a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (5 page)

The dog thumped her tail again.

Maya crouched down and petted the canine, then checked her tags. I heard a tinkling sound. “How cute. Her collar’s like a charm bracelet. Let me see . . . according to the tag, it says her name’s Loretta.”

“Great name.”

“Isn’t it? Not much of a watchdog, though, are you, Loretta?”

The dog lifted her head a few inches and thumped her tail a few more times.

“Hello? Anybody home?” I called out again. “Surely if her dog’s here and the door’s open, Autumn Jennings can’t be far.”

With a final pat for Loretta, Maya looked behind the racks and poked her head into the changing rooms. “No sign of anybody,” she said.

“Helloooo?” I called out again, louder this time.

“Maybe she stepped out for coffee or ran an errand or something,” Maya said. She flicked through a rack of intricately beaded flapper dresses and held up one in shades of blue and purple. “This is nice.”

“That would look great on you.” Maya never used to wear vintage clothes, but now that she had gotten into her mother’s fashions she’d become more adventurous.

“Ugh,”
she said. “Check out the price tag. Are there people in this world who think it’s reasonable to spend twenty-six hundred dollars on a flapper dress?”

“Let’s ask Autumn, if we ever find her. How about this one?” I held up a gorgeous Edwardian-era ball gown, complete with bustle.

“That’s amazing,” said Maya. “These dresses look like museum pieces, though, don’t they? I mean, assuming
you were tiny enough to fit into that outfit, where would you wear it? It’s a bit much for a cocktail party.”

“Opening night at the opera?” I suggested. “Or maybe to the ballet?”

“If you were on
stage
, maybe. I could imagine these dresses being worn as costumes, or in turn-of-the-century London, but they’re a little over-the-top for San Francisco’s social scene. And wouldn’t you need to wear a corset and the whole nine yards?”

I nodded. “Well, as you said, Autumn’s a vintage clothing dealer. Maybe she’s planning to sell them to a museum or a collector. I’ve heard collectors will pay good money for just the right piece.” I looked around and spied a key ring on the counter beside the cash register. “I know this is a nice neighborhood and all, but doesn’t it seem strange that she’d leave the shop wide-open after dark and just . . . take off?”

“Yes, it does. Unless she’s through there.” Maya pointed to a small door in the wall behind the cash register. “It could be a closet, but maybe it leads to an apartment. Do you think we should open it?”

“I hate to violate her privacy.”

“Try knocking.”

I knocked on the door, calling out, “Autumn?”

There was no response.

“See if it’s locked,” Maya said.

I reached for the doorknob and slowly turned it. “It’s not locked.”

“So open it.”

I hesitated, feeling uneasy. Something wasn’t right here.

“Do you think we should call the cops?” Maya asked. “Maybe it would be better to be safe than sorry.”

“It’s hard to believe the dog would be so relaxed if something bad had happened.”

“That’s true.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m opening the door.” I pulled the door wide—it wasn’t a closet, but the entrance to a narrow staircase.

“Hello? Autumn?” I called up the stairwell. “Anybody home?”

There was a muted thumping from above.

I looked at Maya, who nodded.

“Hello?” I called out again, then started up the stairs, Maya close on my heels. “Anybody up here? Autumn?”

At the second-floor landing, a room to the right was jam-packed with boxes and racks and clothing of all types. One whole movable rack was crammed with clothes, including antique ball gowns; piles of white cotton and lace lingerie were spread out over a small twin bed. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined two walls.

Across the hall a door stood ajar, revealing a plush quilt-covered queen-sized bed, complete with satin canopy; the floor was strewn with papers and clothes.

Autumn Jennings’s bedroom? I felt suddenly self-conscious about snooping any further. I could see a kitchen through the open arch at the end of the hall, and that was it. Though the furnishings appeared expensive, the whole place felt sort of . . .
off
. Dingy and messy and more than a little sad, especially compared to the sumptuous luxury of the store downstairs. I lived over my store, too, but my apartment was warm and cozy, with a sunny, old-fashioned kitchen, a charming living room, and a terrace fragrant with herbs and flowering plants. And Oscar, of course. And, increasingly, Sailor.

So even though I was facing a lawsuit, dealing with
whatever Aidan had just dumped in my lap, worried about Bronwyn’s coven spending the night in a haunted house, and apprehensive about the magical challenges Aidan felt were imminent, I took a moment to remind myself: All in all, I was one lucky witch. Autumn Jennings didn’t seem nearly so fortunate.

“Maya, we should go. These must be her private rooms . . .”

Maya didn’t answer.

I looked over my shoulder. Maya stood absolutely still, her hands in the air.

A woman stood in the arch at the end of the hall, pointing a gun at us.

Chapter 3

“Autumn? Autumn Jennings?” I asked, raising my hands as well. “Please put that down. There’s no need for a gu—”

“Who are you?” the woman demanded. The pistol waved in the air slightly, as though too heavy for her to keep steady. She was small and birdlike, and her eyes were huge and frightened looking. Her skin was an unnatural shade of gray and she coughed into an old-fashioned handkerchief.

“I’m so sorry. I think we must have stumbled into your private quarters,” I said. “It’s just that the shop downstairs was open but nobody was around. We thought maybe we’d find you up here.”

She looked confused. A sheen of sweat gleamed on her ashen forehead.

“I’m Lily Ivory,” I tried again. “I own Aunt Cora’s Closet? I was just—”

“You’re here
spying
on me?” She looked wildly around the hallway. “What’s going on? Are there more of you downstairs?”

“No, no, not at all. Really, it’s not like that,” I said. “It’s just me and Maya. Just the two of us. We mean you no harm. I came here to talk to you in person about the papers I received today. About the lawsuit.”

She frowned as though struggling to understand what I was saying, and next thing I knew, she swayed on her feet. I remembered Oscar telling me she seemed “challenged” when it came to balance.

“Autumn, are you all right? You don’t look well.”

She seemed to be making an effort to stand tall, but she listed to one side so far that she fell against the wall. Then, as if in slow motion, she slid all the way down until she was sitting on the floor. The hand holding the gun went limp, and the heavy weapon clunked on the floor.

Maya approached slowly, crouching in front of Autumn and gently pushing the gun out of her reach. Autumn said nothing. Maya picked up the weapon, holding it gingerly with her thumb and pointer finger. She stashed it atop a high corner cabinet where it was out of sight.

“Autumn, we’ll call an ambulance,” I said. “You’re not well.”

“I just . . .” She trailed off. “I can’t feel my hands.”

Maya already had her phone out and was dialing 911.

Then Autumn slumped over onto her side on the floor.

I knelt next to her and pressed my hand against her forehead. Her skin felt clammy but not feverish. I closed my eyes, trying to convey sensations of comfort and calm, concentrating on sending healing energy through the pads of my fingers, beyond the barrier of skin, clear to the vitality of the blood. I encountered resistance, and my energy dissipated. I swore under my breath. My grandmother Graciela would know what to do in this
situation, but I hadn’t inherited her talent for curing. Autumn seemed too far gone to accept my special brand of help.

“What do you think is wrong with her?” asked Maya in a low voice, the phone still held to her ear as we waited for the paramedics.

“I have no idea,” I said. “It could be anything—a virus, or a chronic health problem. Maybe she’s in diabetic shock, something like that?”

“The 911 dispatcher suggests covering her with blankets in case it’s shock.”

“Good idea.” I rushed into Autumn’s messy bedroom and pulled the quilt and a pillow from the bed. Several items fell to the floor—jeans and a nightgown and a stack of mail, including a manila envelope. I picked up the mail and placed it on the bedside table but let the clothes join those already covering the floor.

Once we covered Autumn and made her as comfortable as possible, there didn’t seem to be much else to do but wait. She mumbled a few unintelligible phrases, and I did what I could to cast a comforting spell, but it wasn’t until I heard the faraway whine of an ambulance that I began to relax.

Maya met the paramedics at the shop door to lead them up the stairs.

And then she and I stood back and watched helplessly, hoping the professionals would be able to figure out what was wrong.

“Has she ingested drugs or intoxicants of any kind?” asked one of the EMTs, a young man, as he checked Autumn’s vital signs.

“Does she have any chronic health problems?” asked his partner, a young woman.

“I don’t know. We found her this way,” I responded.

They strapped her onto a stretcher and carefully navigated the steep stairs, Maya and I following behind them.

“I take it you work here?” said the woman, her eyes running over my outfit.

“I, uh . . . vintage clothes are my passion,” I answered.

“Lock up after us, will you?” The EMT nodded at Loretta, who still lay on her bed, apparently unconcerned by all the commotion. “And take care of the dog?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Where are you taking Autumn?”

“UCSF. You can call and check on her later.”

After they left, siren wailing, Maya gave me a quizzical look. “Looks like you’ve been appointed dog sitter and keeper of the keys.”

“Looks that way.”

“Shouldn’t we see if we can find someone closer to her, like a relative or a good friend? I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but Autumn Jennings is
suing
you. There’s a slight chance she might not want you taking care of her shop and her dog.”

“Okay, good point. Judging from the apartment upstairs, I’d say she lives alone, but maybe she has family nearby. Let’s look for an address book, or a cell phone with a phone number labeled ‘Mom.’” Maya and I started searching the store. As I poked around, I took a gander at some of the papers behind the counter. I didn’t want to go too far in violating Autumn’s privacy, but if something was lying out in plain sight . . .

“Find anything?” asked Maya.

“Not yet.”

“You don’t think any of this is . . . magic related, do
you? I mean, I thought this was just a sad case of someone getting sick.”

I paused as my hands alighted on some fake haute couture tags, the kind Oscar had given me—he still struggled with the concept that fraud was morally and ethically wrong. Why would Autumn have such things? Could she be involved in some sort of fraud, passing off modern reproductions as genuine vintage couture? Or might there be a benign explanation for her having these tags—after all, at one point I’d had some in my possession, too.

And speaking of familiars . . . I cast a wary glance at Loretta. No, I didn’t think Autumn Jennings was a practitioner, but I wouldn’t put it past Aidan to have assigned a familiar as protection to a cowan—he’d done it before. Still, if she was under Aidan’s protection, why wouldn’t he have he told me?

“Lily?” urged Maya.

“What? Oh, sorry. . . . No, I have no reason to believe it’s anything out of the ordinary.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Except . . .”

“Except what?”

I shrugged. “Except that
I’m
involved. As the men in my life like to point out, I seem to attract trouble. Magical trouble.”

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence that Autumn fell sick while we were here. Maybe the trouble is just run-of-the-mill, pain-in-the-neck litigation, and a random illness, not witchcraft.”

“It could be. . . .”

“After all, coincidences happen,” Maya said.

“Every day, in fact.”

Then my eyes fell on a brochure for the Rodchester House of Spirits.

Was this another of the weird coincidences that seemed to follow me around, like a will-o’-the-wisp along the proverbial riverbank? Or might it be a warning, or a clue? Then again, the Rodchester House of Spirits was a popular tourist attraction; maybe one of Autumn’s customers had left it here. As simple as that.

“What about Loretta?” Maya asked.

The dog had roused herself to lift her head and still thumped her tail amiably whenever anyone addressed her. But she had remained calm while the paramedics tromped through the store, and she hadn’t seemed to notice anything amiss about her mistress.

“Are we even sure she’s Autumn’s dog?”

“Does it matter? We can’t just leave her here.”

“True, but maybe Autumn’s dog sitting and we can bring Loretta back to her family.”

“There was a phone number on her dog tag. Let me give that a try,” Maya said, crouching down to pet the pup and check the tags that tinkled on her plaid collar. She stood and used her cell to call the phone number. An electronic version of “Greensleeves” led us to a cell phone on a shelf behind the register.

“Well, that answers two questions: Loretta
is
Autumn’s dog, and now we know where Autumn’s cell phone is.”

“Good, it’s not locked,” said Maya as she swiped the phone’s touch screen and started to search through the contacts list. I watched over her shoulder, impressed by her ease with the mysterious electronic devices called smartphones.

“Anything?”

She shook her head. “No listing for ‘Mom’ or ‘Dad’ or ‘Great-aunt Betsy.’ Looks like mostly business contacts. From her history, though, it looks like she called someone named Jamie a lot in the last couple of days.”

“Man or woman?”

“Let’s find out,” she said, dialing. No one answered, so she left a message that if this was a friend of Autumn Jennings could she or he please try back at this number right away, or at Aunt Cora’s Closet tomorrow.