by Sarah Kuhn
“Marcus does not allow touching, as outlined in the forty-page waiver you signed upon booking your appointment,” he said. “Please step back and take joy in the knowledge that he has approved the dress to grace your body.”
The bride nodded, cowed, and smiled gratefully at Marcus. I practically expected her to bow. Marcus, for his part, did not offer any further facial expression.
“All right, no touching,” I muttered. “Let’s go. Keep your eyes and ears open, straighten your spine, and put a bit of swagger into your step—like we’re here on official business. Which we are.”
“Girl, you are fearless!” Shruti said, beaming at me.
We made our way across the plush carpet—which was the same violent red as the graffiti sign outside—and through the bridal crowd, focused on Marcus. We were almost at his side, when a woman nearly crashed into me, as she attempted to race through the mass of bodies.
“Hey!” I said grabbing her by the arm. I was about to tell her to slow down, watch where she was going, and not kill herself over a dress, when I realized I recognized her.
“Gwen?” I said, not quite believing it.
But it was. Cakezilla Carol’s best friend and maid of honor. Gwen smoothed the skirt of her dress and gave me a haughty look that seemed completely at odds with the timid woman at Cake My Day.
“Aveda,” I said. “Remember, I was there when . . .” I trailed off, not sure how to complete that thought. When your friend lost her shit and nearly killed people over red velvet cake and custom lingerie sounded so awkward.
“I know who you are, Aveda Jupiter,” Gwen said, giving me the stink-eye. “You ruined Carol’s wedding!”
“Excuse me?” I wasn’t even sure where to begin with that statement. Her friend had been affected by an evil puppy demon and tried to kill me. How was I responsible for ruining her wedding?
“And now!” Gwen continued, her voice rising. “Now you’re trying to ruin Evie Tanaka’s too!”
“What!” Shruti cried, stepping forward to stand next to me. “That is one hundred percent not true! Aveda is busting her butt to be the most perfect maid of honor ever!”
“That’s not what I heard!” Gwen said, her eyes taking on a vengeful gleam. “I heard Aveda totally monopolized Evie’s bridal coming-out by wearing a trashy, attention-getting dress! It’s not even the wedding day and already she’s upstaging the bride!”
“Up-upstaging?” I sputtered. “In that hideous dress? No offense,” I added to Shruti.
“None taken,” she said. “Evie and I wanted something dramatic to match your taste, but we may have gone a little too vintage with that one.”
“I’m onto you, Aveda Jupiter,” Gwen said with a sneer. “And me and all the other San Francisco brides-to-be will not allow you to—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Since when are you a bride-to-be?”
“Since Carol started having doubts about her wedding after her little encounter with you,” Gwen sniffed. “I got engaged as a show of solidarity.”
“That doesn’t seem like the best reason to get engaged,” I said. “Or the best way to be a friend to Carol.”
“It’s what she wanted,” Gwen insisted. “And you’re one to talk about being a best friend, stealing Evie’s thunder like that!”
Before I could retort, she swept off in a tizzy. I shook my head in dismay. How was I getting a reputation for being a drama queen when I was actively trying not to be a drama queen?
“Let’s talk to Marcus and get out of here,” I said to Shruti. I suddenly felt as if all the brides in the store were glaring at us, as if they’d overheard that entire exchange and had joined Gwen in taking up the cause against me.
Shruti didn’t respond. I turned to look at her. She was staring after Gwen, her brow furrowed.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something’s pinging for me,” she said. “Something about that girl.”
“Like your fashion detective sense is tingling?” I joked.
She gave me a half-smile. “Something like that. It will come to me, I’m sure.”
We wended our way through the remainder of the bridal crowd and finally reached Marcus, who had just moved yet another bride to tears by issuing a decree that she was allowed to purchase one of his glorious creations.
“Excuse me,” I said, reaching over to tap Marcus on the shoulder. Before my finger could connect, Franz darted between us and looked at me like I was a bit of garbage scraped off someone’s shoe.
“You need an appointment,” he snapped.
“Actually, I don’t.” I straightened my spine and gave him my best imperious look. “I’m not here to try on gowns. I’m here to ask questions in an investigation crucial to the safety of this city.”
I tried to make eye contact with Marcus, but he was staring into space, as if transfixed by something just beyond my left ear. He mumbled something under his breath, a few words that I couldn’t make out.
“Marcus says you may ask one question,” Franz said.
I bristled, a retort springing to my tongue about how no one limited Aveda Jupiter to anything. Then I realized that wasn’t the best way of getting answers. Playing this bizarre little man’s game for a few minutes probably wasn’t going to kill me.
Probably.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped on the picture I’d taken of Evie in the bridal tent.
“This dress,” I said. “Is it one of yours?”
Marcus turned his unfocused gaze to the picture. Franz cocked an eyebrow. Shruti and I tilted forward as a weighted silence fell over us, waiting to see if he was going to give us something, anything. Marcus scrutinized the photo further, his brow furrowing slightly. The buzz from the crowd in the salon seemed to recede. I realized I was holding my breath.
Then Marcus muttered something unintelligible to Franz.
“It was his dress at one time,” Franz said.
“‘At one time,’” I repeated. “What does that mean?”
“That is more than one question—” Franz began, but Marcus muttered something else.
Franz pursed his lips, clearly displeased at the fact that his boss was allowing us to break an arbitrary rule. “He says it was an experiment gone wrong. An aberration. The red element was simply too vulgar.”
“His sign is red!” blurted out Shruti. “As is the carpet in here!”
Marcus muttered something else.
“He says those are entirely different reds,” Franz said. “They are in the crimson family, whereas the flowers creating the unfortunate menstrual-esque punctuation on that dress are on the scarlet spectrum. Marcus was trying something new, playing with repurposed vintage fabrics. It did not work and therefore the label was stripped and the dress was banished to the riff-raff of the Indie Fashion Market. And we do not speak of it.”
Marcus lifted a finger to his lips. Shhh.
“I see,” I said, trying to make sense of what he was—they were?—saying and how it fit in with everything else. “So have you noticed anything weird happening here at the shop? Brides behaving strangely when they put on certain dresses?”
Marcus shook his head and muttered something else.
“Marcus says all brides behave strangely,” Franz said, his lips drawing into a thin frown. “Your time is up. You may leave now.”
“But—” I said.
“Good-bye!” Franz said, making his voice loud and insistent. Marcus gave us a delicate finger wave. “If you need help seeing yourself out, Gregory will show you the way.” He gestured toward another black-clad figure—a tall, broad man with a shock of silver hair who was apparently serving as Marcus’s bouncer. Gregory gave us a muted sneer.
I blew out a long breath and, for the second time in the span of five minutes, reminded myself that blowing up and demanding answers probably wasn’t go
ing to get us anywhere. At least not right now.
Even though I totally could have kicked Gregory’s ass if I’d wanted to.
Instead I simply gave a small nod and turned and marched out of the store, hoping Shruti was following me. I suddenly felt like all eyes were on me again, like the assembled brides-to-be were just waiting for me to do something particularly diva-esque so they could tweet about it. I wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.
Once we were back outside, I turned to Shruti. “What did all of that mean?” I sputtered. “Because from where I’m standing, I don’t think any of that was useful information.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides and I ordered them to relax. I couldn’t let the frustration take over. Shruti’s face was thoughtful, and she tapped her index against her chin, as if trying to recall a memory that was just out of reach.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Maybe nothing,” she said. “Maybe something.” She met my eyes, her expression grim. “We need to go to Pussy Queen.”
“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” I asked as Shruti rummaged through a stack of Polaroids. We were back at Pussy Queen, huddled in Shruti’s pop-up shop area. Maisy had run out to do some errands, leaving Dave to mind the store. He was behind his counter, staring into a mug of some kind of beverage, as if it possessed a hypnotic quality. I felt a pang of sympathy for him; he really didn’t seem to have anything to do except hang out here, smoke weed, make weird drinks, and dispense the occasional bits of fortune-cookie-style wisdom. I wondered if he felt like I did when we’d been in our non-apocalypse lull, suffering through an endless string of breakfast courses, feeling bored and useless and wondering if I’d ever get to do anything worthwhile again.
Dave looked up and met my eyes, as if sensing my thought tangent.
“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” he said solemnly.
Or maybe not. Maybe, unlike me, he was content just sitting there. The room took on a sudden chill and I shivered.
“It’s okay, Dave,” Shruti said, her tone soothing, as she continued to rifle through the Polaroids. “Maisy tried doing that promotion where we offered his classic Sunny Side mimosas, and I was hoping some of his old customers from the café would show,” she murmured to me under her breath. “But none of them did. I think he’s feeling a bit stung. He’s been having difficulty controlling the temperature in here as well as he usually does.”
Dave went back to staring at his mug, a slight frown creasing his brow.
“Here it is,” Shruti said, pulling a Polaroid free from the stack and passing it to me.
I studied it. The photo depicted a displeased-looking man with a shock of silver hair holding up a red silk dress. “It’s Marcus’s bouncer!” I said. “Gregory.”
Shruti nodded. “I’m not good with faces, but I never forget a dress.” She tapped the red dress in the photo. “And he bought this frock baby from my pop-up a few weeks ago. Remember how Franz said Evie’s dress was a result of Marcus trying to use vintage fabrics? His minion must have been scouring different shops, looking for material for Marcus to repurpose. And then they used this one to make the red flower part.” She frowned at the photo. “If only I had been here at the time, I would have stopped him. No one should be allowed to use beautifully preserved vintage as their personal scrap heap.”
“So you weren’t actually here when he bought this?” I scrutinized the photo, as if I could will it to reveal further information to me.
“No.” She took the photo back and flipped it over to reveal a date from three weeks ago, rendered in Maisy’s scrawly handwriting. “Maisy sells things for me when I have to be at my original shop or the booth at the Indie Fashion Market. All I ask is that she commemorate the moment with a Polaroid. I like to know where each of my babies has gone off to.”
“So we know where Evie’s dress originated: it’s a mashup of Marcus Wong and bastardized vintage. But what does that mean?” Frustration mounted, and I grabbed the stack of Polaroids and started flipping through them myself. “There didn’t appear to be anything evil happening at Marcus’s shop, and we still have no idea where our little puppy friend is going to strike next and—whoa.” I stopped and made myself go back a couple Polaroids. I’d been flipping through them so fast, I’d almost missed it.
But there it was, clear as day—Cakezilla Carol and her best friend Gwen. Standing in Pussy Queen with their arms around each other, beaming at the camera and clad in what were presumably their newly purchased vintage dresses. They were different from the outfits they’d been wearing at Cake My Day, but just as stylish. “Is this why Gwen looked familiar to you?” I said. “She and Carol bought things from here?”
“It must be,” Shruti said, taking the photo from me. Her brow crinkled. “At least I remember this photo, but I’m pretty sure . . .” She flipped the photo over. Maisy’s scrawly handwriting again. “This is another one of Maisy’s sales.”
“But Maisy was adamant that Carol hadn’t bought anything here before.” The back of my neck prickled, like a trail of ants skittering up my spine, leaving a creepy itch I couldn’t scratch. “Why would she lie?”
“Let’s check her records for this date,” Shruti said, tapping the numbers scribbled on the Polaroid. “She keeps them in a big binder behind the counter.”
I nodded, my eyes sweeping over the store. It was abandoned, not a customer in sight. No one except Dave.
“Do we need to distract him?” I asked, inclining my head toward the ever sleepy barista. “Or is pawing through Maisy’s sales records something you do all the time?”
“Not really,” Shruti said. “But no, I don’t think we need to run any major diversions Dave’s way. I mean, look at him.”
Dave was still staring into his cup of liquid, as if having a very serious telepathic conversation.
We sauntered across the shop—I was super aware of the fact that I was trying to saunter as casually as possible, even though Dave clearly gave less than a shit about whatever we were doing—and settled in behind the counter.
“Here,” Shruti said, pulling a massive binder from a cubbyhole under the counter.
“Wow.” I eyed the thing as Shruti flipped it open and began searching for the date in question, running a finger down a page that contained a messy grid featuring an array of names, dates, and numbers, scribbled in various colors of pen. “This seems very old school. Why doesn’t Maisy keep her records on an electronic system?”
“Apparently that’s what Shasta did,” Shruti said. “Maisy is always trying to differentiate herself from her former bestie, and she says taking a ‘lo-fi approach’ is part of that.”
“I respect the use of a traditional paper system,” I said, thinking of Bea and Nate’s numerous spreadsheets. “But this thing looks like the ‘serial killer’s notebook’ prop on every crime procedural.”
“Here it is.” Shruti tapped the page with her index finger. “Carol Kepler and Gwen Martinez. They both bought dresses from my pop-up. That’s odd, Maisy charged more than what I’d originally priced these frocks at. And . . . hmm.”
“What ‘hmm’?” I peered over her shoulder. Even then, I couldn’t make sense of Maisy’s scribblings.
“It looks like they also placed a special, custom order,” Shruti said. “Which is odd, because I thought we weren’t taking those yet. I mean, if Evie had actually agreed to model bridal lingerie, Maisy would’ve gotten right on that. But otherwise . . .” Shruti trailed off, her eyes narrowing at the page of records.
“Are there other custom orders noted in there?” I said, nodding at the binder.
“Let’s see . . .” Shruti started flipping through the pages again. “Ah. Yes. There are two more on this page and . . . three more on this one!”
I frowned. “A customer’s name slipping Maisy’s mind wouldn’t be weird. Maisy working on some special custom o
rder project and not blabbing about it would be suspicious, since she likes to make sure everyone’s clued in to her fabulousness, but still not totally weird. But Maisy outright lying about both things?”
“Weird,” Shruti agreed. “Definitely weird.”
“Weird like maybe she’s hiding something.” My neck prickled again. Maisy—former sidekick to an evil wannabe demon queen, let’s not forget—was apparently hiding something that seemed to be connected to the puppy demon’s recent victim and her newly engaged best friend. That was worth looking into, at the very least.
“How do we figure out what these custom orders are?” I said.
Shruti drummed her fingers against the countertop, considering. “Maisy keeps all of her projects in the alterations rooms in the back. Even though we haven’t started taking custom orders yet—or so I thought—she’s been working on her sewing and design skills. No one’s allowed back there except her.”
“Wait. Now you’re telling me Maisy basically has her own Bluebeard’s chamber? Because that should definitely also go in the weird and suspicious column.”
“She says it’s her sacred sanctum, the one place where she can truly engage with her creative spirit,” Shruti said with a shrug. “Look, I know she puts on a relentlessly chipper front, but the whole Shasta thing messed her up. She’s trying to figure out who she is now, and I try to give her space to do that, even when it involves bizarre requests.”
I frowned, thinking it over. It could be that all of this was innocuous, a series of Maisy quirks coming together to spell out something that looked suspicious, but actually meant nothing. But when you considered the strange, winding path that had led us here, it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like a lead Aveda Jupiter should follow.
“So can we sneak back there?” I asked. “Is it locked with a thousand deadbolts or something?” Once again, I cursed my inability to telekinesis things I couldn’t see. I didn’t have X-ray vision, so I couldn’t see the inner workings of the lock—otherwise I probably could have used my brain to pick it.
“It is locked,” Shruti said. “And Maisy keeps the key with her at all times, but . . .” A contemplative smile spread over her face. “I think I can open it.” She took a deep breath and allowed her gaze to go unfocused. Her hair unknotted itself from the Leia buns, twitching outward and curling, latching on to the handle of a drawer under the counter and pulling it free.