“Here it is,” Maya said. “The Web page for Vintage Visions Glad Rags. That’s her store, right?”
I nodded.
“It’s in a nice part of town: not far from the Presidio, near Pacific Heights,” Maya pointed out. “Her rent must cost a fortune. Either her business is doing well or she’s a trust-fund baby.”
“Anything else you can tell me about her?” I asked.
Eyes glued to the computer screen, Maya clicked the mouse rapidly as she moved from one Web site to another. “From what I see here, I’d say she’s more of a dealer than a shop owner. She’s sold some pretty rare and valuable items to museums. This article mentions a Parmelee Riesling; ever heard of her?”
“She’s a clothing conservator at the Asian Art Museum. Carlos Romero introduced me to her.”
“Want the phone number of Jennings’s shop?”
“Yes, please, though I’m going to drop by her store to speak with her in person. I do better face-to-face.” This was another part of my witchy weirdness: I liked to deal with people in person, sense their vibrations and auras. Lately I had started to think I was the last person under the age of eighty who didn’t carry a cell phone. The phone robs us of body language and the subtle nuances that are part of interpersonal communication, and I’m sufficiently socially awkward that I need all the clues I could get.
“It says Autumn’s store is open for another half an hour,” I continued, reading the Web site over Maya’s shoulder. “Any chance you’d be up for going with me?”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Ever since arriving in San Francisco, I’d been learning how to make friends, as well as how to be a friend. I’d always been a bit of a loner, so all this was new to me. Turns out a big part of my being a friend was asking for help when I needed it.
And having a conversation with the woman who was suing me qualified as needing help.
“Yes, please. Sailor’s working tonight and I’d love to have company. I’ll take you to dinner after, my treat.”
“I’m all yours,” she said with a smile. “I happened to notice that Jennings’s shop isn’t far from Neecha.”
“Ooh, Thai food sounds good.” We at Aunt Cora’s Closet didn’t like to skip meals.
That went double for Oscar, who had picked a truly inspired form when he’d decided to manifest as a pig. The little fellow could eat pretty much full-time.
At the sound of dinner talk, he came trotting over.
“Sorry, Oscar. There is no way you’re coming to chat with the woman who’s accusing you of bodily injury,” I said. He blinked up at me, his pink piggy eyes full of innocence and contrition. I wasn’t buying it.
Maya, of course, didn’t realize he could understand everything I said.
“Aw, look. The poor little guy’s hungry,” she said.
“Let me take him upstairs, and then we can go.”
“I’ll lock everything up down here. Good night, Oscar,” said Maya, giving him a pat. “Don’t let Lily forget to feed you.”
“Fat chance of that,” I muttered under my breath as I passed through the break room. I grabbed Aidan’s satchel from under the table before climbing the back stairs to our living quarters over the shop.
When I paused on the landing to open the apartment door, Oscar transformed into his natural state. Part goblin, part gargoyle, he had green-gray scaly skin, a monkeylike snout, big batlike ears, oversized hands, and taloned feet. He often sat on his haunches, but when standing at full height he reached to my waist.
“OMG,” Oscar breathed as I closed the door behind us. Oscar was hundreds of years old but a fan of teen culture. “Is that the satchel?”
“You mean this?” I held it up.
He reared back slightly. “It is! It’s Master Aidan’s satchel!”
“Aidan’s not your master anymore, remember? But what’s so special about this bag?”
His voice dropped and his big bottle-glass green eyes widened. “You stole the satchel? Mistress, I hate to tell you, but you’re gonna be in big trouble. B-I-G, big.”
“Don’t be silly; I’m not a thief.”
“You stole my wings,” Oscar said, referring to the incident that had freed him from Aidan’s control—and placed me in Aidan’s debt in the first place.
“That was the exception that proves the rule. Aidan gave the bag to me.”
Oscar cast me a disbelieving look from the corner of his eye.
“Oscar, honestly?” I said, exasperated. “You honestly believe I stole this? And then brought it home to paw through it?”
After a beat, he relaxed. “Nah, I guess not. You’re crazy but you ain’t stupid.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, let’s get you fed so I can get on my way.”
“Why would Maaa—iiister Aidan give you the satchel?”
“He had to go out of town for a little while, so he asked me to take care of a few things for him. It’s no big deal; it’s temporary, just while he’s gone. Why are you so surprised? You know we’re supposed to be working together for the coming . . .” I didn’t know what to call it.
“Apocalypse?” Oscar suggested.
“No, of course not.” In fact, that was the word that came to mind, but I knew it wasn’t anything nearly so severe. “Let’s just say magical mayhem—it might be tough and require a united front, but it won’t be the end of the world.”
I looked at Oscar, hoping he’d jump in and agree. But he just gazed up at me, unblinking, with those big green eyes.
“Speaking of which, did you turn up anything?” Oscar was supposed to be my spy. He had connections with other familiars and magical creatures; Golden Gate Park was, apparently, chock-full of woodspeople and the like. I was hoping he’d be able to root out some information as to the looming threat Aidan insisted was on its way to the City by the Bay.
“Nothing yet. Everybody’s on edge, but it’s all a little . . . vague.”
I nodded. “Okay, so what’s up with this bag? What’s the big deal?”
“Nothing! Um, that’s . . . that’s great that you would be trusted with that! Really. What’s for dinner?”
“Oscar . . . is there something I should know about this satchel?”
“Um . . . er . . . no. Maybe put it in a salt circle, is all. And . . . yeah, maybe a salt circle with some of your crystals around it. And a binding charm; maybe use some tallow. That’s all.”
Thanks a bunch, Aidan, I thought. Clearly, this was no everyday item. But further interrogation of Oscar would have to wait; Autumn Jennings’s shop closed soon and Maya was waiting for me downstairs.
“Okay, I’ll put it in a circle of protection, but when I get back we’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”
“I always enjoy chatting with you, mistress.”
“I’ll just bet. For the moment, tell me what happened between you and Autumn Jennings.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb, Oscar. I have to go talk with this woman, and I need to know what happened.”
He shrugged and picked at his talons. “I didn’t like her.”
“That became apparent as soon as you head-butted her.”
He snickered. “You said ‘butt.’”
“Yes, and I’m trying to save your green scaly butt, as well as my own.”
He snickered some more. Goblin humor.
“This is serious, Oscar. Autumn Jennings is suing me. I need to know why you didn’t like her. Did she do or say something in particular? You’ve never done anything like this before.”
“She was up to no good,” he said, opening the refrigerator and poking around for leftovers. “Anyway, I didn’t hit her, exactly. She hit me with a parasol! All I did was sorta, like, nose her a little, ya know, to help her leave, and she’s got a very challenged
sense of balance, from what I could tell. Is there any pizza?”
“In the freezer,” I said, turning the old Wedgewood oven on to preheat. “Sorry I don’t have time to cook for you. I’ll bring you a doggy bag from dinner. Thai food.”
“I love Thai food! Don’t see why I can’t go with you,” he added in a sullen tone.
“I think you’ve done just about enough damage at this point. Now, getting back on topic . . .”
“That Autumn person was looking through the inventory like she was afraid she was gonna catch a disease or something,” he said, dragging a stool over to the refrigerator and climbing on it. Reaching into the freezer compartment, he brought out two cheese pizzas. “Hey! You know what we should remember to keep on hand? Taquitos!”
“How about some salad?” I suggested in my unending, though entirely futile, attempt to get Oscar to eat something other than carbs and cheese.
“You shoulda seen her, mistress!” he said, ignoring me. “She said mean things to the Lady.” The Lady, in Oscar parlance, was Bronwyn. “And she was rude to Maya. And then she dropped that pretty pink flapper dress on the floor. She pretended she didn’t do it on purpose, but she did! I saw her!”
Despite my irritation, I was touched by how protective Oscar was toward the store, its employees, and its merchandise. He had become interested in vintage clothes sales and in a misguided attempt to help me make more money had even bought counterfeit couture dress labels from an Internet site. I was still trying to figure out how he had pulled that off. He gave me the labels on his last birthday because, he’d explained as if it were obvious, you’re supposed to give presents on your birthday, not receive them.
“That’s annoying, I’ll grant you, but we get rude and careless customers all the time, Oscar. What was it about this one that bothered you so?”
“There was . . . something about her. Something off. Smelled funny.”
“Like how?”
He shrugged again. “Just felt wrong, somehow.”
“Okay. In the future, if someone seems off or smells funny, I want you to tell me, or go hide in the back room or something. Do not head-butt them. Understood?”
His expression was all outraged innocence and he threw up his hands.
“You always tell me I should watch over the place and that ‘Oscar’s on the job,’ especially when you aren’t around. How else am I supposed to protect people when I’m a pig, I ask you? Told ya I shoulda chosen the form of a lion, given how much trouble you get into.”
“It’s not that I don’t see your point. Just . . . don’t just go around head-butting people anymore, okay?”
He snickered again at the word “butt” and popped the pizzas in the oven.
* * *
“Oscar doesn’t mind being left alone, does he?” Maya asked as we pulled on our coats and scarves. The sunny summer day had given way to a foggy, overcast evening as the thick marine layer blew in off the Pacific Ocean.
“Nah, he’ll eat pizza and watch a movie,” I said without thinking.
Maya laughed, assuming I was joking. One of these days I was going to have to come clean to my friends about Oscar’s true nature. I kept slipping up recently, which was very unlike me. I had lived so much of my life in hiding that subterfuge had become second nature, but now that I had friends, a home, and a place in the community, I was becoming so comfortable that I forgot to keep my secrets. It was all a bit disconcerting.
“What’s Sailor up to tonight?” Maya asked as we headed across town in my cherry red vintage Mustang.
“He has a training session with Patience.”
Sailor was the wildly sexy yet frustrating man who held my heart in his big capable hands. He had been a powerful psychic when I first met him, but his abilities had diminished upon breaking free from Aidan Rhodes’s influence. Sailor was now training with his “cousin,” Patience Blix, who was a female version of Sailor: stubborn and cynical and knowing and absolutely, positively drop-dead gorgeous. The problem was . . . she wasn’t really his cousin; she was simply Rom, like him. And she was a powerful psychic. And did I mention she was gorgeous? Sailor assured me I had no reason to be jealous of her or the time they spent together, but here’s the thing I had discovered about the green-eyed monster: It didn’t need a reason. Especially on nights like tonight, when Sailor and Patience spent hours alone together.
But I was working on it. I tried to reframe it as an area of vast potential for personal growth, as Bronwyn would say.
“Too bad,” said Maya.
“Yes, but then I wouldn’t be enjoying your company.”
Maya laughed. “Well, that’s true.”
“Besides, Sailor and I have Mystery Date night coming up.”
“What’s ‘Mystery Date night’?”
“The last weekend of every month we take turns coming up with a surprise date. Last month was his turn, and date night had a beatnik theme. He took me to the Beat Museum, to Vesuvio’s for a drink, then to Tosca for dinner. Afterward we went to City Lights bookstore, and he read me passages from Allen Ginsberg’s Howl. It was lovely.”
“Could you two be any cuter? It’s almost enough to bring around an old cynic like me.”
“One of these days, Maya, you’re going to fall for someone, and then Bronwyn and I are going to tease you mercilessly. I can’t wait.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
We found a parking space a couple of blocks from Vintage Visions Glad Rags. The sun was low in the sky and tendrils of fog wrapped around us as we hurried along the sidewalk. As we approached the store, I saw what Bronwyn meant about it being too fancy for her blood. The shop’s name might refer to rags, but the only clothes on display were pricey, high-end vintage items. I had never been here before because I didn’t frequent this neighborhood and didn’t go out of my way to hunt down my competition. If I passed by a vintage store I usually stopped in to scope out what they had to offer and how they staged their merchandise, but, again like Bronwyn, I preferred shops that sold wearable clothes rather than custom vintage garments. At Aunt Cora’s Closet we carried the occasional Chanel or Hattie Carnegie suit, but those were rare. The clothes at Vintage Visions, in comparison, were the opposite: more collectible than wash-and-go.
Maya and I exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised, and entered.
It felt a little like walking into a Christmas tree: Everything was decorated in sumptuous, deep shades of red and purple, topped with gold and silver gilt. Three vintage crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, and antique mirrors gleamed on every wall.
No one was there.
“Hello?” I called.
Behind the cash register was a large hound dog snoozing on a little red rug.
“Hi there, puppy,” I said. She gave me a lazy thump of the tail but didn’t so much as raise her head.
“That’s no puppy,” said Maya as she peered over my shoulder. “That pretty girl probably weighs almost as much as I do.”
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 intricate
ly 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 onstage, 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?”
A Toxic Trousseau Page 3