"Nothing. I told you."
"If the police asked me, I'd have to tell them. Remember, Poppy was killed, too." Joanna looked at her hands, still in Helena's tight clasp.
Helena released them and wound her own hands in her lap. "But, the auctioneer—didn't she hang herself?"
"No," Joanna whispered. "She couldn’t have done it. Couldn’t have." She now regretted sitting down in the den, the room where Vivienne died. The day outside, once so crisp and clear, started to cloud over. The den's beeswax and lemon started to feel oppressive.
"Do you really think Clary had anything to do with Vivienne's death?" Helena began to twist the hem of her blouse. "I mean, I don't understand it. He killed Poppy, too?"
"It's hard to imagine Clary a killer," Joanna said. He was strong enough, though, to carry out Poppy's murder, and he bought a gift for a woman very like Helena. He was clever enough to figure out how to poison Vivienne’s drink while sipping a glass of scotch next to her. Her stomach turned at the thought. Were the Hapsburgs poisoners?
"Helena, someone is a murderer. And it might be someone you never suspected."
"I know," she whispered.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Helena sighed. "Let’s go get Vivienne's dress. It's up in my bedroom." Helena's voice sounded calmer. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing a bedroom with its door ajar, allowing a glimpse of a leather easy chair and plaid bedspread. A man's room. Helena's room was at the end of the hall, the opposite end from the entrance to Vivienne's suite above the garage. A French regency bedroom spread over white carpet. It looked like a little girl's vision of a princess's bedchamber. The nightstand was bare except for a ruffle-shaded lamp and a book on herb gardening. A long, blue dress hung from the closet door.
"Is this the dress?" Joanna asked, disappointed. The dress looked expensive, sure, but only a few years old. Not the kind of thing she'd sell at Tallulah's Closet.
"No, I'm wearing that to the Rose Festival gala tomorrow. Vivienne's dress is here."
She strode to the closet and placed one hand on the hanger of a dress, then backed up and sat on the bed. "I really don't want Clary to get in trouble. Just because Gil..."
"What?" Then, more quietly, "Helena?"
"I made such a big mistake. Oh, Joanna. Sometimes it hurts even to breathe."
Concern coursed through Joanna's body. "It's going to be okay. These things work themselves out. Are you sure you won’t go to the police?"
"I don't know," she said. She slumped on the bed and stared toward the corner of the room.
The chimes of the doorbell broke the silence. Helena sighed and stood. "Here’s Vivienne's dress. I hope you can sell it." She lifted the hanger from her closet, and a full rayon skirt swished from out of the earth-toned blouses.
"That looks great. What can I pay you for it?" Joanna took the dress, barely looking at it. Helena had mentioned a "big mistake." What could it be?
"Nothing. Oh, if you gave some of the money to the convent, that would be great. I know Vivienne would've appreciated it." She led Joanna from the bedroom and hurried down the steps to the front hall. She opened the door to two men in overalls. Behind them, a rusted pickup truck ticked as its engine cooled.
"Ms.—uh—North? This says you got some beehives to take away?"
"Yes, around back. I'll open the side gate."
Joanna draped the dress over her arm. "I'd better be going."
Helena turned to her and lowered her voice. "Thank you for coming over and for listening to my—troubles. I'm sorry I kind of lost it for a minute. I need some time away. I'm trying to talk Gil into a week at our place on the coast. Wait." She spun toward the kitchen. "Why don't you take a jar of honey? You like to cook, right?" Without waiting for her response, Helena disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small mason jar of amber liquid. "Gil and I put these up."
The honey was cloudy, nearly opaque. "It looks like it’s started to crystallize."
"Oh, that’s extra pollen. It’s good for you, especially if you have hay fever. An old folk remedy."
"Thank you." Joanna slipped the jar into her bag.
"It's the least I can do. You've been so kind to listen to me."
In the car, Joanna laid the dress, a peach-toned, mid-1950s day dress, on the seat next to her. Funny, Vivienne wouldn't have looked good in peach at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Joanna hung the Dior Bar suit on the rack behind the counter at Tallulah's Closet. Although the design dated from 1947, it was the 1955 photo of model Renée taken on the banks of the Seine that elevated the suit to icon. Say "New Look," and fashion lovers flash to Renée's black-gloved pose, one hand palm up, the other pointing gracefully at the cobblestones, an alley of bare plane trees stretching into the distance behind her.
The suit was a worthy distraction, but nothing kept the knotty question of Vivienne’s and Poppy's deaths far from her mind. Vivienne didn't trust Clary. Clary wanted Helena, and Gil might be on to it. Gil lied about his painting. Tranh resented Gil winning a medal for his work. Vivienne had refused to leave her money to her family. What was going on?
She turned up the volume of Marty Robbins’s "Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs." Just for a moment she might look at the Dior and ignore the thought of Poppy's funeral the next morning. While she contemplated the jacket's padded hips and nipped waist she could tune it all out. And Paul. She wouldn't think of Paul at all. No. She wouldn't.
"Really?" A voice rang from behind her.
Joanna dropped the Dior's black jersey and spun around.
"Cowboy songs? For real?" Eve asked.
Irritated, Joanna turned down the volume. The woman would have to show up now. "Eve. What a surprise."
"I need a date night dress—" Eve dropped her purse on the counter. "Oh my God. That's the Dior Bar, isn't it? Is it real?"
Joanna nudged the collar open, revealing the rectangular silk label reading "Printemps - Eté 1947." "Numbered and everything. Only fifteen sold to private clients. This one was Vivienne North's."
Silently they stared at the suit. "Looks like it's in good shape," Eve said.
"Isn’t it amazing to see it in real life? You can touch it, if you’d like. The ridges on the Shantung jacket almost feel like grosgrain ribbon."
Eve reverently touched the jacket, then the skirt’s soft wool. "Wow."
"It was meant to be a day suit. I bet Vivienne didn't wear it much once she got to Oregon." She boosted a canvas dressmaker's dummy from behind the counter. "I'm going to take a few photos and see if I can interest a curator in it."
"My God. It's definitely museum-worthy. I know someone at the Brooklyn Museum who might be interested. I'll give you her number."
Joanna studied Eve. Maybe she really did love vintage clothing. It was hard to tell with all the trendy boutique items she wore. And she was being suspiciously nice right now. Other than that remark about Marty Robbins, that is. It would kill Joanna to send one of her dresses home with Eve, but right now she needed the sale. The rent was taken care of, thanks to the Scaasi and a local collector, but the plumber was still waiting.
"Thanks. And thanks, too, for coming by for a dress. You didn't have anything in stock?"
"No. I want to surprise a man with a new dress. He's seen everything I have at the store. I want something sexy. What do you have in a two?"
"Are you thinking black, or do you want to go with color?" What poor schlub was she seeing now?
"If you have something in a romantic color, that would be good. No busy patterns, though."
"The color cocktail dresses are here." Joanna walked to a rack on the opposite wall and pulled a rose-pink satin dress with a swagged back that dipped low. "This color would look fabulous on you." And it would, damn it.
Eve shook her head. "The front's too uptight. I want something that shows a little cleavage. So far we've had some heavy flirtation, but nothing serious. This might be the night, you know what I mean?"
<
br /> Sure, she knew. And if Eve put her mind to it, no man would be able to resist. Joanna held up a red lurex dress from the forties. "How about this? Definitely figure hugging."
"He won't like it. Too cheap looking."
Cheap? Sure, if Rita Hayworth at the Mambo Room was "cheap." "Wait. I have a Peggy Hunt with a chiffon yolk and sleeves. It's a great combination of revealing and concealing. Should be your size. It's black, though."
"Let me see it." Eve grabbed the hanger from Joanna and passed one hand over the bodice, pausing to run a finger over the crystals woven into the chiffon. "Perfect. I'll try it on." She carried the dress to the dressing room and closed the curtain.
Joanna slid the Marty Robbins record back into its sleeve and flipped through the LPs until she found the one she wanted. The harmonies of the Andrew Sisters soon filled the air.
"You must really miss not having Paul around," Eve said from behind the curtain.
Joanna dropped the stereo's cover with a bang. What did she know? "I'm not sure what you mean."
"You know. He's always at my studio. Late, sometimes. It seems like every time I turn around, there he is." She emerged from the dressing room and posed, hand on hip, in front of the mirror. She turned to check out her profile. "Of course, not that I'm complaining. The man is easy on the eyes."
Joanna's stomach dropped. No. It couldn't be. Eve couldn't have the gall to march into her store to buy a dress to wear for Paul. Or would she? "This man you're seeing, the one for the dress, is he—is he anyone I know?" She held her breath and willed Eve to say no.
Eve's smile widened. "You don't know? That's funny, I thought you would." She turned toward the dressing room. "I guess I won't say then."
Joanna's heart beat so fast she could barely hear above the rush in her ears.
Eve pulled the curtain shut, then opened it again and stuck out her head. "You can write up a receipt for the dress. I'm taking it."
***
To pay her bills, Joanna had to get at least a few of Vivienne's things displayed on the floor at Tallulah's Closet. Besides, why go home? She’d only beat herself up over Paul. And Poppy. The funeral was the next day. An aching emptiness seemed to have taken over where her vital organs should have been.
She sighed. First step, inventory and tag some items. She'd start with jewelry. She flipped the "open" sign to "closed" and turned off all of the store lights except a gooseneck lamp over the glass-topped jewelry counter.
She spread out a tumble of rhinestones, gold chains, and pastel beads. She'd been so taken by Vivienne's dresses that she'd hardly paid attention to the accessories. But the trunk's drawers surrendered several parures, at least a dozen pairs of earrings, and more bracelets, brooches, and necklaces than she could count at a glance. Shreds of yellowed tissue showed that at one point they'd been individually wrapped, but over the years they'd worked themselves loose and would require patience and tweezers to untangle.
That was fine. The events of the past week, culminating with Eve's visit that afternoon—could she really be seeing Paul?—rattled her. Sorting through the jewelry would be a distraction. She pulled Joni Mitchell's Court and Spark from the shelf and and set it on the turntable. She lowered the hi fi's needle. A faint crackle gave way to guitar and Mitchell's sinuous voice.
An hour passed as Joanna filled her notepad with a list of Vivienne's jewelry. Night fell. She worked free a Miriam Haskell brooch mounted on Russian gold with seed pearls encircling square-cut crystals. She tilted it under the lamp, and it threw a rainbow of light against the ceiling. She'd be willing to bet its matching earrings languished somewhere in the tangle. She put the brooch to the side and set to releasing a necklace of black baroque pearls.
The necklace was stuck on something. She eased her fingers into a knot of beads and shook loose a gold locket the size of a quarter. Etched on the outside was "A Maman." She pried it open with her fingernail. Inside was a photo of a curly-headed boy barely old enough for kindergarten. The boy's serious eyes gave him away. Gil.
She set the locket next to the brooch to give to Helena. Helena seemed so nervous about her husband lately. Maybe the locket would bring back better times.
As Joanna turned to put on a new record, the phone rang. Memories of the call she'd received before the auction flashed back. But that had been about the diamonds. That was all over now. She hesitated, then picked up the phone.
"Joanna," a harsh whisper said. "I warned you."
She inhaled sharply. "Who is this?"
"I'm watching you. Working all alone. That jewelry must be quite interesting."
The bathroom door was shut, so no one could be looking in at her through the back window. She swallowed hard. That left the front. She squinted at the front window, but the intensity of the light from the gooseneck lamp blocked her vision. Heart hammering, she clicked it off, plunging the store in darkness. There was no way the stranger was getting the better of her this time.
The voice laughed, setting the hair on her neck on end. "That doesn't help."
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Thanks to the streetlights, she could see out better than anyone could see in. All she needed was a glimpse of the caller, to identify him or her. She dropped behind the tiki bar. Her hands shook as she loosened the cord coiled behind the phone.
"What do you want?" Joanna asked.
"I told you to leave other people's business alone. You didn't listen."
Keep the caller talking. "About the diamonds?" Staying low, she moved from behind the tiki bar to the shelter of the red velvet bench.
"Don't be coy, Joanna. About the killings, of course."
Her breath caught in her throat. He’d said "killings." Plural. "What do you want from me?" The last time, she’d retreated from the caller. Not this time. No. She crept to the far wall, trailing the phone's cord behind her and pressed herself into a rack of black cocktail dresses. A feathered pillbox hat dropped from the shelf above. She gripped the phone, terrified the caller would see the movement.
"What are you doing?" the voice asked.
"Nothing." Her breath was coming too quickly.
"Don’t make either of us sorry." A pause. "I need you to do one simple thing, or no guarantees."
"What?" The word came out almost a whisper.
"Tell the police you saw Helena Schuyler North leaving the auctioneer's body. Tell them. You were the one who found it."
"But I didn't see anyone."
"Tell them, or you're next."
Only a few feet of phone cord remained, and the door was still a body's length away. The blood pounded in her ears. Staying low, she stretched as close as she could to the windowed door. All she wanted was a look. With Dot’s so close, the caller couldn’t do anything too rash.
A shadowy figure moved in the entrance Tallulah's Closet shared with Dot's. If she could just get a little closer...
"All right." Joanna's voice trembled. "I'll tell them. Whatever you want."
Nearly blind with fear, Joanna dropped the phone and sprang to her feet to yank open the door. Before her hand reached the knob, the door exploded. It was the last thing she remembered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The floor was cold under Joanna's back. She opened her eyes to people streaming out of Dot's. A siren wailed in the distance. The store's overhead lights clicked on.
A bearded man in a plaid shirt stepped through the door's window frame, his boots crunching on glass. "I don’t know what happened, but you’re damned lucky that was safety glass," he said.
The window lay around Joanna in rounded pieces, some still in sheets, some as small as baguette-cut rhinestones. It was coming back now. The caller. She boosted herself onto her elbows, and her head spun. She lay down again.
"Can you help me up?" she said when the room’s spin slowed. The bearded man lifted her to her feet.
She'd been so close to seeing the caller. She rubbed the back of her head. She must have smacked it hard on the platform. All she could remember wa
s a medium-sized figure. Not too tall, but not too short, either. Average build. Not a very useful description.
"I think someone shot at the door. Did you see anyone?"
"No," the bearded man said. "You okay? You don't look so steady."
"I'd better sit down." Joanna parked herself on the red velvet bench. Nausea rose in her gut. What had just happened? The phone squawked from being off the hook. The bearded man's friend, another bearded man, but bald, put the receiver in its cradle.
Slamming car doors announced the police's arrival. Detective Foster Crisp reached through the door frame and unbolted the door. After a glance at Joanna, he told the uniformed policeman behind him to call a medic. "Ms. Hayworth. What happened?"
Crisp hadn't changed much from the year before when her friend Marnie had died. Same long face and jutting ears, same bolo tie and cowboy boots. Joanna had once made the mistake of thinking he was just another bureaucrat waiting for retirement—a mistake she wouldn't make again.
She told Crisp about the caller, then pointed toward the door. "He—or she—must have shot at me."
"You were just on the other side of the door?"
She nodded.
"Then he was a lousy shot."
Two paramedics arrived, and Crisp told her he'd return in a moment. One medic, who looked barely out of training, felt her head while the other, a gray-haired woman, asked questions.
"Any cuts or abrasions?" the woman asked.
Miraculously, no. Thank God for the safety glass. "My elbow is a little banged up." She must have broken the fall with her arm.
Joanna winced when the younger medic touched the back of her head. He tipped up her face and looked in her eyes. "Dilated," he said. "Stand up."
The floor felt unsteady under her feet. "Whoa."
"How many fingers am I holding up?" the woman asked. "Any nausea?"
"Two and, yes, but just a little." The younger medic slipped a blood pressure cuff over one arm.
Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) Page 18