A Toxic Trousseau Page 8

  “Not that I need the money, particularly,” Mrs. Morgan was saying. “I just want them to go to a good home. In fact, I was going to call someone else to come pick them up.”

  She nodded at a couple of plastic black bags in the corner of the porch landing. “Or . . . I don’t suppose you’d like to take a look, since you’re in the same business? I had everything freshly laundered.”

  “I . . . sure,” I said, making a snap decision. Based upon Mrs. Morgan’s home and the way she was dressed, I made the assumption her clothes would be of high quality. As soon as I opened one bag and peeped inside, I saw I was right. They were neatly folded linens and woolens, and at least one cashmere sweater. As I touched them I picked up subtle vibrations of single-mindedness and ambition, which made me smile. It was too easy to assume “little old ladies” were pliable and dithering; Mrs. Morgan was clearly made of sterner stuff.

  “These look great,” I said. “If you’re just trying to get them out of your house, I could give you a flat price instead of going through and looking at each piece. The things I can’t sell I make sure to donate to a good cause.”

  “Really? That would be lovely! Autumn took the older items, so if you take the rest, I can relax knowing my closet-cleaning project is complete.”

  I always carried my Aunt Cora’s Closet checkbook with me because I never knew when I’d pass by a promising garage sale or flea market. “Strike while the iron’s hot” was my unofficial store motto. After Mrs. Morgan and I agreed on a price and I wrote her a check, I steered the conversation back around to the runaway dog walker.

  “So, Mrs. Morgan, the strangest thing happened with Scarlet. She actually abandoned the dogs on the sidewalk, just took off on a motorcycle, for no apparent reason. Do you know how I might get ahold of her to make sure the dogs are returned to their owners?”

  “Scarlet? I can’t believe she would do such a thing,” she said, shaking her head. She gazed at me for a moment; then her eyes shifted to Sailor standing with the other pups on the sidewalk. “I guess she must have, mustn’t she? It’s just so hard to believe. She seems so mature, very capable for one so young. She’s done other odd jobs for me and I’ve never had a problem.”

  “Do you have a number for her?” I urged. “Or any kind of contact information?”

  Mrs. Morgan pressed her lips together for a moment, then asked me to wait and closed the door. I held up one finger to tell Sailor it would be another moment. He was stroking the Dalmatian’s fur; the dogs seemed calm with him, panting and waiting patiently.

  The door opened again, and Mrs. Morgan handed me a card with a number written in pencil. “Here’s her phone number.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Do you happen to know where any of the other dogs live?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m no help at all. That was Scarlet’s job.”

  “One last thing—could you tell me what kind of odd jobs Scarlet did for you?”

  She shrugged. “Helped me to clean out the attic and my closets, that sort of thing. I’m an absolute sucker for antiques—I love looking through catalogs, and they’re so heavy I never manage to get them out to the recycling. Scarlet was good at things like that. I know she did some occasional work for Autumn across the street as well. She’s from Missouri, as am I. We Missouri folk are hard workers.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Does Scarlet live around here, too?”

  “She mentioned working part-time at the Legion of Honor. I assume she lives near there because I think she’s an artist, doesn’t have a car.” She shook her head. “I simply can’t believe she ran off and left the dogs. There must have been some kind of emergency.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Well, thank you for your time.”

  “Good luck to you,” she said, closing the door.

  As I turned to leave I heard her speaking to Colonel Mustard in a high-pitched voice: “Does my good boy want a cookie? Who’s the good puppy? Colonel Mustard is, that’s who.”

  Sailor watched as I came down the stairs carrying a big plastic bag in each hand.

  “Let’s trade,” Sailor said. I put down the heavy bags and he handed me the bakery box and the leashes.

  “Doing a little scavenging, are we? I admire your commitment.”

  “She who hesitates is lost,” I replied. “In my line of business you never know where you’ll find your inventory. Plus, I thought it might help Mrs. Morgan to open up a little.”

  “What did she say about the dog walker?”

  “First name’s Scarlet, no last name. I’ve got a phone number but no address,” I said, leaning over to say hello to the dogs. “And call me a cynic, but I sincerely doubt Scarlet is going to hop on her motorcycle and come roaring back in response to a sternly worded phone call.”

  “Worth a try, at least,” Sailor said with a shrug, pulling out his phone and dialing. A mechanical voice said the phone was out of service. “Well, that’s a bust.”

  “Mrs. Morgan seemed quite surprised that she would run off and leave the dogs. Says she’s done small jobs for her and that she’s responsible and hardworking.”

  “So this all seems out of character,” Sailor said. “And she was the one who served you with papers? I don’t think that takes any special training; she probably just did it as a favor to Jennings, or for payment.”

  I nodded. “But why would she run when she saw us? And not just run away, but abandon the dogs?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? First things first, though: Let’s stash the clothes in the van. Then we can use our sleuthing skills to find the families of these pooches here.”

  * * *

  We had parked in the shade, made a nest out of blankets, and brought along snacks and a stack of mysteries for entertainment—Oscar was currently making his way through Ray Chandler’s entire oeuvre—but even so, as we opened the van doors to toss the heavy bags of clothing inside, my familiar was literally tapping his foot, outraged that we were “spending the day with a bunch of dogs” while he was cooped up in the van.

  Then his gaze locked onto the pink bakery box like a bottle-glass green heat-seeking missile.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Cupcakes. They’re for later. Seriously, Oscar, you can have one—just one—right now. And then I’m going to leave the box in here with you, and I declare, if any of the others are touched, there will be no more cupcakes in your life, ever. None. You know I can make that happen, so don’t test me.” He still hadn’t looked away from the box, but he nodded. “I’m serious, Oscar. Also, don’t forget, I’m the keeper of the satchel.”

  At this he met my eyes, gulped audibly, and nodded again.

  I opened the box and held it out for him to choose. He dithered so long I had to threaten him again.

  “Oscar, you are jumpin’ on my last nerve. We’ve got a pack of dogs waiting on us, not to mention a suspicious death to investigate. I’m fixin’ to just take the box with us.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s between the chocolate and the lemon chiffon . . . eenie meenie minie . . .”

  “Hell’s bells, Oscar. Just choose!”

  Sailor took the box from me, grabbed the chocolate one, shoved it at Oscar, and fastened the twine tightly around the box.

  “There. Bon appetit. Also,” Sailor said, pointing at Oscar before saying in a threatening tone, “you will not touch the maple-bourbon-bacon one, understand? You do not want to find out what will happen if I return and the maple-bourbon-bacon cupcake is missing. I am not a nice guy. I have that on good authority.”

  Oscar’s response was muffled by a mouth full of cupcake.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “I said I don’t eat bacon. Hello: pig. Remember?” He rolled his eyes.

  “Good thing there’s chocolate, right? How is it?”


  “Really good. Hurry back so we can eat the rest!” He picked up the book that was splayed facedown, crawled into his nest, and started reading.

  * * *

  It took us the better part of the afternoon, but Sailor and I finally got all the dogs to their respective owners. A few inquiries at stores up and down the street yielded the name of the cocker spaniel’s owner, an optometrist who had an office a block away. The receptionist there knew where the Pomeranian lived, and the Pom’s housekeeper knew the Dalmatian. From there it was like pulling at a loose thread.

  Unfortunately, no one knew anything more about Scarlet than Mrs. Morgan did: no last name or address, just a phone number. Several speculated that Scarlet might be an artist but didn’t know what kind, only that she “seemed artistic” and had mentioned working at the Legion of Honor.

  “What now?” I said after the final pooch was handed over to the loving arms of her person.

  “You still have the keys to Jennings’s shop?”

  I hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Let’s go inside, see if I feel anything.”

  I hesitated. “I’m pretty sure the police wouldn’t approve.”

  He let out a bark of a laugh.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Seriously? If you did only what the police would approve of, Lily, my love, you’d be tucked safely into your apartment above Aunt Cora’s Closet. Or perhaps even still cooling your heels in a small-town Texas jail.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Still . . .”

  “Besides, I thought you were taking over for Aidan. Rhodes wouldn’t worry about the police when he had the keys to a shop that wasn’t even marked with crime scene tape.”

  “I’m not taking over for Aidan; I’m just filling in while he’s out of town. It’s temporary.” I looked at him askance. “Besides, aren’t you the one who usually warns me away from something like this?”

  “I’m evolving,” he said.

  “Since when?” I demanded.

  “Since I started accepting the fact that you’re a magnet for supernatural mischief,” he replied, gently pushing a lock of hair out of my eyes. My long hair was up in its usual ponytail, but wrangling the dogs had freed a few errant strands. “And besides, at the moment you’ve got me for backup. I feel much better about the whole thing if I can make sure you’re safe.”

  I offered him a smile, and then I used Autumn’s ever so slightly purloined keys to let us into the shop.

  Chapter 7

  The first thing I noticed was the smell. The shop didn’t smell bad, exactly. But I was so used to the scent of Aunt Cora’s Closet, a combination of fresh laundry mixed with the fresh sachets I made—this week’s were rosemary and lavender mixed with pine needles—that Vintage Visions Glad Rags seemed almost . . . sepulchral. I hadn’t noticed that when I was here before, with Maya. Could my memories be clouding my perceptions?

  Last time I hadn’t expected anything worse than a conversation with the woman who was suing me. But now when I entered the store I remembered tiny, shaky Autumn Jennings holding a pistol in the upstairs hallway before collapsing in a heap on the floor. Her sweating, ashen face and wild eyes. She had seemed so frightened, so small.

  Could someone have meant her harm? Had she been murdered, or was her death a tragic accident? Or, perhaps, even . . . suicide? The living quarters upstairs were depressing enough; that was for sure.

  Sailor was walking slowly around the store, brushing by the expensive flapper dresses and smart Jackie O–era linen sheaths. I stood still, watching him closely. I probably had an edge on sensing vibrations or conjuring visions from textiles, but Sailor was a necromancer, keyed in to the world of the beyond in a way I could never hope to be.

  “Anything?” I asked when he completed a loop around the shop floor.

  He shook his head. “Where did you encounter her?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  I took a moment to stroke the soft red leather medicine bag on a braided cord of multicolored silk strands that I kept tied at my waist. In it was a small collection of items from my past—a stone, a feather, a little of the red dirt connecting me to my childhood in West Texas—as well as a few objects tying me to my present. I “fed” the bag regularly, anointing it with oil from time to time, whispering to it my hopes and fears. No matter the situation, touching it helped to ground me.

  “You okay?” Sailor asked after a long moment.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  I opened the little door behind the register and led the way up the dim stairs. In the upstairs hallway, enough light sifted in through the grimy windows so we could see where we were going.

  “It’s depressing up here,” Sailor said quietly.

  “I thought so, too. But really, this from the man who lives just beyond a homicide scene in Chinatown?”

  “It’s a very old homicide. It isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

  I cocked my head. “You think something here is going to hurt someone?”

  He shrugged, as though distracted, and went to stand in the doorway of the first room to the right. I peeked around his shoulder.

  The room was still packed with boxes and portable clothes racks, and a heap of lingerie lay on top of the bed. A plastic bin held old-fashioned brown and black leather shoes, the scent of shoe polish combining with that of cardboard and dusty textiles. Several Victorian-era ball gowns hung on cushioned hangers from hooks jutting out from the wall, silks and satins in shades of emerald green, butter yellow, and mauve. The freestanding full-length mirror was tilted slightly back in the corner.

  Everything was exactly as I remembered. A few things might have been moved around, but there was no fingerprint powder residue, no overt signs that anyone had conducted a thorough search. Why hadn’t the forensics team been here, collecting evidence?

  Sailor crossed the room slowly, turning his body slightly sideways, like a gunslinger, as he approached the mirror.

  I remained, silent and unmoving, in the doorway.

  Sailor stood in front of the looking glass for a very long time. Finally, he raised one hand and placed his palm flat against the mirror’s slick glass, hung his head, and let out a deep breath.

  I had witnessed Sailor making contact with the dead before, but he’d always sat cross-legged on the floor when entering a trance. Perhaps this was a new technique he’d been developing with Patience. Mirrors can be powerful and sometimes serve as windows to the backward world and the spheres beyond the veil. This was why they were traditionally covered in a house where someone had died recently, for fear that the deceased’s soul might become trapped.

  Sailor remained, unmoving, in front of the mirror for so long I began to wonder if he was all right and fought the urge to break the spell, to intervene.

  Sailor is a big boy; he knows what he’s doing.

  So I stroked my medicine bag again and focused my intent on supporting Sailor’s psychic explorations. I had no idea whether my energy could help him, but I decided it couldn’t hurt to try. Having Oscar anywhere in the vicinity helped me when I was brewing.

  We were enveloped in a silence so profound that the buzzing of an insect and the ticking of the old pendulum clock in the hallway filled the air and surrounded us. I looked around, noting a stack of cardboard boxes that had been labeled by hand with a thick black marker: Shoes, Hats, and three large ones labeled Silverware, Dishes, and Napkins. I peeked into one labeled Stockings. Inside was a jumble of old-fashioned stockings, many of them striped. They were very old, and more than a few were moth-eaten beyond repair. If this was representative of the quality of the items in the Victorian trousseau Autumn had been so excited about, she would have been very disappointed.

  At long last, Sailor lifted his head, his arm fell away from the mirror, and he turned to look at me.

  My bloo
d ran cold: For an instant his eyes were blank, devoid of any signs of Sailor-ness.

  “Are you all right?” I ventured. “Sailor?”

  And just like that, Sailor was back. He nodded. “I made contact. Autumn wasn’t able to tell me what had happened to her. She’s . . . confused, I’d say.”

  “Is she here now?” I looked around, as though expecting to be able to see her. “Or did you connect with her on a spectral plane?”

  “No, she’s here. I expect she will be for a while; she’s not convinced she’s dead. I have to hand it to you vintage clothes dealers—you’re extraordinarily dedicated. She’s intent on taking care of her latest acquisition. I couldn’t get her to focus; she kept obsessing about it.”

  “So, then . . . she’s haunting this shop?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure ‘haunting’ is the best way to describe it. She’s . . . hanging around. I don’t think she intends to bother anyone; not sure she’s really aware of the living, though as she becomes more focused, she might accidentally spook someone.”

  “Okay.” I blew out a breath. “As it turns out, I know someone who specializes in ridding houses of their ghosts, so if need be we could call her in.”

  “It occurs to me that between the two of us we have quite an interesting roster of friends and acquaintances. We could throw one hell of a Halloween party.”

  “You aren’t kidding. But for the moment let’s get back to Autumn. You’re saying she can’t tell you what happened, or how she was poisoned?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t really expect that she could. It’s rare for the departed to know what happened. I think of it as a kind of amnesia, a kindness our brains extend to us so we don’t proceed to the next stage of existence accompanied by pain and fear. The only time a victim of a homicide can be helpful in naming the guilty party is when they had been stalked or harassed previously. That didn’t happen to Autumn, at least not that she could remember.”

  “Could she tell you anything at all?”

  “It’s not like we’re sitting down and having a chat. It’s much more amorphous. I get a series of impressions or symbols, and then do my best at interpreting them. One thing that did come through loud and clear: Autumn’s confused, perhaps because of the poison.”