The Halston Hit

by Angela M. Sanders

  The Halston Hit

  Angela M. Sanders

  Copyright © 2017 by Angela M. Sanders

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Afterword

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to those of you with the courage to live the real you. Don’t ever change.

  * * *

  For a deeper taste of Joanna’s world, don’t miss the monthly e-newsletter reflecting what she—and the author— love. The newsletters are full of good things: cocktail recipes, gorgeous old gowns, fashion advice from Edith Head, book reviews, and more.

  1

  Joanna held up two halves of a child’s foam basketball, each covered in pantyhose. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  “Hand them here.” Vintage Chablis tucked each half into the top of her strapless gown and adjusted them. “There. A perfect C cup. What do you think?” The drag queen raised her chin and regarded herself in the mirror. Gold silk jersey gathered across her chest, then flowed, Grecian-style, to her signature leopard print heels. “I look killer.”

  “In that Halston, you should.” Finding a suitable dress—Vintage Chablis wore only vintage—that fit a tall girl had been a challenge. Finding a Halston was a real coup, even for an experienced vintage clothing boutique owner like Joanna.

  “Maybe you should keep this one. Could be your wedding dress,” VC said, still preening.

  “For a day wedding? I don’t think so. Besides, I have to get it to Penny tomorrow.” A gentle hand wash and overnight air dry should do the trick. “Careful with that foundation.”

  VC paused, a stick of foundation slightly darker than her cocoa-hued skin in hand. “Hush, child. I’ve made up a few thousand faces in my time, remember.”

  Joanna laughed. Those faces had been customers of VC’s family’s funeral home. “At least you’re not dealing with the victim of a coronary this time.”

  “Narrowly. Hand Vintage Chablis her wig, honey.”

  Joanna lifted a platinum wig in a sleek bob from the stand behind her. A palm-sized pink silk hibiscus was already clipped to its crown. “This one?”

  “Perfect.” She pulled the wig over her shaved head, then swore, yanking it off. She pressed a finger to her scalp and showed it to Joanna. Blood.

  Joanna handed her a tissue. “What happened?”

  “Something sharp.” VC slid a long, pearl-tipped pin from the wig. “Look at that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Caramella. That witch. She’ll pay for this.” VC placed the wig on her head again, then turned toward the other performers. “Girl,” she shouted at another drag queen halfway down the long dressing table. “I know what you did.”

  “What are you talking about?” Caramella set down her russet lip liner and swiveled to meet VC’s challenging gaze.

  The drag queens, one seated, a smirk on her face, and one tall in leopard stilettos, squared off. The other queens, in varying states of dress, paused to watch.

  “You put this pin in my wig.” VC’s voice had deepened to a growl. She held the pin aloft, then stabbed it into the poison green velvet dress hanging behind her. “You’re sabotaging me.”

  “Persecution complex.” Caramella returned to her task. Lips now lined, she turned a cheek to clip dangling rhinestones to one ear as part of a costume that appeared to be part Annie Oakley and part bordello madam.

  VC snatched the cowboy hat from Caramella’s head, taking her wig of pale pink curls with it.

  “Give that back!” Caramella shot from her stool and grabbed at VC’s wig, knocking the attached silk flower to the floor. Joanna picked it up before one of them stepped on it.

  “VC in two,” the intercom crackled. The music switched to a rolling disco beat. It vibrated from the stage above, buzzing in the light fixtures.

  “Shoot. I’m up.” The queens backed slowly away from each other.

  “Your flower,” Joanna said. She might as well not have spoken. All attention was focused on the combatants. She tucked the hibiscus in her bag.

  VC pointed a shellacked finger at Caramella. “Later,” she threatened, finally breaking eye contact and strutting past the other girls.

  Joanna followed VC through the greasy kitchen, where the cook, a mole-like man, lifted a basket of onion rings from the fryer. They mounted the narrow staircase to the theater’s main level. When VC emerged from the stairwell, she lit up, as if the melee downstairs had never happened.

  “Wish me luck.” VC sashayed to the stage, waving at the audience. Her charisma washed to the room’s corners.

  Impressed by VC’s ability to shift to entertainer mode, Joanna blew her a kiss.

  Joanna stayed at the back of the room and leaned against the wall. Marquise’s Showplace was a small theater with a sound system given to static and a vaguely Victorian decorating scheme heavy on velvet swags. Rows of chairs lined the center, and waiters delivered vodka sodas and baskets of chicken fingers to patrons. Red vinyl banquettes anchored the rear. At one, judges for La Fille Fantastique scribbled notes.

  This was Portland’s most important drag queen pageant. Tonight’s winner would advance to La Fille Fantastique International. The theater’s owner, a long-time Portland celebrity, Marquise, was in his mid-eighties and insisted on early showtimes, but even so, pageants could go on for hours. This one had kicked off at five, and it might last until midnight. Joanna hadn’t known this when she’d suggested she wait out VC’s turn in the Halston during the talent segment so she could take the dress home right away. They’d already weathered the black-and-white outfit presentation and formal wear. After talent came the elaborate showgirl segment.

  “She could win, you know.” Alexis Campbell Starr, a previous winner of La Fille Fantastique Plus, the division for curvier queens, slipped next to Joanna. “Here, I got you this.” She handed Joanna a highball glass.

  A gin and tonic. Perfect. “Thanks.” Joanna loved to stand next to drag queens. She felt so petite. “What’s the deal with VC and Caramella? I thought VC was going to bean her with a curling iron down there.”

  Alexis, known as Austin in street clothes, raised inch-long eyelashes tipped with rhinestones. “Lord knows. It’s really gotten bad over the past year. Marquise had a talk with them over Christmas, but things only got worse.”

  On stage, VC lip synced about boogie woogie dancing shoes making her queen for the night. The audience—even the bachelorette party with umbrella-studded drinks—sat rapt. It was as if VC had a built-in switch. When she flipped it, she illuminated the room with palpable light. You were powerless but to watch.

  “Could you find me a Halston, too?” Alexis whispered. “Pretty please?”

  “Not likely. To get this on
e, I had to trade an Ossie Clark with a dealer in Las Vegas.”

  VC bowed to thunderous applause. She strode off the stage, hips swaying, and Joanna moved to join her.

  Alexis hooked Joanna’s arm. “Stay here. Why not enjoy the show a moment?”

  “Won’t VC need help with the showgirl costume? The headdress is gigantic.”

  “She’s been dressing herself for years.”

  Joanna leaned against the wall again. She did have most of her drink left, after all. “All right. I guess a few minutes won’t make a difference.”

  “What do you think of all this?” Alexis asked. “I mean, the vibe has to be different than you’re used to.”

  “True.” At Tallulah’s Closet, her vintage clothing store, clients tended to be serious “I wear nothing but vintage” types, or romantics with a love of old movies. Here, the look was straight-up, hyperbolized glamour. Intentional and calculated. Each performer chose a persona and a style, and that style usually bucked Vogue magazine’s dictates of what women should be wearing. “But it’s authentic. In some ways, it feels more real than what happens in the West Hills,” she said, referring to one of Portland’s old money neighborhoods. “Everyone has her own personality.”

  Alexis nodded toward the stage. “Caramella’s up. This should be good. I think she wants to beat VC more than she wants the crown.”

  The sound system switched to a sultry blues number. Not what drag queens usually chose. Caramella sauntered to the stage, moving to the music’s rolling two-four rhythm. Now Joanna remembered the song: “Frankie and Johnny.” That explained the cowboy get-up. Caramella had added a marabou-trimmed vest to her outfit and tidied her wig and hat. Why did Caramella and VC detest each other so much? Tallulah’s Closet served a number of drag queens, and despite clichés about catfights, Joanna had always admired their camaraderie.

  The song’s hypnotic roll lulled Joanna into the first calm she’d felt all night. But when it came to “he did her wrong,” the drag queen yanked a toy pistol from her holster and pulled the trigger. The shot exploded through the theater, the sound system screaming in protest. The bachelorette party shrieked. A waiter nearly lost a tray of drinks.

  Alexis patted Joanna’s arm. “No worries. It’s part of the tape. She warned us. Clever, actually, although maybe a bit loud.”

  Joanna sucked in her breath to ease the pulse that jackhammered in her ears. “No kidding. You should have paramedics standing by.” She handed Alexis her glass. “I’m going to check on VC, see if she needs my help.”

  Joanna returned down the stairway and through the kitchen, where the cook sipped ice water from a pint glass. He didn’t move, but his gaze followed her as she passed. The kitchen led into the dressing room. On the left ran the dressing table, a long counter with light-studded mirrors and eight stools tucked beneath it.

  VC wasn’t at the dressing table—no one was, in fact—but she wasn’t surprised. The costume’s feathered wings were so large that she likely went around the corner where there was more room.

  “VC, are you ready? You’re up next,” Joanna said. “I’ll pack the Halston.”

  No reply. Joanna wrinkled her brow. VC’s showgirl outfit, a white pants suit sparkling with Swarovski crystals, still hung against the wall. This wasn’t like her. She was a professional. She’d talked about gluing heart-shaped rhinestones to her cheeks. Maybe it was taking longer than she’d expected.

  “You’re going to have to hurry. I’ll help.” Joanna passed by the dressing table, the gowns hanging opposite brushing her shoulders. She rounded the corner and opened her mouth to urge VC to get a move on. Her jaw clamped shut again. VC was lying face down. Blood made a scarlet halo on the cement floor.

  “VC.” Joanna’s voice cracked. No no no. She turned toward the door, frantic for help, before forcing herself to face the drag queen again. Calm down. Maybe she passed out and bloodied her nose, that’s all. Joanna sucked in a deep breath and rolled the body over. She staggered back, grabbing the edge of a table.

  There was nothing left of the drag queen’s face.

  2

  Shivers prickled Joanna’s arms and back. An almost animal response to flee overtook her, and she turned away from the body. And then, something strange: calm. Shock squelched all emotion. It might not last long. She stood straight. She had to find a phone.

  A group of clumsy uniformed policemen weren’t going to get anything useful from the performers, and she knew it. She’d call homicide detective Foster Crisp. Crisp might not glean much, either, but with his almost freakishly unflappable manner, he stood a better chance.

  “Vintage Chablis,” Strawberry Crush’s runner, a skinny African-American boy, yelled from the front dressing area. “Show girl number!”

  Joanna’s hand trembled only a little as she pulled a rolling rack of costumes between the dressing rooms and where VC lay to hide the body. “She can’t make it. She’s—she’s not well.”

  The runner stared at Joanna. “It’s the showgirl number. She has to.”

  “She can’t make it.”

  “She’d have to be in her grave before—” The runner’s eyes widened. “That’s her feet.”

  She could not let them trample evidence. There was no way she could keep people out of the main dressing room. In fact, she heard another of the performers entering to change costumes as they spoke. But she could shield where VC lay. “Listen,” Joanna whispered. “This is important. Tell Marquise that VC twisted her ankle or something. And no one is to come down here except the police. Stand at the top of the stairs, if you have to. Can you do that?”

  Attention rapt, he nodded.

  She swallowed. “Do you know where I can find a phone?”

  The boy pulled an immaculate smartphone from his dingy pocket. One benefit of Luddite ways was that she didn’t rely on devices to remember phone numbers. She punched in Detective Crisp’s personal cell phone number.

  The runner paused a second before darting through the narrow dressing room toward the kitchen, the basement’s only outlet to upstairs. Despite the strange phone number that must have appeared on his caller ID—or maybe because of it—Crisp answered.

  “It’s Joanna Hayworth. I found a body. You’ve got to get down here.”

  “Slow down. Where are you?”

  “At Marquise’s Showplace in Old Town. It’s awful.” The shock was fading. “They blew off her face.”

  “Are you safe?”

  She couldn’t talk. VC’s tropicana-style music faded, and a rumba beat tattooed through the floorboards. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the smells of fried food and makeup.

  “Joanna? Listen. Stay put. I’ll be right there.”

  She hung up and set the phone aside. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them and forced herself to take in the scene. VC lay face down on the floor. On one side of her body, her showgirl headdress with unmarred white feathers rested on a table. At her feet was a closed wardrobe with a mirrored front. On the other side, completing a U-shape, was a shelf of wigs on styrofoam heads staring at the macabre scene. Judging from her face’s devastation, VC had to have been shot point-blank.

  Who did it? Caramella’s trick during the Western number upstairs would have covered the gunfire that killed VC. But Caramella had been upstairs and couldn’t have shot VC through the floor.

  No, it had to have happened right here. Joanna scanned the basement. The long, narrow dressing area ran along the wall, filling a quarter of the room. Shelves, many with dresses hooked to their sides, screened the dressing room from the rest of the basement, which was full of racks of dresses—Marquise’s archive of show gowns.

  VC lay near the basement’s east wall, past the long dressing table and just beyond where the shelves ended. It wasn’t lit well, but there was more room here to put on the headdress and wings her showgirl costume required.

  The cook would have had to have seen the murderer on the way in—and out. Unless—all at once the sounds of the show upstairs rece
ded and Joanna’s own heartbeat throbbed in her ears—unless the killer was still down here. He could have waited for hours among Marquise’s gowns. No one would have known.

  Her senses focused. Aside from muffled music above, the HVAC system’s humming was the only noise. Faintly, she heard the fryer basket plunged into fat in the kitchen. She was alone. Maybe. She gripped the dressing table’s edge with clammy palms and flattened her body against a support pillar. She pulled a gold sequined stiletto off the shelf as a weapon. A minute passed, then two. She strained to hear any sound betraying another presence in the basement’s darkened area, but it was silent.

  At last the sound of quick, sure steps through the dressing room told her Crisp had arrived. “Joanna,” he said. “Where?”

  Tension drained out of her, leaving her limp as a stocking. She pushed back the rack of gowns to reveal VC’s body but kept her head turned away. “I rolled her face up to make sure she was—”

  Before she finished her sentence, Crisp was on the phone demanding backup. He hung up. “Next time call 911. I’ll find my way here if I’m needed.”

  “It’s kind of a delicate situation.” The performers wouldn’t talk to just anyone. They’d already made a few pointed remarks about the police. VC had told her officers had even stopped some of the queens after the show a few weeks ago and questioned them for no apparent reason.

  “That’s the only entrance?” He gestured toward the kitchen.