a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (12 page)

Sailor raised an eyebrow.

“We had a 1960s musicals film festival last week,” I explained. “
Bye Bye Birdie
was Oscar’s favorite.”

“Of course,” Sailor said dryly. “I should have guessed.”

I cast a suspicious glance at the pink bakery box, which appeared to have remained the way we left it. Oscar was the very picture of innocence, though I thought I spied a little green frosting on his snout. Still, it was hard to tell against his greenish scales. While we were gone he had made his way through an entire bag of ranch-flavored Doritos, two apples, and a king-sized Snickers bar. I was pretty sure the apples had been the last to go down his gullet, and then only because he’d already eaten all the good stuff.

“What’s the tale, nightingale?” Oscar insisted.

“It was a bit of a water haul, when it comes right down to it,” I said. “But we found a few leads. We’re heading over to the Legion of Honor now. Want to come along, or should we drop you off at home?”

“The Legion of Honor’s over near the ocean. Can we go to the beach after? Or maybe hike Lands End trail? Or get brunch at Cliff House?”

“I . . .” I glanced at Sailor.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he said. “No reason to hurry back to the shop, remember? When’s the last time you went to the beach?”

“As I’m sure you recall, I was recently shot at and nearly trapped and killed in a tunnel at the Sutro Bath ruins,” I said. “Does that count?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” said Sailor with a chuckle. “I was thinking more along the lines of lolling on the sand with a picnic basket, watching the waves roll in, searching for seashells . . .”

“Who
are
you?” This was a whole new side of a man I thought I had come to know.

“Did someone say picnic?” Oscar, at least, was true to form. There was no distracting this gobgoyle from talk of food. “Picnics have potato chips! And cookies! And the cupcakes for dessert!”

“Okay, boys, I tell you what,” I said, laughing. “I’m getting hungry, too. First let’s see what we can find out about the mysterious Scarlet the Dog Walker at the Legion of Honor, and then if we have time we can pick up some fixin’s for a picnic on the beach, like regular Californians.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,” said Sailor, “But regular Californians do not picnic at the beach in the fog.”

“I’ll bet some of them do.”

“Tourists, maybe.”

“All right, fine. We’ll act like tourists, then.”

“And then it’ll be cupcake time?” Oscar asked.

“And then it’ll be cupcake time.”

*   *   *

“Nope,” said the tired-looking middle-aged man behind the desk in the offices of the Legion of Honor. “Nobody named Scarlet on the payroll.”

“Could she be a volunteer, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Could you check?”

“You’d have to talk to the volunteer coordinator. But she doesn’t work today.”

“Is there any way you could check for me? It’s a matter of some urgency.”

The man let out a long, exasperated breath, as if the burden of my request sat heavily upon his well-padded shoulders. Leaning forward, he started typing and squinted at the computer screen.

“Lotta volunteers in a place like this,” he grumbled, still clicking on the keyboard and the mouse. “Every art history graduate in the world thinks, ‘Super, I want to be a museum curator!’ Like that makes any sense at all. They had the smarts God gave a goose they would go into computer programming like everyone else in the world. Whoever heard of art history as a major?”

I bit my tongue to keep from asking why, given his disdainful attitude,
he
was working at a fabulous art museum like the Legion of Honor. As my grandmother used to say,
“Some people can’t even enjoy their ice cream cone for the drips.”

He scrolled through a list on the computer screen,
tilting his head back to read through the bottom section of his bifocals.

Finally, he wrote something on a Post-it and handed it to me.

“That’s all I got.”

I read the note aloud: “Victorian clothing?”

He nodded. “Only one Scarlet listed, and she was a volunteer for the Victorian clothing exhibit, Vintage Victoriana. You need a special ticket for that.”

*   *   *

It cost an extra ten dollars apiece to get into the special exhibit, but I figured it was for a good cause. I intended to take a quick spin through the show, just long enough to see if anyone knew Scarlet or if some other clue as to how to find her might appear. But to my surprise Sailor lingered, even after the security guards and ticket takers explained that they didn’t know the volunteers who had helped set things up. He seemed content to study the contents of the glassed-in cases. I had assumed he hung around Aunt Cora’s Closet mostly because of
me
; it hadn’t occurred to me that Sailor might be a vintage clothing buff. Then again, vintage clothes did have a way of winning people over.

“What?” he asked me.

“What, what?” I asked in return.

He smiled, his gaze fixed on a placard reading,

Mantle, Paris, c. 1891; Emile Pingat, France, active 1860–1896. Wool; simple weave with silk velvet studded with embroidery of silver-and-gold thread, pearl beads, ostrich-feather trim

and

Visiting Dress, France, c. 1855. Silk; simple weave adorned with weft-float brocade patterning upon satin background, silk-and-metallic-thread ribbon trim

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I didn’t realize you were interested in old clothes. You don’t seem nearly so enamored with the merchandise at Aunt Cora’s Closet.”

“That’s because I don’t want to be invited to join you on wash day. I’ve seen how you recruit helpers for the laundry.”

“Very funny. But seriously, do old clothes appeal to you?”

“Not the textiles themselves. What draws me is the history, what the fashions say about the time and place, the social and cultural mores. That sort of thing. Lots of people find it fascinating, obviously; look how crowded the exhibit is.”

It was a weekday, so the throngs were probably at their thinnest, but there were still plenty of visitors milling about.

“Are you picking up on anything?” Sailor whispered.

“Not really. I wish I could touch it.”

“I know what you mean,” said a woman who had overheard me. “Can you imagine being that tiny and wearing something like that? The last time I was that small I was still in middle school. I know a few women who could fit into it, though.”

I smiled.

But the woman’s comment made me think: Autumn had been quite petite. I bet she could have worn these garments.

“You know,” I said to Sailor in a low voice, “Renee
mentioned Autumn had tried on the Victorian ball gowns from the antique trousseau. Usually ball gowns were worn over corsets and petticoats, and a woman who could afford a gown like that also had servants to help her get dressed.”

“Must have been nice,” Sailor said.

“Not just nice—necessary. It was impossible for a woman to put on a fancy dress like this given all the accoutrements and scores of tiny buttons or hooks that fasten the dress in the back.”

“The invention of the zipper must have changed all that,” Sailor mused. “So where are you going with this?”

“It occurred to me that Autumn would have needed help getting into those Victorian ball gowns. So maybe Scarlet tried on the dresses with Autumn and they helped each other.”

“And if she did—what would that tell us?”

“I have no idea.”

The dresses were works of art, full of fanciful poufs, swags, and drapes. But as pretty as they were, the idea of actually wearing one held no appeal. Wealthy women of the era were clad in many pounds of fabric and ornamentation, such as beads and jewels. And that wasn’t even counting the physical restraint of being encased in tight-fighting corsets and clothing, not to mention the absurdly narrow high-heeled shoes they wore, wildly unsuited to cobblestone streets and slippery surfaces. I’d take the comfort and ease of movement of modern clothing and footwear any day.

We moved on to a display of gloves and shoes, which seemed almost comically elongated.

Gloves and Shoes, Austrian, 1850s. Empress Elisabeth of Austria was considered the most beautiful woman in the world. Her elongated figure set the standard for constricted, elegant beauty. This pair of almost fantastically slender Adelaides and gloves were given to her by one of her many admirers. The fashion for straight shoes was a boon to cobblers as it freed them from the need to make two versions of the shoe, the left and the right; they needed only a single last per shoe size.

“Can you believe this? Who could possibly fit into something like that?” I asked, imagining that even a child’s hands and feet would be wider than the gloves and shoes on display. When Sailor didn’t answer, I glanced up and saw he had drifted off to the next case.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was distracted by the sleeve plumpers.”

“The what, now?”

He gestured at a mannequin wearing a cotton sateen corset, frilly petticoats, and large down-filled balloons fitted high on the arm. “Sleeve plumpers.”

“Well, in the 1980s women wore shoulder pads. I guess it’s the same concept.” I gave him a sidelong look. “You sure you aren’t perusing the corset?”

He gave me a crooked grin. “I’m not going to deny this stuff might lead a person to certain . . . ideas. You get some corsets in the shop occasionally. Ever try one on?”

“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.”