”

  Maya nodded thoughtfully and moved on to the parasols, rehanging a few on some fishing line in the front window, while placing the others in a huge pressed-metal urn. “I really should learn to cook, I suppose.”

  “In Autumn’s case,” I continued, “they think it was an accidental poisoning.”

  “How does one become ‘accidentally’ poisoned by arsenic in this day and age?” asked Duke. He was washing the front window, which the police hadn’t bothered, but Duke was always self-conscious that his big callused fisherman’s hands would snag the old fabric of the clothes, so he often made himself useful in other ways. He was a pleasant, easygoing presence in the store, and he made Bronwyn happy, and that was more than enough for me.

  “According to Parmelee Riesling, a clothing conservator, it’s not all that uncommon for people dealing with really old clothes. Many dyes in the nineteenth century contained poisonous ingredients or other toxic by-products of production.”

  “Such as arsenic?”

  I nodded. “It was used to create a special shade of green. Apparently William Morris was famous not only for his intricate wallpaper designs, but also for poisoning a lot of workers with dyes.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Maya. “So the workers were sacrificed for the sake of beauty?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, sorry to say. But in this case it wasn’t just those making the clothes, but those who wore them. As women danced in their ball gowns, their pores opened and sweat activated the dyes, allowing arsenic to enter their bloodstream. Or sometimes the arsenic leached out and wafted around the dance floor in clouds of poison dust.”

  Bronwyn stood, placing a flapper dress on its hanger, and blinked in shock. “What a terrible image. I prefer to think of it all as beautiful back then.”

  “Only for the wealthy people at the top,” said Maya. “As a general rule, my people didn’t live in quite such a pretty bubble. But as far as Loretta goes: The vet gave her a clean bill of health. I guess she’s just lazy.”

  “Let’s say mellow,” said Bronwyn, going over to stroke Loretta’s neck. “It sounds nicer. Anyway, that’s a positive trait in a store mascot.”

  Oscar snorted.

  “She means for Autumn Jennings’s store, Oscar, not here,” said Maya. “We’ve got more than enough mascot in you.”

  I was beginning to wonder whether my friends might be getting clued in to Oscar’s true self. I knew people talked to pets like people, but Maya and Bronwyn and even Conrad had started talking to Oscar as though they expected him to understand. Which he did, of course.

  “We’re not open yet, Sandra,” said Bronwyn as our neighbor sailed in, ignoring the Closed sign.

  “Oh, do you mind terribly? I wanted to tell you something important . . . ,” she said, standing in the middle of the store and rising on her tiptoes. Her gaze fell on the bagels on the counter.

  “Please help yourself to a bagel, Sandra,” I said. Oscar grunted again, I imagined in protest at losing part of his after-breakfast snack to someone of whom he was not fond. “What did you want to tell us?”

  “What?” she said, distracted as she read the labels from the three different kinds of cream cheese: veggie, jalapeño, and plain.

  “You said you had something important to tell us?” I reminded her.

  “Oh! Yes,” she said as she slathered a sesame bagel with plain cream cheese. “The landlord said he agrees, and it would work for you to take over my lease.”

  “Really?”

  Her eyes widened and she spoke around a bite of bagel. “Don’t say you’ve changed your mind! I’ve already made plans! Carson City is waiting!”

  Everyone in the store—with the exception of Loretta—turned to stare at me.

  “What’s going on, Lily?” asked Bronwyn.

  “Well, as you all know, Sandra’s moving out of Peaceful T
hings.”

  “My sister has a charming little antiques store in Carson City, and I think I’d like to live in a different sort of environment. I’ll leave this neighborhood, such as it is”—Sandra gave a significant glance in Conrad’s direction—“to those of you who can really enjoy it.”

  “Sandra and I share a landlord,” I continued, “and I spoke with him yesterday about the possibility of taking over Sandra’s lease on the space she uses for Peaceful Things. Maya’s mother is getting kicked out of her loft. . . . I haven’t talked with her about it yet, but I was thinking maybe we could open Aunt Cora’s Annex. Or maybe call it Lucille’s Loft, right here next door.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” said Maya. “I’ll bet Mom would love that. Can she afford to rent it?”

  “We’ll work out the money. Aunt Cora’s Closet has been doing really well lately. We could figure out some sort of share of the profits from the new dresses or something. I was thinking she could have her sewing room there, but also use the front part of the space for her creations. And that way we could free up some space here; I could have my little kitchen-gadget corner without being so crowded.”

  “Wonderful idea!” said Bronwyn.

  “Why don’t I give Lucille a call right now?” I said. “I’d hate for her to think I was arranging her life and future without even letting her know. I didn’t mean to be controlling; it’s just that the opportunity arose . . .”

  “I think it’s great, Lily,” said Maya. “Just give her a call; she hasn’t been able to sleep lately, trying to work out where she was going to move. I’m betting she’ll love the idea.”

  And happily, she did.

  * * *

  With all of us working together, it didn’t take long to put things to right in the shop. Bronwyn’s herbal stand had taken the brunt of the storm, but we were able to arrange a few racks and rehang dresses and tidy up enough to open the store by noon.

  Our first customer was none other than Renee Baker, who arrived with a pink bakery box in her hands.

  “I see you have two more handsome men in your realm.” She smiled and winked at Duke, who nodded, and Conrad, who blushed. “Lily, how in the world do you do it?”

  I introduced Renee to the gang, and the gang to Renee.

  “Dude,” Conrad said, eyes widening as Renee opened the box, revealing the frosted delicacies within. “I’m not embarrassed to admit, I’m a big fan of the cupcake.”

  “Try this one,” she said, handing him one with white frosting and sprinkles. “I have a way of knowing who will like which cupcake.”

  “Lily’s like that with clothes,” said Bronwyn. “She’s quite gifted.”

  Renee looked around the store, then back at me. “Why, this place is lovely! And neat as a pin!”

  “You should have seen it this morning,” muttered Maya.

  “Yes, I fear the police did a number on us,” said Bronwyn. “I made poor Autumn—may the goddess show her the light—some scones a few days ago, so the officials were suspicious of my herbs and they tore this place apart. Can you imagine?”

  “Well, that’s odd,” Renee said, perusing a rack of 1980s velour loungewear and polyester jogging suits. These sold well, amazingly enough, but they were nothing compared to the caliber of the clothes in Autumn’s store. “They’ve left Autumn’s place virtually untouched. Why do you suppose that would be?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “The other day you mentioned the police came into your store and talked to you about what might have happened to Autumn, right?”

  “They did come in; of course they did. An officer and a lady.”

  “I believe they’re both inspectors.”

  “Right. The fellow liked my lemon chiffon, and the lady preferred chocolate, as many ladies do.” Another wink in Conrad’s direction. Luckily he was distracted by the cupcake he was eating. Conrad wasn’t typically what one might call “smooth with the ladies.”

  “And you told them about the trousseau upstairs? About Autumn trying on the dresses?”

  “I can’t recall whether I went into those particulars. They just asked me about enemies, family, suspicious people hanging around. That sort of thing.”

  “And were you able to give them any ideas?”

  “Oh, no, not really. I didn’t go in the shop that often; all I could tell them was that Autumn didn’t have any family, and her husband passed away a couple of years ago.” Renee held up a fitted jacket that was clearly too small for her, so I steered her toward a display of 1960s outerwear that would better suit her figure. “You really do have fun things here. So different from Autumn’s inventory!”

  “Dude, that was the best cupcake I’ve ever had in my life,” said Conrad, sitting on one of the velvet benches near the dressing rooms, a serene look on his face.

  “Have another!”

  “Dude, I couldn’t. Well . . . maybe one more.” He chose a lavender one this time.

  “You know, the cupcake business is doing so well. Everyone said when I started that I would never make it, but things are going great. I’m even thinking about seeing whether I could expand into the Vintage Visions space. Would you be interested in the merchandise?”

  My hands, busy rearranging the carved talismans in the glass display case, stilled.

  “Oh, Lily was just talking about expanding Aunt Cora’s Closet!” said Bronwyn. Then realization dawned: “Of course, luckily our neighbor is simply moving, not . . .”

  “Dead,” Maya supplied the word she was looking for.

  “Are you . . . in charge of Autumn’s estate, Renee?” I asked.

  “What? Oh. No, no, of course not. It just seemed serendipitous that the space should open up just like that, and I’ve been thinking I needed to expand . . .”

  Maya and Bronwyn and I exchanged looks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Renee, clearly picking up on the tension. “Too soon?”

  “A little,” Maya said softly.

  “Was she a friend of yours? I thought you barely knew her.”

  “We didn’t, not really,” I said. “Still and all, it’s a tragedy, her passing away so quickly.”

  “Of course it was. And so unexpected. She wasn’t very old! I’m just . . . Well, you know how real estate is around here. If you don’t jump on something right away, the opportunity passes. There have already been folks poking around, looking in the windows. . . .”

  Speaking of peeking into windows . . .

  “Do you happen to know Eleanor and Cody . . . I don’t know their last names,” I said. “They have a cute dog named Mr. Bojangles.”

  “I don’t recall. . . .”

  “They’re a young couple, twentysomethings. They were there the first morning I met you in your store—Cody has a big bushy beard?”

  “What is with that style? I don’t care for it at all.”

  “Agree with you there,” said Bronwyn. The two took a moment to swap their least favorite current styles, sagging pants and bushy beards and muttonchops topping the list.

  “So do you like the skinny jeans that are replacing the sagging pants?” Maya asked.

  “Not really. They’re usually paired with the strange facial hair! And ear plugs!” The two dissolved into laughter.

  “I think this dress would suit you, Renee,” I said, holding up a loose gauzy dress with a tropical theme. Its vibrations were confident but very sweet and mellow; there was something of an edge to Renee that made me want to help her relax. Her vibrations reminded me a little of Sandra Schmidt, our soon-to-be-gone retail neighbor.

  “So,” I said, hoping to get the conversation back on track. “You don’t know him? The young man with the beard? I think he and his wife live in the neighborhood. He mentioned he frequents your shop.”

  “Hate to tell you, but there are a lot of people coming in and out of the shop. Everyone lov
es cupcakes. Why are you asking about him?”

  “No reason in particular. Maya and I met them at the dog park, and Cody mentioned he maintains the Web site for the Rodchester House of Spirits.”

  “Oooh, the Rodchester House of Spirits!” cooed Bronwyn. “I just can’t wait!”

  “Wait for what?” asked Renee.

  “I’m having a sleepover there tomorrow night. Can you imagine?”

  Renee looked troubled.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, shaking herself a little. “That place just gives me the creeps, somehow.”

  “Me, too,” said Maya.

  “You’ve been?”

  “Hasn’t everybody?”

  “I think it’s gorgeous,” said Bronwyn. “And remember—spirits aren’t here to bother us; they’re part of the mystical veils that surround us, cloaking us in their warmth and knowledge. Tell them, Lily.”

  “What about demons?” Maya piped up. When I first met Maya she didn’t believe in my abilities with the craft, much less ghosts and demons. Since then she’d seen a lot and had been on a pretty steep learning curve.

  Renee blanched, and Bronwyn pursed her lips together.

  “You think there might be demons in Rodchester House?” asked Renee.

  “No, of course not,” I said. “In fact, we don’t know that there’s anything at all paranormal in Rodchester House.”

  “I think there’s something there, but I don’t know what,” Renee said. “I consulted a mage a few months ago, and he said there was no such thing as demons.”

  I sincerely hoped the “mage” she was referring to wasn’t the dubious Jamie. I was trying to think of a way to frame my question so it wouldn’t sound too pushy when Renee offered: “I went to see him to inquire about the next steps to take for the success of my business.”

  “Do you know a man named Jamie?”

  “He has a beard, like the other fellow?”

  “No, he’s a lot older than Cody, probably in his thirties or forties. Not very tall . . .” It was on the tip of my tongue to say: “claims to resolve curses.” But again, though my friends backed me up in my magical endeavors, sometimes they were best left protected. “Sort of a Jersey tough-guy accent? He had some business with Autumn Jennings, and he mentioned you had given her his name.”