A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  “I guess so. I branch out from time to time, but I like this style.”

  Her magnified eyes looked me over, from head to toe, intently. After a moment she gave a quick nod. “Suits you.”

  “Um . . . thank you,” I said. From such a critical sort, I took that as a high compliment.

  She hadn’t invited us in, so we still stood out in the corridor. Riesling’s lab and offices were on the second floor of the museum, away from the crowd, but still public.

  “We were hoping we could ask you about a woman named Autumn Jennings,” said Carlos.

  “What about her?”

  “You bought some clothes from her?”

  “From time to time.”

  “Could we maybe buy you a coffee and talk?”

  She hesitated, checked over her shoulder. Then said, “How about a Manhattan?”

  “Well . . . sure,” I said, glancing at Carlos, who nodded. “Of course.”

  “I’m taking a break,” she yelled behind her, then came out into the hall, muttering all the while. “We got in some trusses from the Heskett Collection. Nothing but moth-eaten junk. Hate that crap.”

  “Oh, sure. I know what you mean.” I must have looked befuddled.

  She frowned, homing in on my tone. “Surely you know the Heskett Collection? I thought you were in the vintage clothes business.”

  “I am, yes indeedy, ma’am,” I said, my inner Texan coming out when faced with authority figures. Even though Parmelee was shorter than I, and probably not more than a decade or so older, I felt intimidated by her officiousness.

  I could tell Carlos was smiling at my response.

  “But I don’t count myself an expert,” I continued. “Not by any means.”

  “Jennings seems to know a lot. Can’t get that woman to stop talking about the fabulous Missoni maxi sequin duster cardigan she acquired for a ‘mere’ thousand that she was going to turn around and sell for two. Or the Valentino wedding gown? Please, if that baby’s authentic, it would go for twenty-five, thirty thousand, easy.”

  “I think Autumn was more up on things than I. Not to mention in a whole other league, pricewise,” I said, thinking about Autumn’s apartment over her shop. There were some nice furnishings, despite the dreary feel of the place. Still, if she was dealing with such valuable fashions, couldn’t she have afforded nicer digs? Where could all her money have gone? “At Aunt Cora’s Closet, I sell a lot of old sundresses.”

  We descended the broad sweep of stairs to the open lobby. Schoolkids on a field trip ran around, past the museum gift shop featuring an exhibition on India’s maharajahs. I could feel little whispers on my bare arms, the sensations of confused spirits attached to items in the museum, no doubt wondering where they were and what the heck had happened. I wondered what it must feel like for a spirit to be bound to a Buddhist temple in Bangladesh, then find him- or herself here in San Francisco. A transplant, much like me.

  We stepped outside the front doors of the museum, into a sunny afternoon.

  “Was?” Parmelee demanded.

  “Was what?” I asked.

  “You used the past tense,” she said. “You said Autumn Jennings ‘was’ more up on things than you.”

  Darn. I was wishing we were already ensconced in a dim bar, drinks in front of us. I didn’t know how close she and Autumn were and I hated delivering news of someone’s demise, though it seemed like something I should get used to, considering how my life was shaping up of late. I glanced at Carlos, hoping he would take control of this aspect of the conversation.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Ms. Riesling,” Carlos began.

  She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, please, call me Parmelee.”

  “All right, then, Parmelee. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Autumn Jennings passed away.”

  She looked at him, startled. “Passed away?”

  “Early yesterday morning.”

  “That’s . . . I’m shocked. What happened? Car accident?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” said Carlos. “But she was sick. We’re afraid it might have been a poison of some sort.”

  “On purpose?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean do they think she was poisoned on purpose? In our line of work there are a lot of poisons.”

  “This is exactly the sort of thing we were hoping to talk with you about,” said Carlos.

  We descended the steps and crossed McAllister to a restaurant and bar called Soluna. A lush community garden thrived next door, the Federal Building stood on the next block, Hastings Law School was down the street, and the City Hall plaza sat directly in front of the museum. Nonetheless, it wasn’t a great area and it bordered the Tenderloin, one of the more down-and-out areas of the city. San Francisco was so small, geographically speaking, that run-down neighborhoods sat cheek by jowl with posh ones. It was a startling reality check to walk out of a fine French restaurant and have to negotiate a soup kitchen line at Glide Memorial.

  Inside, the restaurant was chic and dim, with heavy drapes keeping out most of the late-afternoon light, and extravagant light fixtures of amber glass that cast a very subtle golden glow throughout. It was quiet; the bar’s official happy hour wouldn’t commence for another hour.

  “They fix a mean Manhattan,” Parmelee said as she hoisted herself onto a tall barstool at the corner. I sat on one side; Carlos stood on the other, leaning against the bar. He ordered a beer, and I felt like something of a party pooper when I asked for club soda with lime. But I’d felt the need to keep my wits about me lately.

  “So,” said Carlos. “What kinds of poisons might a person in the old-clothes business be exposed to?”

  “All sorts: carcinogens of all kinds, of course. Lead, mercury, cyanide . . .”

  “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 plent
y 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.”