Home for the Haunting(99)

Not that I was pointing any fingers. After all, my primary motive for opening Aunt Cora’s Closet, my vintage clothing store, was to indulge my love of fabulous old garments . . . some of which no doubt qualified as junk to those who didn’t share my passions.

“Course, the trunk alone is worth a fortune,” said Sebastian Crowley as we inspected a very old, very damaged wooden chest.

I was skeptical. The chest’s metal hinges were so corroded with rust that I doubted they could withstand repeated openings, while the wood sides, bottom, and lid were pitted and crumbling. “It came across the country on the overland route, all the way from Massachusetts. Back with the pioneers who came to settle the new land.”

“Was this during the gold rush?” Like many newcomers to the West Coast, I was a little fuzzy on California’s history. For such a young area of the country, it had a colorful and tumultuous past.

Crowley frowned. “Yeah, um . . . not sure ’bout that. As I was saying, the trunk’s a beaut, but it’s what’s inside that’s gonna knock your socks off.”

He heaved open the lid to reveal two neatly folded stacks of clothing.

I drew back as my nostrils were assailed by the intermingled odors of mothballs and cedar. One quick glance, and my heart sank. It didn’t take a close inspection to see these garments had fallen victim to the vicissitudes of age that combine to ruin cloth materials: rot, moths, and moisture. I keep a seamstress on retainer at Aunt Cora’s Closet to address the minor repairs needed by many of my vintage acquisitions—small tears, lost buttons, frayed cuffs—but at the end of the day I stay in business by selling clothes my customers can actually wear. The items in this chest should go to a museum-grade clothing conservator . . . or straight into the trash can.

Sebastian lifted a simple white shift and shook it open. The aged, yellowed cotton cracked and split along the folds, sending small poofs of dust into the musty air.

“Well, I’ll be danged,” Sebastian murmured, studying the shredded garment with a furrowed brow.

It was an expression I’d already grown familiar with. In the half hour we’d spent together Sebastian’s expression had been a mixture of surprise and confusion, so perhaps that was simply the way he viewed the world. Tall and gaunt, the antiques dealer was in his late sixties, with a weak chin and raised bushy eyebrows that reminded me of Ichabod Crane, a character in one of my favorite childhood books, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. He dressed well—I had to give him that: a nice white linen shirt under a tweed jacket. But his wire glasses had a tendency to slip down his large, hooked nose, and he had a habit of pushing them back up. Since everything in the shop was covered in dust, his nose was now covered in grey and brown smudges. I tried not to stare.

“They looked fine when I bought the trunk. . . . I didn’t think to inspect them. I’ll be danged.”

“Cloth is tricky,” I said sympathetically. “If it’s not preserved properly, it falls apart with age. Antique pieces were made of natural fibers like cotton, linen, wool, or silk. Eventually they break down and return to the earth. Dust to dust, and all that. It’s rather poetic, in a way.”

The sour expression on Sebastian’s face made it clear that he did not share my appreciation for poetry. He shook his head. “That pretty little thing sold me a trunk full of worthless clothes. Son of a gun.”

I wondered how much he had paid for the trunk and its contents, but refrained from asking. I’d been burned once or twice myself. It isn’t a pleasant feeling, but it happens in our line of business.

“Tell you what: How ’bout you give me seventy-five bucks for the whole kit ’n’ caboodle,” he suggested, his voice regaining a touch of the salesman’s swagger. “Get it out of my way.”

“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’d like to help you out, but I can’t use these. The fabric is just too compromised.”

“Nip here, a tuck there, it’ll be right as rain. You’ll see.”

“It would take a lot more than a nip and a tuck, I’m afraid. Maybe a professional conservator could help . . . but for my purposes they’re beyond repair.”

“Humpfh. Try to do someone a favor, and what do I get for my trouble? Ripped off, is what.” Sebastian made a face as if smelling something unpleasant, and said in a falsetto: “‘My uncle needs money. He’s selling off all his antiques. Can’t you help him out?’ Sweet young thing comes in here and twists me around her little finger. I’m just too nice a guy, is what.”