The Halston Hit

by Angela M. Sanders

  The woman who’d let her in reappeared with a baby on her hip. “You can probably tell that Mom lived down here. After her hip replacement, she didn’t go upstairs at all. Neither did we, until we moved her to a home.” The baby grabbed at his mother’s necklace. “Then we found a few surprises. Come on up. You might as well see it.”

  The daughter sounded upset somehow. Joanna’s curiosity was piqued. She followed her up the narrow staircase.

  “Wow,” was all Joanna could say. All three bedrooms were loaded with clothes. Racks and racks of clothing. It would have been impossible to get at them all. Not that any of the clothing looked as if it had ever been worn. Price tags still dangled from the sleeves.

  And the colors. The clothes all looked to be from the mid-1960s to mid-1970s. Lime green, orange, mustard yellow, and a smattering of tartan obliterated the off-white walls.

  “Did your mom own a clothing store?”

  “Nope.” She sighed and pulled her necklace from the baby’s grasp. He responded by slapping his tiny palms on her chest. “Mom was a hoarder. Do you think you can use any of it?”

  She’d encountered a few cases of shopping addiction in her years of collecting stock for Tallulah’s Closet. Sadly, none of the hoarders chose the glamorous 1950s or charming 1940s but all had fallen into the ’60s and ’70s. There were only so many double-knit polyester pants suits Joanna could sell.

  “I’ll be honest with you, it’s going to depend. This era had some great princess line coats, and I see something over there trimmed with Ultrasuede that might be good, but I don’t get a lot of customers who are into the Brady Bunch look.”

  The doorbell rang, followed by a sharp knock. “That’ll be the estate sale people.” The woman started down the stairs. “Look around. I’ll give you a good deal, if you find anything you want.”

  Joanna didn’t hold out high hopes, but she had a few customers who liked a bohemian twist in their wardrobes, something a boxy patent leather brown pocketbook or wide-lapel jacket might provide. Plus, she needed time to think. For her, sifting through old clothes was active meditation. While the professional part of her brain took over sorting good wool from the cheap stuff and innovative style from the predictable, another part was released to think. Now that Caramella was no longer a suspect, she needed to reexamine the facts.

  She’d look through the clothes methodically, starting with the front bedroom. Whatever she found to take to the shop, she’d stack in the hall. What was it that compelled people to buy more clothing than they needed—or could afford? Hoarding and shopping addiction were considered mental illnesses, but “collecting” was okay. She thought of Lewis Custard’s dedication to maps. Where do you draw the line?

  She lifted three jewel-neck wool sweaters from the rack, identical but for their color. These were great basics, and they still had their tags attached. Lippman. A good local department store, long gone. She paused at a few pairs of bellbottoms, but decided against them. As she sorted, her mind drifted toward VC and Bing’s deaths.

  Facts. VC was shot, and Crisp was certain that Roger Bing had been holding the gun. He claimed to have irrefutable evidence. On the other hand, Marquise was convinced that Roger was a kind, dedicated part of Marquise’s family, and certainly the fact that he was saving to help fund Marquise’s retirement was evidence in his favor. If Roger was pro-Marquise, he never would have killed VC. Furthermore, as far as anyone knew, VC and Roger had no relationship outside of what took place at Marquise’s.

  However, Bing had been making money from something over the past six months. Bing and Lewis Custard were friendly, and Bing likely knew about his map collection—a collection someone had tried to steal.

  VC’s only known enemy was Caramella, but according to Adele and Caramella herself, their feud was all show. Joanna believed them.

  VC’s brother had threatened Joanna, telling her to leave the family alone. You don’t threaten someone unless you have something at stake. Barry would never have murdered his own brother, would he? Say he did have a motive. Why would he risk doing it at Marquise’s? VC’s wasn’t the only death. Could Barry also have murdered Roger Bing?

  Joanna’s hands lit on a floor-length camel knit gown with a gold belt. Not Halston, but elegant. She added it to the pile in the hall.

  Then there was VC’s ghost. Barry might have dressed as his brother in drag. Easily. Then, knowing somehow—or simply suspecting—Roger’s guilt, he killed the cook and tried to cast the blame on Joanna. This theory had possibilities.

  Moving to the back bedroom, Joanna smiled. Before her were a dozen pairs of go-go boots in white, black, and red patent leather. All size seven—solid gold on the vintage market. She heaped them in the hall.

  When she was finished here, she was going to visit Detective Crisp.

  “You’re lucky to have caught me in.” Detective Crisp ushered Joanna to his cubicle. “What’s going on?”

  Joanna took the visitor’s chair, while Crisp leaned back in his own chair, crossing one cowboy-booted leg over the other.

  “I went to Bo Milton’s visitation yesterday, and something disturbing happened. I wanted to tell you. Maybe it will help with the investigation.”

  A uniformed cop ducked her head over Crisp’s cubicle wall. “Party’s in five in the break room, Crisp.”

  “Thanks,” Crisp said to the woman. Then, to Joanna, “Go on. You’re not going to tell me that other drag queen, Caramella, did something else that made you suspect him—her, I mean—are you?”

  “No. I was wrong about that.” She gauged Crisp’s reaction. His expression didn’t change. “It turns out they were lovers. Their arguments were all for show.”

  “I know.”

  Joanna’s lips parted, then closed. He knew? And didn’t tell her?

  “You’re not going to miss your own party, man, are you?” A thin man holding a coffee mug stood in the doorway. “Joanna Hayworth, is that you?”

  Joanna turned to see Detective Sedillo, someone she’d worked with the year before on a jewel heist. He must have lost fifty pounds since then. She rose and shook his hand. “You look great.”

  “Feel great, too.” He pulled an apple from his pocket. “No cake for me at Crisp’s shindig. Nice to see you.” He continued down the hall.

  Joanna returned to her chair. “So, you know about Caramella and VC. How did you figure that out?”

  “It’s my job. It was easy enough to deduce from the number of texts they traded. But tell me what’s ‘disturbing’ about it.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “Why should I have? This is a homicide investigation. Thank you for your help, but we’ve moved on. Now, if you have something to tell me—”

  “If you knew Caramella wasn’t a suspect, you should have clued me in. I’ve been running all around town to try to figure it out for you.”

  “Didn’t I tell you you were off the case?”

  She glared at him. “When I was leaving Bo’s visitation, Barry, Bo’s brother, stopped me. He warned me to quit asking questions about VC’s death.”

  Crisp watched her without replying.

  “Well?” she said. “Doesn’t that sound suspicious? He looks a lot like VC. He could have dressed in drag and killed Roger Bing.”

  “Why did Barry stop you? Have you been asking questions you shouldn’t? This is a homicide investigation, Joanna. Not an episode of ‘Murder, She Wrote.’”

  “I haven’t been doing anything that would get in your way. I simply went to the funeral home to pay my respects. Lorenzo—that’s Caramella—was there.” She kept her expression innocent, if perturbed. She wasn’t finished yet. “I have one more thing. I should have told you when you came by the store, but I was distracted. Did you know that Roger Bing was saving money to give to Marquise?”

  Joanna could tell from Crisp’s focus that she was telling him something new. “We knew he had savings. Nearly fifty thousand tucked away, deposited at regular intervals. You say it was for Marquis
e?”

  “Yes. He kept a record of his deposits on index cards and made a note that it was for Marquise’s retirement. Why would he kill one of Marquise’s performers when he cared so much for him? Doesn’t that change things?”

  “I admit I didn’t know the money was for Marquise. But it doesn’t matter.”

  Adrenaline simmered in Joanna’s system, a sure sign she was going to do something she’d regret. “How could it not matter? It speaks directly to motive.”

  “Here’s the deal. We’re sure who killed whom—positive—so motive doesn’t matter. Bing killed VC. Who knows why? Maybe he was worried that VC would make him look bad for some reason. Or maybe he simply got tired of VC bad-mouthing his chicken strips. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters.” She’d intended the words to come out as part of a reasonable discussion. Instead, they were loud enough to knock Crisp back in his seat. “I was accused of killing VC, remember?”

  “What have you been doing, Joanna?”

  She counted three calming breaths before she spoke. “Marquise doesn’t believe Roger killed VC. He doesn’t trust you” —she gave him a pointed look— “and wanted me to look for some evidence that might clear Roger’s name.”

  Anger gathered on Crisp’s face, but when he spoke, his voice was low and cool. “Do I have to charge you with interfering in an investigation?”

  “Crisp, what’s your deal? Why does this case affect you like this?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I called you—not 911, not anyone else—when I found VC, because you know how to keep a level head. But from the beginning you’ve been ordering people around to the point that you’re hurting the investigation.”

  The detective’s expression turned stony. Joanna couldn’t tell if he was about to explode with anger or would simply ignore her words.

  He examined his fingertips a moment, then lifted his head. “Thank you.”

  She looked up in surprise. “What?”

  “Thank you for pointing that out. I come from a different generation than you. Men who love other men, or who dress like women—well, Flip Wilson was as far as we’d let it go. I guess my discomfort shows. I’m not proud of that.”

  “Foster Crisp’s retirement party is starting in the break room,” came a voice over the loudspeakers.

  Crisp’s phone rang. He glanced at the display, then picked up the receiver. “Crisp here.” Pause. “I’ll be down in a moment.” He hung up and stood. “According to the crime scene team, the greasy floor in the kitchen showed that Roger slipped and fell. He hit his head on the sink’s edge. It killed him.”

  “But he’d been working in that kitchen for years.” Joanna was forced to stand, since Crisp was clearly intent on abandoning her in his cubicle. “What if someone pushed him?” Another thought occurred to her. VC’s ghost. “Or frightened him?”

  He stepped into the main corridor. “Time to pack it in, Joanna.” Then he stopped. “The angle VC was found does give me pause.” He shook his head. “No. The case is a wrap.”

  She clenched her purse to relieve some of her frustration. There was nothing left for her to say. “Thanks for your time.” She pulled her dress straighter and smoothed the skirt. Then, because she couldn’t help it, “Marquise isn’t convinced. He doesn’t trust you guys.”

  “Lighten up. I see you’re concerned, but you’ve got to let it go.” His expression softened. “We’ve asked him a few questions, that’s all. Maybe he took it the wrong way.”

  “Marquise thinks you’re targeting his business.”

  “I told you. People—people we’re interested in for other reasons—have been seen going into Marquise’s, and not during show hours. We had a few questions, that’s all.”

  “Roger. The cook. He’s the only person who would be there—” Ah. Now it was starting to make sense. Roger had something else going on the side. “You think the cook was involved?”

  “No comment. I’d better get to my retirement party before the cake is gone.” He turned toward her. “And, Joanna, if you see Marquise, give him my regards. I’ll stop by soon myself. I have an apology to make.”

  21

  After leaving the Police Bureau, Joanna wandered downtown to put off visiting Marquise. She didn’t have anything to tell him—nothing that would make him happy, that is. Crisp’s story hadn’t changed. To her, it felt like lazy police work. Short-timer’s syndrome must have him by the neck.

  Crisp had hinted at the possibility that he was working on something bigger, and he didn’t want her to know. Her thoughts wandered to Lewis Custard’s maps.

  Still pondering, Joanna stopped into a vintage clothing store. Maybe they’d have a wedding dress for her. This store, Xanadu, differed from Tallulah’s Closet in that it had a men’s section and display cases of vintage accessories, including cigarette cases, tie tacks, perfume bottles, and even a few Murano ash trays. An old pug waddled out from behind the counter to bark once at her before returning to his pillow to continue his nap.

  “Hi, Joanna. It’s been a while.” Ricky, the owner’s son, came from the back of the store where he had been straightening a rack of ties. “Anything new?”

  She might have said, “Yes, I’m accused of murder,” but she settled for, “I’m getting married. Sunday.” She lifted a blue art glass ashtray with a satiny depth. Her dresser at home was covered with them, and they were filled with earrings, perfume samples, and bracelets. She’d finally given one over to Paul for the loose change he rummaged from his pockets each night.

  “What are you going to wear?”

  She looked up at him and said nothing.

  “What? You don’t have anything?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could help me.” The wedding seemed so far away, but it was happening in only three days.

  “You can’t be serious. The owner of Tallulah’s Closet can’t find a wedding dress?”

  Joanna sighed. “The cobbler’s children, and all that. You know.”

  Ricky pulled at his mustache and gave her a quick once-over for size. “Come back here. We might have something.” After a few steps, he turned. “I hear you were down at Marquise’s when that drag queen was murdered.”

  The vintage clothing shop grapevine was tight. Most of the juiciest information—upcoming estate sales, celebrity clients, the latest rash of Great Gatsby-themed school fundraisers for which moms would be flooding the stores—was exchanged at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, which left Joanna out of the loop. Customers, though, often filled her in. The dedicated vintage clothing customer usually had one or two “home” boutiques, but she popped into the others often enough to gather intelligence to deliver at her next stop. It was how Joanna discovered that her one-time rival, Eve, had moved to Boston, for instance, and it was how she landed the first pick of a local high school’s costume department.

  “It’s true. It was gory. And sad.” She looked away, then back.

  Ricky nodded once in understanding. “How about the police? Are they getting anywhere?”

  “They thought they knew who did it. Then that person died. The fry cook at Marquise’s.” Roger Bing’s death wouldn’t have made the splash that VC’s did. Despite his rich inner life and devotion to Marquise, he was anonymous.

  “Maybe it was a personal dispute,” Ricky said.

  “No one knows.”

  “I heard the drag queen’s ghost showed up and left warnings, and that she grew up in a funeral home.”

  She could tell Ricky all about it, but she hesitated. There were too many open questions. “I’ve heard the same thing. Creepy, huh?”

  They reached a rack of long gowns. He pulled out one with an empire waist and a ruffle flounced at the hem. “What do you think of this? Early ’70s. Very Haight Ashbury.”

  “I was just at a hoarder’s house, and it was full of the 1970s. I’m not sure I can look at anything from that decade without David Cassidy flashbacks.”


  “Everything else is the wrong size. What about a day dress?”

  “I could do that. Or a suit, even.” This was not the time to get picky. Paul had said he didn’t care what she wore, but she had her reputation to think of.

  “A vintage clothing dealer with no wedding dress.” Ricky shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. We have two suits that might work. This one’s by Adrian.”

  “I love it.” The suit, likely from the early 1950s, had wide shoulders and a pencil skirt, but its chief feature was a keyhole neckline. In gray gabardine, it wasn’t right for the wedding, but she had to have it. She could wear the suit to the shop or with a satin blouse for events. “What’s the waist?”

  “Twenty-eight inches on the skirt with lots of give on the hips. Twenty percent off for you.”

  “I’ll take it.” Adrian, no less. Hollywood film designers had a strong pull for Joanna, and they rarely crossed the local vintage clothing circuit. “Where’d you get it?”

  Ricky lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell if you give on where you got that collection of Gucci handbags.”

  “Nothing doing.” One day an elderly man had shown up at Tallulah’s Closet with a garbage bag full of Gucci purses from the 1960s. The real thing. He’d said his brother had died, and they’d discovered a closet full of handbags. Apparently, his collection was a secret hobby. Joanna had sworn she wouldn’t divulge her source.

  Ricky slipped the suit into a garment bag. “The drag queen who died wore vintage, right?” At Joanna’s nod, he added, “I wonder what happened to her gowns?”

  “Her mother gave them to me.”

  “Aha! So, you’re the murderer.” Ricky chuckled at his own joke.