The caller demanded she tell the police that she'd seen Helena leave Poppy's body. Someone was setting her up. Who would want to destroy Helena—or the North family? Someone afraid the police were too close to the truth, maybe. As the cuff swelled over her arm, she looked around the store. The front door was a goner, but the dresses looked to be all right.
"Blood pressure's a little low." The younger man clipped shut his kit. "Slight concussion."
And whoever the caller was, it was someone involved with both deaths, Vivienne's and Poppy's.
"Ma'am, pay attention." The older medic pulled Joanna's face toward her with a finger. "You may feel out of sorts, drowsy, over the next few days. Maybe even a little depressed, but that should go away after a week or so. Are you listening?"
She nodded.
"No sudden movements, either. I wouldn't drive for the next few days if you can help it. Is there someone at home to keep an eye on you?"
Paul. "No."
"Then you'll need to stay at a friend's and call your doctor in the morning."
"Thank you. I'll see what I can do." Apple was out for the evening, but she'd think of something.
Detective Crisp passed the medics as they left. "No one saw the shooter outside. An evidence crew should be here in a few minutes." Crisp glanced out the door, then back in the store. "This was your second threatening call, wasn't it?"
"Yes. I reported the first one, but I didn't think anyone took notice."
"Show me where you were when the phone rang. Let's walk through this."
Joanna rose slowly. The room wobbled as if she were standing on the deck of a boat.
"Easy there," Crisp said and grabbed her arm.
"I'm okay." She picked up the phone and took it back to the tiki bar. "I was here, sorting jewelry." She clicked on the gooseneck lamp. "The store was dark except for this lamp."
Crisp walked to the front of the store, his cowboy boots tapping on the linoleum, crunching on the odd shard of glass. He turned off the overhead lights and looked first through the plate glass window fronting Tallulah's Closet, then through the door. He flipped the lights back on when he returned.
"What happened next?"
"The phone rang." Joanna glanced at the phone now piled on its cord. "It was the same caller as before, the same whisper." Her neck prickled. "I had to see who it was. I knew the caller could see me, so I turned off this light" —she patted the lamp— "and crawled toward the door. I almost saw him, too."
"What did the caller want?"
"To threaten me. To warn me not to try to find Poppy's murderer." She stared at Crisp. "She was murdered, wasn’t she? It wasn’t suicide at all."
Crisp took a step closer. "You’re right. The autopsy showed she’d been strangled, then hung."
Bile rose in Joanna’s throat. She knew it had been true, but hearing the words still shocked.
"You’ve been nosing around in her death?" Crisp asked.
She remained silent.
"Never mind. We'll come back to that in a minute. Tell me again what the caller wanted."
"I did. He threatened me." Should she tell him the caller wanted her to lie? What if the caller found out? He'd killed twice and shot at her. Was it worth the risk? Crisp watched her intently. She touched the tender crown of her skull.
"You're not telling me something," Crisp said.
Poppy was already dead. She wasn’t letting Helena get killed, too. "He—the caller wanted me to lie to you."
Crisp nodded. "About what?"
"To say that I saw Helena Schuyler North leaving the green room when I found Poppy's body." She spoke quietly, as if the caller might somehow hear.
Crisp relaxed back, still nodding. "Got it."
"It's not the truth, though. I didn't see anyone. She couldn't have done it," Joanna said quickly. She glanced anxiously toward the front window. A few patrons of Dot's stood on the sidewalk watching the police work.
Crisp marked her distress. "They can't hear us out there. We're fine. As far as the caller knows, you're telling me exactly what he wants you to." He put his hands flat on the counter and leaned forward. "As far as Ms. North goes—"
"Yes?"
"You couldn't have seen her in the green room. Impossible. We have witnesses that place her at her table when you found the body."
Then Crisp must have considered Helena a suspect at some point. Joanna absently reached for a brooch from the pile of jewelry and turned it in her hand. Its loose fastener pricked her finger. She dropped it on the counter. "What about her husband, Gil?"
"We've interviewed everyone. Which brings me to my next point. Why is the caller concerned about you? What have you been up to?"
A man in overalls strode toward Crisp. "Crime scene investigator is here."
Blue-green glass littered the front third of the store, and the front door gaped open. A man set a camera on a tripod.
Crisp turned to Joanna. "You were saying?"
"It's true that I've talked to a couple of people, just to see what they might know. Poppy was a good friend, and I feel responsible for her death. She never would have been at that auction if not for me."
"Who have you talked to?"
"Helena, of course. An artist, Tranh, who knows Helena's husband, Gil. That's all."
"And this artist. Why him?"
Oh God. If she told Crisp Tranh painted Pacific Five, she could ruin the Norths. "It's probably nothing, but you might want to talk to him, too."
"You haven't answered my question."
The man wouldn't let it go. Maybe she could sidestep the issue. "He might have been hanging around the North house the night of Vivienne's death." There. Let the detective figure out the bit about Pacific Five on his own.
"Is that all?"
She nodded but wouldn't meet his eyes.
"You're sure?"
"Uh huh." She needed to sit down. The room was starting to sway a bit.
Crisp stood still, his gaze, unfocused, through the front window. He didn't speak, but showed no signs of leaving. The crowd on the sidewalk had dissipated, probably to return to their pool games and half-drunk beers at Dot's.
Finally the detective straightened and turned toward her. "Someone wanted you to tell me a lie he knew could be proved false. You were being set up. He chose not to kill you this time." They locked eyes. "Be careful, Joanna."
CHAPTER THIRTY
"It's no trouble." Sister Mary Alberta fluffed a pillow and set it on a twin bed. She wore a flannel nightgown sprigged with flowers, and her hair, free of its wimple, escaped from a wiry gray braid. "You'll sleep here. In my room. That way I can keep an eye on your symptoms."
"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it." Joanna set her train case on a quilt at the foot of the bed.
"You'll be safe here. The important thing is that you stay hydrated and get some rest."
"Joanna?" The Mother Superior called from down the hall.
Mary Alberta nodded. "Better go see what she wants."
The hall was a bustle of activity, with nuns going up and down the stairs. Three nuns waited with toothbrushes outside the bathroom. They all wore identical long flannel nightgowns. The Lanz factory must have been busy that year.
"Sit here." Mother pointed to the pink armchair near her bed. "Are you comfortable?"
"Yes, thank you. Mary Alberta is taking good care of me."
"She was a nurse in the Navy, you know. Served in Vietnam."
Settled in the armchair, Joanna was low enough to appreciate what the Mother Superior saw from bed. The orchids on her nightstand gave off a sweet, humid fragrance. A silvered tea cup, probably Limoges, sat next to them. Behind the cup was a small, black and white photo in a celluloid frame. It hadn't been there before.
"Is that you?"
"You can pick it up if you like."
The photo showed two girls, probably in their teens, in school uniforms. They stood in a cobblestoned courtyard. One girl was tall and angular and held her hands above her eyes to shield them from
the sun. Her charisma shimmered even then—Joanna's gaze kept returning to her. The other girl, smaller, had long dark hair and brooding eyes. "Vivienne," Joanna said. "And you."
"I've been looking at that photo all day. I still can't believe she's gone." She let a small breath escape. "It was taken in Toulouse where we went to school together."
"I thought you were from New Orleans." Those eyes. The Mother Superior still had that penetrating gaze.
"Oh, I am. My mother sent me to a Catholic girls' school in Toulouse, where she went. That's where I met Vivienne. We quickly became best friends, practically sisters. I used to go to her family's house for holidays." A smile passed over her lips. "I had quite a crush on her brother. After school, I came back to New Orleans, and she moved to Paris. We kept in touch for a while, but eventually—well, it happens."
"But you met again, here."
"Yes. It was God's plan. Had to have been. Vivienne is saving our convent." She reached a bony hand toward the armchair. Joanna placed hers near it, and Mother laid her hand over Joanna's. Her skin was cool and dry. "That's why I need to find out who killed her. I owe it to her. But not at your expense, daughter. I'm sorry."
Joanna had never seen the Mother looking so vulnerable. "I want to find who killed her, too. And Poppy."
"No, dear. You were shot at tonight. You could have died."
Joanna shook her head, then stopped as a ripple of dizziness came over her. "It was only a warning. I'm fine. Really."
"Joanna, I'm telling you it's time to stop. You owe me nothing." Some ferocity had returned to her voice. "You remember when you first came how I told your friend Apricot—"
"Apple."
"—I heard music and saw lights? It's getting louder. I don't feel good about this at all." She lay back and pulled up her blanket. She closed her eyes. "Now go to bed. And please turn off the light as you leave."
In the hall, she could already hear the snoring from Mary Alberta's room.
***
Joanna awoke to the sound of angels singing. Or was it children? No, definitely women's voices, and they melded in a benediction that sent chills down her arms.
She rolled over and squinted at the blush of sun bleeding into the horizon. Barely dawn. Mary Alberta's bed was empty. She swung her feet onto the floor and grabbed the bedpost until her head settled. The back of her head was even more tender than last night, and her elbow was beginning to bruise. She rose slowly—good, the floor stayed level—and reached for her robe. On the nearby dresser Mary Alberta had left a note, "Matins at 6, breakfast at 7." Was that coffee she smelled?
Downstairs, the sisters were lifting their heads from prayer. Mary Alberta caught her eye. "How did you sleep?" she asked.
"Really well," Joanna said. Odd in a strange bed in a new place, but she'd slept like the dead.
"The concussion. One thing I can say about concussion patients is that they're no trouble once they get to sleep. And your appetite?"
"The coffee smells delicious."
"Good. Come in the kitchen and have some breakfast."
A long wooden table filled the east end of the kitchen. The Mother was already seated at the head of the table in her wheelchair. The fragrance of sweet, warm yeast filled the kitchen. One of the Marys, oven-mitted, hoisted a pan of cinnamon rolls to the table to join a large bowl of scrambled eggs and a dozen halved grapefruits. The nuns began passing the platters and scooping food onto heavy stoneware plates. Only Mary Frances waved the food by. A small bowl of dry cereal sat in front of her.
"Reducing plan," Mary Alberta whispered.
After breakfast, and after the sisters had refused her pleas to help with clean-up, Joanna and the Mother sat alone at the table. Joanna nursed a cup of coffee. The sun was up now, and yellow tulips, wet from the night, waved along the driveway.
"Considering I was shot at last night and have a funeral to go to this morning, I feel—peaceful," Joanna said.
The Mother adjusted her wheelchair so she faced Joanna. "Remember last night, how I told you I had feelings about Vivienne's death?"
"Yes. The music and lights."
"They came again last night, child." She grasped her crucifix with one hand. "I know you must go to your friend's funeral today. Grieving the dead is essential, and she meant a lot to you. But then it's time to let it go. You're too young to risk your life for someone's that is nearly already over."
Joanna searched the Mother's face. Her words were earnest, intent. At the same time, the Mother's mind was somewhere else. What was she up to?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The funeral home's windows looked down the bluff to a swamp studded with rain-blackened oak trees. Inside, folding wooden chairs flanked an aisle as if for a wedding, but where the priest would stand to bless a couple, a white coffin with gold handles lay. A pillar candle on a tall brass stand burned next to it.
Joanna had left the convent with Mary Alberta's post-concussion care list—get plenty of rest, no sudden movements, no drinking, stay hydrated—and the invitation to stay another night if she wanted. What she wanted was a normal night at home. She'd quickly stopped at her house, popped a few ibuprofen, and changed for the funeral. Then she left Apple a message, saying there had been an "accident" at the store, and the window in the front door had broken, and she'd give her the details later.
Seats were filling fast. Joanna slipped into one near the rear next to a hunched man. It was Poppy's former hand, the one who had unwittingly tipped her off to Ben's diamond sales. "Travis?" she said.
The corners of his mouth lifted in recognition before he dropped his head to stare at his folded hands again. "Hi." Slumped in a dress shirt that was too big for him, Travis looked more like a boy than a man just starting out on his own.
What to say? "I'm sorry we have to meet again here."
"Yeah." He brushed something from his face and averted his eyes. "This music is dumb."
A man played a white upright piano near the door. Right now it was "Dust in the Wind." For crying out loud.
A woman with a skunk streak and a nose ring sat next to Travis. "You know my son. I'm Karen, Poppy's neighbor. We'll really miss her."
Joanna understood. Travis wasn't the only one with an aching heart. Toward the front of the room sat Poppy's ex-husband and other people who must be relatives. Otherwise Joanna didn't see many people she knew. But the room was crowded. Poppy was popular. Had been popular, she corrected herself. Why had she convinced Poppy to do the NAP art auction? A leaden lump settled in her throat.
"It's not fair," Travis said.
"No, it isn't," Joanna echoed. Murder, too. Oh, Poppy.
"Why would she kill herself? Shouldn't have happened."
Travis's mother patted his hand. "Sometimes unfair things happen, Travis." She glanced at the coffin. "Although this is especially hard to accept," she added under her breath.
The piano segued into "My Favorite Things." "This music is stupid," Travis said. He rested his head in his hands. Poppy’s ex-husband said a few words to the pianist, and the tune morphed to "Margaritaville."
Nearly everyone was seated. From the corner of her eye, Joanna saw Detective Crisp take a chair near the edge of the room. He nodded at her and scanned the crowd.
The piano music ceased, and the elderly minister took her place just beyond Poppy's coffin. "Dearly beloved," she began, just like in the movies. "It is a deeply sad occasion that brings us here." She paused. Someone coughed. "But it's also a chance to rejoice in love and giving—qualities Poppy practiced abundantly in her too-short life." The minister spoke about "how you can't take it with you," and how Poppy's life was testament to that. Her role was to sell the things people had gathered through the years, but also, she said, she left her own legacy of kindness.
Yes. Normally Joanna would have ignored the sermon in favor of examining the audience's clothing or the room's wallpaper and moldings. But these words, words the minister had probably delivered scores of times, rang true, every one.
&n
bsp; Travis doodled on his program. He'd drawn Poppy's head in a corner, surrounded by the tips of palm trees and a sun. His idea of heaven, perhaps. Or maybe Poppy’s heaven, the Florida Keys.
The service over, most of the congregants drifted to a room next door for what the funeral home staff called "refreshments," as if coffee and a danish would satisfy the emotion dislodged by death. Joanna wandered to the wide windows and gazed into the distance.
Detective Crisp appeared beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. "How's your head?"
"My neck's a little stiff, but it's okay. Thanks."
"You going to the reception next door?"
"No. I'm not hungry." Wind ruffled through the trees outside. The sky was clear, but the earth was still wet. Joanna knew birds would be chattering warnings about the stormy weather blowing in.
"You're still feeling guilty about Poppy, aren't you?"
Joanna didn't reply. Sure, she felt guilty. But leaden grief overshadowed it. She touched a finger to the window's cold glass.
Crisp stared out the window. "Don't. I'm not sure Poppy's death could have been prevented. Whoever wanted her dead may have found an easy option at the auction, but it wasn't the only option."
Apple had said the same thing. Crisp was kind—almost grandfatherly—in his attempt not to let her blame herself, but the fact remained: if Poppy hadn't been at the auction, she might still be alive.
"I don't go to a lot of funerals," he said. "Funny, maybe, in my business."
"But you're here," she said. Beyond the marsh with its straggly trees reared the tip of a Ferris wheel. Oaks Park. Beyond that lay the flat green river.
"I am." Crisp didn't add to his short reply, but he didn't move away, either.
"How's the investigation? Do you have any idea who did this to her? Or who shot at me?"
"We're following up on a few things."
In other words, he had nothing. Why else would he be at Poppy's funeral, if not to hope for some kind of new lead? "I can't figure out who would want to kill Poppy. She was so loved. Even her ex-husband has nothing but good things to say about her."
Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) Page 19