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

by Angela M. Sanders

  "It's quite all right, thank you." Mary Frances's wimple fluttered as she left the room. "Would you pour this for me?" the Mother asked.

  Joanna lifted the teapot. Bone china. The tea's amber shadow shone through painted lilies on the teapot's thin wall. The tea was fragrant with vanilla and fruit.

  The mother breathed its perfume and the muscles in her face relaxed. "Marco Polo. One of my favorite blends. A former donné sends us a tin every Christmas."

  "But what about the church? What does it think about these feelings you get?"

  The Mother swatted air with her free hand. "Pshaw. God gives us gifts. Look at the Bible, it's full of visions." She set the cup in its saucer. "My mother, for instance. She could cure just about anything with one of her special herbal mixtures. I, on the other hand, have the gift of knowing things—some things—before they happen. Oh, it's not like I get a full picture of whatever it is," she added hurriedly. "I just get a feeling, a snatch of sound. An image."

  "But maybe it's all the subconscious. You notice someone's discomfort or sense a sort of change in the weather, and that's where these psychic flashes come from."

  "Maybe." She reached for her cup again. "You have a gift, too, you know."

  "Me?" This ought to be good. Joanna was as practical as they came. Her greatest gift was putting together an outfit around a plaid 1940s suit jacket.

  "You notice things. You didn't think I saw you watching the tea through the porcelain pot?"

  Joanna laughed, a little relieved. "Who doesn't?"

  "A lot of people don't. Tell me, what's on the table next to my bed upstairs?"

  "What?"

  "Tell me."

  "All right." Joanna turned her head to the right and let her gaze soften. A picture of the Mother's nightstand assembled itself in her brain. "A green orchid with ruffled petals tinged in carmine red. In a pink cache pot."

  "A lot of people would have noticed that, although perhaps not the exact colors. What else?"

  "A Spode saucer in the primrose pattern with a chip on one side and what looked like pink macaron crumbs on it; a pale blue folded handkerchief, cotton; a pair of red clear plastic reading glasses. And you're missing one of the two knobs on the drawer." Joanna hesitated. "One more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "A paperback copy of a Mickey Spillane mystery with what looked like a prayer card stuck in as a bookmark. My Gun is Quick," she finished.

  The Mother sniffed. "Jesus is always in our minds, but perhaps not always in our reading material. But you see what I mean. You pay attention, daughter. You see things, feel them, smell them. Vivienne had that gift, too." Her voice quieted. "You'd be surprised how rare that is."

  "That's not so rare."

  The Mother held up a hand, palm out in a "stop" gesture. "It is. But that's not all. You make things come to you."

  Joanna had raised her teacup partway to her lips, but she lowered it. It clinked in the saucer. "Make things come to me? I don't understand."

  "You think about things, and they come to you. If you want something, you will manifest it."

  Joanna remembered Paul and shook her head.

  "No, it doesn't work with people. But how often have you thought you needed something—say, dresses for the charity auction—and you found them?"

  "That was simply following up." Her face burned. How did the Mother know she was thinking of Paul?

  "As you say, dear. I bet if you put your mind to finding, say, a copy of My Gun is Quick it would come your way without effort."

  Ridiculous. Sure, she was often lucky at thrift stores and estate sales, but that was plain old perseverance. That's how life was. You buy an orange car and suddenly you see orange cars everywhere. You realize the store needs more shoes, you find a few pairs of vintage shoes at Goodwill.

  "Another cup of tea, please," the Mother Superior said. "And I'm ready for your report on the charity auction."

  "All right." Joanna reached for the teapot. "It was an awful night." She told the Mother about the sting operation, ending with finding Poppy in the green room, dead. As she talked, she rose and paced the room. The Mother nodded every few seconds. "It couldn’t be suicide," Joanna concluded. "I’m convinced."

  The Mother's hands clenched then released the wheels on her chair. The veins on her hands corded blue beneath her white skin.

  "I feel horrible—responsible," Joanna added.

  "You couldn't know what would happen, child."

  "No, but if I hadn't suggested Poppy work the auction she wouldn't have been killed." She'd wanted to clear Poppy's name. Paul had warned her against it. But what good was proving her innocent of selling diamonds if she was dead? "I've been wracking my brain trying to figure out what I can do that the police can't."

  "Sit down." the Mother patted the sofa. "All that pacing makes me nervous. Now, I have something to share that might help."

  Joanna's head shot up. "I'm listening."

  "I said it might help. I don't know. A few weeks ago, maybe three, Vivienne" —the Mother made the sign of the cross— "came with us to Oaks Amusement Park. We're working with a group that serves foster children, and that day we took the children for the morning session. We do that sometimes. They can go on the rides, and there's a story hour with cookies and milk. I didn't think I'd go, but Vivienne convinced me it would be good to get out of the house. She brought Helena to help with the wheelchair."

  "Yes." Joanna settled on the sofa. Her full attention was on the Mother.

  "During story hour—it's charming, they have one of the state dairy princesses read a story—Helena and Vivienne went for a walk to see the rest of the park. Neither of them had been there before. They couldn't have been gone five minutes when Vivienne came back alone. She said Helena had run off. Vivienne was distracted the rest of the morning."

  Joanna leaned forward. "I don't suppose you know what happened between Vivienne and Helena?"

  "No. No, I don't. Vivienne kept saying, 'I knew something wasn't right. I knew it.' But she never explained. Perhaps that's a clue." She emphasized the word "clue." "Anything else unusual you've noted? Something you might have overlooked?"

  "No. I've gone over it in my head a hundred times. I thought we'd catch the real diamond thief at the NAP auction and clear Poppy's name. Then from there the police could figure out who killed Vivienne. Separately."

  "Think harder, dear. What else? Use your gift." The Mother's tone became more insistent. "What else is strange about anyone involved in the case? Anything. Anything might point us in the right direction." She rapped the table. "We need to think about things the police missed."

  In another world, the Mother would have made a good police detective. "Well, a friend of Helena's, Clary, bought an expensive gift for a woman. Apple thinks it might be for Helena."

  "Interesting. Interesting. Of course, you'll visit Helena and follow up on that. See if you sense any untoward relationship. Some people will do almost anything to hide an affair. What else?" The mother's arthritic knuckles were knobs around the teacup's handle.

  Joanna concentrated. "It probably doesn't mean anything, but Vivienne's son, Gil, painted something that won a prize in the art biennial, but he seems bizarrely disconnected from it, almost like he's ashamed. Plus, Apple says something is going on between him and another artist, Tranh."

  "You'll visit this gentleman, too, of course. I'll expect to hear back right away." She set her cup on the coffee table. "When is Poppy's funeral? You'll go to that and look for clues. It’s the plan."

  The plan. Yes, a plan. The Mother was right. Joanna had been successful at rooting out the diamond sales. She could surely dig up more information about Poppy's death—and so perhaps Vivienne’s, assuming that they were linked—that the police might miss.

  "I expect regular reports. And don't dilly dally about it. In fact, you still have time today."

  Joanna paused, lost in thought.

  The Mother stared at her. "You have work to do, dear." She leaned her head ba
ck and yelled. "Mary Frances? Clear Joanna's things. She's leaving. The Lord helps those who help themselves, and we don't have time to spare."

  Joanna tossed back the last of her cooling tea before Mary Frances wrenched the cup from her hand.

  "Too bad you spoiled your chances with Paul, or he could have helped you," the Mother said.

  That did it. She rose and slid her purse's strap over her shoulder. "You're right, I have to go."

  Satisfied smile on her face, the Mother wheeled her chair from the room.

  Mary Alberta met Joanna in the hall. "I'll work up some design concepts, then Mary Frances and I will get back to you with a proposal."

  Joanna looked up, surprised. Oh yes, Tallulah's Closet's website. "Thanks."

  The sister opened the door to damp, cool air. "So about Paul. Did he go about leaving the toilet seat up and watching sports? Is that why you broke up?"

  "Give it up, Mary Alberta."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Joanna placed the grocery bag on the kitchen counter. From its depths she lifted a bag of clams, thick slices of applewood smoked bacon wrapped by the butcher, a red bell pepper, and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Despite the Mother’s insistence she track down "clues" immediately, she was going to stay in this evening and revive her pre-Paul tradition of Hors d’Oeuvres Sunday. She’d make clams casino for dinner.

  There were a lot of things she used to do before she met Paul, and she missed them. For one thing, music. Joanna went to the stereo and slid Wagner's Tristan und Isolde from her stack of record albums. Paul wasn't a big fan of opera, but sometimes she craved it. The record dropped to the turntable, and the strings of the overture filled the living room.

  She returned to the kitchen and dumped the clams into a strainer. She opened the wine and poured a glass and lifted it to her nose. Pinot Noir's mossy perfume beat the fragrance of any other wine she knew. Tonight would be a good night. Maybe it wasn't so bad that she and Paul were taking a break, she told herself. She began methodically opening the clams and setting each bite of meat in its half shell on a baking dish. Paul would never consent to a meal of clams casino and nothing else. It wouldn't be enough for him.

  Of course, if she added one more appetizer—say, stuffed mushrooms—he might go for it. He might even think it was fun. Or not. She'd never asked him. He used to love it when she made something new for him, and he’d become expert in tasting the difference between marjoram and oregano, or morels and chanterelles.

  While Birgit Nielsson lamented Tristan's love, Joanna layered a square of red bell pepper and bacon over each clam, then sprinkled chopped parsley and butter in the baking dish. She poured in a little vermouth and slid the dish into the oven. While the clams baked, it was time for step two of her old Sunday night ritual: her bath.

  She brought the glass of wine to the bathroom and turned on the taps. World War Two-era houses didn't normally have clawfoot bathtubs, but Joanna had found a tub used as a planter, then had it refinished and its feet plated with nickel. It took three men an hour peppered with sailorly exclamations to shoehorn the tub into her tiny bathroom, but it paid itself back every time she slipped into its white porcelain.

  Joanna fixed a chopstick through her hair to keep it out of the water and stepped into the tub. Ahh, the warm water. She set her wineglass on the toilet tank, which she'd draped with a towel. One of the beauties of having a small bathroom was that the toilet tank doubled as a tub-side table.

  The record player dropped the next LP and its arm settled into the groove. Yearning filled the singers' voices. Joanna sighed. Maybe this opera wasn't such a good choice after all.

  Last night at this time she was sitting down with Apple at the auction. Poppy was still alive. The Mother Superior told her she had the gift of noticing and remembering things. Joanna closed her eyes and replayed the part of the evening after Ben and Donald Kaye were arrested, before Poppy was killed. What happened?

  She saw Poppy standing on the stage, holding the microphone. Poppy whispered something to the emcee, then stepped down the back of the stage to the door connecting to the green room. What was going on in the dining room? Chaos, that's what. The house lights went on and Joanna's attention had been drawn back to Detective Sedillo at her table. Then they decided to make an announcement about the arrests, then Joanna went to find Poppy. Poppy, her head flopped like a rag doll's. She took a big gulp of wine and choked a bit. All told, Poppy had been out of the room not more than fifteen minutes before Joanna found her.

  During that time, someone had seen Poppy leave and followed her. Who was it? Clary had been gone from his table when Joanna looked for him. Eve was still there. Helena came back from somewhere—the restroom?—and sat down just as Joanna approached the table. Wait, Gil had been gone, too. They arrived at the table at the same time. Had Gil come from the direction of the kitchen, or was he with Helena? She couldn't tell. He had definitely been upset by Helena's bidding on his painting.

  In the bedroom, Joanna had laid out one of her best dressing gowns—a ruched-silk lavender gown from the 1930s with a small train and lucite buttons. She planned to do it up right tonight. Wrapped in a towel, Joanna looked at the dressing gown, now with Pepper's black body curled up on it. Maybe she'd go with comfort instead. She reached for the thick Beacon robe hanging on the edge of the door and stepped into shearling-lined slippers instead of her fur-tipped satin slides.

  She pulled the clams casino from the oven, topped off her wine, and prepared for step three of her Sunday night ritual: an old movie. Tonight it would be My Man Godfrey. Sure, she'd already seen it a dozen times, but with every viewing she noticed an interesting cut to a gown's sleeve or a chic table lamp in the background she hadn't seen before.

  After turning off the stereo, she made a fire, then settled onto the couch with her food and drew the mohair throw over her knees. Paul seemed to like film noir, but he wasn't keen on pre-code screwball comedies. At least, she didn't think he was. Although he did seem to enjoy it when she brought over Ball of Fire. He’d loved the scene where the gangsters were dumped in the garbage truck.

  And another thing—if this were a typical Sunday night with him, they'd be at his house. Whenever they stayed the night together, it was at his house. Paul’s dog couldn't be alone for a whole evening and night without someone to let her out. Of course, Paul did mention once or twice that they could bring Gemma to Joanna's and see how she did with Pepper. Gemma wasn't known to chase cats, and Pepper had briefly lived with Curly, a dog Joanna watched until his dead owner's relatives adopted him.

  But, come on. Joanna's gaze took in the vase of tuberoses on the mantel, the delicate chaise longue under the front window, the velvet curtains drawn against the night.

  "Is there really a place for a man here?" she asked Aunt Vanderburgh.

  The portrait’s gaze was unflinching.

  "Oh really? Just because I liked hanging out at his wood shop doesn’t mean he’d be able to stand all this girliness."

  Joanna could have sworn the portrait’s lip tightened. With false bravado, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, ignoring the ache within. "Well, it’s too late to find out now."

  In the movie, Carole Lombard pushed her way into the hotel lobby thronged with socialites playing a scavenger hunt. Lombard had arrived with William Powell, a Depression-era "forgotten man," the scavenger hunt's top prize. Lombard's bias-cut evening gown shimmered as she pulled Powell to the counter to claim her points.

  The contestants packed around her holding all sorts of scavenged items—fish bowls, a chair, animals. Joanna laughed. "Look at the goat," she said without thinking and turned to where Paul would be sitting. No one was there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  "Bring food," Apple had said when she set down the phone after arranging Joanna's visit to Tranh's studio. "He's a little guy, but a big eater. Kind of fits that old cliche of starving artist. I wish I could go with you."

  "One of us has to watch the store. I'll be fine."

&nb
sp; Joanna struggled to balance the hot pan of lasagna in one hand while she locked the car with the other. A drizzle tapped against the lasagna's foil cover. The woman behind the counter at the Italian deli had sealed it well, saying the inevitable, "It always rains during Rose Festival, you know. I’d better put an extra sheet of foil on this." Getting information from Tranh would be trickier than from Helena, especially since Joanna wasn't quite sure what she wanted to know. It was probably a dead end, anyway, but she had to try.

  As instructed, she descended the stairs to the basement entrance of one of the grander houses in Ladd's Addition, an old neighborhood shaded by towering elm trees. Bleeding hearts brushed her shoulders as she knocked on the door.

  The trim Asian man Joanna had seen at the NAP auction answered. "Joanna?" His eyes darted to the pan, then to her face. "Come in."

  The scent of turpentine lingered in the cool air. Small windows did little to brighten the studio, but round lamps on stands cast pools of white light on a large canvas against a concrete wall. Another freshly stretched canvas leaned against the opposite wall.

  "Thank you for making time to show me your paintings. I brought lasagna. Apple said you liked it." She held out the pan.

  "Oh, noodle cake. That's what my family calls it. Let's put it over here." On the dimmest side of the room was a small counter and sink. Tranh laid a fresh dishtowel over the counter and set the lasagna on it. He clicked on a desk lamp. "I detest fluorescent lights. Until I have a studio with bigger windows, this will have to do. A piece for you, too?" His voice carried only a trace of an accent.

  "Thank you."

  He carried plates of lasagna to two stools facing the painting he was working on and handed one to Joanna before sitting down. Paint smeared his sweatshirt and white painter's pants, but his tennis shoes were pristine red. "Where did you see my work? I haven't been in a lot of shows," he said between bites.