She risked it. “I saw you.”
“What?” His voice was unnaturally loud. The murmur of traffic on the boulevard below sounded far away.
“Tonight. I saw you,” Joanna said.
“At the grocery store?”
“You know what I mean.” Joanna kept her distance and planted her feet slightly apart.
“Barry, are you all right?”
Both Joanna and Barry turned to the funeral home. Adele stood at the back door. She wore a white robe. A revolver dangled from her hand.
Joanna’s pulse leapt in tempo.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Barry said. “It’s that vintage clothing girl. She wants to know where I’ve been.” Then, to Joanna. “What are you doing here?”
Firearm still at her side, Adele crossed the lot to see them. Her slippers scuffed on the asphalt. She bore no trace of VC’s makeup, and given the minivan’s cold engine, she hadn’t been out. “Joanna. What a surprise.” She and Barry faced her, one part polite, one part suspicious. “Sorry about the gun. We’ve had trouble with trespassers. You can imagine, with a funeral home and all.”
Barry looked from woman to woman, then unlocked the sedan’s trunk and took out two bags of groceries. The dog trotted from the kitchen to greet him.
“I know this looks odd—” Joanna started.
Adele crossed her hands in front of her chest, but to warm herself, not close herself off, Joanna thought. She continued to clutch the gun. “Barry said you wanted to know where he was.” Suspicion won over politeness. “Why?”
“You okay out here?” Barry asked his mother.
“I’m fine. Go on in.”
He headed for the house, the poodle at his heels.
“I think I saw VC,” Joanna said.
His mother’s arms fell to her side. “Bo?” she whispered. “Where?”
“In Old Town. Near Marquise’s. I only saw her a moment, but it had to be her. She even said my name.”
Adele seemed stunned to silence.
“I know it couldn’t have been Bo. So I had to see if someone like him—Barry, for instance—was home.” Two bags of groceries wouldn’t take long to buy. He could even have put them in the trunk ahead of time. But it would take a while to scrub the makeup from his face. She glanced toward the sedan. From what she could make out in the dim light, the interior was empty. No gown, no leopard print stilettos. If it wasn’t Barry—or Bo himself—who could it have been? Caramella hadn’t been at the memorial service. Caramella was slender, and her skin, while not as dark as VC’s, was olive and would appear darker at night.
Adele drew a deep breath. “It’s cold out here. Besides, I want to put this thing down.” She glanced at the gun. “Come in and tell me what you saw.”
The kitchen was as cheerful as ever. The dog had settled into his basket, and Barry unpacked the groceries. The tiny television on the counter showed a sitcom, its sound on low, and a half-eaten bowl of salad sat next to it, a fork piercing a cherry tomato leaning on its rim.
Joanna told them about the memorial service and seeing VC in the alley. “It must have been a joke. I’m sorry even to bring it up.”
“I knew it was a mistake for Bo to get involved with that crowd,” Barry said. “He was looking for validation, but that wasn’t the way to get it.”
“Barry, honey, Bo wasn’t like you.”
“He was a member of this family, wasn’t he? He had responsibilities here. Instead, he spent his nights in that ridiculous—”
“Barry.” The word snapped like a steel trap.
“Mom, you have to stop defending him. You and I can’t run this place on our own, even with Delilah’s help. Bo knew that, but it didn’t stop him. It wasn’t right.”
“We’ll talk about this later.” Her tone left no room for arguing.
Barry slammed the cabinet door and left the kitchen. Joanna had the feeling this was not the first time they’d had this argument.
“I’m sorry,” Adele said. “It’s the stress of his brother’s death. We’re all feeling it.” Adele’s Nefertiti eyes were devoid of makeup and touched with bruised purple. Even her implacable composure seemed off balance tonight.
“A cruel joke,” Joanna repeated. “The service at Marquise’s was wonderful. Bo was well loved.”
“I know.” Adele’s voice was quiet. “A few friends have stopped by to pay their condolences.” She dragged herself to standing. “I boxed up Bo’s dresses. Why don’t you take them now?”
“You’ve had a rough few days. I can come back later.”
“No. Take them. It’s a step toward helping me move on.” She led Joanna down the hall.
With the racks emptied, Bo’s dressing room looked bleak. Three boxes, taped and labeled simply “VC,” sat stacked near the closet.
“If you’re sure,” Joanna said. Adele didn’t reply. “I’ll have to take them to the car one at a time.”
Adele didn’t seem to be listening. “You saw him? You really saw my boy? I saw him, too. That night. Maybe—”
“I don’t know what I saw now. Or who. A joke,” Joanna repeated. “That had to be it.”
“I know my son. I’ll know when I see him.” She bit a lip and released it. “The medical examiner will be calling for us to pick him up soon. I’ll know.”
11
“I’m telling you, it was VC,” Joanna said the next morning.
“You mean, it looked like VC,” Detective Crisp replied.
The crepe paper ringing Crisp’s cubicle had sagged, and someone had written “short timer” on his “happy retirement” sign. The Police Bureau bustled with energy this morning. Crisp leaned back in his office chair and sipped from a mug labeled World’s Greatest Grandpa.
“It couldn’t have been his brother—or mother, for that case. I went straight to the funeral home and checked. Barry had been at the grocery store, and the other car’s engine was cold.”
“Did anyone else see the victim?”
“Lewis Custard was with me.”
Crisp set his mug on the desk and folded his arms in front of his chest.
“He owns Imago Mundi, the restaurant behind Marquise’s.” Joanna had been expecting something from Lewis acknowledging his cowardice, even if just a message on the shop’s answering machine, but she hadn’t heard a thing.
Crisp nodded, as if he knew the name. “Could have been a practical joke.”
“Or it could be tied to the murder. Lewis collects maps, valuable ones. He said someone tried to break in a few weeks ago. I wonder if the murder could be related?”
Crisp made a note. “I’ll check on it. See if he filed a report. It’s a tenuous connection.”
“Otherwise—I don’t know. Every drag queen in town was at the memorial service.” She paced two steps and returned—all the room the cubicle allowed.
“Sit down,” Crisp said. “You’re making me nervous.”
Joanna pulled up an office chair. “Caramella wasn’t there, though. Lorenzo’s her other name. We need to follow up with her.” She looked at her hands. “No one seems to know anything about her fight with VC. I quizzed one of the other drag queens and came up dry. I’d hoped she’d be at the memorial service, but she wasn’t there.”
“We,” he said, emphasizing the word, “don’t need to do anything. This is police business.”
“But you asked me to help,” Joanna said. “And I’m getting good information, information you can’t get. Like about VC’s family.”
“And we’re getting information you can’t get.”
“Like what?” Joanna pushed away the paper cup of thin Police Bureau brew Crisp had offered her.
“Lewis Custard, for one.”
“What have you got on him?”
Crisp’s lips lifted into a smile, then straightened. “We haven’t ‘got’ anything. He called last night to report that someone had painted graffiti on the parking lot side of his building. It said ‘killer.’ In pink.”
Joanna smacked her hands palms dow
n on the desk. “Killer” was one of VC’s favorite exclamations. “See?”
“I don’t follow.”
“I admit it’s crazy, the idea that VC could still be alive, but her face was blown away. The body could have been someone else.” The memory of the blood-spattered floor sent bile up her throat. Crisp pushed a water bottle toward her, and she took a swallow.
He leaned forward. “Joanna, we’re professionals. The victim was Bo Milton.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“How do you know? Did you do a DNA test?”
“Yes.” Crisp glanced away for a split second.
“But you don’t have the results back, do you? It could have been VC.”
“You’re right. We don’t have the results yet. But that doesn’t change my opinion.”
Joanna’s shoulders relaxed. “Let’s take it your way for the moment. If it wasn’t VC, then the fake VC—the person I saw last night—must be the murderer. He’s trying to confuse us. Spray painting graffiti, too. It’s more evidence against Caramella.”
“Look, I can’t explain about VC. Old Town is a party district. It could have been anyone—someone who read about the murder in the news and had the bad taste to dress up like the victim. But I can tell you who killed Bo Milton, and it wasn’t another drag queen.”
Joanna sat back. “You know the murderer. Why didn’t you say so?”
“It’s not one hundred percent sure, but we have a good idea.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from off the credenza behind him. “We got back the ballistics report.”
“Who is it?”
“Bo was shot at close range with a .38 caliber bullet.”
“What did the report say?” When Crisp didn’t respond, Joanna pulled her chair closer. “Crisp. Who?”
“Roger Bing. The cook.” Crisp returned the report to the credenza. “We found a Smith and Wesson revolver in Marquise’s kitchen. It was hiding in a pot at the back of a shelf. Ballistics says it was recently fired.”
“Anyone could have used the gun and hidden it there.”
“Maybe. We’ll see. We have a team on its way to Marquise’s right now with a search warrant to look for ammunition.”
Roger Bing. That was a new twist. Even so, Joanna wasn’t entirely convinced. “We still don’t know what the deal was with Caramella and VC. And the ghost. That couldn’t have been the cook. He’s a lot shorter, for one thing. And I saw him at the memorial service.”
“And we may not need to know. Thank you for your help, but it’s time to give it up. Leave the investigation to us. Besides, don’t you have a store to run?”
12
Back at Tallulah’s Closet, Apple was helping a customer try on a knit skirt and sweater when Joanna came in.
“These are the real man traps,” Apple was saying.
The customer patted her slightly mounded stomach.
“You look terrific,” Joanna said. She did, too. Owning a vintage clothing boutique, Joanna had seen in play every insecurity about her body a woman could have, from the common “my derriere is too big” to the obscure “the gap between my toes is too wide.” Most of the time, the concern was in the customer’s head. Joanna loved the diversity of bodies that passed through the door. Very few of them had anything to do with the pages of fashion magazines, either.
“Own it, honey,” Apple said. Apple had owned her own zaftig figure, adorning it with fabulous 1970s caftans and fringed vests. She had a robust following among Tallulah’s Closet’s customers. “You’ve seen Botticelli’s Venus, right? The goddess of beauty? She doesn’t have washboard abs.”
“It’s true,” Joanna said from the door. “Turn sideways.” Too many people forgot to examine their profile when they dressed. What looks great straight-on might bulk you up from a side view. Capes were notorious offenders. In this case, Joanna simply wanted the customer to see that her belly was a gentle rise in a satisfyingly curvaceous figure.
She turned and ran a palm over her middle. “I guess it’s not too bad. If you’re sure—”
A bearded man holding a to-go box came in and did a double take. “Britt. Whoa.”
“You don’t think—?”
“Hush,” Apple told the customer.
The man pulled his wallet from his jeans pocket. “We’ll take it.”
After the customer re-emerged from the dressing room, Joanna watched Apple fold the knits and wrap them in tissue. Something was going on with her. Her steady diet of green smoothies and whole grains kept her skin clear—usually. Today, streaks of red stained her neck, and her skin had a gray cast. Her voice was cheerful, though.
When the customers left, Apple pointed to the boxes of VC’s gowns, still taped shut, stacked behind the counter. “What are those?”
Joanna explained. “I’m not ready to sort through them now. Maybe after the funeral. I’m going to donate the proceeds to an LGBTQ youth group in VC’s name.” She took the tea cup from Apple’s hand and set it on the tiki bar. “Enough about that. What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?” Apple said.
“I mean, something is wrong. You don’t look like yourself. Every time I bring it up, you change the subject. I’ve had enough. What gives?”
Apple turned away and clicked on the clothing steamer. “I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.”
“That’s what you said the last time I asked.”
Apple turned abruptly toward Joanna. “All right. Here’s the deal. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Joanna’s cheeks stung. She and Apple had shared confidences since they were girls growing up together in the country. They’d talked about their first periods, boys they liked, teachers they loathed. Apple had seen Joanna through a few failed relationships and encouraged her to square up for Paul. Joanna, in turn, had had a front seat at Apple and Gavin’s deepening relationship and had been maid of honor at their wedding. And now Apple wouldn’t talk?
“Is it cancer?” Joanna said.
Apple choked a laugh. “No. My health is fine. I don’t want to talk about it, that’s all. Not yet.” She touched Joanna lightly on the arm. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
Joanna stood still a moment, uncertain of what to do or say.
“Besides,” Apple said. “I’m the one who should be asking you questions. How was the memorial service last night?”
Joanna hesitated. “You’re sure? Why don’t you tell me now?”
“Trust me on this. Tell me about last night.”
Joanna summarized VC’s memorial service, ending with seeing VC and the morning’s visit to Detective Crisp.
“Astonishing,” Apple said. “The whole story. You say the police are at Marquise’s now?”
“That’s what Crisp told me.” Joanna took the dress Apple was about to steam from her arms. “Let me do this.”
“It’s another candidate for your wedding. A Cahill. What do you think? It needs a bit of repair on the bodice, but it should fit.”
“I like it. I’m not sure if it’s the one, but I like it.”
The dress was an ivory 1960s strapless gown with a Juliet waist and full skirt. Its underskirt was shell pink, and delicate pearl beading criss-crossed the bodice.
“I have a backup.” Apple took a 1930s bias-cut blue charmeuse gown from the rack. “It’s a nightgown, but it would make a great wedding gown, too.” She laid the gown over the bench in the middle of the store. “Plus, more good news. Penny said yes to holding the wedding at her place. She sounds excited about it.”
“Oh, good. I’ll tell Lewis Custard. One less thing to worry about.” Penny’s home was modern, but with a rustic Pacific Northwest style including a huge, wood-paneled living room with a stone fireplace. Plus, it was on the Willamette River, giving it a wonderful feeling of openness. “I’ll start calling guests with the change of venue. Paul will help.”
“I’ll help, too.”
Joanna picked up the charmeuse gown and held it to her
torso. “VC would have loved this,” Joanna said. She would have, too. On her slender body, the gown would have held the spotlights like watery moonlight. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Really? You need to ask?” Apple’s communing with the spirits was a regular occurrence.
“I mean VC’s ghost. Could it have been her?”
“Hello, Joanna. I hope I’m not interrupting.” A man’s voice.
Joanna turned in surprise. She hadn’t heard the door. He always seemed to be sneaking up on her. “Lewis.” He looked tired, rumpled. His beard stuck out at odd angles, and fingerprints smeared his glasses.
“I had to drop in and apologize.”
Joanna introduced Apple. “You didn’t have to make the trip across town. I understand. In fact, we were just talking about how shocking the whole thing was.”
“I wanted to. It’s awful how I simply took off. Leaving you alone with—”
“VC,” Joanna said. She turned to Apple. “Lewis walked me back to my car after the memorial service.”
“I was terrified. That’s the only way I can explain my awful behavior. Running off like that. Leaving you alone.”
“VC—or whoever it was—disappeared right after you left.”
“Disappeared?” Lewis half stood.
Joanna motioned for him to sit. “Not vanished, like a ghost, but turned around and ran. I hear there was some graffiti.”
“She was seen again, too. By the restaurant.” A pale pink satin corset kept bumping him in the elbow, and he didn’t even notice. “Someone sprayed ‘killer’ on the side of the building. In hot pink. I saw it when I got back. The paint was still wet.”
“VC used to say that a lot.”
“I know,” Lewis said.
“You didn’t notice anything else besides the graffiti? No one tried to break in?”
“Just ‘killer.’ Was she warning me about something?”
“Is there something you need warning against?” When Lewis didn’t respond, she added, “I stopped in on Detective Crisp this morning, and he’s certain that VC is dead.” Joanna glanced toward Apple.
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