A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  * * *

  I wanted to talk with Jamie before the cops contacted him and scared him off. This was the sort of thing that drove Carlos insane. But this wasn’t even his case, and I wasn’t entirely sure Stinson and Ng would follow up, at least in a timely fashion. And a burner implied it would be tossed soon, didn’t it? So then if I wanted to talk with him I’d have to harass Russians out in the Avenues for a while trying to track him down.

  Or worse, try to get Renee to cough up his information. But that look she had given me when I mentioned him to her in Aunt Cora’s Closet . . . it still made me shiver.

  There was something about her. Could she, indeed, be casting, somehow? Those cupcakes would be an effective way to influence folks, if she was skilled with brewing or botanical charms. Sailor and Oscar and I had eaten them without any ill effects, but if she set out to influence someone, it would be an easy way to do so. But . . . why?

  Could she be the reason the police had largely avoided looking at Jennings’s place?

  Or was my admittedly overactive imagination going wild? I used to think I could distinguish magical from nonmagical types, but over the past several months I’d learned just how easily I could be fooled. And it was true that my skittishness was a learned behavior. I was going to have to thank my mother, my father, and my hometown for teaching me that it was dangerous to trust people.

  Luckily I had Graciela to teach me otherwise; else I’d truly be in trouble.

  I called Jamie and left a message that I had some news about the necessary licensing. I figured I’d keep the satchel as the ultimate threat, though I still didn’t know exactly how that worked.

  He called me back at Aunt Cora’s Closet in twenty minutes.

  “Meet you at Ghirardelli Square in an hour,” he said. “At the Mermaid Fountain.”

  “Right outside the chocolate factory?” I asked.

  “That’s the place.”

  When I hung up, Oscar was sitting right in front of me, eyes huge and butt wriggling in excitement. No doubt he’d heard those magic words: chocolate factory.

  Maya laughed. “Methinks somebody wants to go for a ride.”

  “I suppose you’re right. You’re okay here by yourself?”

  “Sure; Conrad’s outside, and Mom has been in and out all day. And I’ve got Loretta for company, of course.”

  “All right, see you in a bit. Chocolate in hand.”

  Chapter 25

  “You have a thing for tourist spots, I see,” I said as we approached. I had called to tell Sailor where I was headed, and he insisted on accompanying me.

  “Force of habit,” Jamie said with a shrug. “Lots of people around, no locals to recognize a person.”

  I supposed, given the way my life was heading, I should spend more time with the criminal element and learn some basic skills such as this.

  Jamie was sitting on a low brick wall by a big fountain with a white paper bag in one hand. He held it out: “Chocolate?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll buy some before we leave.”

  He took an irregular chunk of chocolate out and broke off a piece. “Ghirardelli. Not really the best chocolate in the world, but it brings back my childhood.”

  “You grew up around here? Really?”

  “Yeah, Potrero Hill. Why?”

  “You speak like you’re from Jersey or New York maybe.”

  “You talk like you just walked out of the Alamo and you’re making fun of my accent? You got some nerve, lady.”

  Sailor chuckled.

  “I wasn’t making fun. And for your information, no one walked out of the Alamo alive. Anyway, let’s go over it again,” I said. “What exactly did Autumn Jennings say? Try to remember as closely as possible. And remember, Sailor’s a human lie detector. He’ll know if you’re holding back.”

  “Look, lady, not for nothing, but I think you got a screw loose, maybe.”

  “Remember, I have control of the satchel.”

  Jamie muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Nothin’. Like I said, she comes to me thinking she’s cursed on account of everyone in her life dies. Says it’s some sort of family deal; I guess her great-grandfather got cursed by some shoeshine boy.”

  “And was this connected to the cursed trousseau? Did you tell her she had to get it back so you could lift the curse somehow?”

  “What? No, of course not. That’s not how these things work; you should know that. Being near a cursed object would make things worse.”

  “Then why did she have someone steal it?”

  “She didn’t have no one steal it. She got it from one of her neighbors. It was only afterward she realized the family connection. And then she was afraid it had come to her on purpose.”

  “Wait. She got it from one of her neighbors? Which one?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “Was it Renee?”

  “I. Don’t. Know. You got a hearing problem?”

  “And how do you know Renee, exactly?”

  He gave me a funny look. “We go way back. What’s it to you? Look, lady, as a fellow practitioner and someone who might be just a tad too invested in ‘by the book,’ you should know that the practitioner-client relationship is sacred. I don’t tell stories out of school.”

  * * *

  “I thought Scarlet told you Autumn hired her to steal the trousseau,” Sailor said as we headed back to the car, bag of chocolate in hand. We each had a piece, savoring the sweet cocoa taste.

  “She did,” I said. “But it never made sense to me. If you already think you’re under a curse, why would you invite more bad juju into your life? And even if Autumn did it because she thought Jamie might help her, would she go around trying on cursed dresses? It makes no sense. I’m sure Scarlet was lying to me.”

  “Why would she lie at this point?”

  “Because she’s afraid of whoever hired her to steal the trousseau. Easy enough to blame it on a dead woman.”

  “She said she stole the trousseau with her boyfriend, right? Let’s go chat with Brad—I’ve been meaning to check in with him since we left San Jose. I called to check; his shift started half an hour ago.”

  We got back to the car and handed the bag to Oscar; he was in chocolate bliss.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked Sailor as I drove us back to Union Square.

  “Fine.”

  It didn’t take a mind reader to know he was lying.

  “Still,” I said, “you look pretty macho with that black eye. It’s a good look for a bodyguard.”

  He gave me a reluctant smile. “Yeah, well, wait till you see the other guy.”

  We stowed the car in the garage, Oscar snuggled down in his nest in the backseat for a nap. Then Sailor and I walked to David Gallery.

  Brad did not seem pleased to see us.

  “It wasn’t me, man! I was on a date last night. All night, if you catch my drift. The girl was pretty chill; she can vouch for me.”

  “I thought you were in love with Scarlet,” I said.

  “She took my bike! And then someone said they saw her with another guy.” He shrugged. “Not saving myself for her. I got a good job; I got options.”

  “Who was this other guy she was with?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Some guy she met while she walked those dogs. Life’s too short, man. Time to move on. I even reported the motorcycle as stolen.”

  “Could you lift your shirt for me, please?” asked Sailor.

  “What? Why?”

  “I want to see if you have any bruises or marks from a fight.”

  “Yeah, looks like somebody sucker-punched you, huh?” He yanked his shirt up to display a white, hairless, well-padded torso. It looked completely untouched. “There, that good enough for you?”

  “
Yes, thank you,” said Sailor.

  “That about it? ’Cause I got work to do, and I gotta tell you I’m getting tired of being harassed. I could, like, report you.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I said. “And if you have a change of heart, Scarlet’s at UCSF in the ICU. She’s very sick.”

  That stopped him. “Really? What’s wrong with her?”

  “It looks like arsenic poisoning. It could be serious. So if you still care for her at all, you might want to visit.”

  “Aw, maaaan,” he said, shaking his head as he walked back to his station.

  “You believe him?” I asked Sailor as we left.

  Sailor nodded. “And I know for a fact I landed a few good hits on the guy’s ribs. Unless Brad’s a remarkably good healer, it wasn’t him at the Rodchester House last night.”

  “He seems to have rebounded from his heartache pretty quickly.”

  “Well, she did take his bike. You can’t mess with a man’s bike.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said with a smile. “You know . . . there’s someone connected to the Rodchester House who also frequents the dog park.”

  * * *

  “Has anyone seen Cody around? Or Eleanor, with Mr. Bojangles?” I asked.

  Lots of shaking heads. I recognized a few familiar faces from the other day, but there were new ones as well. Not everyone went to the park every day, of course, nor did most people keep to a strict schedule for dog walking.

  “I saw Cody yesterday, and he totally shaved his beard!” said a man I had seen here before, named Rolando.

  “Dude, I saw that,” said another. This prompted a long discussion among the group about the relative merits of facial hair. “I’m keeping my mustache, though.”

  “A lot of us are new to the neighborhood,” said one woman, getting back to my point. “You should ask one of the old-timers, like Mrs. Morgan.”

  “Mrs. Morgan is newer than I am,” said Rolando. “She just moved in last year.”

  “Really?” asked the woman. “I guess I just assumed she had been here a while.”

  Me, too, I thought. Why would she have moved into a house with so many stairs? But, then, perhaps she didn’t have mobility problems a year ago.

  Sailor and I thanked them for their time and headed back to the parking lot.

  “It really might have been Cody, then,” I said. “I wondered how you wouldn’t have noticed such a bushy beard, even in the dark. But if he shaved it . . .” I blew out a frustrated breath. “Still, I don’t even know his last name. I guess this was a bust. I suppose I could stake out his apartment house, maybe, or just start ringing doorbells. . . .”

  “Not necessarily. You know his first name, and he runs the Web site for Rodchester House of Spirits. Maya should be able to track down his full name in about five seconds. And if he’s not listed, get Sam Spade to find his exact address. And then I’ll go with you to talk to him.” He tugged my ponytail very gently. “You’ve got some good old-fashioned detective skills now, you know, not just of the witchy variety.”

  I smiled up at him. “You’re right. Thanks for reminding me. For now, I guess I’ll head back to Aunt Cora’s Closet and see if Maya can do some Internet sleuthing for me. See you later?”

  On our way to the dog park I had dropped Sailor at his place in Chinatown so he could get his motorcycle; he had an appointment not far away, on this side of town.

  “You can bet on it.”

  We kissed, and I watched as he pulled on his helmet, swung his leg over his bike, and zoomed off.

  It occurred to me to stop by and talk with Renee, but I didn’t want to be stupid. If she was involved in this somehow, I shouldn’t confront her alone. Better to try to figure out what role she might have played and hand all the evidence over to the police. Like a good, smart witch.

  I was about to get in my car when I noticed Mrs. Morgan hobbling down the street, leaning heavily on her walker with one hand while trying to keep Colonel Mustard in line with the other.

  I hurried over to her.

  “May I help you?” I asked, reaching out to take Colonel Mustard’s leash.

  “Oh, thank you, my dear. Why, here you are again! You really should get yourself a dog if you’re going to come to the dog park every day anyway!”

  “I think you might be right.” I smiled. “I have a pet pig, but I don’t know that he’s allowed in the park.”

  “A what?”

  I gestured toward my car, where Oscar was sprawled on the backseat in his porcine guise, snoring.

  Mrs. Morgan tottered over and peered in and chuckled. “If I didn’t see it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it. A pig!”

  Oscar awoke with a snort and rolled over to look at us. This made Mrs. Morgan laugh more.

  “You should let him come out and play with the others.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. This is a friendly crowd—as long as he’s a friendly pig.”

  “Very,” I said, partly lying given his encounter with Autumn Jennings.

  “You want to come out and play, Oscar?”

  He gave me a look. His snout was still smeared with chocolate, but nonetheless I realized I was going to pay for this one. He gave a quick shake of his head, then snorted and curled up with his butt to us, wiggling his little tail.

  “I guess he’s not up for it,” I said. I should have known. Oscar found it humiliating to be lumped in with dogs and other pets. “Would you like me to stay with you, and then I could give you a ride home?”

  “Oh, would you? That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Morgan and I sat on a bench and watched the dogs play with one another and their humans. Rolando threw the ball for Colonel Mustard over and over; his dog and the Colonel seemed like good canine buddies.

  It was a beautiful Bay Area summer day, warm and sunny but with a pleasant breeze. Nothing like the summers I had grown up with: hot and sticky. On the other hand, there were no fireflies here, and rents were exorbitant. Everything had its pluses and minuses.

  “You know,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but if you love dogs and coming to the park, I could pay you to walk Colonel Mustard for me.”

  “Oh, I wish I could, but I actually have a job, across town. I have my own vintage clothing shop.”

  “Oh, of course you do, so silly of me. You already told me that. I’m sorry; I forget things.”

  “Actually I was here today looking for a young man named Cody who comes here often with his dog Bojangles. Do you happen to know him?” I had asked her before but hoped her memory might have been jogged.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know. I’ve met a few people here, but truth to tell, they all run together! I’m terrible with names. I’d like to blame it on age, but the truth is I was never much good at remembering names. Faces, now, that I remember.”

  “Cody’s a young man, probably midtwenties, with a full black beard, at least until recently.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know.”

  “You know, Rolando mentioned that you were new to the neighborhood, just moved in a year ago.” She nodded, her eyes still on the dogs. “I guess I assumed you had been here a while.”

  “No, not long. It’s a lovely neighborhood, though, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” I wanted to ask why she would buy a house with so many steps but decided it was none of my business. She wasn’t my grandmother, after all. But I hated to think of her struggling with them every day.

  We watched the dogs for a few more minutes, and then I gave Mrs. Morgan a ride back to her house. Oscar was disgruntled at having to share the backseat with Colonel Mustard, but in response to a stern look he moved out of the way.

  I pulled into Mrs. Morgan’s very small driveway, parked, and came around to help her out.

 
“I’m just fine at the moment, but thank you,” she said as she started climbing the stairs. “It’s the Parkinson’s. It comes; it goes. Sometimes I swear I feel a mere sixty years old, like I could walk miles! People find it odd, sometimes, think I’m faking. But it’s the way of this disease.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be very difficult.”

  “I’m much luckier than many. Look at what happened to poor Autumn! One never knows what’s in store. That’s why it’s so important to appreciate every day.”

  “So true,” I said as I followed her up the stairs, holding Colonel Mustard’s leash. When we got to the door Mrs. Morgan searched her handbag for her key.

  I noticed a package had been left on the landing, so I picked it up to bring it inside, barely glancing at the name.

  Mrs. Morgan opened the door and let us in.

  “I would be happy to help you take those catalogs down for the recycling, if you like,” I said, setting the package on the foyer table and reaching for an armful of catalogs.

  “No, thank you. There’s really no need— Put those down,” said Mrs. Morgan.

  I had glanced at the name on the package, but it hadn’t registered. Now I looked back at it and read: Mrs. Mildred Parr Morgan.

  Parr. Unlike Mrs. Morgan, I was usually pretty good with names. And that one rang a bell.

  “The nob’s name was Clark. The shoeshine boy was Thomas Parr.”

  Not that it was a particularly rare name. But she had that catalog from Rodchester house. . . .

  “I wondered if you’d figured it out,” said Mrs. Morgan. She was holding a gun trained on me, and unlike when something similar happened just a few days ago with Autumn Jennings, her hands were steady. So steady, in fact, it made me wonder if the whole Parkinson’s thing had been an act. Like everything else about Mrs. Morgan, apparently.

  I stood very still, trying to think through my options. Oscar was out in the car and often had a kind of psychic awareness of when I needed help. But he wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet, so if Mrs. Morgan was actually intent on killing me here and now, I’d better think fast.