Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2)

by Angela M. Sanders

  Poppy shook her head. "I think—" She picked up a paper clip already twisted into a knot and bent its ends together until it snapped. She tossed the pieces on the counter. "Never mind what I think. Bottom line, I don’t know. The police told me they suspected homicide, they closed off the warehouse, and that’s it."

  "Poppy, something else is wrong, isn’t it?" Sure, Vivienne North’s death was a shock, and who knew what the police were up to, but it wasn’t like Poppy to worry so intensely. She always seemed so capable, so able to see the bright side. Once, at an auction Joanna attended, from her podium Poppy had seen a bidder suffer a stroke. She’d managed to summon an ambulance, keep the crowd calm, and finish the auction without batting an eye.

  Tonight, Poppy’s eyes were bloodshot, and she avoided looking at Joanna directly. "I’m fine. I just have to get in touch with the people who bought things at the auction. Not looking forward to it."

  Joanna leaned forward. "Is that all? You’d tell me if something else were wrong, wouldn’t you?"

  "Everything’s fine."

  Joanna picked up a hint of defiance in Poppy’s voice. If she didn’t want to talk about it, there wasn’t much Joanna could do. "What about the police? Did they say when they might be finished?"

  "Not sure. They might—"

  "Miss," a deep voice rang behind Joanna. "What are you doing here?"

  Joanna turned to see a uniformed policeman. "I bought the trunks of clothing in today’s auction. I came to pick them up."

  "Name, please." The policeman consulted a clipboard.

  "Joanna Hayworth."

  His finger ran down a list and stopped. "How long have you known Ms. Madewell?"

  "Poppy? Nearly four years, I guess." She glanced at Poppy, who nodded briefly. "I met her just before I opened Tallulah’s Closet, my vintage clothing boutique."

  She’d been on the verge of tears that night trying to secure one clothing rack that just wouldn’t stay put. The store was due to open that weekend, but all around her heaped bags of unpressed clothing. The store’s fixtures were pushed to the center of the room while paint dried on the walls.

  "Well," Poppy had said from the door. "This place has come a long way from the bike mechanic’s shop that was here before."

  Joanna set the screwdriver aside and wiped her hands. "Can I help you?" She recognized Poppy from excursions to the auction house, but they’d never talked. She looked so small off the stage.

  "Poppy Madewell." She extended a hand. "You bought the oak counter display case, right? Yep, there it is. God" —the word came out "Gawd" in her Jersey accent— "that thing’s a monster. Anyway, it came with tassels for the knobs. Must not have been in the cabinet when you picked it up. Thought I’d slide them through your mail slot, but you’re here."

  "Oh," Joanna said. Tassels hardly seemed important with the disaster around her. Although, as Poppy had pulled one from its envelope and dropped it in her hand, she saw that the tassels were lovely, woven of gold silk. They’d add a luxurious touch to the cabinet.

  "Let me give you a hand with that clothing rod,” Poppy had said. “That’s a job for two." They’d been friends ever since.

  Not that the policeman tonight would care about all that.

  "This is a crime investigation. You’ll need to leave," he said.

  "But I’ll be able to take the clothes, right?" Beyond Poppy, the police crew methodically sorted through boxes.

  "No, miss," the policeman said. "They’re evidence. We’re writing up a receipt now. We’ll let Ms. Madewell know when they’re ready to be released. She’ll be responsible for contacting her clients."

  "I'm sure Vivienne North hasn't worn those clothes for years. You think she's been swanning around in fifty-year-old Fath evening dresses?"

  "Look, these guys aren't fashion mavens," Poppy said. "I don't know what they want with the clothes. I'm sorry. Hopefully it won't be too long."

  Poppy almost seemed to side with the policeman. Joanna raised an eyebrow at her, but Poppy’s expression remained impossible to read. Joanna turned to the policeman. "When you test the clothes, you don't cut them up, do you? Or pull fibers from the fabric?"

  "Ms. Madewell will be in contact when we’re finished with the items," the policeman said.

  Lost in thought, Joanna pulled her bag onto her shoulder. "What are you looking for, anyway? Vivienne North didn’t die here." She glanced toward Poppy again, who shook her head helplessly.

  The policeman ignored her. "I’ll see you to the door."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The slant of the light confused her. And she was on the wrong side of the bed. As Joanna opened her eyes, she stretched out a hand and felt fur. Gemma the Beast. She was at Paul's. The German shepherd mix thumped her tail against the bed and G.I. Joe'd a few feet closer. She laid her head on Joanna's chest. The fragrance of coffee mingled with wood dust rose from the shop floor to the small sleeping loft.

  "Hey, sleepyhead." Paul's head popped above the banister. "Here's coffee." His smile revealed the tiny gap between his front teeth. Warmth shot through Joanna.

  She pulled the sheet up and leaned forward to take the mug. "Thanks. I'll be down in a second." Gemma jumped off the bed to follow Paul.

  Joanna set down her coffee and yawned, then pulled back her arms mid-stretch. The auction, Vivienne North’s death. The image of Vivienne's faint smile appeared. How could she be dead? Joanna's chest tightened. And Poppy. Something was up with Poppy, she was sure. Something more than the admittedly huge stress of having the police gum up the auction.

  Joanna let out a long breath. All those gorgeous clothes, lost now. She imagined ham-handed policemen rifling through the dresses, smearing everything with fingerprint dust. With a groan she tossed back the blankets and found the old robe of Paul's she'd been using. Its scratchy wool slid over her skin.

  In the kitchen, Paul slid one arm around her waist and kissed her cheek while the other hand held a pancake turner. "How'd you sleep? You didn't worry too much about the auction, did you?"

  "Not too much. A little, I guess." The dresses were going to save Tallulah’s Closet. Maybe they still could.

  She took her coffee to a worn armchair. On the nearby worktable lay two pieces of birds'-eye maple delicately joined to form a corner of dovetails. Last night he had shown her how he worked them by hand, patiently fitting each slat into the other and shaping their edges to a finish so smooth that if she'd felt the join with closed eyes she wouldn't know they were two pieces.

  For most of his youth, Paul had spent his after-school hours at his uncle's wood shop. The shop turned out to be cover for a jewel-theft operation that rivaled the Pink Panther's. When his uncle went to prison, Paul ended up with the shop and a career in woodworking.

  "Here you go." Paul slid a plate onto the kitchen table.

  Joanna laughed. Paul had made her a pancake shaped roughly like a dress, complete with blueberry buttons. "Not bad," she said. "With the prim collar and all, it could be an early Chanel. If you get tired of woodworking, you could go into fashion design."

  "I figured you needed a special dress to tide you over until you get the clothes you bought yesterday." He put another plate of pancakes, these round, across the table and sat down. "Seriously, though, it's good to see you laugh about it. The paper has a story about Vivienne North's death. I guess her family's a big deal around here. They're saying she was poisoned."

  Joanna cupped the coffee mug in her hands. "Poisoned? It's so hard to believe. I had just seen her, too. She must have been in her eighties, but she looked strong to me. Really elegant. Full of personality. You know what I mean?"

  She pulled the newspaper toward her. Below a story about a recent flurry of jewel thefts was Vivienne’s photo, taken at a gala the year before. Joanna couldn't quite summon the image of the regal woman on the medical examiner's table, her vibrancy gone. "She didn't strike me as someone who would have a lot of enemies," she said. "Although I guess you never know." She remembered Vivienne's focused
gaze from across the auction hall. There probably wasn't much she missed.

  "Why was she auctioning off all her stuff before she died?" Paul rose to tend to the pancakes.

  "Can’t say. Maybe she was downsizing." She remembered Vivienne's crisp dismissal of Eve and smiled. Her smile morphed to a frown. "Poor Vivienne. I wish I could have known her. She moved in completely different circles, but even half an hour and a coffee with her would have been fascinating." She absently drew a heart on the table with her finger. "I wonder if I'll ever get those clothes now."

  She'd never even touched a Mainbocher suit before, and she nearly had two she could have spent hours examining. The clever cut of the stand-away collar of the Givenchy. Gone. Besides that, without them she couldn't begin paying back the credit line the bank had extended her for the auction.

  She shifted in the chair. It was still a little early to call Poppy for more information. It wouldn’t hurt to check on her mood, either. She’d seemed so out of it.

  Paul lifted two pancakes to a plate and poured more batter in the pan. "I don’t understand why the police took her things away. Doesn’t make sense to me. What would vintage clothes and furniture have to do with a homicide investigation?"

  Joanna toyed with her fork. "I don’t get it, either."

  You’re worried about the money, aren't you?"

  "Yes. A little."

  He set the plate of pancakes on the tiny kitchen table. Gemma trotted over, clearly hoping for a scrap. "Do you know if the clothes are actually still yours? I mean, you didn’t take possession of them before the police carted them away. If the clothes aren't really yours, the auction house will have to refund you the money, and you won't have the bank to think about at all."

  "No way. They’re mine. I have the receipt and everything." She shook her head. "I want those dresses even if I have to sell a kidney to get them."

  "That’s my girl," he said. "Undaunted. We’ll work out the money angle one way or another."

  "In the meantime, more coffee, please." She reached up to scratch where the rough wool brushed against her shoulder.

  "You bet. That robe itches, doesn't it? Why don't you bring over one of your own?"

  "Maybe I will." Embarrassed, her gaze slipped to her plate.

  "Not to rush you. It took long enough to get you here in the first place." He rose and kissed her ear, and she laughed. "Not that I’m complaining."

  "You’re a patient man," she said. "A patient man who could use a shave."

  "Still a little shy, but we’re making progress." He reached over to refill her cup. "Now, if I could just get you to bring over a robe—"

  "Yellow light," she said, their pet term for "caution," but she smiled when she said it. Her smile faded. "Something is wrong with Poppy, too. I’m sure."

  "From what you told me last night, she doesn’t want to talk about it." He dropped a hand to scratch Gemma. "Do you want to give her a call? You can borrow my phone."

  "Thank you."

  "You must be the last person in the country without a cell phone," he said with affection. "You and some Amish people."

  Joanna took his phone from the counter and punched in Poppy's number with her thumb. Cellphones felt so flimsy, not like the solid princess phone she had at home.

  Poppy answered on the first ring.

  "I hope it’s not too early to call. I thought I’d see if the police gave you any updates when they left. I mean, they left, right?"

  Poppy sighed. "Eventually. They let me keep the furniture, but they practically took it apart first. They hauled out Vivienne’s wardrobe, though."

  "They didn’t give you any idea of when they’d release it?"

  "No." Poppy’s voice was flat. Tired.

  "How are you holding up? You looked pretty stressed last night. Is there anything I can do? Maybe help you call clients?"

  "I’m all right. Ben’s here to help me." A pause. "I’ll see you at the NAP auction meeting this afternoon, right?"

  "Right." Damn. She'd forgotten about the meeting. Gemma wedged her body under the kitchen table and laid her head on Paul's foot. It was so warm here, so cozy, but it didn't look like she'd have time to enjoy it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "That’s everyone." NAP's events coordinator, Jeffrey, closed the door to the conference room. Rain streaked the ceiling-to-floor windows. The room's fluorescent light cast the group’s reflections against the glass. The sharp contours of Portland's tallest skyscraper, nicknamed "Big Pink" for its rosy granite exterior, filled the background.

  Jeffrey rested his phone in easy view. "Joanna, I'd like you to meet Clarence and Lacey. They're leading the table host committee. I thought they should look at the dresses before we make any decisions. You already know Poppy."

  Clarence rose and offered his hand. "Please call me Clary." Lacey lifted her head from her phone long enough to nod hello. A black Pomeranian squirmed in her lap.

  Joanna had run into Clary a few times at auctions and estate sales. He had a rare books boutique in the Pearl District. People called him "Baronet" behind his back because it was rumored he'd bought a title on the internet. He certainly dressed the part with his starched dress shirt buttoned to the neck and small, wire-rimmed glasses. Some might say he acted the part, too. She hadn't met Lacey before, but her blond highlights and puffed lips gave her the look of a dozen other local society women, the sort for whom Clary had probably played the role of walker many times.

  Poppy rose for a hug when Joanna crossed to her side of the table and scooted over to make room for her. The clever use of concealer brightened Poppy’s eyes, but her usual enthusiasm was absent. A large sheet of paper covered with circles indicating tables, some with names scribbled next to them, lay in front of her. Her job was to know where the big spenders sat and to tailor her pitch to them.

  "How are you?" Joanna whispered.

  "Okay. Considering."

  Jeffrey continued. "I thought we’d start with the outfits. Is that all right?" He looked to Clary for permission to go on. Clary nodded. "Joanna has agreed to lend us a few gowns. I told her we'd take care of dry cleaning, and we'd pay for any damage—not that there'll be any. We'll need five ensembles for the greeters, then another five for the art handlers."

  "I don’t know about vintage for the hostesses," Lacey said. "Why not something new? You know, nice?"

  Joanna sat up. She thought it had been settled that she’d provide the dresses.

  Clary swiveled toward Lacey. "Oh no. Vintage is the only way to go. We want something unique. Hollywood glamour, you know."

  Jeffrey nodded. "Hollywood glamour. Yes, yes. Definitely."

  Clary leaned forward. "But, of course, we'll need to make sure they fit in. We'll have very high-end donors. They expect excellence. The aesthetic must be perfect."

  Jeffrey swiveled his head toward him and nodded faster.

  Poppy crossed her arms defensively. "Joanna has terrific taste. I see these donors, too, you know, at all sorts of charity auctions I work. I guarantee the volunteers will look better at the NAP art auction than they did at the art museum's gala."

  "Thank you, Poppy." Joanna pulled an envelope from her bag and slid out a sheaf of photographs. Apple had offered to make a slideshow on the laptop, but Joanna loved the old-fashioned permanence of a photograph with its glossy surface, even though she had to have one of her customers, a photographer, develop for the film for her. "It wasn't easy finding the larger sizes—so many vintage dresses were made for smaller people—but I think I came up with a good selection."

  The first photo showed a floor-length 1940s gown with a black and white plaid taffeta bodice and a black crepe skirt. Its vee neck was ruffled, and a plaid sash encircled its waist, culminating in a large bow at the back. "I kept the palette to black and white. This dress is a modern size eight, but there's room at the hips and the waist if we tie the sash looser."

  "I see the references in late '90s Prada," Clary said. Spot-on fashion knowledge, Joanna noted. Impressi
ve. "I don't want to be insulting, but how does it smell?" he added.

  "Yes, the smell," Jeffrey said and nodded twice, his attention on Clary.

  The Pomeranian yapped and leapt from Lacey's lap. "Porsche, get over here."

  "Portia?" Joanna said. "Like in The Merchant of Venice."

  Lacey retrieved the dog. "No, like in the Boxster."

  Joanna swallowed a grimace, then turned to the table. “As for the dresses, I dry clean everything. I'm wearing vintage now." She plucked the collar of her Mugler dress. "Hopefully it smells all right to you." She suppressed her irritation and withdrew the next photo, another 1940s dress with strong shoulders and a drape of fabric at the waist. "Plus, I put a few drops of lavender oil in the steamer water."

  "That one looks like it could be in a Humphrey Bogart movie," Lacey said, having corralled the Pomeranian again. "Very film noir." She frowned. "In fact, maybe too film noir. Are they all like that?"

  "A lot of them are." Joanna pulled two more photos from the stack, this time tea-length black cocktail dresses from the early 1950s. "The fabric absorbed a lot of light in this photo. It's hard to see the ruching on the bodice."

  Lacey wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. Clary, what do you think? War-era dresses are just so—so depressing."

  "They're gorgeous," Poppy said, always loyal. "They make me think of dancing to big band music."

  Clary straightened in his chair and crossed his legs, revealing a polished calf loafer. "I agree. I don't find them depressing at all. If you ask me, these are the real hourglass dresses. But I get your point. Couldn't we have something a little more—I don't know—grand, maybe? You know, more Academy Awards, more satin and décolleté?"

  Jeffrey's head darted from Lacey to Clary to Joanna.

  Joanna pondered her stock. She could probably pull together four or five dresses that weren't too small, although it would wipe out her collection in that era for a few weeks. It would be worth it, though, just for the exposure at the auction. She’d need another five, too. She glanced at Poppy. If only she had Vivienne's dresses. They would be great advertising for the new, higher-end direction the store was taking. Then again, maybe the dresses were too fine to lend for a charity auction. Not worth the risk of an accidental Merlot stain.