a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (21 page)

“I heard she didn’t have any family.”

“Yeah, well, that was partly my point. She used to. Plenty. But they all died off. Her father came from a big family; everybody died young. And then in her generation, everybody died young, too. Including her kid, I guess. Always sad when a kid gets it, am I right?”

I nodded.

“And her husband died a coupla years ago, too. So she figured maybe she was cursed, like maybe something was following her around.”

“But it wasn’t related to a trousseau, then?”

“She mentioned something about that, but I got the impression she thought the trousseau was historic, like from her family. Maybe her great-grandma’s or something. Doesn’t really matter; this was a hereditary curse.”

“That actually makes more sense,” I said to myself as much as to the men. “It’s not the clothes that are cursed, but the bloodline.”

“And what were you promising to do for her?” asked Sailor.

“Hey, I got skills. As do you, I can tell. I got a nose for this kind of thing. You’re a seer?”

“What I’m seeing right now,” said Sailor, “is that you were planning on taking Autumn Jennings’s money and giving her nothing in return.”

“Well, now, that’s not exactly true. What I do is I go back through the documents and try to see where the trouble began. Then, I got a girl out in the Avenues, Russian, they’re good at this sort of thing. She does a
whole cleansing-type deal. Real convincing. I mean, the cleansing’s legit and all, but she does a whole show . . . you sorta gotta be there. Anyway, she goes a long way toward convincing someone the curse is lifted, and as you probably know . . .”

“The belief in the curse—or the cure—is as powerful as the actual curse.”

He nodded his rodentlike head. “Exactly.”

I studied him for a moment. “So you’re basically the go-between for someone who thinks they’re cursed and this Russian woman in the Avenues.”

“Basically.”

“And for this you charge two thousand dollars?”

“What I got”—he laid his finger on the side of his nose—“people are willing to pay for. And not for nothin’, but sometimes the more they pay, the more they believe in the cure, if you catch my drift.”

I nodded. The sad truth was that he was right. As a general rule, the more someone invested in something—in this culture it tended to be monetary—the more they valued it. It was true for cars and jewels, and magic as well.

The wind kicked the salt off the bay, enveloping us in the night breezes. I thought about all the happy—and exhausted—tourists, the couples headed out to crab dinners and hopping onto the carousel for another ride. Autumn would never take another ride, would never have another night out. All of us would eventually cross that bridge from the lives we knew now to the beyond, of course, but Autumn’s life, tragically, had been cut short. And no matter what Stinson and Ng thought, I wasn’t buying the accidental death theory. There were
simply too many coincidences and loose ends and people acting strangely.

“All right,” I said, blowing out a breath. “You don’t happen to know a young woman named Scarlet, do you? She was an associate of Autumn’s?”

He shook his head. “As should be obvious by now, I never met Autumn before. We talked on the telephone, is all.”

“Which begs the question: How did a nice vintage clothes dealer get mixed up with the likes of you?”

“Hey, I’m a legitimate businessman.”

“Whatever. How’d she find you? Yellow pages?”

“Nah, through her neighbor, the cupcake lady.”

“Renee?”

He nodded.

“Is Renee Baker a friend of yours?”

There was a pause. “I wouldn’t say ‘friend.’ I help her out from time to time, so she refers people to me. Like that.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what he helped her with, but it really wasn’t any of my business. People found support and solace and insight where they could, whether through religion or exercise or psychics or weaselly ersatz curse lifters like Jamie.

Still, I couldn’t quite let it go . . .

“Are you licensed to lift curses?”

“Excuse me?”

I took a copy of the licensure for fortune-telling out of my bag and handed it to him.

“I wouldn’t call myself a necromancer, much less a fortune-teller,” Jamie hedged, looking at the regulations in his hand like they were about to jump up and bite him.

“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 Things.”

“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.