a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (11 page)

“Anything?” I asked when he completed a loop around the shop floor.

He shook his head. “Where did you encounter her?”

“Upstairs.”

“Let’s check it out.”

I took a moment to stroke the soft red leather medicine bag on a braided cord of multicolored silk strands that I kept tied at my waist. In it was a small collection of items from my past—a stone, a feather, a little of the red dirt connecting me to my childhood in West Texas—as well as a few objects tying me to my present. I “fed” the bag regularly, anointing it with oil from time to time, whispering to it my hopes and fears. No matter the situation, touching it helped to ground me.

“You okay?” Sailor asked after a long moment.

“Yes, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

I opened the little door behind the register and led the way up the dim stairs. In the upstairs hallway, enough light sifted in through the grimy windows so we could see where we were going.

“It’s depressing up here,” Sailor said quietly.

“I thought so, too. But really, this from the man who lives just beyond a homicide scene in Chinatown?”

“It’s a very old homicide. It isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

I cocked my head. “You think something here is going to hurt someone?”

He shrugged, as though distracted, and went to stand in the doorway of the first room to the right. I peeked around his shoulder.

The room was still packed with boxes and portable clothes racks, and a heap of lingerie lay on top of the bed. A plastic bin held old-fashioned brown and black leather shoes, the scent of shoe polish combining with that of cardboard and dusty textiles. Several Victorian-era ball gowns hung on cushioned hangers from hooks jutting out from the wall, silks and satins in shades of emerald green, butter yellow, and mauve. The freestanding full-length mirror was tilted slightly back in the corner.

Everything was exactly as I remembered. A few things might have been moved around, but there was no fingerprint powder residue, no overt signs that anyone had conducted a thorough search. Why hadn’t the forensics team been here, collecting evidence?

Sailor crossed the room slowly, turning his body slightly sideways, like a gunslinger, as he approached the mirror.

I remained, silent and unmoving, in the doorway.

Sailor stood in front of the looking glass for a very long time. Finally, he raised one hand and placed his palm flat against the mirror’s slick glass, hung his head, and let out a deep breath.

I had witnessed Sailor making contact with the dead before, but he’d always sat cross-legged on the floor when entering a trance. Perhaps this was a new technique he’d been developing with Patience. Mirrors can be powerful and sometimes serve as windows to the backward world and the spheres beyond the veil. This was why they were traditionally covered in a house where someone had died
recently, for fear that the deceased’s soul might become trapped.

Sailor remained, unmoving, in front of the mirror for so long I began to wonder if he was all right and fought the urge to break the spell, to intervene.

Sailor is a big boy; he knows what he’s doing.

So I stroked my medicine bag again and focused my intent on supporting Sailor’s psychic explorations. I had no idea whether my energy could help him, but I decided it couldn’t hurt to try. Having Oscar anywhere in the vicinity helped me when I was brewing.

We were enveloped in a silence so profound that the buzzing of an insect and the ticking of the old pendulum clock in the hallway filled the air and surrounded us. I looked around, noting a stack of cardboard boxes that had been labeled by hand with a thick black marker:
Shoes
,
Hats
, and three large ones labeled
Silverware
,
Dishes
, and
Napkins
. I peeked into one labeled
Stockings
. Inside was a jumble of old-fashioned stockings, many of them striped. They were very old, and more than a few were moth-eaten beyond repair. If this was representative of the quality of the items in the Victorian trousseau Autumn had been so excited about, she would have been very disappointed.

At long last, Sailor lifted his head, his arm fell away from the mirror, and he turned to look at me.

My blood ran cold: For an instant his eyes were blank, devoid of any signs of Sailor-ness.

“Are you all right?” I ventured. “Sailor?”

And just like that, Sailor was back. He nodded. “I made contact. Autumn wasn’t able to tell me what had happened to her. She’s . . . confused, I’d say.”

“Is she here now?” I looked around, as though expecting to be able to see her. “Or did you connect with her on a spectral plane?”

“No, she’s here. I expect she will be for a while; she’s not convinced she’s dead. I have to hand it to you vintage clothes dealers—you’re extraordinarily dedicated. She’s intent on taking care of her latest acquisition. I couldn’t get her to focus; she kept obsessing about it.”

“So, then . . . she’s haunting this shop?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure ‘haunting’ is the best way to describe it. She’s . . . hanging around. I don’t think she intends to bother anyone; not sure she’s really aware of the living, though as she becomes more focused, she might accidentally spook someone.”

“Okay.” I blew out a breath. “As it turns out, I know someone who specializes in ridding houses of their ghosts, so if need be we could call her in.”

“It occurs to me that between the two of us we have quite an interesting roster of friends and acquaintances. We could throw one hell of a Halloween party.”

“You aren’t kidding. But for the moment let’s get back to Autumn. You’re saying she can’t tell you what happened, or how she was poisoned?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t really expect that she could. It’s rare for the departed to know what happened. I think of it as a kind of amnesia, a kindness our brains extend to us so we don’t proceed to the next stage of existence accompanied by pain and fear. The only time a victim of a homicide can be helpful in naming the guilty party is when they had been stalked or harassed previously. That didn’t happen to Autumn, at least not that she could remember.”

“Could she tell you anything at all?”

“It’s not like we’re sitting down and having a chat. It’s much more amorphous. I get a series of impressions or symbols, and then do my best at interpreting them. One thing that did come through loud and clear: Autumn’s confused, perhaps because of the poison.”

“That’s not surprising—she was confused when Maya and I found her.”

He nodded. “Probably the same thing. Time moves at a different pace on the other side of the veil as well, so I imagine getting over something like that might be unpredictable.”

“She couldn’t tell you anything else?”

“She’s very focused on some of the lingerie on the bed. Oh, and towels.”

“Towels?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, we don’t actually
talk
about it. It’s more a kind of . . . mind melding, for lack of a better term. I see images, get sensations. And I saw towels, with embroidery on them.”

“Wait a minute—didn’t Renee mention something about tea towels?”

The buzzing sound grew louder as I approached the bed and started sorting through the pile of assorted items—old-fashioned lingerie such as corsets and bloomers and petticoats, as well as embroidered linen towels, both large and small.

As I picked up and held the items, one after the other, I felt their vibrations. There was a distinct sense of dread and pain and . . . fear.

It was muffled, faded through the ages, but, like most strong sensations, it endured.

“These are very old sensations,” I said. “Probably original to the young woman whose trousseau this was.”

“And are we to assume she simply never married? Or is there a more sinister interpretation . . . ?”

“Given these sensations, I’m afraid she passed away. I feel pain and fear and a sense of . . . otherworldliness. Madness, maybe? Or someone on the brink of death, with one foot in this world and one beyond.”

I reared back as a bee flew by.

“Hey, how’d you get in here?” I held out my hands. “C’mere, sugar.”

It flew to me, landing on my palm. The bee walked around, exploring for a moment, her tiny feet tickling my palm.

I could feel Sailor’s eyes on me. “You converse with bees now?”

“Um . . . not exactly. I mean, it’s not like they talk back.”

“You’re not afraid it will sting you?”

I shook my head.

“This a witchy thing?”

I smiled. “I don’t know about all witches, but I’ve always been close to honeybees. And they’re not doing well; have you heard about the colony collapse? We need all the bees we can get. Would you open the window, please?”

Sailor obliged, forcing up the stiff sash with brute strength. I held my hand out the open window, and after a moment the bee lifted off and buzzed away.

I looked back to find Sailor’s intense gaze upon me.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he said softly, giving me a smile. “Let’s look through the rest of the place.”

Our search didn’t turn up much more, and we didn’t want to rearrange anything before the police had a chance to investigate, for fear of disturbing evidence. The kitchen was large enough to double as a family room, with a nicely upholstered couch, thick oriental carpet, and huge flat-screen TV in one corner, but despite shiny black granite countertops and cherry cabinets, it was as gloomy and off-putting as the rest of the apartment. A few nice paintings hung on the wall, slightly askew. A mahogany table and two chairs were set up by the window, the table half-covered by a stack of old newspapers; dirty dishes lined the counter, and the sink was full of pots.

Autumn’s bedroom was similar: nicely furnished but messy. The bed had been made before I yanked off her quilt yesterday to warm her up while we waited for the paramedics, but several items of clothing had been tossed on the floor as though without thought, and the top of a sleek vanity was littered with bills and letters and store flyers, in addition to a jumble of lotion and perfume and a hairbrush. The stack of mail I had picked up yesterday was where I had left it: mostly bills, and the thick manila envelope that I now noted was marked
Jamie
.

We went back downstairs, where I riffled through the things behind the counter in earnest, because now that Autumn was dead I wasn’t concerned with respecting her privacy. I was hoping to find a receipt for one very odd, very old trousseau. But there was no sign of a ledger, and I wasn’t nearly adept enough at computers to try to figure out a bookkeeping system, even if I had been brave enough to try to e-snoop.

In the pile of papers behind the register, along with
the brochure for the Rodchester house, was a receipt from the Legion of Honor. It indicated that Autumn had lent some pieces to the museum. And Mrs. Morgan had mentioned that Scarlet worked there as well.

I jumped when an electronic version of “Greensleeves” filled the shop. As soon as I realized where it was coming from, I grabbed Autumn’s phone and checked the screen.

“Jamie?” I answered the call.

“I saw you called last night,” said a man’s voice. “You’ve changed your mind? Price is the same.”

“I . . .”
Dangitall
, I should have thought this through. Did that manila envelope hold cash for Jamie? If so, was it for something banal like a used bicycle? Or could it be for some nefarious purpose? Should I play along, pretend I was Autumn? “Yes, I believe I have changed my mind. How much was it again?”

“You playing with me?”

“I’m just a little confused lately.”

“Not surprised, given the size of what you’re dealing with. Tell you what—today’s nuts for me. Meet me tomorrow night, nine o’clock, Pier 39. Buy a ticket to the mirror maze. I’ll find you inside. What do you look like?”

“Long brown hair. I wear vintage dresses usually.”

“Good for business, I’m guessing. All right, I’ll find you. Bring the money.”

He hung up.

“May I ask why you’re describing yourself to a stranger on the phone?” Sailor asked.

“I guess we’re meeting a man named Jamie tomorrow night at the mirror maze on Pier 39. Do you know it?”

He nodded.

“I mean, if you’re available? I shouldn’t assume.”

“Suffice it to say that if you’re going to meet a strange man at night in a mirror maze,
I’m
going to meet a strange man at night in a mirror maze. Who’s Jamie?”

“I don’t know, but there’s an envelope for him upstairs in Autumn’s bedroom. I’m guessing it contains cash.”

*   *   *

“How much do you think that is?” I said, gazing at the stack of hundred-dollar bills in the envelope.

“A few thousand dollars? Maybe more? We could, of course, count it.”

We could, but I was afraid to touch it.

“I suppose it could be legitimate,” I said. “Maybe Autumn was planning to buy some clothes from him.”

“Paying for merchandise in cash instead of by check? And holding business meetings at the Pier 39 mirror maze? Pretty sure that’s not how it’s done in Fortune 500 companies.”

“It does seem fishy, doesn’t it? Could I use your phone again?”

After Sailor handed it over, I called Sam Spade and asked him to track down whatever he could about someone named Jamie, and gave him his phone number.

“So what now?” Sailor asked.

“Want to go to a museum?” I asked him.

“Is this just for our erudition or . . . ?”

“Mrs. Morgan mentioned Scarlet worked at the Legion of Honor. And there’s a receipt here indicating Autumn loaned some garments to an exhibit there. So maybe that’s where they met? Or . . . something? I don’t know. Maybe we can find Scarlet there?”

He checked his watch. “Your wish is my command. At least until six o’clock.”

“What happens at six?”

“I’ve got a couple of readings lined up. Time for me to make some money.”

“That’s great, Sailor.”

He shrugged. “Some of these folks are a bit worrisome. But it’s a living.”

Chapter 8

“What’s the story, morning glory? What’s the word, hummingbird?” Oscar demanded impatiently when we returned to the van.