a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (18 page)

“Arsenic?” Carlos asked.

“Sure. Victorian ball gowns were full of the stuff.”

Chapter 13

“Are we talking enough arsenic to kill a person?” Carlos asked.

“More than enough. Sometimes there were long-term effects—neuropathy, organ failure, that sort of thing. But in some cases the poisoning was acute.”

“There was no mention of that in the Vintage Victoriana show,” I said.

She made an impatient gesture. “That was a political decision—one of the directors thought if we mentioned it, the whole show would start revolving around that, and the focus would be taken off the fashion industry. But in my view it’s more historical than political. But I stay out of those kinds of discussions.”

“So, how did the poisonings occur, exactly?”

“There was a particular shade of green that was wildly popular during that time, made of the same thing as Paris green—which is, essentially, still used as rat poison. Mauve is a likely culprit as well. Some of those beautiful Victorian ball gowns were so laden
with arsenic dust that the women would essentially let off clouds of poison as they were twirled around the dance floor.”

“That’s quite an image.”

“Isn’t it? Also, when a person sweats, the moisture further activates the poison, and the pores open, letting it access the bloodstream that much faster. That led to acute problems: dizziness, confusion, paranoia, numbness and tingling in hands and feet . . .”

“Didn’t people realize what was going on?”

“Not for a while. I’m not sure the public health authorities were on top of things back then, if such a department even existed. We modern folks don’t realize exactly how many safeguards are in place, keeping us from harm. We like to complain about government oversight, but without consumer protections, things like this can happen far too easily.”

“Good point,” I said.

“And besides, the colors were fashionable. And fashion often rules the day, as you should know. You ever see what corsets did to rib cages?”

“I thought I knew a fair amount about fashion, but that show was eye-opening. I couldn’t believe the narrow shoes.”

“Yup. People think foot binding was a Chinese thing, but women have been injured and maimed for the sake of fashion all over the world, in almost every era.”

“I guess I deal mostly in wearable outmoded fashions. I have a few flapper dresses from the twenties, and one or two older items on the wall, but most of my stuff’s from midcentury or more recent. I can’t imagine putting myself, much less my customers, at risk for the love of a particular color.”

“Besides ball gowns, several people—including children—lost their feet or legs after being poisoned by their beloved striped stockings. Arsenic dyes can eat right through skin and cripple a person.”

“What a horrifying image,” I said, thinking of the box full of stockings in Autumn Jennings’s apartment.

“That’s disturbing,” said Carlos. “I have to admit, I do have a soft spot for lacy Victorian underthings.”

“Get in line, pal,” said Parmelee in a world-weary voice. “Anyway, the old white cotton stuff is fine. It was the dyed silks and satins that were the problem, so the wealthy folks got dinged on this one. And the poor slobs working in the factories that produced the products, of course.”

The bartender set our drinks on the bar in front of us.

Parmelee took a sip of her Manhattan and smiled. “Now, that’s a good drink. What was I saying? Oh, right. It wasn’t just clothing. There was a case of a mother who gave her children a stuffed animal that they teethed on, killing them both like that.” She snapped her fingers. “And wallpapers, too. William Morris factories were famous for poisoning their workers. A lot of the intricate Victorian wallpapers off-gassed and killed off whole families. Children were often the first to go, since they are lower to the ground and arsine gas is heavier than air. Even Napoléon was said to have died of arsenic poison; some say he was assassinated, but it was very possibly due to his luxurious accommodations on the isle of Elba.”

“I read about that,” said Carlos.

“And finally, it wasn’t just arsenic. Those tall beaver hats were often made with mercury—hence the reference to ‘mad hatters.’”

“I’ve always wondered about that expression,” I said.

“Shoe polish was no walk in the park, either. Still isn’t, though it’s better than before.”

“Shoe polish?”

“Cyanide poisoning. Nitrobenzene has gruesome effects on the central nervous system. It’s also a carcinogen. I’m telling you, I could go on and on. There’s loads of this stuff, even today. You know, every once in a while they’ll find a trove of clothes laden with lead, or toys that kill—we’re living in a global society and we have a hard enough time keeping control over our own products, much less the imported stuff.”

She paused, shook her head, and downed a good portion of her drink. Then she fished out the cherry and popped it in her mouth.

“Do you happen to know a local story about a curse cast by a shoeshine boy?” I asked.

“This the one about the trousseau?”

“Yes—you’ve heard it?”

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand and signaled to the bartender for another drink.

“It’s probably a bunch of hooey. Listen, I hear about curses all the time—I’ve dealt with the wrapping of
mummies
, for heaven’s sake. Like I said, there are a lot of unknown poisons involved with old textiles. You don’t know that? You should take some time to bone up, being in the business.”

“As I was saying, my stuff is more recent. My inventory isn’t as museum quality as Autumn Jennings’s was.”

“I wouldn’t oversell her inventory. She sold me one or two items, lent a couple of things to the show at the Legion of Honor—that was it.”

“She mentioned you on her Web site.”

She rolled her eyes. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses it had a rather startling effect.

“She
tried
to sell me things all the time, liked to think of herself as a player in the field. I’m sorry to cast aspersions, particularly considering . . . what happened. But while she had a lot of old stuff, most of it wasn’t museum quality. Maybe for a small-town museum or something; I mean, historic items are always interesting. But the textiles on exhibit in San Francisco or any other large city are world-class, Worth gowns and the like. And after all, how many nineteenth-century ball gowns can people gawk at?”

“Have you ever been to her store?” asked Carlos.

“Once. Usually people bring things to me, rather than the other way around, but I live not far from there and frankly I was hoping to get her off my back. She was . . . I don’t want to use the word ‘stalker,’ but once that woman got an idea in her mind, she was hard to dissuade.”

“And the idea she had in her mind was . . . ?” Carlos prompted her.

She shrugged. “Rents are skyrocketing in the city, as you probably know. No rent control for businesses. And I don’t know why else; frankly, she wasn’t a friend, so I didn’t know the ins and outs of her finances. She mentioned the rent, is all. Glad my landlord’s my father-in-law, or else I don’t think I’d be able to live in the city on my salary, either.”

“So you were saying you stopped by the store?”

She nodded, sipping her fresh drink. “She had a decent collection, especially for that sort of place. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“But there were . . . Again, far be it from me to talk
ill of the dead. But there may have been one or two issues with labeling.” She gave me a significant look.

“Labeling?” Carlos asked.

“Labels are a big issue for haute couture vintage,” I explained. “Designer labels, like Valentino or Louis Vuitton, can fetch thousands of dollars. Sometimes fraudulent labels are sewn into knock-offs, or genuine labels are taken out of ruined garments and attached to random items. A lot of customers don’t know enough to be aware.”

“You think Jennings was involved in fraud?” Carlos asked.

“I’m not saying anything,” Parmelee said, holding her hands up. “All I’m saying is she was desperate for money, and a few items looked fishy to me. But it’s a moot point now, right?”

Maybe. I thought of the labels I had seen behind the counter at Vintage Visions Glad Rags. Could Autumn’s death have to do with something related to fraud?

“Anyway,” continued Parmelee, “what Autumn really wanted me to look at was this allegedly cursed trousseau. She wanted me to buy it from her, thought she could get a good price for it.”

“You saw the trousseau? Upstairs?”

“Yes. She hadn’t put it out yet. It was quite a haul, linens and underthings and three ball gowns that were in great shape, never worn.”

“Did you offer to buy them?”

She shook her head. “We have no use for them here at the Asian Art Museum, and that show out at the Legion of Honor fulfilled any local desire to see such things. She was pretty disappointed. Then she asked if
I could authenticate the items and put a good word in for her so she could sell them for opera or stage productions. But first I told her she would have to have them tested.”

“For arsenic?”

She nodded. “Two of them, the green and the mauve, were particularly suspicious. I’m telling you, those are some killer colors.”

*   *   *

“No, I will not break into Vintage Visions Glad Rags with you, Lily,” Carlos said as we drove away from the Asian Art Museum. Parmelee had headed back to work, apparently unfazed by her two-Manhattan afternoon tea.

“I have keys,” I pointed out. “Plus, I’m her dog sitter, and the poor woman’s dead, so it really isn’t breaking in, not if
you’re
with me.”

“The US legal system, through the lens of Lily Ivory. I’m afraid dog sitters don’t get special exemptions. Besides, I’ve already meddled plenty in this case. You have any idea what sort of a fit Stinson would have if he heard I’d been trespassing on his crime scene?”

“As I told you, they’re not treating it like a crime scene. Besides, you’re a
cop
. I really don’t see the problem.”

“Hate to break it to you, Lily, but police officers don’t get to just go wherever they feel like and do whatever they want.”

“What’s the point in being a cop, then?”

“Good question. I ask myself that every day.”

We shared a smile.

“Fair enough,” I said. “But where does this leave us, then?”

“Let’s wait and see what the medical examiner declares. If it’s homicide they’ll investigate further.”

“And if it’s declared accidental?”

“Then, that’s that.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Sometimes people screw up, Lily, even to the point of accidentally killing themselves or someone else. As someone who deals with botanicals you should know that—wasn’t there something about a poisonous corsage not too long ago . . . ?”

“Yes, there was, as a matter of fact, but that didn’t turn out to be an accident, either. I mean, I guess it sort of was, but there was a culprit at the base of it.”

“And you think that’s the case here? You think Autumn Jennings really fell under a curse?”

“Maybe.”

“Even if I were going to try to open my mind to that idea, what could you possibly do about it? It was cast by someone a long time ago, who is long dead.”

“True . . .”

“How about if I suggest they burn the trousseau? Would that make you happy?”

“I think they should test the whole kit and caboodle, just in case: the dresses and everything else. I saw some old stockings in a box, too. But a
curse
isn’t that simple to deal with, Carlos. In fact, they’re not simple at all. And then there’s the whole weird Rodchester House of Spirits connection.”

“Sorry—what Rodchester House of Spirits connection?”

“When Maya and I took Loretta to the dog park, we met this couple who knew Autumn, and the dog walker,
Scarlet. He works on the Web site for the House of Spirits and had mentioned it to Scarlet, and then Bronwyn saw a brochure at Autumn’s store. Plus a friend of Bronwyn’s arranged for an overnight birthday party there.”

“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.