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

by Angela M. Sanders

  She struck a confident tone. "I understand you used to work at Oaks Park."

  "What about it?" His eyes were hard to read behind the dark lenses of his glasses. He rested on hand on a long wrench in his tool belt.

  Mentioning Helena wouldn't help matters if he'd blackmailed her. He'd just think Joanna was gathering info to prosecute him—or maybe even serve him papers. She had to try a different angle. "I heard you left work at Oaks Park quickly—no, wait!" Leo had turned and started to walk away. "I think we have the same interests at heart here."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly.

  "I do. I think you saw something—someone—who didn't want to be seen. And that person was going to make things hard on you. Maybe you even found a way to, um, benefit from the situation."

  "What are you talking about?" He slipped off his sunglasses. His face could have been that of a Roman sculpture with its straight nose and almond eyes—all marble white, except his irises, which shone almost red. They wavered, as if he had trouble focusing.

  Joanna tried not to stare. "Helena, of course."

  "You're having an affair with Gil?"

  Helena's husband? "No, Clary. You saw Clary, right? And Helena?"

  Leo started to laugh. Joanna smiled at first, then her face grew somber when he didn't stop. A drop of rain slid down the back of her neck into her sweater.

  Leo's laughter subsided. "I saw Helena, sure." He turned to walk away, then looked over his shoulder at Joanna. "Oh, and if you see her again, tell her we know where to find her."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  On the drive home, Joanna puzzled over what she'd learned in the few minutes she had with the mechanic. Leo, Whitey—whatever he called himself—had walked away laughing and refused to answer any more of her questions. Plus, he’d practically threatened Helena. Puzzling.

  At the next stoplight, Joanna mopped the dampness from Old Blue's windshield. Traffic moved again. The only clue Joanna had was that he was a "traveler." Whatever that was.

  At home, Joanna tossed her purse on the dining room table and reached for the phone.

  "Second time today," Kimberly at the reference desk said. "The last question was about Thrillmeister employees. I can’t wait to hear this one."

  "Can you tell me anything about people called travelers?" Joanna asked.

  "I’m on it." The clicks of a keyboard filled the background as Kimberly plumbed digital databases. She came up with a response within a minute. "Ready?"

  "More than ready."

  "In short, travelers are a form of American gypsy. It looks like a really rich culture—lots of history. Fascinating. Many were traditionally tinkers, mechanics. They're clannish." Kimberly spent another minute describing their origins. "I can pull you a reading list, if you’re interested."

  Now she remembered—Helena had called out the girl in the shop as a traveler and said she’d written a paper on them. Could she have been more involved than that? It made sense, then, that Leo was a mechanic, but it didn’t clarify the day’s events.

  "Thanks, Kimberly. I’ll get back to you on the reading list."

  Joanna put down the phone examined the row of bottles on her buffet. She wanted a drink. Yes, a Bee's Knees. Maybe it would put her in the right frame of mind to have Vivienne's cocktail. Mary Alberta said she shouldn't drink with her concussion, but surely a small one wouldn't hurt.

  Joanna opened the jar of Helena's honey, cursing as she accidentally spilled some down its side. The ants would love that. Oh well, she'd clean it up in a second. She scanned her collection of cocktail glasses, mostly crystal orphans from the 1920s and ‘30s, before settling on a small glass with lilies of the valley etched on its side. She wrapped the shaker in a dishcloth and shook until ice formed, then poured the frothy liquid into the glass.

  The phone rang. Joanna wiped her hands on a dishcloth and hesitated. It shouldn't be the caller from the store. She'd told the caller she'd do what he wanted. She glanced at the front door. Locked. At last the phone clicked to the answering machine. "Joanna? It's Apple, I—"

  She grabbed the receiver. "Apple?"

  "How was the funeral this morning?"

  "Oh, it was—I hated it." Hated being there, hated that it had to happen at all. "A real crowd showed up for Poppy. Detective Crisp was there, too, and I don't think he's any closer to finding who killed her." Too bad she'd left her cocktail in the kitchen. The princess phone in the living room, while satisfying to hold, was the old fashioned kind connected to the wall with a cord. She lowered herself to the couch and pulled the mohair throw over her legs.

  "I have something that might cheer you up at least a little. Sister Mary Alberta came by with a proposal for the store's website. I'm closing shop now. How about if I drop it off on my way home? It won’t be a minute," Apple said.

  Pepper jumped into Joanna's lap as she slipped the phone into its cradle. She stroked his ears, her brain full of images: Oaks Park, the diamonds, Poppy's coffin, the second cocktail glass in the North's den, Leo's white hands clutching a wrench. How did it all fit together? The cat stretched and flipped to his back, giving her the rare chance to pet his silky belly fur. How did Helena’s study of travelers relate? Judging from her treatment of the girl who visited Tallulah’s Closet, Helena was not a fan.

  Pepper launched from her lap at a rap on the door. Apple shook out her umbrella before stepping inside and hugging Joanna. "I know it's been a rough day. I brought you a present." Vanna White style, she presented a powder blue book.

  "How to Catch a Man, Keep Him, and Get Rid of Him. Zsa Zsa Gabor." Joanna laughed. "Thank you. Although 'getting rid of' seems to be my specialty."

  "Ha ha. Thought you'd like it. And here’s the proposal. I took a peek—it's pretty good." Apple slid a portfolio from her bag and set it on the table. Through the clear front cover read, "Website development proposal for Tallulah's Closet prepared by the Sisters of Saint Mary Salome the Myrrh Bearer."

  "They could work on their business name," Joanna said.

  "Look." Apple flattened the portfolio open. "The site's home page is laid out like a real closet."

  "She pulled the typeface from the sandwich board, too. Clever."

  "You click on the closet's front door, and it opens. Like this." Apple flipped the page. "See? You can sort by era or garment." The next page showed the open closet grouped with dresses in one section, blouses and skirts in another, and suits in still a third section. "Click on the drawer below and you get shoes, scarves, and purses."

  "And that jewelry box—"

  "Exactly," Apple said. "Sectioned by type of jewelry—bracelets, earrings, whatever." She tapped the page. "You travel through the store's stock just by clicking a mouse."

  Travel. Travelers. "Have you ever heard the term 'travelers' as a kind of people?"

  Apple drew back. "No. Why?"

  Joanna told Apple about her trip to Oaks Park and the Thrillmeister center. "So this guy, Leo, said to tell Helena that they knew where she was. Someone else at Thrillmeister mentioned travelers and hinted that he might be one."

  Apple pushed the portfolio away and rested an arm on the table. "It just gets more and more complicated."

  "Whitey—that is, Leo—must have seen Helena and Clary together and threatened to expose them. Blackmail. He obviously knew Helena from another life. Her sociology work, maybe."

  "But what does that have to do with Vivienne?"

  "Hmm. Maybe Clary hired Leo to kill her. He might have shown up at the house when they were out and snuck poison into Vivienne's drink." Mentioning the drink reminded her of the Bee's Knees warming on the kitchen counter. She rose to fetch it.

  "And his was the second cocktail glass? You think Vivienne was having drinks with an unknown carnie? Not likely."

  "It does sound a little out there." Joanna set the Bee's Knees on the table.

  Apple snatched it up. "For me? Thank you."

  "That was mine." She shot her a dirty look. "Never mind.
I'll make another."

  Apple raised her glass in a mock cheer. Joanna pulled an ice tray from the freezer. "He wouldn't have been a stranger. She saw him at Oaks Park, remember. And Tranh—Tranh knew about Vivienne's Bee's Knees even though it hadn't been in the news. He said Gil told him, but now I wonder."

  "What kind of poison was it?"

  "Don't know." Joanna cut a lemon in half and pulled the reamer from the sink. "They found traces in Vivienne's glass but not in the gin. Someone must have slipped something in her drink."

  "Which leaves out Gil and Helena since they weren't home." Apple fanned herself with a hand. "It's warm in here."

  "Right. But there's still Clary, Tranh, and Leo." Joanna reached for the honey, then pulled her hand back. "Helena told me the police had tested the gin used in Vivienne's cocktail, but I wonder if they thought about the honey."

  "Good question."

  "Stop." Joanna pulled Apple's glass toward her. "Helena gave me that honey. She said she and Gil bottled it. I used it in your drink."

  "You think there might be poison in there?" She looked at the glass. "Come on. Why would the killer poison the honey instead of Vivienne's cocktail?"

  "Think about it. It would be safer that way. He could slip the poison into the honey any time, knowing eventually Vivienne would drink it. He wouldn't have to be around when it happened." That completely changed the range of possibilities for the murderer. If the honey had been poisoned, it could have been anyone who visited the Norths between the time the honey was bottled and Vivienne's death.

  They looked at the honey. It was in a small mason jar with no label. The blood drained from Joanna's face. The drip she hadn't wiped up earlier had attracted a stream of ants. But they didn't move, didn't march food back to the queen. The honey had trapped their black bodies like insects in amber. They were dead.

  "You don't think—" Apple started. "They probably just got stuck there."

  "You don't look so good. Your face is kind of white." Joanna bit her lip. How long did poison take to act? Apple had only had a few sips, but maybe that was enough.

  "It's always white. Besides, I'm not used to drinking. Remember what happened last time I had one of these?"

  "You fell asleep. You didn't get sick."

  Apple moistened her lips. "I'm fine. I just need to sit down. Could you open a window?"

  Joanna set a glass of water in front of her. "Drink that. It will dilute the alcohol."

  Apple put her hands around the water glass, then pushed it away. Holding her stomach, she slumped in the chair. "Take me to the emergency room."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Apple lay in the hospital bed. The television suspended from the ceiling nattered a basketball game. Beyond Apple's curtained-off room, the emergency room bustled with moving gurneys and people in scrubs.

  "I'm never drinking again. I'm sticking to tea for good," she said with a weakened voice. "God, I feel awful."

  The curtain parted. Paul. Joanna rose abruptly from her plastic chair, dumping her purse from her lap to the floor. Paul glanced at Apple, then folded Joanna into his arms. She inhaled his aroma, a combination of soap and wood dust, and closed her eyes.

  "What happened? I came as fast as I could," he asked.

  "Apple was poisoned. She drank from a cocktail that had poisoned honey in it." Apple's red hair spilled over the pillow. "She could have died."

  "I wanted to die when they were pumping my stomach, believe me," Apple said.

  "What about you? You didn't have any of it?"

  "I'd made the drink for myself, but Apple came by, and she likes them so much—really, it should have been me." Reluctantly, she left Paul's embrace. "Thanks for coming down to pick me up. I rode here in the ambulance."

  "I'm glad you called."

  "I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea—I mean, I wanted to, but you know." She stared at her feet.

  "I insisted," Apple said.

  The curtain yanked open. Gavin, Apple's husband, rushed to the bed. "Apple," he said, ignoring Joanna and Paul. He rang the buzzer for a nurse. "What happened? I was at the office late, didn't get your message until now."

  "Poison," Joanna said. She told him about the Bee's Knees and Apple collapsing in the dining room.

  Apple, although quiet and gray-skinned, seemed to be enjoying the attention. She’d insisted on extra pillows and now had them fluffed and arrayed behind her.

  "Who did this? Did you talk to the police?" Gavin asked.

  "They just left."

  "Why don't you guys go get some dinner?" Apple said. "I'll be fine. Gavin's here to keep me company."

  An orderly appeared, wheeling a trolley with instruments on it.

  Paul took her hand and led her from Apple's room through the emergency room and to the street. The night air was crisp. While she'd been inside, the clouds had dissolved, leaving patches of starry sky. In the parking garage, Paul opened the passenger door for Joanna and held out a hand. She boosted herself to the seat and settled into the smell of diesel and old truck. Paul's coffee mug and a red paper rose sold to benefit the Veterans of Foreign Wars sat on the dashboard. This, at least, was the same.

  Instead of starting the truck, Paul turned to her. The springs in the bench seat creaked. "What's going on, Jo? Why was the honey poisoned?" His voice was tender but insistent. What had he been doing the past few days without her?

  With regret, she looked at the stubble on his face and the bit of chest showing above his tee shirt, under the plaid wool shirt. He wasn’t going to like this, but she was through avoiding it. She wasn’t going to lie to him again. She met his eyes. "I've been trying to figure out who killed Poppy." She ran through the last few day's visits yet again—her meeting with Tranh, the visit to Helena's, Oaks Park, and the Thrillmeister yard. "The poison that killed Vivienne must have been in the honey. What I can't figure out is who put it there—or why."

  "I thought that after Poppy you’d leave things alone."

  "Poppy was murdered. I can’t leave it alone." She dared him to meet her gaze.

  He looked away and drummed a finger on the dashboard. "You told all this to the police tonight?"

  "Of course." An officer had questioned her as the emergency room doctor hooked Apple to bits of medical machinery. Between worried glances at Apple, she had told the whole story as best she could. "They weren't in any rush to follow up. The officer said she'd get in touch with the homicide detective in the morning but couldn't do anything until then, and—" She switched gears. "Wait. The honey. We've got to tell Helena so she doesn't eat any by mistake."

  Paul pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "Do you have the number?"

  She dug through her purse until she found the scrap of paper Clary had jotted it on. Someday she'd consolidate all these and get them into an address book. "Right here." She pressed the numbers into the phone. It rang four times before clicking into voicemail. "Hi Helena, it's Joanna. Listen. I think the honey you gave me had poison in it—that's how Vivienne died. Don't eat it. In fact, set it aside. The police will probably want to test it. Give me a call to let me know you got this message." She pushed the "off" button and returned the phone to Paul.

  "Better?" he asked.

  "No. What if she's lost her phone or something and eats the honey by accident? I’m worried about her husband, too, that he might—"

  "Her husband?"

  Joanna nodded. "And Clary."

  "Look," Paul said. "We don't even know for sure the honey’s poisoned. Is it at your house?" She nodded. "Let's get it and drop it by the police station. Maybe by then Helena will have called you back." He leaned forward to start the pickup.

  Yes, that was a good idea. She could check messages at her house. The last thing she needed was two friends in the hospital.

  As the truck crossed the Hawthorne Bridge, the Rose Festival's Fun Center came into view. Amusement park rides churned at the waterfront, their lights bright against the black river. The Rock-O-Plane, maybe even the one White
y had worked on, began to rotate, and crowds thronged carnival and food booths. Anchored to the river's sea wall on the other side of the bridge were three Navy ships docked for Fleet Week.

  A few minutes later Paul parked in front of Joanna's house. She unclasped her seatbelt.

  "I'll come in with you," Paul said.

  "It's all right. I'll go to the police on my own." She grabbed her purse and opened the door.

  "No. I'm coming, too."

  She stopped and turned, but he brushed past her on the way to the door. Wasn’t this what he’d been so dead-set against?

  "Joanna, I get it. Besides, I’m not letting you get in deeper on your own. Grab the honey, and let's go."

  ***

  Joanna clutched the honey jar, now sealed in a ziplock bag. The elevator opened into the lobby where she'd waited for Detective Sedillo the week before. She placed the honey gently on the ledge in front of the receptionist's window. "Detective Foster Crisp, please. It's Joanna Hayworth."

  "What's that?" The receptionist squinted at the jar. He wasn't the receptionist there last time. His bright blue eyes were thrown into relief by a smattering of acne. Once his skin cleared up, he'd be a looker.

  "Evidence," Paul said over Joanna's shoulder.

  "It's for Detective Crisp. We called, and he said he'd meet us here."

  "What case?" the receptionist asked.

  What did it matter to him what case? "I worked with Detective Sedillo on a diamonds theft case, the one with Daniel Kay."

  "That case is closed. It's an FBI matter now. Anyway, what does that have to do with your jar?"

  "This has to do with Vivienne North's murder," Joanna said, increasingly frustrated.

  "You mean 'homicide.' Vivienne North's homicide."

  The elevator behind Joanna and Paul dinged as it opened. Crisp? Joanna glanced back, but it was just a janitor wheeling a large recycling container. He passed his keycard over the reader and entered the back offices.

  "Fine, homicide. But the bottom line is that I just talked to Crisp, and he said to bring the evidence here, and he'd meet me." She leaned forward. "You're the receptionist, right?"