“Amazing. Thank you.” She turned to him. “I’m sorry for the attitude. It’s been a rough morning. A rough week, actually.”
The janitor dropped the cigarette butt to the sidewalk and crushed it under his shoe. “That’s all right. I saw the security tape. Any idea who it was? She didn’t look like your average punk.”
Joanna returned to spraying and swabbing. “No. Could be a number of people.”
“Someone skinny, that’s for sure. Darker skinned. Not real curvaceous.” He pulled a rag from his back pocket. “Give me that cleaner, and I’ll help.”
“Thank you,” Joanna said, but she thought, Caramella. Adele had said some of the drag queens were planning to drop by to pay their respects. Caramella—as Lorenzo, of course—might have excused himself to use the restroom, then ducked into VC’s dressing room to nab the Alaïa.
Joanna decided. She would find Lorenzo and get answers. She’d ask him where he’d been last night. If she could see him eye to eye, she’d know if he were lying.
The front window cleaned, Joanna thanked the janitor and returned inside the shop. Family businesses like Perez’s Helping Hands were often run out of a home. Joanna consulted her version of an internet search engine: the library’s reference desk.
A woman with a Southern drawl answered. Excellent. Stephanie knew how to find just about anything.
“It’s Joanna. Could you get me the business address of a local firm? The address isn’t in the phone book.”
The keyboard was already clicking. “Sure. I’ll check the Secretary of State’s office. Give me the name.”
Within five minutes, Joanna had the address for Perez’s Helping Hands. As she’d guessed, it was in a residential neighborhood. It was barely nine. If she hurried, she might be able to catch him.
Old Blue started up with her regular complaints, but within a few blocks the heater was chugging away, and the gear shifts had loosened up. Joanna didn’t look forward to the day the Toyota died. They were old friends. She knew how to jiggle the key to persuade the ignition to spark, and she kept a canister of brake fluid behind the front seat. Her mechanic said that the car was “safe, but had a lot of annoying things wrong with it.” Joanna had clung to “safe” and ignored the rest.
The Perez home was a modest bungalow that would have fetched a nice price from a Californian couple eager for a river rock fireplace, low porch, and built-in cabinets. But even from the street Joanna could tell that the Perez family had skipped the slavish Arts and Crafts fixings and treated the house not as a museum piece, but as a home. Cheerful curtains covered the living room window, and waves of pastel tulips filled the flower beds up against the foundation. A detached garage sat at the end of the driveway, behind the house. Comfortable but modest. One thing seemed sure: if Lorenzo was the killer, he hadn’t done it for profit.
Joanna parked across the street and cut the engine. Her plan was simple: she’d ask for Lorenzo, and when he came out, she’d say, “Tell me. Where were you last night?” She counted on surprise as an ally.
She crossed the street, a wet breeze ruffling her hair. Her shoes sounded on the porch’s wooden steps. She rang the doorbell. No one answered. She rang again, and again, no response. A small pickup truck fitted with a rack and “Perez’s Helping Hands” painted on the door was in the driveway, but it was possible they were all out on jobs. Maybe she’d come too late.
The door’s row of windowpanes were too high for Joanna to peek in. She stood in the flowerbed, careful not to crush a tulip, but the dining room was empty. The newspaper’s sports section lay folded near the head of the table, but that was it.
Frustrated, she returned to her car. What next? She still had Lewis Custard and Roger Bing’s relationship to explore. Maybe Lewis could shed some light on the cook’s activities. He should double -check his map inventory. She wasn’t one hundred percent satisfied with VC’s brother’s attitude, either. But these were thin leads.
A door slamming across the street drew her attention. It seemed to come from the Perez house, but it wasn’t the front door. She held tight. Maybe someone came out the side door and was getting ready to leave. Lorenzo?
Barely thinking, Joanna leapt from her car and hurried across the street. No one was getting into the truck, though. She stopped at the foot of the driveway. Did he go to the backyard?
She craned her head around the truck but only saw the garage and a fence that should have been in better repair, given the Perez’s business. Maybe the person was getting something from the yard and would be returning to the house. She’d stop them as they made their way back in. The side door was clearly visible.
After a few minutes, it became clear that whoever had left the house wasn’t driving away, or walking away, but wasn’t planning on going in, either. Joanna crept up the driveway.
A hollow thud stopped her cold. Then another thud, then several. With each thud was a grunt. It sounded like someone was being beaten.
Joanna glanced back at the street. No one was out. A tabby cat had jumped on Old Blue’s hood and was licking his paw. She had no choice. She cleared the pickup truck in a few steps, then halted again.
In the row of windows in the garage’s door, she saw Lorenzo throwing his whole body into the swaying mass of a punching bag. He wore the same dirty jeans and tee shirt he had at her store, and his hair flopped over one eye. He hit the bag, and his face tightened. Each parry drew a groan of effort.
It looked like he’d been crying.
Joanna backed down the driveway and went away.
19
No one met Joanna at the funeral home’s front door. She took in the smell of old wood wafting through the entry hall and the armload of gladioli filling the vase under the oil painting. A sign directed guests for the Bo Milton visitation to the McKinley Room on the second floor.
Joanna mounted the heavy staircase to the second floor and stood in the wide hall. A large gilt mirror faced the staircase, flanked by more oil landscapes. Quiet organ music reverberated from the room on the far left.
Joanna clutched her spray of white cymbidium orchids with delicate green throats. They shared VC’s glamour. She reminded herself that no one except Detective Crisp knew about VC’s ghost’s second visit. Or about the accusations that Joanna was a murderer.
She opened what must once have been a bedroom door to a large room with flocked red wallpaper and Victorian-style lamps with glass globes. A marble fireplace was on the room’s right, and a small, old organ fit for the Addams family’s parlor shared the wall with the door. An elderly man sat at its keyboard playing quietly. One grouping of dark Eastlake furniture was by the fireplace, and two ornate armchairs were huddled at the room’s far side. By the casket. Closed, of course.
In the chairs sat Adele and—Joanna’s eyes widened—Lorenzo. If Joanna wasn’t mistaken, Adele’s hand dropped from Lorenzo’s when she entered. Joanna hesitated a second before continuing toward them. What was he up to?
“Joanna,” Adele said. “I’m pleased you could make it.” Even carefully made up, the strain showed in her face. She was used to death. She saw it every day. But this was loss—a profound loss. It showed. She wore the easy-fitting tunic and pants she seemed to favor, but this time they were black silk.
Joanna glanced at Lorenzo and crossed the room toward them. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Let’s sit near the fireplace. There’s more room,” VC’s mother said.
Sensitive to their movements, the organist quieted his music still further. The whole atmosphere was queerly old-fashioned, although a decadent spray of calla lilies in a stand by the casket did whisper disco.
“I know it’s a little—it’s maybe stuffy for VC, but he always loved this room. Even when he was a child he would take his coloring books up here and play quietly. When there wasn’t a visitation, of course.”
Looking again, Joanna could see it. No, the room wasn’t glamorous, but it had drama. Pure funereal drama. “I get it. Even the music.�
�
“Especially the music,” Adele agreed.
“Why is it called the McKinley Room?”
“Back when it was a private home, President McKinley stayed the night here. The decor hasn’t been changed since. Oh, we reupholstered the furniture and all, but we kept it the same. People seem to like it.”
Caramella was silent. Or Lorenzo, as he was now in a man’s clothing. He wore a sharp black suit and blue shirt with a silver silk tie, a sharp contrast to the rumpled jeans and tee shirt he wore a few hours earlier. His hair was slicked back into Ronald Colman elegance.
“We dressed Bo in a suit, but we laid the Halston in the casket with him. I hope you don’t mind.”
“The police let you take it?” Joanna heard the “we.” “We” dressed him. Perhaps that was the final, most caring thing his family could do for him.
“The medical examiner’s office sent it with him. We go way back, and the tech was kind enough to let us take the dress. I washed it, pressed it.”
This was ridiculous. They were sitting feet from Bo’s body talking about laundry. He was dead, and his mother was practically holding hands with his sworn enemy. Joanna swallowed. “That’s fine. I’m glad it’s with him.” The organ’s low quaver hummed in her bones.
Lorenzo took Adele’s hand, this time openly. The room’s emotional temperature rose. He must have noticed Joanna’s stare. “He loved that dress,” he said. “Thank you for all you did for him.”
“Yes, thank you,” Adele said.
Lorenzo looked quiet, elegant. Not like a murderer at all. Not like someone to yell at VC in bars, or put pins in her wigs, or threaten her. Not someone to stand in his garage, grunting and hurling himself against a punching bag.
“I haven’t seen you at Marquise’s lately. Not even for the memorial service,” Joanna said.
“I haven’t been well.” His gaze challenged her to refute him.
“You look well now.”
“What are you implying?” He released Adele’s hand and passed her a large, white handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Why don’t you come out with it? You’ve been suspicious of me all along.”
Joanna knew her words would be harsh, so she softened her tone. “Why wouldn’t I be? Everyone else loved him. You sabotaged him every chance you got.”
Adele watched their exchange. Joanna couldn’t read the emotion on her face, but it didn’t seem to be surprise.
“So you think I killed him out of professional jealousy.”
“Your emotions seem to run high.”
He bit back a word Joanna couldn’t make out, and a muscle ticked on his freshly shaved jaw. “Yes, they do run high. For Bo.”
Adele wiped a fat tear from her cheek, but she laughed softly. “He loved him.”
“What?” Joanna said.
Lorenzo squeezed Adele’s hand. “It’s true. I loved Bo. We were a couple, had been for almost a year now.”
“But—” Her words quit. Joanna tried again. “The arguments, the jabs at each other.”
Lorenzo walked to the casket. The man at the organ glanced over his shoulder and moderated his volume again. “My family couldn’t handle my choice of a partner.”
“That he was a man,” Joanna said.
He turned away from the casket. “No. That he was black and I’m Latino.”
Adele glanced toward him. “Sadly, Barry wasn’t happy about it, either, but for him it wasn’t about race. He never accepted his brother’s life as VC. The fact that he was in love with a man? Too much. He knew, though—at least, he does now.” She and Lorenzo exchanged glances.
Now Joanna understood. Lorenzo’s sullen attitude, skipping out on performances, striking out—it was grief. All grief. “Those are reasons you might downplay or even hide the relationship,” Joanna said softly. Sad, but true, she supposed. “But not be openly hostile.”
Lorenzo ran his hand along the casket’s honeyed wood. “That was Bo’s idea. He thought it would be good publicity. He thought people would come out to see the feuding queens.”
Did she believe him? If it were Lorenzo alone telling the story, Joanna would doubt it. But Adele knew and believed. Could Lorenzo’s anger burn enough for him to kill Roger Bing? Even if it did, there’s no way he could have known VC was killed with Bing’s gun. Crisp held that information. Crisp, the forensics team, and maybe the medical examiner.
“What about the gunshot? During your talent number?” Joanna asked him.
He winced. “Tragic coincidence. That’s all.”
“It’s an awfully convenient—”
“You think I don’t have nightmares about that?” His voice leapt in volume. The thuds of his fists in the punching bag jarred Joanna’s memory. He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry. I can’t help but wonder if I hadn’t added that gunshot, maybe he’d still be alive.”
Adele stared at her hands, twisting Lorenzo’s handkerchief as tight as the pleats in a Fortuny dress. “The detective came to talk to me and Barry about the cook’s death. So awful. When will this end?”
“It might have been an accident,” Joanna said, despite her doubts.
“I hope it is. I hope it all ends. My baby suffered enough without having his life dragged out in public. I wish they would close the case and let us move on.”
The organist was deep into “Nearer My God to Thee.” Joanna leaned over and kissed Adele’s cheek, then went to Lorenzo and shook his hand.
The casket was smooth and cool under her hands. What she couldn’t see was Bo’s body under the heavy lid, lying next to the Halston’s gold silk, so deceptively simple, so masterfully cut. How could VC be gone?
“I’d better be leaving,” Joanna said. “I’m so sorry—for everything.” It had all changed now. Her theory about Lorenzo was a bust. She was back to where she’d started, which was nowhere.
“Let me walk you to the door,” Adele said, but made no move to stand.
“No, please stay where you are. I’ll find my way out.”
Joanna left the room, the music fading behind the closed door, and let her fingers trail on the banister’s satiny surface as she descended the massive staircase.
Barry stood in the entry hall, as if he’d been waiting for her. He gave her no chance to speak. “Still asking questions, aren’t you?”
Adrenaline spiked in her chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m here for Bo’s visitation.”
Barry kept his gaze on hers. “I know what you’re doing. We’re burying Bo the day after tomorrow, and then it’s over. No more questions, you hear? Stay out of our lives.”
Joanna’s mouth slipped open half an inch before she said the only thing she could think of. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
She stepped out. Barry’s only response was the heavy oak door closing behind her.
20
Joanna finally pulled herself from bed after Paul had left for work. He’d set out a thermos of coffee for her, and she sipped some as she pulled a brush through her tangled hair and shrugged on a full-skirted mid-century dress with a faded purple and yellow floral pattern. Its polished cotton had worn to a buttery softness over the years, and she stroked a sleeve for comfort.
She was so lucky, she reminded herself. After yesterday’s full buffet of death and grief, her tiny house with its flowering currant branches in a vase on the mantel and bed still warm and, most of all, Paul, felt all at once immensely valuable.
“Aunt Vanderburgh,” she asked the tight-lipped pastel portrait in the living room, “what did I do to deserve such a good life?”
Aunt Vanderburgh wasn’t given to a Pollyanna outlook. Don’t forget. You’re accused of being a murderer.
This morning she had an appointment across town to go through an estate before the public sale the upcoming weekend. After years in the business, she’d developed relationships with a handful of estate sale companies in town. Sometimes they called when an estate had a lot of vintage clothing, inviting her to shop before the sale’s start. This
benefited everyone. Joanna could replenish Tallulah’s Closet’s stock without the hassle—and sometimes downright irritation—of competing with other buyers. The estate sale companies were able to clear items out right away and make a ten percent premium. Plus, the company didn’t have to bother pricing and setting out the clothing.
Joanna never knew what she’d be walking into. Once, in an unassuming Cape Cod, she’d found a clothing wardrobe that rivaled Joan Crawford’s boudoir. The owner was a size two, but her clothing was exquisite. The owner’s son offered her a crystal glass of golden sherry to sip as, astonished, she sorted throughout filmy negligées and quilted satin housecoats. Sometimes, all she found were worn zip-front housedresses. The housedresses weren’t glamorous, but their big pockets and a loose fit were popular with customers. Joanna owned a few, herself.
Today’s estate was in Multnomah Village, a suburb with rolling hills dotted with old farm homesteads and infilled with ranch houses. The village’s streets rambled and twisted and occasionally devolved into pitted gravel lanes. This house was a Victorian, painted white, with knobby gingerbread molding suspended like tassels from the front porch’s ceiling.
Joanna had barely stepped onto the porch when the front door flew open. A harried woman with a phone pressed to her ear said, “Are you the vintage clothing lady? Just a minute, Jen. I said, wait a sec. Come in.” Joanna advanced. “No, not you, Jen. I’ll call you back.”
A baby cried from the house’s depths. “Just a minute,” the woman said, rushing toward the back of the house.
Two recliners and a television set took up most of the front room. Judging from the large indentation worn into its seat, one of the recliners must have been for a man. It was bare. The husband had died, possibly long before. The other recliner had doilies on the arms and back and magazines crammed in its pocket. The woman’s. In the adjoining room was a freshly made up hospital bed. She sighed. The house didn’t appear to have been occupied by a fashion maven. If she were lucky, she’d find a wedding dress that had been kept in a cedar chest and a few cocktail dresses that the house’s owner hadn’t fit in for decades but couldn’t bear to give up. Maybe the daughter would try to sell her a wool overcoat from the 1960s with faux fur trim. Chances were, though, the trip would be a bust.
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