“Upstairs. So’s the Mother Superior. She had a nap at Penny’s, and she’s raring to go.”
Upstairs. She’d still be getting married, but upstairs. At Marquise’s. Her bewilderment turned to laughter. Frenzied, ridiculous laughter. And that turned to tears. Her chest heaved with them. Paul simply held her.
She wiped her tears with Paul’s handkerchief. “What about my dress?” She was still wearing shreds of 1930s lace. She lifted the torn train. “I can’t get married like this.”
Marquise rounded the corner. “Did somebody say ‘dress’?”
29
Half an hour later, to the recorded strains of the wedding march, Joanna climbed the stairs to Marquise’s main floor.
She glimmered in the Bob Mackie design of blue and silver sequins slit up the thigh. Alexis’s beautician training came in handy as she covered her bruises and created an elaborate updo studded with sequined flowers. Marquise wanted to put her in a wig, but she had to draw the line somewhere.
Summer and Marquise, in full drag, accompanied her to the stage, where Apple, her matron of honor, waited with a bouquet that was only slightly wilted. Paul was at Apple’s side, and an older man she didn’t recognize stood with him.
The stranger leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’m Paul’s Uncle Gene.”
The Mother Superior rose from her seat and leaned on her cane. Joanna squinted into the audience.
“Put the house lights up a bit,” Marquise yelled.
As if by magic, the lights over the audience rose. Joanna was filled to bursting with emotion.
“Don’t cry, girl, or you’ll ruin your makeup,” Summer whispered. She patted Joanna’s hand and took a seat with the audience, joining a row of blue habits. The Marys. Sister Mary Alberta waved discreetly. On the other side of the room, Penny beamed as if the entire ceremony were her idea. Maybe it was. She lifted a glass of champagne. Even Crisp had stayed. His silver bolo tie caught the light as he shifted on his feet.
Apple handed her peonies and lilies of the valley tied with a wide satin ribbon. Joanna lifted the bouquet to her lips and breathed the green scent of spring. Apple seemed subdued but happy. For now.
Throughout the short ceremony, Joanna’s thoughts were full of Paul and the family they’d made, complete with jewel thieves, nuns, drag queens, and many less kooky but equally wonderful people. The last few years had taught Joanna a lot. One of the chief lessons was that everything good takes effort. Her life had been content and quiet when she’d met Paul and discovered a body behind the counter at Tallulah’s Closet. At least, she’d thought she was content. Vintage clothing, old movies, and good meals were stop-gap food for her real drive: curiosity.
The Mother Superior talked, Joanna said the requisite “I do,” and then it was time to kiss the groom.
Amazing. So amazing. A ruby the color of red currants glowed on her finger. Makeup be danged, she was going to cry. As if on cue, one of the drag queens—Hearty Burgundy?—let out a wail from the second row.
The audience cheered as Joanna and Paul walked hand in hand down the stage into the audience.
Detective Crisp pecked Joanna’s cheek, then took Paul’s Uncle Gene aside. The stereo system switched to the Rolling Stones singing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” and champagne corks popped.
Oh, she was happy.
Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned, her sequins throwing light on the draperies, to Uncle Gene.
“I hear you like investigating things,” he said. “Let’s talk later.”
Afterword
Readers familiar with Portland will rightly peg Marquise’s Showplace as a take on the magnificent Darcelle XV Showplace. Thank you to Darcelle and her performers, Summer Seasons and Alexis Campbell Starr, for letting me riff on the cabaret. All the goodness, fun, and love I describe is real. The murders and secret passageways aren’t. (Also, I can’t think of a single drag family named after jug wine.)
Similarly, thank you to the owners and staff of the Holman Funeral Home, an inspiration for the Milton Funeral Home. What a magnificent building and smart, friendly staff.
As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the members of my writing group, Cindy Brown, Evan Lewis, Doug Levin, Ann Littlewood, and Marilyn McFarlane; second reader Robin Remmick; copyeditor extraordinaire Raina Glazener; and cover designer Ebooklaunch.
Note to Readers
Thank you for reading The Halston Hit, book four in the Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing mysteries. I hope you enjoyed it! In Head Case, the next in the series, Joanna visits a onetime protégé of legendary costume designer Edith Head. She expects to see closets bulging with drool-worthy gowns to stock Tallulah’s Closet. Instead, she finds a corpse.
To learn about the rest of the Joanna Hayworth vintage clothing mysteries and The Booster Club capers, visit www.angelamsanders.com.
Also, please sign up for my monthly newsletter showcasing what Joanna —and I— love. They are full of good things: cocktail recipes, gorgeous old gowns, fashion advice from Edith Head, book reviews, and more. (Of course, I’ll throw in a short update on my novel-in-progress, too.) I’ll never share your email.
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Also by Angela M. Sanders
The Booster Club capers
The Booster Club
Cat in a Bag
Vintage Clothing Series
The Lanvin Murders
Dior or Die
Slain in Schiaparelli
The Halston Hit
Head Case
Secret of the Blue Lily
Watch for more at Angela M. Sanders’s site.
About the Author
Angela M. Sanders worked for more than a decade as a congressional investigator before turning author. Her lack of success finding bathtub reading that was indulgent yet smart led her to write the Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing mysteries—sample title, Dior or Die—and The Booster Club capers, which center around a retirement home for petty criminals. Under the pen name Clover Tate, she writes a series of kite shop mysteries, the third of which, Wuthering Kites, launches September 2018. Angela’s articles on food, personalities, and perfume have appeared in a variety of magazines, and she’s a columnist for the popular fragrance blog, Now Smell This. When Angela isn’t at her laptop, she’s rummaging in thrift shops, lounging with a vintage detective novel, or pontificating about how to make the perfect martini.
Read more at Angela M. Sanders’s site.
The Halston Hit Page 18