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

by Angela M. Sanders

  "I don't know. Besides, someone has to stay at the store."

  "Please. It's not like it's been super busy lately."

  Joanna laughed then grew somber. "Seriously, App. I mean, what would be our excuse? You're right, though. I do need someone else with me."

  She absentmindedly stacked the receipts. Who would have a good reason to go? Her hand hovered over a receipt. Helena, that's who. Helena could say she wanted to know if there was any news about Vivienne's things being released. Plus, the way she noticed the gypsy girl? She was observant. Yes, she'd ask Helena.

  While Apple sorted through the Goodwill bag, Joanna reached for the phone.

  ***

  Later that day, when Joanna arrived, Helena was already sitting in the bar at the Portland Golf Club. Just off the main lobby, the bar looked over a crewcut-short lawn studded with massive oak trees. A golf cart trundled silently in the distance. The low, late afternoon sun streaked the grass chartreuse.

  "Thank you for meeting me out here. I hope it wasn't too much trouble." Helena's face, scrubbed of makeup, glowed from exercise.

  Joanna slid into a chair across the table from her. "I’m glad you were able to talk on such short notice." She'd never been to the Portland Golf Club, although she'd heard of it, of course. The club had been around for a century, and membership dues ran in the thousands of dollars—that is, if you were elected to be a member at all. She hoped Old Blue wasn’t being towed from the parking lot as they spoke.

  "It sounded important."

  A small Asian waitress appeared. "Would you like a drink?"

  "Yes, Birdie. Thank you," Helena said. "An Arnold Palmer. Anything for you, Joanna?"

  "Coffee, please."

  "If you want a drink, please, go ahead. I get a little lightheaded after an afternoon on the links, but that shouldn't stop you." She lowered her voice. "Seriously, Joanna, ix-nay on the offee-cay. It's pretty awful."

  Joanna smiled at her Pig Latin, then glanced at a clutch of white-haired men drinking Old Fashioneds at a nearby table. "How about an Old Fashioned?"

  The waitress left. "Clary always drinks Old Fashioneds," Helena said while she fumbled in her bag for a small, brown bottle.

  He would. With top drawer whiskey, too, no doubt. Interesting that Helena brought him up. "Have you known him a long time?"

  "He went to Yale with my husband. That's where I met them both. At one point we even dated, before Gil and I got serious, that is. Clary was drinking Old Fashioneds even then. He has a set of Waterford tumblers he uses for his drinks. Even has a cut crystal ice bucket." She unscrewed the bottle’s lid and squeezed an eyedropper of green-tinged liquid into her water glass. "Peppermint oil. For energy," she said. "Want to try it?"

  Joanna shook her head. Clary was straight? This was news. She imagined him, right down to the satin-lapeled smoking jacket he probably lounged in while he mixed cocktails. She couldn’t resist asking, "What's his house like?"

  "A restored Victorian in Northwest. Lots of books, of course. Over the sofa is a gigantic oil painting of some minor Austrian count or something like that." She laughed. "He’d make a great sociological study. He’s a good guy, really." Her gaze softened. "Good cook, too. He had a dinner party not long ago. One of the guests owns some kind of vintage clothing business, actually. Maybe you know her."

  "Eve?" She stifled a grimace.

  Helena must have noticed. "That's what I thought, too. She's a piece of work, that one. Beautiful, but—you know what I mean. I don't know why she's not in Hollywood."

  Joanna nodded. "She'd have given Joan Crawford a run for her money."

  The waitress deposited the Arnold Palmer and an ice-laden Old Fashioned on the table and left to tend to the white-haired men.

  Helena turned to Joanna. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

  Joanna took a breath. "Poppy, the auctioneer. And your diamonds."

  "My diamonds?" Her hand went to the wrist where her tennis bracelet would have been.

  "Yes." Joanna couldn’t help but think a pearl bracelet might suit Helena better. Diamonds were so aging. "I’m not sure exactly how everything fits together, but I went to see Poppy in jail."

  Helena studied her. "I heard she was arrested for selling stolen jewels. Do you think she has mine too?"

  "No. She’s not a thief. But the night Vivienne died—" Joanna stalled, then frowned. "I'm sorry for bringing it up, but the night she died she called Poppy."

  Helena's jaw dropped. "Vivienne? What did she say?"

  "Not much. A few things that didn't make a lot of sense, I guess. Something about voyeurs, maybe. Poppy couldn’t make it out completely. Anyway, she called the police, but by then you and your husband had already come home and found her."

  Helena continued to stare at Joanna.

  "I'm sorry," Joanna repeated. "I didn't come here to upset you. There's more to the story."

  Helena seemed to snap to the present. "No, no. I want to hear what happened. It's just that—it's just that every once in a while it hits me." She set down her glass. "Plus, the police didn't say anything about a call. But please go on."

  "Well, to make a long story short, the diamonds that the police found were in one of Vivienne's lamps."

  Helena wrinkled her brow. "Are you saying Vivienne stole my diamonds and hid them in the stuff she sent to auction?"

  "I don't know why she'd do that. It doesn't make any sense, I admit. But I'm convinced Poppy had nothing to do with any of it." Joanna described the manifest and Travis getting fired for being at the auction house after hours. "I can't figure out how it all fits together, but as long as the police believe Poppy is guilty, we'll never know who really stole all those diamonds."

  Helena sat back. Joanna picked up her Old Fashioned. Some of its ice had melted, and it tasted watery. She set it back on the sodden napkin.

  "We need to figure out what Travis was trying to find and tell the police," Helena said.

  "Exactly. The inventory sheet." Joanna warmed at Helena's use of "we." She wouldn't share the final detail, the part about the sting operation. After all, they might not find anything useful. Or the police might laugh at her. She'd wait and fill her in later if it all panned out.

  "You have a legitimate reason to visit Poppy's," Joanna said. "I wondered, why I wanted to talk to you, well, would you be willing to go with me to the auction house tomorrow morning? I need you to distract the manager while I try to find the inventory sheet that goes with the manifest."

  Helena held her glass mid-air. Her lips were parted, but she didn't say a thing. Then she nodded, first slowly, then faster. "Yes. Yes, I do want to know what really happened—for Gil's sake, too. He, I—" She paused. "I can help. Let's talk."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Joanna pushed her way inside the dark auction house. "Ben?" she called out.

  Helena entered next to her. "They're open, right?"

  "Should be. It's almost nine."

  The auction house was silent but for the splatter of rain on the windows and the distant rumble of commuter traffic. Victorian divans and Queen Anne dining room sets hulked in the warehouse's front room.

  To the right, the shriek of a cuckoo clock set off an avalanche of chimes and bells from dozens of clocks as they struck the hour. The cacophony reverberated through her body, setting off a surge of adrenalin. She grabbed the door frame.

  "Joanna?" Ben walked toward them.

  She struggled to regain control of her breathing. "For God's sake. You should post a warning."

  "Sorry. We're doing an auction of some guy's clock collection. I had to set them all for the appraiser. He'll be here soon."

  "Hi, I'm Helena Schuyler North." Helena proffered a hand. "Vivienne North was my mother-in-law. She's been on my mind so much lately." She'd jumped right into her role.

  Ben pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I was so sorry to hear about her death."

  "You must have a lot to do without Poppy to help," Joanna said. Sh
e listened to his voice. Was he the one who’d called the shop the night before? She couldn't tell.

  "We have auctions lined up every weekend for the next month, and I've got to postpone them—at least until Poppy is free or until we can get a substitute auctioneer. There's a truck unloading for another one now, and I don't even know if we'll be able to pull it off."

  Joanna had seen the Kay semi with its signature roadrunner logo pulled up to the loading dock. It had to be a nightmare for Ben to keep the business going, not knowing how long his boss would be out. People might cancel their auctions and take them elsewhere. He had his job to think of, too. If the auction house folded, he'd be out of work.

  "That's what I'm here about," Helena said. "I'd like to talk about Vivienne's auction. See what we can do to take care of the people who bought things but haven't been able to take them home." Their signal.

  "If you don't mind, I'd like to use the restroom," Joanna said.

  "In the back by the loading bay."

  The temperature dropped as Joanna passed through the door separating the work area from the heated front of the warehouse. She didn't have much time. Helena might be able to keep him talking for five or ten minutes, but probably not longer. Joanna glanced behind her to make sure they were out of sight.

  Poppy's office was to the left, behind the counter where clients paid for their bids. Wood wainscoting framed the lower half of the office, and glass windows extended from waist height to the ceiling, allowing Poppy to keep an eye on things while she worked. Joanna tried the door handle and it opened. She whispered "yes" under her breath.

  The inventories had to be here somewhere. A gooseneck desk lamp shone a pool of light on stacks of papers covering the desk. Next to it was a coffee mug shaped like a margarita glass with "Cabo, Mexico" painted on its side. She slid open the deep bottom drawer of Poppy's desk. It was empty except for a jar of peanuts and a bag of potato chips with its top neatly folded.

  After another glance to make sure Helena and Ben were still in the showroom, she tried one of the filing cabinets. Locked. Damn. Filing cabinet keys were too small to fit well on a keychain. She'd be willing to bet Poppy hid them somewhere. No room for a key above the door. She opened the top desk drawers and fished through pens and paperclips. No key there, either. She dipped her hand into the pencil holder. Her fingers touched a small, steel key. Success.

  The office's overhead light switched on. Her heart stopped.

  "What are you doing in here?" Ben leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms in front of his chest. Joanna had forgotten how tall he was.

  She backed into the bookcases. "Where's Helena?"

  "I asked you a question."

  Her mind raced. "I wanted to see a list of the things I bought from the North lot. Poppy told me the inventory was in the filing cabinet," she lied. "I saw her in jail."

  "So you just came in here and started looking around?"

  Deep breath. Appear normal, she told herself. Calm. Why the hell hadn't Helena kept him away? Time for the back-up plan.

  Joanna unclipped her purse and drew out a piece of a pronged jewelry setting. Ben wouldn't know it was costume, severed from an orphaned earring that morning and slipped into her purse just in case. "Look what I found outside the bathroom."

  He leaned forward. She withdrew her hand before he could look too closely. "Evidence from the diamond thefts. Broken off of a stolen piece of jewelry. I'm bringing it to the police."

  His face stiffened. "That's nothing. A piece of old metal. There's stuff like that all over the place here."

  She clenched a fist to keep her hand from trembling. "I bet the thief left it behind when he pulled the diamonds from a setting. You know, so the jewelry couldn't be traced."

  "You said 'he.' The police say it's Poppy."

  Joanna mustered up a confident tone. "No way. She’ll be out soon. Once the judge sets bail it shouldn't be long." She turned the broken jewelry setting in her palm. "Maybe this will help clear her."

  Ben ran long fingers through his hair. "Give it to me. I'll take care of it." He reached for the setting.

  She closed her fingers around it. "No. I'll deal with it." The real diamond thief had to be someone with access to both the warehouse and the office. Someone like Ben. A chill ran through her.

  "Why? It was found on the auction house's premises."

  "And I'm the one who found it. I'll give it to the police."

  His glasses bizarrely magnified his eyes. They narrowed. "You don't trust me. You think I'm the thief, don't you?"

  Ben’s body filled the doorway. If she had to, she could grab the gooseneck lamp and swing it at him. She felt the cool wood of the bookcase behind her. They say women should fight with their legs. "It had to be someone here, right?"

  "That's what I was thinking, too." He stepped forward and slumped into the chair across from the desk. Joanna's momentary panic faded. "Something's been a little off with Travis. When the police questioned me I didn't want to say anything. He's just a kid, you know?"

  "Poppy told me something about you having to fire him." Was he trying to throw suspicion off himself?

  "He was nosing around here after hours. Like you."

  Where was Helena, anyway? She opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the creak of the door between the showroom and warehouse. "Anybody home?" a man's voice asked.

  "Must be the appraiser." Ben heaved his body from the chair. The fluorescent overhead light emphasized the dark hollows under his eyes.

  "I'll be right behind you," Joanna said.

  "No. We're finished here. I'll lock up." Ben waited until she'd left Poppy's office. She glanced regretfully at the filing cabinet where the inventories were likely still locked away.

  Helena, breathless, appeared from the showroom. "Joanna? Are you all right? I'm sorry. I got a call from Gil. I had to take it." Her skin was clammy, and she breathed shallowly. "He’s at the hospital. Something is really wrong."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  That night, hours after the store closed, Joanna leaned over the tiki bar to tally receipts. The student had come back for the lemon chiffon prom dress, but otherwise the day's sales were pathetic. Joanna moved to her bills. The web designer agreed to take trade, but she faced the rent, a stack of dry cleaning invoices, and a shockingly large plumbing bill. Honestly, plumbers must earn more than plastic surgeons. She'd managed to put off the landlord until after the NAP auction, but he'd made it clear she wouldn't have a day longer. To make things worse, the first payment on her line of credit was coming due.

  The store was dark but for a small pool of light from the Marie Antoinette-shaped lamp on the tiki bar. There was no way around it. Unless she got her hands on Vivienne's clothes, and fast, she couldn't make ends meet.

  What was she going to do? Joanna shoved the bills to the side. She could ask Paul for a loan. He wasn't rich, but he said he had a few jobs in the offing. Warmth spread over her at the thought of him. Too bad he wasn’t there right now, relaxing in the armchair by the dressing rooms. She glanced toward the chair at the darkened rear of the store, imagining his hands turning the page of a Raymond Chandler novel. But she wouldn’t ask him for money. Especially when it originally came from Eve.

  A faint sound, like a pebble hitting tile, tapped from behind her. The skin on Joanna's neck prickled. She rose from the stool and eased the bathroom door open. Night showed through the window to the alley. It must have been something out back—maybe a cat. She boosted the window open and glimpsed someone relieving himself behind the Dumpster down the block. She shut and locked the window and shook her head. Nerves.

  She returned to the tiki bar and bundled the receipts to take home. To help pay bills she could get a roommate, but that thought galled. What if the roommate wanted to hang some mall crap in the living room or put in a microwave? Forget it. Of course, Paul could move in and share the mortgage. She shook her head. Not that it mattered, since by then her bills would be long past due.

 
A movement in the front window caught the corner of her eye. White skin and dark eyes, looking in. It was only there for a moment before ducking away. Adrenalin surged through her body. Calm down, Joanna willed herself. People pass by the window all the time. It's a busy street. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

  Nonsense, she thought. Everything that's been happening lately is getting to me, that's all. I'm going home. She piled the bills in her purse and clicked off the lamp.

  The phone rang.

  At this hour? As Joanna watched the phone, her uneasiness grew. The phone continued to ring three then four times, when the answering machine would pick it up. The machine clicked on to a dial tone. Joanna let out her breath. The caller probably just wanted to find out the store's hours and wasn't patient enough to wait through her message.

  The phone rang again. The hairs on her arm stood up. This is ridiculous, she thought. Why are you afraid of the phone? She turned on the lamp again. At the third ring she grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Joanna," a voice whispered harshly.

  She sucked in her breath. "Who is this?"

  "You're alone."

  Her blood turned to ice. "No, I'm not. I have—have people here."

  "I see you." The whisper’s rasp removed any indication of whether the caller was a man or woman. "There's no one with you."

  Her heart pounded. With the single light in the store, she'd be a clear target to anyone looking in. She glanced at the front window, but only the silhouettes of late night diners in the restaurant across the street moved. Too far away to hear her scream. Still clutching the phone, she sank to the floor behind the counter, out of view, and yanked the lamp's plug from the wall. "What do you want?" she asked.

  "You can't hide from me, Joanna. I'll always find you. Stay out of business that doesn't concern you."

  "What do you mean?" Her voice shook. Then, in a firmer tone, she said, "This is a hoax. Some kind of joke."

  The raspy laughter was freakish. "Look in the dressing room. And don't say I didn't warn you." The phone call ended abruptly.