A Toxic Trousseau Read online

  “Sailor and I went yesterday.”

  “Really. Sailor’s into vintage clothing shows, is he?”

  “Sailor’s been a little . . . surprising lately.”

  “In what ways?”

  “He’s more open to things than before. Haven’t you noticed? It’s probably all the work he’s doing with Patience Blix.”

  “What I’ve noticed is that he seems like a much happier man than before. Still moody, but nothing like he was. I assumed it had to do with you.”

  By then, I felt on the verge of hyperventilating at all the relationship talk, so I just shrugged and concentrated on my driving.

  Maya studied the catalog. “Huh, I recognize that name: Parmelee Riesling. It was on the Web when I first looked up Autumn Jennings, remember? It rings a bell because Parmelee’s not a name you hear very often, and then it’s paired with a last name that sounds like wine.”

  “I met her once, actually, with Carlos. She’s a clothing conservator at the Asian Art Museum. I’ve been meaning to give her a call, see if she can tell me anything about Autumn, or maybe even Scarlet.”

  “Why would she know them?”

  “I don’t know that she would, but there was some paperwork at Autumn’s store that suggested she lent some items to that show, and Scarlet volunteered there. So there’s a possible connection between the three. Maybe.”

  Maya rented a room not far from Aunt Cora’s Closet, in the Haight, but her childhood home was a humble Victorian in the Bayview, dating from a time when a working-class family might have been able to afford to have a home built in San Francisco. Lucille’s parents had owned the home since the thirties, and I knew Lucille had been raised here with several siblings, one of whom still lived in the home with her, as did Maya’s oldest sister, her husband, and their two children. The result was a multigenerational, somewhat chaotic and crowded, loving home. I had been invited to a few holidays and cookouts in the yard, and it always smelled of pot roast or barbecue.

  I found the home’s cheerful bedlam charming, if a tad overwhelming. It wasn’t exactly what I was used to, given my own strained relations to family. But it warmed my heart to be welcomed into such a cozy environment.

  When we entered the house, Loretta seemed already very much at home. She trotted over to a little oval rug placed in front of the fireplace and lay down with a moan. All worn-out from her big outing at the dog park, I was guessing.

  We said hello to a few family members, then served ourselves plates of Thai food. Then Maya sat down at a computer atop a little desk and logged on while I called the Asian Art Museum to ask Parmelee Riesling if I could come by to talk later in the afternoon.

  “Listen to this,” Maya said as I hung up the phone. “The society woman ‘must have one or two velvet dresses which cannot cost less than $500 each; she must possess thousands of dollars’ worth of laces, in the shape of flounces, to loop up over the skirts of dresses . . . ; ball-dresses are frequently imported from Paris at a cost of from $500 to $1,000. . . . Then there are traveling-dresses in black silk, in pongee, in velour, in piqué, which range in price from $75 to $175 . . . evening robes in Swiss muslin, robes in linen for the garden and croquet playing, dresses for horse races and for yacht races . . . dresses for breakfast and for dinner, dresses for receptions and for parties . . .’”

  “What are you reading?”

  “It’s from Lights and Shadows of New York Life, by James McCabe, 1872. He’s writing about what was considered proper for a high-society lady’s trousseau. All sorts of ball gowns and croquet attire, too?”

  “For the wealthiest women, I suppose so. I get the sense there were a lot of wardrobe changes, back in the day. And as you know, I love old clothes, but it is amazing to think how constricting the clothes were, especially for the upper classes. Corsets that restricted one’s breathing, and you should have seen the narrow shoes in the show; I swear their feet must have been bound to have remained so slender. They weren’t supposed to be able to move easily; it was all about showing off their husband’s or father’s wealth and social class.”

  “It gives such insight into the time and customs, doesn’t it? And here I always thought trousseaus were all about lingerie, for some reason.”

  “They usually included lingerie, but also things like bed linens and towels, all embroidered, of course. Often the women in the family would spend years, all through the girl’s youth, sewing and embroidering. It was part of how they showed their skill with needlework. And then the linens would be monogrammed, once the young woman knew what her new name would be.”

  “Such a different time . . .” Maya trailed off, her fingers flying over the keyboard, the muted clacking of the keys joining the sound of a news program playing in the next room, and a rap beat emanating from a neighbor’s house. “Okay, let’s see what we can find about a cursed shoeshine boy.”

  It didn’t take her long. She put “cursed trousseau” and “shoeshine boy” and “San Francisco legend” into the search engine, and up popped several references. I peeked over her shoulder as she scrolled through the first couple of hits.

  “Well, first off, the ‘boy’ in question was actually a twenty-six-year-old man. The year was 1882, and a wealthy young man—a ‘nob,’ as in Nob Hill—used to frequent the shoeshine ‘boy.’ Says here the two had been friends as children; the shoeshine boy was educated on a charity fellowship. The wealthy fellow was named Jedediah Clark; the shoeshine man was Thomas Parr. Parr appears to have gone a little crazy with jealousy over Clark’s intended—who was only fourteen years old, by the by. It says here that Parr sought out a practitioner of the ‘dark arts’ and cast a curse upon Clark’s intended and any issue he might have had in the future.”

  “I’m betting this practitioner didn’t have the proper license for such a thing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you know there’s such a thing as a necromancy license in San Francisco?”

  “Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “And get this: You need a license even if you’re just going to pretend to be a necromancer, or soothsayer, or any number of other things. I wonder if Patience Blix has a license . . .”

  Maya scrolled through a few more tales of the vindictive shoeshine boy, but the bones of the story remained the same.

  “Okay, Thomas Parr and Jedediah Clark—and what was the name of the fiancée?”

  Maya leaned toward the computer and read a name: “Beatrice Beech. They called her Bee. Can you imagine, being engaged at the age of fourteen?”

  I let out a long breath and shook my head. “I really can’t. But then, if you spend your childhood preparing your own trousseau, maybe that’s all you want in life. What I can’t imagine is why the fiancée was the one who was cursed—why not the nob?”

  Maya shrugged. “Maybe going after the object of his affection hurt his pride or something like that?”

  “Maybe. This is all a bit sketchy, but I think it’s time to call in the SFPD about this trousseau.”

  Chapter 12

  I phoned Carlos before leaving Maya’s house, and he suggested we meet at El Valenciano in the Mission. El Valenciano had a bar and restaurant in the front, with a dimly lit dance floor at the back. I had seen it packed to the maximum on Saturday nights, but on a weekday afternoon it was mellow, the dance floor abandoned. Two guys sat hunched over drinks at the bar, and the bartender was leaning back against the counter, checking his phone.

  “You want anything?” Carlos asked as we passed the bar. I had the sense he knew the owner of this place, as we’d met in the back before and he always made himself at home. I knew from experience they mixed a mean margarita, but it was a little early in the day.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine,” I said.

  The bartender glanced up at us and gave Carlos a small nod; then his attention turned back to his messages. We walked through to the back, whe
re Carlos pulled out a chair for me at a small round cocktail table in a shadowy corner of the empty dance floor.

  “I take it you don’t want anyone to see us together?”

  “No sense rubbing anybody’s nose in it. As I mentioned, I might not be Stinson’s favorite person.”

  “But you found out something of interest?”

  He nodded. My eyes were adjusting to the low light, but it was still dim, and Carlos’s already dark eyes looked black and unreadable.

  “Autumn Jennings died of arsenic poisoning.”

  “Arsenic? Seriously? That’s just awful. Who uses arsenic in this day and age? I mean . . . isn’t that something the Borgias used to use to rid themselves of political rivals, way back in the day?”

  “Exactly. It’s easy to trace with modern forensics—in fact, I heard someone dug up Napoléon’s remains not long ago and they were able to perform tests on his hair, even after all this time—so people don’t use it that much anymore.”

  “Huh.”

  “But it’s still readily available.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s rat poison, essentially. And it’s used in fireworks as well. I don’t know the details, but sometimes workers in fireworks factories are accidentally poisoned. It’s come up on the Chinatown beat from time to time.”

  “So someone put arsenic into Autumn’s food? Who would do something like that?” Had she been a secret heiress of some kind? The vintage clothes business wasn’t normally profitable enough to kill over. Her apartment over the store had some nice things, but it wasn’t that posh. “Did she have a lot of enemies, do you know?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t feel all that comfortable talking to you about this—not only would it not be a good idea anyway, but it’s not even my case.”

  “I know, Carlos, but this case involves vintage clothes, and now I’ve been informed that some of Autumn’s recent acquisitions might have been cursed. Besides, I’m implicated at some level, and so is Bronwyn.” Which reminded me . . . “They didn’t find anything suspicious in Bronwyn’s scones, did they?”

  He shook his head. “No. They haven’t figured out how Jennings was exposed yet.”

  I slumped in relief.

  “As far as the Autumn Jennings homicide investigation goes . . .” He trailed off.

  “What?” I urged.

  “It’s really none of my business, since it’s not my case. But it sounds like they’re not convinced it was homicide. The medical examiner still hasn’t made his ruling, and not all the tests are in.”

  “They think Autumn could have ingested the poison by accident?”

  “It’s possible. Back in the day people were accidentally exposed to all sorts of things. It’s like lead poisoning; it could be caused by any number of things.”

  “So Inspectors Stinson and Ng think it was accidental? Do you agree?”

  He shrugged again. “As I said, I’m not exactly bowled over by Stinson. I don’t know Ng as well. I think it’s possible they’re searching for something that isn’t there. It bothers me that they’re sniffing around you, obviously.”

  “Thanks, Carlos,” I said, feeling warm and fuzzy at the thought that this tough homicide cop cared about what happened to a rather sketchy witch.

  “So, not that I believe in curses, but tell me how this would work. You’re saying there’s a cursed trousseau?”

  “According to legend, two local men had a falling-out over a young woman, and somehow one of them managed to cast a curse, and the woman died.”

  “Seems more like a curse against the woman than the man.”

  “I suppose sometimes it’s harder to be the one left behind than to be the one who passes.”

  Carlos stared at me for a long moment. Finally he cleared his throat and gave a swift nod. “I suppose you’re right. So you’re saying this woman may have died from a curse long ago, and now what? The curse is still working against people who acquire the trousseau?”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so. Normally curses don’t work that way. I mean, there are hereditary curses, but those are usually passed down through a family bloodline. If the item held a demon or something like that . . .” I trailed off and shook my head. “But I touched a few of the pieces of the trousseau, and while I felt a lot of sadness there, I certainly didn’t feel anything demonic.”

  “Always a plus.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And when was this?”

  “What?”

  “When did you feel the trousseau?”

  I pondered lying and telling him it was the evening Maya and I first found Autumn Jennings in the upstairs apartment. But . . . Carlos was a friend. He was a cop, but he was also a friend. Also, so much of my life required a certain obfuscation of the truth that I was trying to be more transparent whenever possible.

  “I asked Sailor to go back with me, hoping he might be able to communicate with Autumn’s spirit. In case she was lingering there.”

  “Why am I not surprised that Sailor was involved?”

  “It wasn’t his fault; I asked him to go.”

  “I have no trouble believing that. The two of you make quite a pair. Anyway, Jennings died at the hospital. So if a person believed in spirits . . . wouldn’t she be lingering there?”

  “Apparently not. I thought the same thing, but Sailor says a lot of times people return to their homes or some other locale that’s important to them.”

  “Uh-huh.” He passed a hand over a whiskery cheek, the scraping sound familiar and comforting to me. Then he started idly tracing designs on the tabletop with his finger.

  I knew Carlos well enough by now to note the signs of him moving out of his comfort zone regarding all things supernatural. He was much more open-minded than the average person—much less the average cop—when it came to things like witchcraft and paranormal crime. But he was a still a tough urban homicide inspector. It wasn’t easy for him.

  “Let’s go back for a moment to the breaking and entering.”

  “It wasn’t breaking and entering. I had a key.”

  “Autumn Jennings gave you a key?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I didn’t realize you two were buddies. Would this be before or after she served you with legal papers?”

  “I’m saying: She gave me the keys in a manner of speaking.”

  “What manner would that be?”

  I was glad the lights were too low for him to see me blushing.

  “In that when Maya and I found her, we were left to close up shop. And to take care of her dog, Loretta, I should mention.”

  “She has a dog named Loretta?”

  I nodded. “Now, apparently, Maya or I have a dog named Loretta. Unless . . . you live alone, right?”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Carlos interrupted. “I don’t do pets.”

  I smiled. “I’ll bet you’d be great with a big old dog. Carlos and Loretta, hanging out and watching the ball game . . .”

  “I have enough trouble taking care of big old Carlos. Let’s get back to the discussion of you letting yourself into crime scenes. You know how I feel about this. One of these days I’m going to wind up arresting you for some shenanigan like that.”

  “You’re right; I should have asked you first. But there was no crime scene tape up—”

  “No tape?”

  I shook my head. “In fact, it didn’t look as though the cops had been through there. At least, it looked nothing like my place. They did a number on Aunt Cora’s Closet.”

  He swore under his breath.

  “Was it something I said?” I asked.

  “No, it’s just . . . I guess they have a different way of doing things. But it sounds like they’re hoping to declare this case an accident, or suicide. Still, they should have gone through her place with a fine-tooth comb, just in case
there’s, I dunno, an open container of rat poison on the kitchen counter or some such.”

  “You’re suggesting she took the poison on purpose?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. But the inspectors on the case should be ruling out suicide as well as homicide, especially since we’re talking a poison like arsenic. Though if this was homicide, most folks would have used something a lot more subtle and difficult to detect than arsenic. As you pointed out, that’s old-school, Borgia-style murder.”

  We both sat back and pondered for a few moments.

  “You know, Scarlet the dog walker was volunteering at an exhibit of historic dresses at the Legion of Honor, which was co-curated by Parmelee Riesling. Remember her?”

  “The clothing conservator at the Asian Art Museum?”

  “Precisely.”

  “How does Riesling fit into this?”

  “I’m not saying she does, but she appears to have known Autumn and maybe Scarlet through the exhibit as well. And Riesling sure knows a lot about old clothing. I asked if I could drop by and chat with her this afternoon. Want to go? I mean, I know this isn’t your case, and you probably have lots of better things to do on your day off.”

  He stood. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Parmelee Riesling rocked a severe pageboy haircut; she was several inches shorter than I, and on the stout side. Thick glasses gave her a slightly bug-eyed appearance. And she took herself very, very seriously.

  “Who are you?” she asked when she opened the door.

  “Lily Ivory. I called earlier? And this is Inspector Carlos Romero, remember?”

  “Right. Insect-ridden trunk full of worthless items, mostly merchant-class nineteenth century. Trunk itself was from Salem.”

  “That was us,” said Carlos.

  “And you were wearing a nice example of a sundress, North Carolina dye lot.”

  “Yep, worthless trunk, insect infested, indigo dye lot.”

  “Uh-huh.” She reached out and pinched my skirt between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Same period as the last dress I saw you in. Favorite era?”