a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (17 page)

“Huh.”

“But it’s still readily available.”

“How so?”

“It’s rat poison, essentially. And it’s used in fireworks as well. I don’t know the details, but sometimes workers in fireworks factories are accidentally poisoned. It’s come up on the Chinatown beat from time to time.”

“So someone put arsenic into Autumn’s food? Who would do something like that?” Had she been a secret heiress of some kind? The vintage clothes business wasn’t normally profitable enough to kill over. Her apartment over the store had some nice things, but it wasn’t
that
posh. “Did she have a lot of enemies, do you know?”

He hesitated. “I don’t feel all that comfortable talking
to you about this—not only would it not be a good idea anyway, but it’s not even my case.”

“I know, Carlos, but this case involves vintage clothes, and now I’ve been informed that some of Autumn’s recent acquisitions might have been cursed. Besides, I’m implicated at some level, and so is Bronwyn.” Which reminded me . . . “They didn’t find anything suspicious in Bronwyn’s scones, did they?”

He shook his head. “No. They haven’t figured out how Jennings was exposed yet.”

I slumped in relief.

“As far as the Autumn Jennings homicide investigation goes . . .” He trailed off.

“What?” I urged.

“It’s really none of my business, since it’s not my case. But it sounds like they’re not convinced it was homicide. The medical examiner still hasn’t made his ruling, and not all the tests are in.”

“They think Autumn could have ingested the poison by accident?”

“It’s possible. Back in the day people were accidentally exposed to all sorts of things. It’s like lead poisoning; it could be caused by any number of things.”

“So Inspectors Stinson and Ng think it was accidental? Do you agree?”

He shrugged again. “As I said, I’m not exactly bowled over by Stinson. I don’t know Ng as well. I think it’s possible they’re searching for something that isn’t there. It bothers me that they’re sniffing around you, obviously.”

“Thanks, Carlos,” I said, feeling warm and fuzzy at the thought that this tough homicide cop cared about what happened to a rather sketchy witch.

“So, not that I believe in curses, but tell me how this would work. You’re saying there’s a cursed trousseau?”

“According to legend, two local men had a falling-out over a young woman, and somehow one of them managed to cast a curse, and the woman died.”

“Seems more like a curse against the woman than the man.”

“I suppose sometimes it’s harder to be the one left behind than to be the one who passes.”

Carlos stared at me for a long moment. Finally he cleared his throat and gave a swift nod. “I suppose you’re right. So you’re saying this woman may have died from a curse long ago, and now what? The curse is still working against people who acquire the trousseau?”

“No, I wouldn’t think so. Normally curses don’t work that way. I mean, there are hereditary curses, but those are usually passed down through a family bloodline. If the item held a demon or something like that . . .” I trailed off and shook my head. “But I touched a few of the pieces of the trousseau, and while I felt a lot of sadness there, I certainly didn’t feel anything demonic.”

“Always a plus.”

“Indeed.”

“And when was this?”

“What?”

“When did you feel the trousseau?”

I pondered lying and telling him it was the evening Maya and I first found Autumn Jennings in the upstairs apartment. But . . . Carlos was a friend. He was a cop, but he was also a friend. Also, so much of my life required a certain obfuscation of the truth that I was trying to be more transparent whenever possible.

“I asked Sailor to go back with me, hoping he might be able to communicate with Autumn’s spirit. In case she was lingering there.”

“Why am I not surprised that Sailor was involved?”

“It wasn’t his fault; I asked him to go.”

“I have no trouble believing that. The two of you make quite a pair. Anyway, Jennings died at the hospital. So if a person believed in spirits . . . wouldn’t she be lingering there?”

“Apparently not. I thought the same thing, but Sailor says a lot of times people return to their homes or some other locale that’s important to them.”

“Uh-huh.” He passed a hand over a whiskery cheek, the scraping sound familiar and comforting to me. Then he started idly tracing designs on the tabletop with his finger.

I knew Carlos well enough by now to note the signs of him moving out of his comfort zone regarding all things supernatural. He was much more open-minded than the average person—much less the average cop—when it came to things like witchcraft and paranormal crime. But he was a still a tough urban homicide inspector. It wasn’t easy for him.

“Let’s go back for a moment to the breaking and entering.”

“It wasn’t breaking and entering. I had a key.”

“Autumn Jennings gave you a key?”

“Sort of.”

“I didn’t realize you two were buddies. Would this be before or after she served you with legal papers?”

“I’m saying: She gave me the keys in a manner of speaking.”

“What manner would that be?”

I was glad the lights were too low for him to see me blushing.

“In that when Maya and I found her, we were left to close up shop. And to take care of her dog, Loretta, I should mention.”

“She has a dog named Loretta?”

I nodded. “Now, apparently, Maya or I have a dog named Loretta. Unless . . . you live alone, right?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Carlos interrupted. “I don’t do pets.”

I smiled. “I’ll bet you’d be great with a big old dog. Carlos and Loretta, hanging out and watching the ball game . . .”

“I have enough trouble taking care of big old Carlos. Let’s get back to the discussion of you letting yourself into crime scenes. You know how I feel about this. One of these days I’m going to wind up arresting you for some shenanigan like that.”

“You’re right; I should have asked you first. But there was no crime scene tape up—”

“No tape?”

I shook my head. “In fact, it didn’t look as though the cops had been through there. At least, it looked nothing like my place. They did a number on Aunt Cora’s Closet.”

He swore under his breath.

“Was it something I said?” I asked.

“No, it’s just . . . I guess they have a different way of doing things. But it sounds like they’re hoping to declare this case an accident, or suicide. Still, they should have gone through her place with a fine-tooth comb, just in case there’s, I dunno, an open container of rat poison on the kitchen counter or some such.”

“You’re suggesting she took the poison on purpose?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. But the inspectors on the case should be ruling out suicide as well as homicide, especially since we’re talking a poison like arsenic. Though if this was homicide, most folks would have used something a lot more subtle and difficult to detect than arsenic. As you pointed out, that’s old-school, Borgia-style murder.”

We both sat back and pondered for a few moments.

“You know, Scarlet the dog walker was volunteering at an exhibit of historic dresses at the Legion of Honor, which was co-curated by Parmelee Riesling. Remember her?”

“The clothing conservator at the Asian Art Museum?”

“Precisely.”

“How does Riesling fit into this?”

“I’m not saying she does, but she appears to have known Autumn and maybe Scarlet through the exhibit as well. And Riesling sure knows a lot about old clothing. I asked if I could drop by and chat with her this afternoon. Want to go? I mean, I know this isn’t your case, and you probably have lots of better things to do on your day off.”

He stood. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *

Parmelee Riesling rocked a severe pageboy haircut; she was several inches shorter than I, and on the stout side. Thick glasses gave her a slightly bug-eyed appearance. And she took herself very, very seriously.

“Who are you?” she asked when she opened the door.

“Lily Ivory. I called earlier? And this is Inspector Carlos Romero, remember?”

“Right. Insect-ridden trunk full of worthless items,
mostly merchant-class nineteenth century. Trunk itself was from Salem.”

“That was us,” said Carlos.

“And you were wearing a nice example of a sundress, North Carolina dye lot.”

“Yep, worthless trunk, insect infested, indigo dye lot.”

“Uh-huh.” She reached out and pinched my skirt between her thumb and forefinger.

“Same period as the last dress I saw you in. Favorite era?”

“I guess so. I branch out from time to time, but I like this style.”

Her magnified eyes looked me over, from head to toe, intently. After a moment she gave a quick nod. “Suits you.”

“Um . . . thank you,” I said. From such a critical sort, I took that as a high compliment.

She hadn’t invited us in, so we still stood out in the corridor. Riesling’s lab and offices were on the second floor of the museum, away from the crowd, but still public.

“We were hoping we could ask you about a woman named Autumn Jennings,” said Carlos.

“What about her?”

“You bought some clothes from her?”

“From time to time.”

“Could we maybe buy you a coffee and talk?”

She hesitated, checked over her shoulder. Then said, “How about a Manhattan?”

“Well . . . sure,” I said, glancing at Carlos, who nodded. “Of course.”

“I’m taking a break,” she yelled behind her, then came out into the hall, muttering all the while. “We got
in some trusses from the Heskett Collection. Nothing but moth-eaten junk. Hate that crap.”

“Oh, sure. I know what you mean.” I must have looked befuddled.

She frowned, homing in on my tone. “Surely you know the Heskett Collection? I thought you were in the vintage clothes business.”

“I am, yes indeedy, ma’am,” I said, my inner Texan coming out when faced with authority figures. Even though Parmelee was shorter than I, and probably not more than a decade or so older, I felt intimidated by her officiousness.

I could tell Carlos was smiling at my response.

“But I don’t count myself an expert,” I continued. “Not by any means.”

“Jennings seems to know a lot. Can’t get that woman to stop talking about the fabulous Missoni maxi sequin duster cardigan she acquired for a ‘mere’ thousand that she was going to turn around and sell for two. Or the Valentino wedding gown? Please, if that baby’s authentic, it would go for twenty-five, thirty thousand, easy.”

“I think Autumn was more up on things than I. Not to mention in a whole other league, pricewise,” I said, thinking about Autumn’s apartment over her shop. There were some nice furnishings, despite the dreary feel of the place. Still, if she was dealing with such valuable fashions, couldn’t she have afforded nicer digs? Where could all her money have gone? “At Aunt Cora’s Closet, I sell a lot of old sundresses.”

We descended the broad sweep of stairs to the open lobby. Schoolkids on a field trip ran around, past the museum gift shop featuring an exhibition on India’s
maharajahs. I could feel little whispers on my bare arms, the sensations of confused spirits attached to items in the museum, no doubt wondering where they were and what the heck had happened. I wondered what it must feel like for a spirit to be bound to a Buddhist temple in Bangladesh, then find him- or herself here in San Francisco. A transplant, much like me.

We stepped outside the front doors of the museum, into a sunny afternoon.

“Was?” Parmelee demanded.

“Was what?” I asked.

“You used the past tense,” she said. “You said Autumn Jennings ‘was’ more up on things than you.”

Darn. I was wishing we were already ensconced in a dim bar, drinks in front of us. I didn’t know how close she and Autumn were and I hated delivering news of someone’s demise, though it seemed like something I should get used to, considering how my life was shaping up of late. I glanced at Carlos, hoping he would take control of this aspect of the conversation.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Ms. Riesling,” Carlos began.

She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, please, call me Parmelee.”

“All right, then, Parmelee. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Autumn Jennings passed away.”

She looked at him, startled. “Passed
away
?”

“Early yesterday morning.”

“That’s . . . I’m shocked. What happened? Car accident?”

“We’re not sure yet,” said Carlos. “But she was sick. We’re afraid it might have been a poison of some sort.”

“On purpose?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean do they think she was poisoned on purpose? In our line of work there are a lot of poisons.”

“This is exactly the sort of thing we were hoping to talk with you about,” said Carlos.

We descended the steps and crossed McAllister to a restaurant and bar called Soluna. A lush community garden thrived next door, the Federal Building stood on the next block, Hastings Law School was down the street, and the City Hall plaza sat directly in front of the museum. Nonetheless, it wasn’t a great area and it bordered the Tenderloin, one of the more down-and-out areas of the city. San Francisco was so small, geographically speaking, that run-down neighborhoods sat cheek by jowl with posh ones. It was a startling reality check to walk out of a fine French restaurant and have to negotiate a soup kitchen line at Glide Memorial.

Inside, the restaurant was chic and dim, with heavy drapes keeping out most of the late-afternoon light, and extravagant light fixtures of amber glass that cast a very subtle golden glow throughout. It was quiet; the bar’s official happy hour wouldn’t commence for another hour.

“They fix a mean Manhattan,” Parmelee said as she hoisted herself onto a tall barstool at the corner. I sat on one side; Carlos stood on the other, leaning against the bar. He ordered a beer, and I felt like something of a party pooper when I asked for club soda with lime. But I’d felt the need to keep my wits about me lately.

“So,” said Carlos. “What kinds of poisons might a person in the old-clothes business be exposed to?”

“All sorts: carcinogens of all kinds, of course. Lead, mercury, cyanide . . .”