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

by Angela M. Sanders

  Joanna leaned back in the armchair and rested her leg on a box. Not quite Cyd Charisse, but could be worse. Cyd would have liked her shoes—pale green satin closed-toe sandals, although the fabric was frayed and soles scuffed. "When I was a kid, I used to climb fir trees. The big ones have good footing. You can get pretty far up, but spiky little branches poke out everywhere. The bark's sappy, too. I can't tell you how many times I got up a tree then realized it was going to be a painful scrape down." She let out a long breath. "That's how I feel now."

  "You mean with Vivienne's clothes, or the nuns?"

  "All of it." Joanna longed for a Martini. She wished for the hundredth time Paul drank. "I guess I could try calling the police station at a different time. Maybe I'd get someone who would tell me something I could use for the nuns. I need to borrow those dresses." She imagined Clary looking at her with a "What did I tell you, she'll never come through, we should have gone with Eve to begin with" look.

  "I have to admit I'm kind of worried about money, too," Joanna added.

  Paul put down the hand plane and plucked a piece of sawdust from her hair. "Why don't you let me help you?"

  "You? You’re as broke as I am."

  He returned to the workbench and picked up a sheet of sandpaper. He focused on the table leg. "Money isn’t everything. Besides, we could move in together. I could set up my shop in your garage."

  Joanna lifted her head. This was new. Paul smoothed the angle of the table leg and turned it slightly. Her house was no palace but plenty big for two people. And he was right about the garage—it was large, and with some insulation and a little more electrical work it might make a decent workshop. This was a lot to take in.

  "You surprise me," she finally replied.

  "Just something to think about." He didn't seem bothered by her lack of an immediate "yes." He set the table leg down and wiped the sawdust from his hands. "I might be able to help you with money, though. It looks like I'll be starting a new project soon, a big one."

  "Oh, really? Doing what?"

  "Building some cabinets for an office. The woman running the project wants it really high end: a built-in desk, some bookshelves, and a full-wall wardrobe—plus all the trim in the room. Lots of Myrtlewood. The wood alone is going to cost a fortune, but it will be great to work with. Should keep me busy for at least a month."

  "Sounds perfect. What kind of office?" Trim and cabinet work were Paul's specialties. He loved restoring older pieces, but it was rare he had the chance to build fine cabinets from scratch.

  "She said it's some sort of consulting business where she finds things people want. Sounds like she's done a lot of scouting for people in New York already. You know, first edition books, fancy lamps, whatever. She even scouts for vintage clothes. There's one thing, though."

  "What?"

  He picked up his file again. "It's Eve Lancer."

  Joanna's leg dropped to the floor. "You can't work for her."

  "Why not?" He drew the file along the mahogany. "She's not selling vintage clothing anymore—well, not exclusively vintage clothing, anyway."

  "You know my history with her. She tried to run Tallulah’s Closet out of business last year. Remember? She tried to buy Vivienne's clothes out from under me, too."

  "But she never did open that store. And as for the auction, the idea is that people compete with each other to buy things, right?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "You don't think she'd skip out on paying me or anything?"

  "No, she has plenty of money, but—"

  "But what?"

  Joanna fidgeted. What could she say? That Eve had something personal against her? That maybe she'd even enjoy stealing Paul away?

  "You're jealous," Paul said. Joanna stared in reply. "You don't have any reason to be. You know that." He strode to the far end of the workshop near the kitchen. He placed his hands on the counter, then turned to face her. Joanna watched nervously. "I need the money and Eve needs the work. I have to take this job, Joanna. You get that, right?"

  She opened her mouth to reply, but thought better. "Yes. I understand."

  The room was silent for a minute except for the clicking of Gemma's toenails as she crossed the cement floor to her water dish. Joanna stood and put her arms around Paul. He kissed the top of her head. His chest smelled of clean cotton and wood. Damned Eve.

  "I don't want to take your money, but how would you feel about doing some work for some nuns? One of them seems to have a knack for web design. I bet she'd finish the Tallulah’s Closet website for me if you helped shore up the convent a bit."

  "The nuns you saw today?"

  "They're a quirky group. I think you'll like them." She filled him in on the Mother Superior’s offer to trade the dresses for information on Vivienne’s death.

  Paul pulled a wavy section of hair gently and released it. "I could do that. At least give them an idea of how much work needs to get done."

  "What are you going to do about the police investigation?" he asked.

  Joanna felt his arms tense. She leaned into him. "I don't know. I guess I'll call Helena Schuyler North, Vivienne's daughter-in-law. She was friendly. The police must keep her up to date with what's going on."

  "All you’re doing is asking, right? And telling the nun? No digging around on your own." He strung his fingers in her hair. "Remember last year," he murmured. "How dangerous it was."

  "I know," she whispered. God, she was lucky to have him. "I’m just passing along information. That’s all."

  His arms relaxed. "Helena Schuyler North. What a name for a rich lady. Too perfect."

  "Mm-hmm." Joanna only half heard him. Crisis averted. For the moment, at least.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "It's so nice of you to come down to the store." Joanna rose from behind the bamboo-fronted tiki bar that served as the cashier’s table at Tallulah's Closet.

  Helena closed the door behind her. "I enjoyed talking with you yesterday. Besides, I was having lunch just up the street and thought it would be nicer to stop by rather than just return your call. I wanted to see your boutique, too."

  Her blunt-cut bob and earth-toned ensemble contrasted with the rack of pastel cocktail dresses beside her. Her diamond wedding ring caught the light from the front window and flashed watery brilliance on the opposite wall. "I’ve never been in a vintage clothing store. It’s fabulous."

  "Thank you. Against that wall are all the black cocktail and evening dresses. In the middle, in front of the bench, is casual wear—mostly house dresses and cotton sundresses—and over here are the color cocktail dresses. The dressing rooms are in the back."

  "What are you doing there?" She pointed toward the tiki bar, covered in papers.

  Joanna had been making a list, and some of the papers had half-sketched dresses on them. "Oh, counting my chickens before they hatch, I guess. If the police ever release Vivienne's clothes I want to have a fashion show, invite the press and some of my regulars. These" —she tapped her pen on a drawing— "are some ideas for an invitation."

  The sunlight into the store darkened for a moment as a familiar figure passed the front window. He paused for a moment and looked in, then seemed to think the better of it. "Was that Clary?" Joanna asked.

  Helena turned to follow Joanna's gaze. "Yes, I think it was. I had lunch with him just now."

  She placed her purse on the glass-topped jewelry case and fingered a pair of crystal Eisenberg earrings. "You said on the phone you wanted to talk about Vivienne." She unclipped one of the earrings from its post and held it up to her ear, turning her face to the mirror.

  A girl, not more than twelve years old, strode into the store. Wearing designer jeans and sandals with heels, she was dressed more like a co-ed than the middle-school student she must be. Joanna glanced behind the girl to see if her mother followed, but she was alone.

  Joanna waved. "Let me know if I can help you find anything."

  "Just looking, thanks." The girl’s heels clicked toward a display of
reptile box bags from the 1930s.

  Joanna returned her attention to Helena. "I'm sorry to bring up Vivienne again. I know it can't be easy for you." Helena nodded but turned toward the girl. "I went to the convent, like you suggested, to see if the nuns would lend me a few of her dresses, the ones she didn't auction off. They said they would, but the Mother Superior put a condition on it." Joanna looked up to see if Helena was paying attention. She seemed to be listening, but was still turned away.

  "Anyway," Joanna continued, "She wanted me to find out what I could about Vivienne's death. I guess the police won't tell her anything. That’s why I called you."

  "Watch her," Helena murmured.

  "What?"

  "The girl." She raised her head. "You," she said to the girl. "Give it over."

  "Really, she’s okay," Joanna said, surprised at Helena’s harsh tone. "I don’t mind if people want to look around. They don’t all have to buy.”

  "I saw you put that scarf in your bag. Give it over."

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about," the girl said.

  "The scarf. Now."

  The girl pulled a vivid green and blue Vera scarf from her bag and tossed it on the bench. "Take your stupid scarf." She edged toward the door and left without speaking.

  "Sharp eye. Thank you," Joanna said and retrieved the scarf.

  Helena shook her head. "Gypsy kid. Probably here because of Rose Festival. Take my word for it—you don’t want her type in here."

  "But, surely, just because she’s a gypsy doesn’t mean she steals." Any girl might be fascinated by old things and drawn in by the window display.

  "True. Not always. But there was something about her—" She didn’t finish her thought.

  “I had no idea there were gypsies around here,” Joanna prompted, fascinated.

  "Oh yes. You’d be surprised." Helena returned to the counter. "But you were telling me about the nuns. About the Mother Superior wanting to know about Vivienne."

  "I thought gypsies lived in caravans and read fortunes."

  "Not American gypsies. Not these days. For one thing, they drive RVs. Nice ones, too." Helena must have picked up on her surprised expression. "Sociology professor, remember. I did my dissertation on travelers—that’s what you call them in this country. But about Vivienne."

  "Yes," Joanna said, still thinking of the girl. She’d have to tell this story to Apple. She’d love it. "If you don't mind filling me in on what you know about the police investigation, it would help me out."

  "I’m happy to. I don't have a lot to share, though. The detective hasn't come by or called since they searched Vivienne's room. I don't know if that's good or bad. Gil has called them a few times."

  "Did they give you any hint as to how Vivienne died?"

  "I wish they did. But we know no more than the papers said. Poisoning. The police aren't even sure what exactly was poisoned. They tested her liquor and came up dry. Gil and I were out that night at the biennial art awards ceremony. When we came home, we found her. In the library."

  "She was reading?"

  "She'd had a guest. There were two glasses—Vivienne's and a tumbler, like for Scotch. She'd had her usual apéro as she called it, at five o'clock, before we left. She must have decided on another when the guest arrived. I imagine she made herself a drink, then sat by the fire. The coals were almost burned out. A few things were knocked off the coffee table, but the doctor said that would have been normal if she’d had a seizure." Her eyes had a faraway look. "She was just lying there. She'd always had so much dignity, but—" She seemed unable to finish her thought.

  Joanna's stomach turned at the grisly image. "But no sign of the guest."

  "No. We don't know who it was. The police have questioned all the neighbors. One of them saw someone—a man, she thinks—hanging out in the front in the early evening, but she didn't see him go in."

  Joanna waited for her to say more.

  "I wish I could say I was more attached to Vivienne, but I wasn't. I feel kind of guilty about it, actually. I let her down in so many ways. For one thing, we never had children. But I really don't see the need to bring children into the world. That was a huge disappointment to Vivienne. Also..." Her voice trailed off. "Is that your husband?" she asked suddenly.

  Helena's gaze had caught a small photo of Paul that Joanna had taped to the inside of the tiki bar along with a bent bobby pin. "Oh, my boyfriend," she said. "It's a long story, but once we were stuck together on a boat, and he used that bobby pin to pick the lock to get us out."

  She remembered the night before, when Paul had suggested they move in together. This talk about death made her regret she hadn’t said "yes" right away. Waking up next to him every day, coming home to him every night—what could be better than that? And yet, it was still a little soon. She couldn’t explain it.

  Helena nodded. "This whole thing has been hard on my husband." She paused. "It's created some—well, strain, and I don't know what to do."

  Her intimacy surprised Joanna. She wasn't sure how to respond. Then again, just in their two meetings they'd talked about death and loss—subjects perhaps even more intimate. "That's natural. His mother died a horrible death. He's probably traumatized."

  "It's more than that. He never had to work, so I was glad when he took up painting. But now he’s even lost interest in that. His medal from winning the art biennial seems to mean nothing to him. He’s so anxious. All the time. It’s like he expects more disaster." She searched Joanna's face, looking for some kind of comfort.

  "It must be hard for you both. I can’t even imagine."

  "Maybe it’s all the stress, but I keep having this feeling that—" A few seconds passed in silence.

  "Feeling that what?"

  "Well, I know it sounds strange, but I don’t feel safe yet. I feel as if—as if someone is watching me." Helena bit her lip.

  "Oh," Joanna said. "Have you told the police?"

  She shook her head. "It’s just me. Out of sorts. We have a new security system, I’m safe. At least, I should be safe."

  "Maybe family should come stay with you for a while."

  "I don’t have any. I was an only child, and my parents are dead now. Gil is it for me." She started to play with the earring again. "I have friends, of course."

  "Of course." Money didn't necessarily make everything better. Although Apple was like a sister, Joanna knew what it was like not to have family near.

  Helena seemed to be near tears, but she managed a short laugh. "I know we just met. You've been so kind. It's kind of a rough time right now, and I don't want to burden you with it. Thank you for asking about Vivienne and for telling the nuns. Vivienne would have liked that."

  "It’s all right. I hope you’ll think of me as a friend." Joanna remembered Clary's warning that Helena could be "fragile."

  Helena drew a deep breath. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

  "I wonder when it will all be over? The police have had Vivienne's things for a few days now," Joanna said.

  "Hopefully it won't be long. Gil says Detective Crisp told him they're following up something big. He thinks there'll be a break in the case soon. I hope to God so."

  "That's great news." For both of them, since the police might release the clothes. And Detective Crisp—that was a stroke of luck, too. Joanna knew him from his investigation of the murder the summer before. She touched the sketched invitation on the tiki bar. Maybe she'd hold that fashion show yet.

  ***

  Blossom Dearie's baby-like voice sang from the record player. One of the Rose Festival princesses, accompanied by her official chaperone, had just bought the expensive pink tulle dress that had been on display. Its pale rose set off the princess's creamy Asian skin and dark hair. Joanna dropped a few business cards in her bag, hoping she'd tell the other Rose Princesses about Tallulah’s Closet. Couldn't hurt.

  Despite the sale, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Twice she’d had the sensation that someone was watching her through the store�
��s front window, but when she looked up, no one was there. She chalked it up to the strange interaction with the gypsy girl earlier in the day. That and the landlord’s impending deadline must have made her edgy.

  The shop’s bell startled Joanna, nearly causing her to topple the mannequin in the front window. She’d been fastening a strapless daffodil-yellow satin gown around it.

  She turned to find Clary next to her. "Whoa, let me help you."

  With one hand, he reached for the mannequin to steady it. He had three book-shaped packages under his other arm, each wrapped in brown paper. Today he looked professorial in khaki trousers and a tweed jacket, complete with leather elbow patches. The gentle wear on his Belgian loafers and a wrinkled corner of handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket kept him from coming off as too self-consciously put together. No wire-rimmed glasses today, either. His eyes were gray flecked with amber.

  She stepped down from the platform at the front window. "Thank you. How are you?"

  "I was just at the bookstore around the corner." He set the packages on the counter. "Thought I'd check in on how you're coming along with the dresses for the art auction."

  Wouldn't he already have this information from Helena? "I might have seen you pass by the store earlier."

  "What? Oh, yes. I was getting these books." He patted the package.

  "I visited Helena." She glanced up to see if his expression changed, if he would volunteer that they'd had lunch. Nothing. "Vivienne didn't have any other vintage pieces at home. Helena did give me a lead to a group Vivienne had donated gowns to, though. Should be no problem."

  "Eve is pretty excited about some dresses she could lend. Really, if it's any trouble at all for you to—"

  "No. Not a bit of trouble. In fact," Joanna faked a laugh, "it would be more trouble for me not to donate them at this point. Everything is worked out." Shoot. She'd better get in touch with the Mother Superior right away.

  "If you're sure," Clary said absently.

  "Oh, I'm sure all right."

  He didn't reply. He seemed absorbed in looking at the store.