A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  Renee was flipping through a set of psychedelic ’60s muumuus and appeared not to hear me.

  “Renee?”

  Finally she paused and turned toward me. The others were chatting among themselves, absorbed in their respective tasks, not paying us any attention.

  So no one else saw what I did: Renee went from smiling, Anglophile cupcake lady to something else entirely. Her normally warm, sparkling eyes narrowed; they were as cold as ice.

  “He shouldn’t have told you that,” Renee said.

  Then she smiled again and resumed her former attitude, holding a hot-pink-and-orange maxi dress in front of her.

  “You there, young man,” she said to Conrad. “What do you think of this on me? Do you suppose I could pull it off?”

  The phone rang. Still shaken by my interaction with Renee, I crossed over to the counter and answered absently: “Aunt Cora’s Closet, Lily speaking.”

  It was Sam Spade. My “investigator.”

  “Couldn’t find anything on the phone number you gave me; it’s a burner cell phone. Therefore, no name associated with it. Sorry. But I ran that plate for you and got a hit. Motorcycle’s registered to a fellow named Brad Goldman, works at the David Gallery off Union Square.”

  “Is that an art gallery?”

  “They’d probably say yes, but what it really is, is like a spa for guys.”

  “A men’s salon?”

  “I guess. I mean, what’s with that? Barbershop’s not good enough for people anymore?”

  “I don’t know what this world’s coming to,” I said. Sam never got my jokes, but that didn’t prevent me from making them. In fact, if anything, it spurred me on for my own amusement.

  “Anyway, I tracked Brad Goldman down there and he’s working ten to five today. Since I went there in person, that’ll cost extra.”

  “That’s fine.” Sam was fairly new to the investigations business and still did everything as though he had a catalog of services by his side, with a list of costs. He wasn’t what you’d call a natural detective, and I kept expecting to hear that he’d returned to his former career as a financial analyst. But so far he was hanging in there, and he had contacts that came in useful from time to time.

  I wrote down the name and address of the David Gallery.

  By the time we hung up, Renee had decided on the muumuu and Maya was already wrapping it up for her and placing it in one of our recycled bags with Aunt Cora’s Closet emblazoned on the side.

  “Thanks again for the cupcakes,” said Maya. “Lily can’t stop talking about them.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome! It’s great advertising! Maybe I’ll be moving into this neighborhood next, one never knows! There could be Renee’s bakeries all over this city!”

  Maya smiled broadly. “One can only hope.”

  “Aren’t you a dear!” Renee said. “Bronwyn, Duke, Conrad, you have been such loves!”

  Only then did I realize that Oscar hadn’t shown his snout the entire time Renee was in the store. Was he that put out by Loretta, or could there really be something problematic with the cupcake lady?

  Unfortunately I didn’t have time to track Oscar down and confront him. Not long after Renee left, Sailor stopped by to take me to lunch.

  I turned to Bronwyn and Maya. “Mind if I sneak out?”

  “Oh, please, go and enjoy!” said Bronwyn. “We have more than enough help at the store at the moment.”

  “Thanks.” It was sunny and nice out, but I grabbed a peacoat and scarf just in case.

  “Hungry?” Sailor asked.

  “Getting there,” I said, feeling guilty that I’d eaten a bagel and half a cupcake already today. “But on the way to lunch, we need to see a man about a motorcycle.”

  He let out a little groan and held his hands out for the keys. “In that case, I’m driving.”

  “Sometimes I think you just love me for my Mustang.”

  “It is a great car.”

  Chapter 17

  David’s Gallery was full of trendy young men getting not only haircuts but also facials and other spa treatments.

  “I don’t want to sound hopelessly behind the times,” I said in a quiet voice, “but I’ve never seen such a thing. Have you?”

  “Beats the heck out of me,” Sailor said.

  “On the other hand, you could probably use a facial,” I said. “Or perhaps a manicure . . . ?”

  “You just do your investigating so we can get to lunch. I’m hungry.”

  I asked the receptionist, a young tattooed man wearing blue eyeliner and a plaid lumberjack shirt that hugged his thin shoulders, for Brad Goldman.

  “Brad!” he yelled over his shoulder, then turned back to his smartphone.

  A young man trotted out from the back, then came to a stop and put his hands on his hips.

  “You’re not my one o’clock,” he said. His own blond hair had been buzzed very close to his skull, and I made out what looked like a tattoo of a horse on the side of his head. He had clear blue eyes and a rather chubby face that gave him a pleasant, boyish look.

  “No, we’re not. We’re actually here to ask you about your motorcycle.”

  His expression instantly became interested. “Did you find it? Where is it? And who are you?”

  “I’m Lily Ivory, and this is Sailor. We don’t know where your bike is, but we’re looking for a woman we saw riding it. Her name’s Scarlet?”

  His eyes widened and he stepped back.

  “What about her?”

  “We’re trying to track her down.”

  “I dunno where she is. The truth is she begged me to borrow my bike, said she was late for her dog-walking gig. But she never came back. She bugged off with my bike.”

  “The black Ducati?”

  He nodded and swallowed so hard I could hear the gulp.

  “And you haven’t heard from her?”

  He shook his head. His lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. “I really don’t understand. She took my bike, man. I mean . . . I thought we were in love, you know? Like, she was the one.”

  “So Scarlet’s your girlfriend?” I asked.

  “Was my girlfriend, I’m guessing.”

  “Women are complicated,” Sailor said.

  “Man, you’re totally right,” Brad said slowly. “I mean . . . why would she do this to me?”

  “You still love her?”

  Brad nodded.

  “Then stand by her,” counseled Sailor. “She probably has an explanation, as far-fetched as it might be.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Brad. “Besides, she wasn’t feeling all that great. Maybe she just, like, went to bed or something.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “She’s not there; landlady said she left. And she’s sure not at my place.”

  “Could you give me her address anyway?”

  “Who are you, again?”

  I placed my hand on his arm. I can’t sway everyone easily, but Brad’s open countenance had given me the idea he might be amenable.

  “We’re looking for her. She left all the dogs she was caring for, and we need to make sure we get them back to their homes. Surely she would want that?”

  “She just left them? Man, that’s weird.” He shook his head but wrote down her full name, address, and the telephone number I already had on the back of an appointment card and handed it to me.

  “Her last name’s Funk?” I asked.

  He nodded. No wonder she went by just the one name.

  “How did Scarlet know Autumn Jennings? Do you know?”

  “Autumn’s the woman who runs the secondhand clothes store?”

  I nodded.

  “They met when Scarlet volunteered at the Legion of Honor. Then Scarlet did some odd jobs for her at the shop. She’s from Missouri;
man, it’s been tough for her, trying to get by in San Francisco. But she’s tough, you know. Tough but sweet. I think it’s a midwestern thing, don’t you? I think we San Franciscans are sort of soft.”

  The air in the salon was scented with the lavender from the foot soaks and facial scrubs. He might be right, I thought.

  “Did she have any connection to the Rodchester House of Spirits, do you know?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I’m going down there on Saturday for a party. Someone mentioned she might have looked for a job there, so I was just wondering . . .”

  He was shaking his head, a blank look in his eyes. “Still, that’s totally weird that she left the dogs. She really liked them. But like I said, she wasn’t really feeling herself lately.”

  “Wasn’t feeling well, how?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Sort of weak, and a little confused.”

  “Do you happen to know if Scarlet might have a dress from Autumn Jennings’s vintage clothes store?”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I really don’t know anything about that.”

  “What about some fake couture labels?”

  He shrugged and shook his head.

  “And no other idea where we might find her,” I persisted, “if she’s not at home?”

  He shrugged. “Ah, man, my one o’clock’s here. Hey, if you find Scarlet, tell her I love her and want her back. And I want my bike back, too.”

  “Will do,” said Sailor.

  “Especially the bike. I mean, seriously. I didn’t report it to the cops or anything, but I need it, man.”

  “Of course,” I said, pulling out one of my business cards. “Brad, if you do talk to Scarlet, tell her Autumn Jennings died from a poison and that Scarlet might have been exposed herself. Even if she’s not willing to talk to me, she might need medical care.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Autumn Jennings, from Vintage Visions Glad Rags, passed away suddenly, a couple of days ago. She had been exposed to a poison, and I fear that Scarlet might be as well.”

  “Um . . .” He looked down at the business card. “Yeah, sure thing. I’ll let her know if I see her.”

  Sailor and I left the salon. Outside I breathed deeply to clear my lungs of the scent of hair products. The sidewalks were bustling with tourists and locals who flocked to Union Square for the high-end shopping: A huge Neiman Marcus dominated one corner, and a massive Macy’s famous for holiday window displays took up another block. Smaller boutiques featured Cartier, Gucci, Balenciaga, and the like.

  “He was lying toward the end, when you asked him about the dress labels,” said Sailor. “I saw mock orange.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mock orange is a flower, and a traditional symbol of lying. Sometimes I see Pinocchio.” At my amused look, Sailor continued. “You wanted me to tell you more about the way things work for me, so there you go.”

  “I think it’s cute that you see flowers and children’s characters.”

  “I take what I can get.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll bet Scarlet did take something from Autumn’s shop—or maybe Autumn gave it to her; it really doesn’t matter at this point.”

  “Except that if it’s one of the poisonous dresses, she might be in danger.”

  “Speaking of poison, I’m ready to name mine. I’m hungry,” Sailor said as we negotiated the crowded sidewalk in front of the St. Francis Hotel. “I know a nice little restaurant in walking distance; that way we don’t have to move the car.”

  “Perfect,” I said. Even with my parking charm, finding a spot near Union Square was near impossible, so we had parked in the expensive underground garage beneath the plaza. “Where?”

  “Belden Place.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You don’t know it? It’s the French Quarter.”

  “There’s a French Quarter in San Francisco?”

  “It doesn’t hold a candle to a place like New Orleans, of course, but yes. There’s a little alley full of restaurants, and a few little shops.”

  “Where?”

  “Tucked between Union Square and Chinatown.”

  “I declare, this town never ceases to amaze me.”

  * * *

  “I still don’t know how I didn’t even realize this was here. I’m not that new to town,” I said as I sipped my glass of rosé at an outdoor table under a big red umbrella. “I’m poleaxed, is what.”

  “You don’t get out much.”

  “Don’t tell that to Maya and Bronwyn. They’d say I’m never at the store anymore.”

  “Let me rephrase: You don’t get out much for things like long lunches at sidewalk cafés. Unless you’re meeting your old boyfriend, that is.”

  Sailor had spotted me in North Beach having lunch with an ex-beau not long ago, and though he claimed he trusted me, I could tell it still rankled since he kept bringing it up.

  “Very funny.”

  “But seriously, you’re never in the shop because you’re too busy running around chasing murderers.”

  Just then a waiter walked by and gave me an odd look.

  “Mostly buying old clothes, I’d say.”

  “I’m going to start calling you Nancy Drew. And before you ask, Nancy’s a very smart sleuth, the protagonist of an extraordinarily popular series of books for young adults.”

  “I’ve heard of Nancy Drew,” I said, with just a slight defensive note in my voice. “And Sherlock Holmes, too. Oscar loves mysteries, and we trade.”

  Sailor smiled. “Has he talked you into letting him come for Bronwyn’s sleepover yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Mark my words: He’ll find a way. He’s a resourceful little critter.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  The waiter arrived and took our order for lunch; he sported a thick French accent and told us he was from Lyon and adored San Francisco.

  My mind cast back to my chat with Carlos, about the lack of organized crime in San Francisco. Why had the French never had organized crime? I wondered. Perhaps they did, but since they’d never had any really good movies made about it, I didn’t realize. Or, I thought as I dug into my delectable appetizer of duck pâté, most likely they were distracted with delicious food, excellent wine—and chocolate.

  Just as Sailor and I started in on our shared dessert—a chocolate extravaganza—a man approached our table, his hat literally in his hands.

  “Excuse me. I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he said. And then he launched into what he needed from me: another intervention with the mayor’s office. He had a file tucked under his arm. I asked him to leave the information with me and promised him I would see what I could do.

  After he left, I shook my head and polished off the rosé. “I know you probably wouldn’t agree with me, but I sure hope Aidan comes home soon. I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

  Sailor nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “What do you think’s going on? Why would he have left me in charge?”

  “I think he’s got something planned for you,” Sailor said carefully.

  “Something, as in . . . ?”

  “I believe he’s testing the waters, seeing how folks react to you, and you to them. You know he’s been wanting you to combine forces and work with him.”

  “You were in on that discussion as well. And do you think that would be the worst option? Say what you will about Aidan, he’s helped me out in the past. When the chips are down, he weighs in on the right side of things.”

  “He weighs in on Aidan’s side of things,” said Sailor. “But that being said . . . I suppose it depends what he’s sensing. I know he’s feeling something coming. I’ve been hoping my aunt Renna or Patience could tell me more from their end, but the threat is still unclear. So in the meantime,
working with Aidan appears to be our best option.”

  “‘Our’?”

  “Where you go, I go.”

  “Even if Aidan’s involved?”

  “Especially if Aidan’s involved.”

  “Speaking of Aidan, another thing he abandoned to me was Selena’s training sessions. She’s coming by tonight to watch me brew. We’re working on control.”

  “That’s good. Her metal magic is rare and could come in handy. Be sure to have her polish some silver things while she’s at your place.”

  “I don’t see how I could avoid it. That girl’s like a polishing machine, with a one-track mind. It’s a little scary.”

  “Witches are scary. One of these days you’ll have to cop to that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . I’ve known a few psychics who scared the scalded haints out of me.”

  Sailor chuckled. “I guess we’re a scary lot.”

  “Speaking of which, are you up for Bronwyn’s birthday bash tomorrow?”

  “I’m going. As to whether I’m ‘up’ for a night with a coven in a haunted house, that’s harder to say. Especially . . .”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got a lot of love for the Wiccans out there, but you have to admit: This is one wacky coven.”

  I smiled. “You are a prince among men, Sailor—you know that?”

  “All I care about is that you know that,” he said as he paid the bill.

  “Thank you for lunch. This was a rare treat.”

  “You’re most welcome. Now that we’re getting in the habit of taking time out for picnics and lunch, I might be spoiled for real life. But alas, I’ve got training with Patience this afternoon.”

  I tried to stop myself from asking but didn’t succeed.

  “So, what does Patience think of you joining us for the overnight at Rodchester House?”

  “Are we back to that?”