Earlier this week I read and loved
Juliet Blackwell's A Toxic Trousseau, book number 8 in one of my most favorite paranormal series! It was a true delight to have this book on my table and to read the book on the edge of my couch as I did. I love the suspense that Juliet creates and the characters relationships, exchanges and adventures always has me smiling. I wrote on my
Facebook page that I thought I had it figured out with two chapters to go, but I really, really didn't! Juliet Blackwell has done a brilliant job with this mystery, with main character Lilly and all the gang. I think Oscar is at his best in this story and all the my favorite characters return for more of that magic the series is known for.
Happy Canada Day For those of you in Canada like myself I offer you a very fun Canada Day surprise! For those of you not enjoying Canada Day today may I offer you a fun Friday opportunity...
I am so very excited and pleased to have been selected to share with you the first Chapter of A Toxic Trousseau, which is out July 5th!
Chapter One
Small business owners have their morning
routines. Some people switch on the lights, brew a cup of coffee, and read the
paper before engaging with the day. Some count out the money in the register
and tidy up the merchandise. Some sweep and hose down the front walk.
Each morning before opening my vintage
clothing store, Aunt Cora’s Closet, I sprinkle salt water widdershins, smudge
sage deosil, and light a white candle while chanting a spell of protection.
Such spells can be powerful, and for a
small business owner like me they serve an important purpose: to help customers
maintain their composure in the face of fashion frustrations, keep evil intentions
at bay, and discourage those with sticky fingers from rummaging through the
feather boas, chiffon prom dresses, and silk evening gowns and then trying to
shove said items into pockets or backpacks or under shirts.
But protection spells aren’t much good
against litigation.
“Lily Ivory?” asked the petite, somber
young woman who entered Aunt Cora’s Closet, a neon yellow motorcycle helmet
under one arm. She had dark hair and eyes, and I imagined she would have been
pretty had she smiled. But her expression was dour.
“Yes?” I asked, looking up from a list of
receipts.
She held out a manila envelope. “You have
been served.”
“Served?”
“You are hereby notified of a lawsuit
against you, Aunt Cora’s Closet, and one errant pig, name unknown. By the by,
not that it’s any of my business, but is it even legal to own livestock in the
city?”
I cast a glare in the direction of said
pig, my witch’s familiar, Oscar. At least, I tried to, but he’d disappeared.
Only moments earlier Oscar had been snoozing on his hand-embroidered purple
silk pillow, resting up for a busy day of trying to poke his snout under the
dressing room curtains while customers tried on vintage cocktail dresses,
fringed leather jackets, and Jackie O pillbox hats. Now only the slight
rustling of a rack of 1980s spangled prom dresses revealed his location.
“My pig’s being
served with legal papers?”
“Not so much your pig, as you. Your
property, your worry. At least, that’s how it works with dogs, so I
assume . . .” The woman trailed off with an officious shrug as
she headed for the front door with long strides, already pulling on her helmet.
“But that isn’t any of my business; I just deliver the bad news. Have a nice
day.”
“Wait—”
She didn’t pause. I followed her outside,
where someone was revving the engine of a large black motorcycle. The woman
jumped on the back and they zoomed off.
“Duuude,” said Conrad, the homeless young
man who slept in nearby Golden Gate Park and spent the better part of his days
“guarding” the curb outside of my store. In San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury
neighborhood, many young homeless people lived this way, panhandling and scrounging
and generally referring to themselves as “gutter punks.” Over the past year,
Conrad—or as he liked to call himself, “The Con”—had become a friend and the
unofficial guardian of Aunt Cora’s Closet. “You get served?”
“Apparently so,” I said, opening the
envelope to find some scary-looking legal-sized documents filled with legalese,
such as “party of the first part.”
My heart sank as I put two and two
together. My friend Bronwyn, who rents space in my store for her herbal stand,
had filled me in on an incident that took place a couple of weeks ago while I
was out scouting garage sales for resaleable treasure. It seems a woman came
into the shop and started flicking through the merchandise, pronouncing it
“unsuitable—too much of that dreadful ready-to-wear.”
Bronwyn had explained to her that Aunt Cora’s Closet doesn’t deal in high-end
vintage; our merchandise consists mostly of wearable clothes, with the
occasional designer collectibles. The woman then turned to my employee Maya and
started grilling her about the ins and outs of the store, making
none-too-subtle inquiries about where we obtained our specialty stock.
Oscar started getting in the customer’s
way, making a pest of himself and keeping her away from the clothes. Bronwyn
tried to call him off, but he kept at it, almost as though he was trying to
herd her toward the exit. Finally the woman picked a parasol off a nearby shelf
and started whacking Oscar, and there was a scuffle.
The woman had screamed and flailed, lost
her balance, and fell back into a rack of colorful swing dresses. Maya and
Bronwyn hastily extricated her, made sure she was all right, and offered
profuse apologies. The woman had seemed fine at the time, they both said, and
she stomped out of the store in high dudgeon.
But if I was reading the legal papers
correctly, the woman—named Autumn Jennings—was now claiming she had been
“head-butted” by an “unrestrained pig,” had been injured in the “attack,” and
was demanding compensation.
It was a mystery. Oscar had never
herded—much less head-butted—anyone in Aunt Cora’s
Closet before. He wasn’t the violent type. In fact, apart from a few occasions
when he intervened to save my life, Oscar was more the “let’s eat grilled
cheese and take a nap” type.
He was also my witch’s familiar, albeit an
unusual one. Oscar was a shape-shifter who assumed the form of a miniature
Vietnamese potbellied pig when around cowans—regular, nonmagical humans. Around
me, his natural form was sort of a cross between a goblin and a gargoyle. A
gobgoyle, for lack of a better word. His was a lineage about which I didn’t
want to think too hard.
“Bad vibes, Dude,” Conrad said with a sage
nod. “Been there. Dude, I hate being served.”
“You’ve been served?” I asked. Conrad was
in his early twenties and lived such a vagabond existence it was hard to
imagine why anyone would bother to sue him. I could easily imagine his being
picked up by police in a sweep of the local homeless population, but how would
a process server even know where to find Conrad to serve him papers?
He nodded. “Couple times. But at least
yours arrived on a Ducati. That’s a nice bike.”
“What did you—” My question was cut off by
the approach of none other than Aidan Rhodes, witchy godfather to San
Francisco’s magical community. His golden hair gleamed in the sun, a
beautifully tailored sports jacket hugged his tall frame, and a leather satchel
was tucked under one strong arm. As he strolled down Haight Street with his
signature graceful glide, strangers stopped to stare. Aidan’s aura glittered so
brilliantly that even nonsensitive people noticed, though they didn’t realize
what they were reacting to.
This is all I need.
I girded my witchy loins.
Things between Aidan and me were . . .
complicated. Not long ago I’d stolen something from Aidan, and I still owed
him. And when it comes to debts, we witches are a little like elephants,
bookies, and the Internet: We never forget. Even worse, Aidan feared San
Francisco was shaping up to be ground zero in some sort of big magical
showdown, and he wanted me to stand with him for the forces of good. Or, at the
very least, for the good of Aidan Rhodes. It was hard to say exactly what was
going on—and exactly what role I was willing to play in it—since the threat was
frustratingly nonspecific, and Aidan played his cards infuriatingly close to
his chest.
“Good morning,” Aidan said as he joined
us. “Conrad, it’s been too long. How have you been?”
Despite their vastly different
circumstances and lifestyles, Aidan treated Conrad with the respect due a peer.
His decency sort of ticked me off. My life would be simpler if I could dismiss
Aidan as an arrogant, power-hungry witch beyond redemption. His kindness toward
my friend was difficult to reconcile with that image.
The two men exchanged pleasantries,
chatting about the beauty of Golden Gate Park when bathed in morning dew and
sunshine, and whether the Giants had a shot at the pennant this year. And then
Aidan turned his astonishing, periwinkle blue gaze on me, sweeping me from head
to foot.
Suddenly self-conscious, I smoothed the
full skirt of my sundress.
“And Lily . . . Stunning as
always. I do like that color on you. It’s as joyful as the first rays of dawn.”
“Thank you,” I said, blushing and avoiding
his eyes. The dress was an orangey gold cotton with a pink embroidered neckline
and hem, circa 1962, and I had chosen it this morning precisely because it
reminded me of a sunrise. “Aren’t you just the sweet talker.”
“You catch more flies
with honey than with vinegar,” my mama used to
tell me. Did this mean I was the fly and Aidan the fly catcher?
“Is everything all right?” Aidan asked.
“Am I sensing trouble? Beyond the norm, I mean.”
“Dude, Lily just got served,”
Conrad said.
“Served? I fear we aren’t speaking of
breakfast.”
“A lawsuit,” I clarified.
“Ah. What a shame. Whatever happened?”
“Oscar head-butted a customer.”
“That’s . . . unusual.”
Aidan had given me Oscar and knew him well. “Was this person badly injured?”
“I wasn’t there when it happened, but
according to Bronwyn and Maya the customer seemed fine. But now she’s claiming
she sustained ‘serious and debilitating neck and back injuries
that hinder her in the completion of her work and significantly reduce her
quality of life,’” I said,
quoting from the document I still clutched tightly in my hand.
“That sounds most distressing. Might I
offer my services in finding a resolution?”
“No. No, thank
you.” The only thing worse than being slapped with a slip-and-fall lawsuit—the
boogeyman of every small business owner—was being even more beholden to Aidan
Rhodes than I already was. Besides . . . I wasn’t sure what he
meant by “finding a resolution.” Aidan was one powerful witch. If he got
involved, Autumn Jennings might very well wind up walking around looking like a
frog.
“You’re sure?” Aidan asked. “These
personal injury lawsuits can get nasty—and expensive, even if you win. As much
as I hate to say it, you may have some liability here. Is it even legal to have
a pig in the city limits?”
“Don’t worry about it; I’ve got it
handled,” I said, not wishing to discuss the matter any further with him. “Was
there some reason in particular you stopped by?”
Aidan grinned, sending sparkling rays of
light dancing in the morning breeze. He really was the most astounding man.
“I was hoping we might have a moment to
talk,” he said. “About business.”
My stomach clenched. Time to face the
music. I did owe him, after all. “Of course, come on in.”
The door to Aunt Cora’s Closet tinkled as
we went inside, and Bronwyn fluttered out from the back room, cradling Oscar to
her ample chest. She was dressed in billows of purple gauze, and a garland of
wildflowers crowned her frizzy brown hair. Bronwyn was a fifty-something
Wiccan, and one of the first—and very best—friends I had made upon my arrival
in the City by the Bay not so very long ago.
“Hello, Aidan! So wonderful to see you
again!” she gushed.
“Bronwyn, you light up this shop like
fireworks on the Fourth of July.”
“Oh, you do go on.” She waved her hand but
gave him a flirtatious smile. “But, Lily! Our little Oscaroo is very upset,
poor thing! Maybe it has something to do with the woman with the motorcycle
helmet who was just here—what was that about?”
“She was serving Lily with legal papers,”
said Aidan.
“Legal papers?”
Bronwyn asked as Oscar hid his snout under her arm. “For what?”
“Remember when Oscar”—I cast about for the
right word—“harassed a woman a couple of weeks ago?”
Oscar snorted.
“Of course, naughty little tiny piggy pig
pig,” Bronwyn said in a crooning baby voice. “But I have to say, she really was
bothering all of us. But . . . she’s suing
you? Seriously?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, now, that’s just bad karma,”
Bronwyn said with a frown.
“You said she wasn’t hurt, though, right?”
“She was fine!” Bronwyn insisted. “She
fell into the rack of swing dresses. You know how poofy those dresses
are—there’s enough crinolines in the skirts to cushion an NFL linebacker, and
she’s, what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? I saw her just the other day, when I
brought her some of my special caramel-cherry-spice maté tea and homemade
corn-cherry scones, and she seemed fine. As a matter of fact, when I arrived
she was up on a ladder, and she certainly didn’t seem to have any back or neck
injuries. She was a little under the weather, but it was a cold or the flu.”
“When was this?”
“Day before yesterday, I
think . . . I thought I should make the effort, since you
weren’t even here when it happened. I just wanted to tell her I was sorry.”
“How did you know where to find her?”
“She left her business
card. . . .” Bronwyn trailed off as she peeked behind her herbal
counter. “I have it around here somewhere. Turns out, she’s a rival vintage
clothing store owner, which explains why she was so interested. Her place is
called Vintage Visions Glad Rags, over off Buchanan.”
“Really. That is
interesting. What’s it like?”
“Very nice inventory, but if you ask me
not nearly as warm and inviting as Aunt Cora’s Closet. She had some ball gowns
that I’m sure were from the nineteenth century. But those are more museum
pieces than anything someone would actually wear. The
whole place was too snooty for my taste, by half. And expensive! Too rich for
my blood.”
“Did anything happen while you were there?
Did she say anything in particular?”
Bronwyn frowned in thought, then shook her
head. “Nothing at all. She didn’t seem particularly bowled over by my gift
basket, but she accepted it. But like I say, she told me she was a little under
the weather, so maybe that accounts for her mood. She did have a very sweet
dog, and I always say a pet lover is never irredeemable.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, blowing out a
breath. “If you think of anything else, please let me know. Aidan and I are
going to talk in the back for a moment.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Bronwyn
said, lugging Oscar over to her herbal stand for a treat. Oscar was a miniature
pig, but he was still a porker.
In the back room Aidan and I sat down at
my old jade green Formica-topped table. I bided my time and waited for Aidan to
speak first. In witch circles, simply asking “What may I help you with?” can
open up a dangerous can of worms.
“I have to leave town for a little while,”
he said.
“Really?” Even though I knew perfectly
well that he had lived elsewhere in the past, including when he’d worked with
the father who had abandoned me, in my mind Aidan was so associated with San
Francisco that it was hard to imagine him in any other locale. “How long do you
think you’ll be gone?”
“And here I was rather hoping you would
beg me to stay,” he said in a quiet voice, his gaze holding mine.
“Far be it from me to dictate to the likes
of Aidan Rhodes.”
He smiled. “In any case, I need a favor.”
Uh-oh.
“First,” he said, “I’ll need you to keep
tabs on Selena.”
Selena was a talented but troubled teenage
witch who had come into my life recently. She reminded me of myself at her age:
socially awkward and dangerously magical.
I clenched my teeth. It wasn’t Aidan’s
place to tell me to watch over Selena; she needed all of us with whom she had
grown close. But it was true that Aidan and I had both been helping her to
train her powers. In her case, as in mine, the biggest challenge was learning
to keep control over her emotions and her magic in general. But even as he was
asking me to partner with him, Aidan still fancied himself the head of the
local magical community—me included. It was very annoying.
“Of course,” I said. “I have
been.”
“Of course,” Aidan repeated. “And Oscar
can come in handy with that as well.”
I concentrated on reining in my
irritation. It wouldn’t do to send something flying, which sometimes happened
when I lost my temper. Proving that Selena and I weren’t that far apart in some
areas of our development.
“You’re not Oscar’s master anymore,” I
pointed out.
He nodded slowly. “So true. Alas, I will
leave that in your more than capable hands, then. Also while I’m gone I need
you to fill in for me and adjudicate a few issues. Nothing too strenuous.”
“Beg pardon?”
He handed me a heavy, well-worn leather
satchel tied with a black ribbon. “You’re always so curious about what I do for
the local witchcraft community. Now’s your chance to find out.”
“I never said I wanted to find out. I’m
really perfectly happy being in the dark.”
Aidan smiled. “Why do I find that hard to
believe? In any event, find out you shall.”
I sighed. As curious as I was about
Aidan’s world, I hesitated to be drawn into it. However, I was in his debt and
the bill had come due. “Fine. I’m going to need more information, though. What
all is involved in ‘adjudicating issues’?”
He shrugged. “Little of this, little of
that. Mostly it means keeping an eye on things, making sure nothing gets out of
hand. Handling disputes, assisting with certifications . . .
Valuable job skills that really beef up the résumé, you’ll see.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, skeptical. At the moment
I didn’t need a more impressive résumé. I needed a lawyer. “What kind of
certifications?”
“Fortune-tellers and necromancers must be
licensed in the city and county of San Francisco. Surely your good friend
Inspector Romero has mentioned this at some point.”
“He has, but since I’m neither a
fortune-teller nor a necromancer I didn’t pay much attention. So that’s what
you do? Help people fill out forms down at City Hall? Surely—”
“It’s all terribly glamorous, isn’t it?
Resolving petty squabbles, unraveling paperwork snafus . . . The
excitement never ends,” he said with another smile. “But it’s necessary work,
and you’re more than qualified to handle it while I’m gone. You’ll find
everything you need in there.”
I opened the satchel and took a peek.
Inside were what appeared to be hundreds of signed notes written on ancient
parchment, a business card with the mayor’s cell phone number written on the
back in pencil, and a jangly key ring. I pulled out the keys: One was an
old-fashioned skeleton key, but the others were modern and, I assumed, unlocked
his office at the recently rebuilt wax museum. “Aidan, what
are . . . ?”
I looked up, but Aidan was gone, his
departure marked by a slight sway of the curtains. Letting out a loud sigh of
exasperation, I grumbled, “I swear, that man moves like a vampire.”
“Vampire?” Bronwyn poked her head through
the curtains, Oscar still in her arms. “Are we worried about vampires
now?”
“No, no, of course not,” I assured her as
I closed the satchel and stashed it under the workroom table. “Sorry—just
talking to myself.”
“Oh, thank the goddess!” said Bronwyn, and
set Oscar down. Whenever Aidan was around, Oscar became excited to the point of
agitation, and his little hooves clicked on the wooden planks of the floor as
he hopped around. “Never a dull moment at Aunt Cora’s Closet.”
Click here to order your own copy of A Toxic Trousseau From Amazon out July 5th!
Click here to order your own copy of A Toxic Trousseau from The Book Depository
Thank you for joining me for a cup of tea and a cozy mystery review and read! As with all my posts I would love to hear from you so please leave me a comment here or email me at karenmowen@gmail.com
