A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  I glanced in the back and saw my gobgoyle shrug in reply.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to come?” I demanded, still annoyed.

  Grunt.

  “You’re not a pig at the moment, Oscar. Why are you grunting?”

  I glanced back again to see him shrug. This was unusual for my talkative familiar. Something occurred to me: “Are you okay, Oscar? Were you hurt?”

  “No, course not. A bozo like that isn’t gonna hurt a guy like Oscar.” There was a slight pause. “No offense, Sailor.”

  “None taken.”

  “What’s bothering you, then?” I asked.

  He mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I said they thought I was ugly.”

  “Who . . . ?”

  “Everybody,” he muttered.

  “You mean the coven sisters?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh . . . They didn’t mean it, Oscar. They were just so startled to see you in your natural form, is all. They didn’t expect it, and they were already amped up just being at Rodchester House. They were excited to be scared, in a way.”

  More silence from the backseat.

  I met Sailor’s eyes.

  “They’re cowans, Oscar,” said Sailor. “As a general rule, we humans are way too caught up in the outer shell; we’re swayed by external beauty, and beauty’s defined by the wrong things. For instance, you were certainly a beautiful sight when you came to help me.”

  “I woulda caught up with him, no problem, if I still had my wings,” he said in a sullen reference to the wings I had destroyed in an attempt to save him a while ago.

  I sighed.

  “Hey, it was awesome the way he screamed when he saw me—you remember, Sailor?” Oscar said, his voice regaining his familiar upbeat tone. “Heh!”

  “It was truly awesome,” Sailor said with a nod. “And you are truly awesome.”

  “Ya know somethin’, mistress? I mean, I know he lost the fight and all, but this Sailor guy just might be a keeper.”

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Oscar couldn’t tell us what the assailant looked like, or even recall the color and make of the motorcycle. It had been too dark, and it had all happened too fast. When we got back to Aunt Cora’s Closet he made a beeline for his pillow, and I brewed a pot of very strong coffee to help motivate me to open the shop. Brownyn had the day off, but Maya arrived with Loretta, and Conrad was at his post outside on the curb.

  I gave Maya a rundown of the sleepover as we straightened the racks and shelves, preparing for the day’s customers.

  “This is why I opted for empanadas,” she said. “Is Sailor going to be okay?”

  “He has a black eye but otherwise seems fine.” I had dropped a decidedly grumpy Sailor at his apartment in Chinatown. “I think I was annoying him by suggesting medical care, or even willow bark tea for his headache. I guess it’s not manly to feel pain.”

  She smiled. “My brother’s like that. Oh, hey, Mom’s coming by today to take measurements next door at Sandra’s. She talked to the landlord and I guess they’re ready to go. She’s so excited about the new shop.”

  “As am I. It’ll make a great addition to Aunt Cora’s Closet, and to the Haight.”

  “It was an inspired idea. Thank you. Also, it looks like Loretta has won over everybody’s hearts and minds at the Bayview house. Since she’s up for grabs . . . I think she has a new home.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful news!” I said, getting down on the ground to pet Loretta’s silky coat. She thumped her tail at me.

  “I put Selena’s new charm on her collar,” Maya said. “She’s got quite the collection now. I wondered if the jingling would bother her; but nothing seems to bother her.”

  I scratched Loretta’s neck and checked out her charms. There was a little soccer ball, a retro dress—appropriate for a vintage clothing store—a top hat, a Maltese cross, the state of California, a witch’s hat, a book, the shiny silver bee, and a tiny little almond-shaped bottle.

  “It occurred to me to wonder if the charms might have significance,” said Maya. “Like, beyond just being cute. I noticed a witch’s hat, and that little cross . . . you once said the Maltese cross was used as protection.”

  “That’s true. Where I’m from, people put it on their barns so witches wouldn’t curdle the milk.”

  “Why would you curdle anyone’s milk?”

  “I never quite figured that part out. Like a lot of traditions that get handed down over generations, the original intent might be outdated, though the behavior remains. The Maltese cross never put me off—I’ll tell you that much. But then, I didn’t bother with my neighbors’ milk. Except that one time, but that was totally called for.”

  Maya smiled. A pair of young women came into the store and started trying on hats, so we suspended our discussion of witchcraft and got back to work, sorting through inventory and helping our customers find the perfect vintage outfit.

  A few hours later, the phone rang. It was Inspector Carlos Romero.

  “Someone named Scarlet just tried to sell Riesling a ball gown. Riesling said she didn’t look very good.”

  “Where is she?”

  “On her way to the hospital. UCSF. I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter 24

  I paused and stroked my medicine bag to ground myself before passing through the sliding glass doors. Hospitals are difficult places for most people to enter; repositories of pain and anxiety and grief, the halls are also crowded with confused spirits and errant vibrations. So for sensitive folks, they’re even more challenging. Though I can’t communicate with the dead, their energy is attracted to mine. Just as in museums, but more so, I could feel the whispery sensations along my skin, like cold little puffs of breath on my arms and the back of my neck, seeking recognition, yearning for connection.

  I entered the ICU waiting room. A middle-aged woman sprawled on a bank of chairs, sleeping. A man stared blankly into space; two young children were coloring together on the floor at his feet. A television tuned to a news channel was muted, the closed captioning informing whoever was interested that the president had signed a new bill into law.

  Beside the door leading to the actual ICU, a sign over a telephone told family members they must speak with the nurse before entering.

  Carlos stood in the middle of the room, gazing up at the television. He looked exhausted.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You made good time,” he said in a low voice, checking his watch. “The nurse is supposed to notify us when she’s able to talk.”

  “What happened?”

  “Like I told you, she showed up at Parmelee Riesling’s place. I assume she knew about her from Jennings. She tried to sell the gown, said she needed cash. She was experiencing visible symptoms, so Riesling tried to explain to her that she needed to see a doctor, and she collapsed right there. Riesling called an ambulance, and then me.”

  “Do they think she’ll be all right?”

  He shrugged. “Sounds complicated. There’s a chelating process they can do, but there could be lasting kidney damage, neuropathy, all sorts of nasty stuff. Poor kid. Anyway, apparently it’s not difficult to test for arsenic. Riesling has already determined the ball gown was loaded with the poison.”

  “Does she still have it? Could I look at it?”

  He reared back and fixed me with a look. “What are you planning to do, feel for vibrations? This thing’s so loaded with arsenic it’d be like hugging a toxic powdered donut. Matter of fact, she already called in hazmat to deal with it. They’ll take it to the lab, redo the tests, but I don’t doubt Riesling’s findings.”

  “Hard to believe the old dyes would still be so toxic. After all, this wasn’t slow; it was acute poisoning, right?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Carlo
s said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Riesling said this amount of arsenic was way off the charts, much more than what she would have expected to find.”

  “Which means?”

  “It looks like someone added arsenic to the gowns. Sprinkled it on like so much Parmesan cheese on pasta.”

  “Are you hungry, by any chance? All your metaphors are food based.”

  “Skipped breakfast.”

  “Oh! I have leftovers from the birthday sleepover.” I brought out a pack of brownies Starr had wrapped up for me.

  “That looks delicious. Thanks.” He took the goods from me and started to munch, letting out a soft appreciative moan.

  “Did you have anything for lunch?”

  “I might have missed that, too.”

  “Tough day? Or . . . night?”

  “Not as tough as some. But busy, definitely. Homicide in the Tenderloin.”

  “And now you’re pulling overtime with me.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a living.”

  “So, what happens now?”

  “As we both know, this isn’t my case, so it’s not up to me. But I think Stinson is going to have to reopen the homicide investigation. I imagine now he’ll be going through Jennings’s place with a fine-tooth comb.” Carlos cast me a glance. “You didn’t happen to remove any pertinent evidence from the scene, did you?”

  “I looked through a few things, but that’s about it.”

  “Good. We’ll see if they come up with any clues from her place. They really should have processed the scene long ago, for crissakes, if they had the time to go through Aunt Cora’s Closet. . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  A nurse came out. “Inspector? She’s awake and able to answer a few questions. But please remember: She’s a very sick girl.”

  “Let’s go,” Carlos said to me. He was clearly going out on a limb here; surely it would get back to Inspectors Stinson and Ng that Carlos Romero had been here with a woman in tow. But I was going to leave that to Carlos. He was smart, and more than able to take care of himself. And this was my chance to get some answers.

  The air in the ICU was loaded with spirits. I could feel them. Everything was white and sterile looking, and everywhere I turned there was the incessant beeping and blooping and whooshing of machines, nurses with running shoes and scrubs in pastel colors and cartwheeling teddy bears.

  Scarlet was almost unrecognizable as the young woman I had seen a few days ago. Her skin was ashen; her eyes had dark circles around them; they darted around the room, as though agitated. She had tubes sticking out of her arms and oxygen in her nose.

  Carlos introduced himself and told her we wanted to help but that she would need to be honest with us. His voice was incredibly gentle, yet firm, in a tone that would have gotten me to confess any number of things.

  Scarlet seemed to sense the same thing. She started talking.

  “I’m so sorry. I know we shouldn’t have done it. . . .”

  “Done what?”

  “We stole the trousseau from the House of Spirits. They said it was cursed but we didn’t believe them, so we took it.”

  “How did you manage it?” I asked. “That was a lot of stuff.”

  “We were at the house for volunteer day, so we just packed everything up in cardboard boxes labeled plates and napkins and stuff and carried them out with the caterer. It was easy. And she paid us well.”

  “Who paid you?” asked Carlos.

  She hesitated.

  “You need to tell us so we can help you,” he said.

  “Autumn Jennings.”

  “Autumn paid you to steal the trousseau? Why? How did she even know about it?”

  “I guess it was once in her family, or something?” She started to cry softly, tiny tears glistening at the corners of her eyes and rolling down her temples. She turned to stare at me. “Please, I know you killed Autumn. Please take the curse off me!”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  She was getting agitated. The indicators on the machine beeped as her blood pressure and pulse ratcheted up.

  “Is that why you ran from me that day with the dogs? You think I cursed Autumn?”

  “And you’re killing me now because I stole the trousseau! I’m sorry; I needed the money!”

  “It wasn’t me, Scarlet, I promise you,” I began. “Was Brad the one who helped you to steal the trousseau?”

  She shook her head and started to cry in earnest. The nurse came scurrying in, checking her vitals.

  “You’re going to have to leave,” she said sternly.

  “But—,” I began.

  “Come on, Lily. In here, the medical professionals reign,” Carlos said. He turned to the nurse. “Thank you for letting us speak to her.”

  “Feel better, Scarlet,” I said over my shoulder as Carlos led me out. I doubted the young woman heard me—or would accept my good wishes—caught up as she was in her own emotions and illness.

  * * *

  I insisted on taking Carlos to the cafeteria and buying him a sandwich, a small bag of chips, and a mango smoothie. I got myself a cup of coffee. We took our orange plastic tray to a table by the window, which looked out over a meditation garden.

  He wolfed down half the sandwich before he said a word.

  “I worry about you sometimes,” I said. “I know you’re a one-man army against the ne’er-do-wells in San Francisco, but you won’t do anyone any good if you’re six feet under.”

  “At least I know you’ll still talk to me when I’m in the grave, right?”

  “I really don’t have that kind of talent. You’ll be stuck with Sailor.”

  “That’s a thought that’ll fester. Now, just for the record,” he said, washing down another bite of sandwich with a swig of the smoothie and sitting back in his chair, “you did not in fact place a curse upon either Autumn Jennings or Scarlet Funk, right?”

  “Can you believe she’s called Scarlet Funk? On the other hand, it’d be a great band name.”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  “No, Carlos, of course I had nothing to do with placing a curse upon anyone. I never hex.”

  He stared at me for a long moment.

  “Almost never. And certainly not in this case.”

  “Why would Scarlet think that you had?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself. Maybe she heard the trousseau was cursed, which seems to be the rumor around the neighborhood. And then maybe she heard I was a witch, and put it all together . . . ?” I trailed off and sipped my coffee. “I really don’t know.”

  Carlos finished the rest of his sandwich and chips.

  “What really bothers me, though, is that it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Autumn Jennings have hired someone to steal a cursed trousseau, especially if she had family ties to it somehow? Unless . . . it’s possible Jamie told her to get hold of it, and he would use it to remove the curse.”

  “Let’s back up so you can explain that one to me. Who’s Jamie?”

  I told him about my meeting with Jamie and what we had found out at Rodchester House about the trousseau being stolen.

  “And why would it have wound up in the attics of Rodchester House of Spirits?”

  “The Widow Rodchester was a spiritualist, and interested in all sorts of occult things. It was rumored to be cursed long ago, so I suppose she just collected it. It’s hard to tell since it wasn’t intact in its trunk anymore, but it didn’t look as though she’d done anything with it. Maybe she was keeping it in the attic hoping to prevent it from harming anyone. Who knows?”

  “Okay, so far the story is this: Autumn Jennings thinks she’s cursed because everyone she loves dies. So she contacts a little weasel named Jamie and maybe he tells her to steal this trousseau because it’s the cause of the curse. She hires Scarlet and her boyfriend to steal i
t, so Scarlet’s made sick, too. How’s the boyfriend?”

  “Brad seemed fine the other day, but it might be worth checking on him again.”

  Carlos nodded, pushing the tray away from him. He’d eaten every bite. “The only problem with this little story is that they aren’t in fact dying of a curse; they’re dying of arsenic poisoning. Intentional arsenic poisoning.”

  “Good point. Carlos, how are you going to convey all of this information to Stinson and Ng?”

  He cocked his head. “Not sure yet. But they need to know everything, so I’ll find a way. I’ll for sure insist they test the entire trousseau, see what we’re dealing with.”

  “There were some stockings in a box there, too—I think they should be sure to check everything in that place. Just in case.”

  Carlos nodded. “And I’m going to need the contact information for this Jamie fellow.”

  “All I have is a phone number, and I was told it was a burner.”

  Carlos lifted his eyebrows slightly. “This guy a drug runner?”

  “No, just a run-of-the-mill curse lifter. He’s unlicensed, but he promised to get the paperwork started.”

  “I’m staying out of that,” said Carlos. “Anything else?”

  “I wonder . . . it’s probably nothing, but . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “Jennings’s next door neighbor, Renee Baker—”

  “This the cupcake lady?”

  “Yes, that’s her. She’s interested in moving into Autumn’s shop space.”

  “And?”

  “The body’s not even cold, as they say. Isn’t it a little soon?”

  He shrugged. “The real estate market these days—you snooze, you lose.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You think she’s suspicious in some way?”

  “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be awfully easy to put arsenic into a cupcake and then blame it on old dresses?”

  “I suppose, if you knew about the old dresses.”

  “She had heard about the alleged curse on the trousseau. Not sure if she knew about the arsenic per se, but . . .”

  “But you’re suspicious.”

  “Just thought I should mention it. Just in case. Maybe Stinson and Ng should poke around a little.”