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

by Angela M. Sanders

  "I'm getting my degree in forensics, but for now, yeah, I guess I'm an office assistant."

  "Then, assist. Please. Ring Crisp and tell him I'm here."

  "Can't." He folded his arms. "He went home."

  "What?" She looked back at Paul, who was studying the most-wanted list of criminals. She thought of Apple in the hospital bed. She'd surely have something to say about the criminals' auras.

  "He left a message, though," the receptionist said. "I'm surprised he didn't call and tell you himself. He said to leave the evidence here. He'll get in touch with you later."

  Finally the receptionist had deigned to give her some info. But Joanna didn't have a cell phone. If Crisp called her home number, she and Paul had already been on their way to the police station.

  "Fill this out." The receptionist slid a form across the counter.

  Joanna lifted a pen, chained to the counter as if someone would really steal a pen at the police station. "How long will it take to get back the results from the lab?"

  "Depends on what they're testing for and what else is in the pipeline, but probably a week, maybe two. Without a rush, that is."

  A week. Too long. Too much could happen in a week. She turned to Paul. "We have to tell Helena. She doesn't live too far, just up off Vista. Could you—?"

  "Definitely. Let's go."

  She remembered the blue dress hanging on the door of Helena's closet. "The Norths are supposed to go to a Rose Festival gala tonight, but maybe they haven't left yet. Come on."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  After the bustle of downtown, the Norths' neighborhood was quiet and dark. Paul pulled his truck into a spot near the bluff at the end of the street. Patches of clouds shrouded the moon.

  "Can you see?" he asked Joanna. "Not many streetlights out here."

  "Sure. It's a little chilly."

  "Take this." Paul pulled a rag wool cardigan from behind his seat.

  She slid her arms into the too-big sleeves. The North's house was dark, and the porch light was on. "I think we missed them."

  "Let's check anyway. We're here."

  Joanna rang the doorbell. "Maybe they're at the back of the house, and we can’t see them."

  Paul stepped down the brick-lined stoop and edged between the azaleas in front of the den window. He nimbly pulled himself up by the windowsill and with his toes resting on the lip of the foundation, peered into the room. He dropped instantly to the ground.

  "Come here. Hurry." He clasped his hands for her to use as a step and hoisted her to the window.

  "Oh my God." Wooden blinds sliced a chiffonade of moonlight over the den's inside wall, down a bookcase, and over the splintered remains of Pacific Five. The painting lay on the den floor, its canvas torn and frame cracked as if it had been stomped in a rage. Who could have done this? Her thoughts flashed to Tranh—and Gil. She leapt down from Paul's hands and scrambled up the stoop again. "We've got to get in there, make sure Helena's all right." She pounded on the front door.

  A light came on at the house across the street, and the curtains moved.

  "Come on. Let's try the back door. This way." He took her hand and led her across the front lawn. A light burned over the driveway, but it was dark around the side. He stopped at a small plastic box affixed to the side of the house. Its door was open. "Someone clipped the phone line to the security system," he said. "We should call the police."

  "Open the gate," Joanna said. "What if they’re in there, hurt?"

  Paul hesitated, then reached over the shoulder-high gate and unlatched it. Amber light glowed from deep within the house.

  "Paul, look." A window pane in the French doors was shattered. Joanna tried the door. Unlocked.

  "Don't go in there, Jo, someone might still be there—"

  She shoved past Paul to the stairs, taking them two at a time to arrive, breathless, on the landing. The light she'd seen was the upstairs hall light.

  She braced herself for another body and pushed open Helena's bedroom. It was dark. Her eyes adjusted and she scanned the room. Bed made with military precision, nightstands empty but for a frilled lamp and a treatise on herbal remedies. The dress on the door was gone, and a hint of lily of the valley hung in the air. No body on the floor, though. Her shoulders relaxed. Gil and Helena must have gone to the Rose Festival gala after all. She turned to find Paul in the hall behind her.

  "I take it no one's here."

  "No. Not in this room, anyway," she said.

  "You shouldn't have charged in here. Someone could have been waiting with a gun." He looked around warily. "Correction. Could still be hiding. Stay here while I look around."

  Uncanny, that mention of a gun. He didn’t know that she’d been shot at. "But I—"

  "Wait."

  She hovered near the door while Paul disappeared briefly into Gil's room, then into Vivienne's suite of rooms at the opposite end of the hall. He seemed to take longer in there. The house felt tomb-still. She thought of the destroyed painting in the den and tensed. Nothing but pure hatred could have wrought such damage. An otherworldly yowl erupted from the street, and Joanna started. Just a cat. Probably in heat—it was that time of year.

  Paul returned. "Empty. Let's look downstairs." His hand rested on her lower back as they descended. He left her in the entry hall. "Wait here while I check the basement."

  They needed to take whatever honey was left and have it tested. That would save the Norths from accidentally eating it. And since they were already here, well—

  Paul shut the basement door behind him. "No one downstairs, either."

  She nodded at the hall clock. "It's nine-fifteen. If the Norths are at the gala, we should have until ten, at least."

  Paul raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean? We checked the house. Sure, the painting's destroyed, but no one's hurt."

  Such beautiful eyes. And that tiny gap between his front teeth. Adorable. Damn it. She drew a deep breath."We're not quite finished yet."

  Paul locked eyes with her. "What are you telling me?"

  "We're here. We might as well get the rest of the honey and have a quick look around."

  "For what?"

  "Anything that would point to who killed Poppy and Vivienne." He opened his mouth to say something, and Joanna quickly added, "I really need your help. Please. There are a few things I haven’t told you about Helena’s husband, but he worries me."

  He paused. He was clearly struggling.

  "Please, Paul. I can't do this alone," she said softly. "Will you help me?"

  He let out a breath. "All right. I guess we're already in. But just for fifteen minutes. Then we're out of here."

  "Thank you." She touched his hand.

  "Let's split up and look down here, then go back up to the bedrooms. We don't have a lot of time. I'll take the front of the house, and you take the dining and living rooms. If I see anyone, I'll whistle, and you run out the back door. If you make it back to the truck before I do, there's a spare key in a magnetic box in the driver's side front wheel well."

  Joanna nodded, knowing there was no way she'd leave Paul behind. He moved quickly but calmly to the den. Intensely aware of being an intruder, she turned to the dining room. It seemed unlikely anything would be hidden in here. Too public. A long, Queen Anne-style table dominated the center of the room. China filled the buffet at the far end. She opened the buffet's drawers and found tidy stacks of silverware. Probably sterling. Instead of the floral Tiffany design she'd expected, though, they were a spare, mid-century shape. Likely Vivienne's.

  The living room looked stiff with disuse. A crisp white sectional anchored one side of the room, but it was the room's only modern touch. Chintz-covered side chairs flanked a marble fireplace, over which hung a large painting of a fox hunt. Joanna wrinkled her nose. How did Gil feel about that? A few coffee table books, probably rarely perused, sat on the table next to a brass sculpture of a horse. The room could have been a stage set for a well-to-do Boston merchant's house.

  Th
e clock on the mantel chimed. It was nine-thirty.

  A photo album lay at a crisp forty-five degree angle on the coffee table. Curiosity overtook Joanna. She knelt beside the coffee table and opened the album’s stiff pages. The first page showed Vivienne as a young woman with a curly-haired, blond man and a baby. Gil. Even in the black and white photo, Vivienne's large eyes commanded the viewer. Joanna flipped a few more pages. All of Gil as a child. About halfway through the album was a photo of Helena in what looked to be a dorm room. A few pages later were Gil and Helena's wedding photos. Nothing of Helena as a child. Had Gil insisted on taking the place of honor?

  She heard a rustle, and spun to face the doorway. It was Paul. "My God. You scared me."

  "Nothing in the den. I checked the kitchen—it seemed like a good place to hide things—but didn’t find anything unusual. Even the pantry was meticulous. Not a grain of flour anywhere."

  "No honey? Not even in the liquor cabinet?" Joanna whispered.

  "Nothing but a bottle of Irish whisky and, curiously, a handgun."

  A gun. The skin on the back of her neck prickled.

  "Come on, let's get this over with," Paul said. They climbed the stairs, Joanna following. The window over the landing was curtain-less, showing the faint lights of the house across the street.

  "Gil's room is there." Joanna pointed to the closest door, at the back of the house. "Helena's is at that end, and Vivienne's old room is at the opposite end of the hall, over the garage."

  "Let's start in Helena's room." Her bedroom door was open. Paul closed the curtains on the street side of the room. "Can you see without a light?"

  She nodded. "There's enough from the hall."

  "You check the closet and nightstand, and I'll start with the dresser."

  Joanna opened the drawer on the nightstand. Inside were tissues and nothing else. So strange to think that French regency style nightstands even existed, as if Mary Antoinette put down her novel and snapped off the light every night before bed. Under the drawer was a cupboard with a shelf. Nothing in there, either.

  She turned to the closet but stopped when she saw Paul going through the dresser. He carefully lifted each bundle of clothing and felt around the edges of the drawer. He moved quickly but methodically, a vague smile on his lips, but an expression of total focus. Despite all his warnings to her, he loved this. She could tell. The puzzle of breaking into a house, the challenge of finding something—he was in his element. The muscle on his jaw tensed. He lifted his head and caught her staring at him. She quickly turned away and opened the closet.

  The closet was the same tidy row of dresses and blouses Joanna had seen earlier in the day, less, of course, the peach dress. The floor of the closet was clean, polished wood. A rack of shoes, clogs and European brands sold for comfort, lined the floor, but nothing else. The shelf above the clothes rack was outfitted with wire shelves to make the most of the old home's small closet. They held mostly purses in felt bags. Her pulse leapt. A lockbox shaped like a small suitcase leaned next to a pair of gold evening pumps.

  "Look, Paul." Joanna reached for the box and set it on the bed. She tried the handle. "Locked."

  "Bobby pin, please." She pulled one from her hair and handed it over. Paul bent it and slid it into the lock. It opened instantly. Joanna looked at him. First noticing the cut phone line, now opening the lock box in seconds. Maybe he’d picked up more from his uncle than he’d let on.

  He rifled through the box’s contents. "Not much," he said. "A marriage certificate, passports, Gil’s birth certificate, but that’s all."

  "You'd think she would have kept these things in a safe deposit box," Joanna said.

  Paul locked the box and slid it back in its place. "There's nothing here. Where next? Is there a room up here they use as an office?"

  Moonlight cast an eerie glow through the batiste curtains. The darkness emphasized that they shouldn't be here. Uneasiness crept over Joanna. Maybe they should forget about the search and get out now.

  Joanna opened her mouth to suggest they leave, when the wide beams of headlights swung into the driveway.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cold reality replaced Joanna's relief from not having found a body. She and Paul had broken into the Norths' house. Sure, the door had been open, and they'd done it with the best of motives, but this one would be hard to explain. She imagined telling Helena they'd seen the destroyed painting and thought she was in danger. She might understand. Or not. And what about Gil?

  "We've got to go downstairs, tell them we're here," she said.

  "And what? Get shot? Remember that painting," Paul said. "They're going to think we did that."

  Yes, the painting. And the gun.

  He pulled her to a crouch, below the window, and quickly parted the curtains. The rush of blood in her ears obscured his whisper, but she could read Paul's lips well enough: "Follow me," they said. Breathing quickly, she darted behind him past the window in the stairwell and into Vivienne's room at the far end of the hall. He pulled the door closed behind them. They stood, backs against the wall.

  Car doors thudded shut. Helena's voice was a quiet buzz from the garage below, but Gil's low voice came through more clearly. Over the thudding of her heart, Joanna heard part of a complaint about the food and something about being "tired of all that bitching." The voices grew more faint as they passed out of the garage under them.

  Paul grabbed her hand and squeezed. She wasn't alone, and he wanted her to know that. She squeezed back, longer. She'd been crazy to involve him in all this. He shouldn't go to jail for her. "I'm sorry," she mouthed to him. Sorry for everything.

  They stood still. She opened her mouth slightly to soften her breathing. Where were the Norths now?

  Voices drifted from the upstairs hall. "I'm going to bed," Helena said. She sounded too near to be at the other end of the hall, but maybe it was a trick of the space.

  Gil's voice boomed from downstairs. "Fine. I'm going to watch a little TV, take in the news. See you in the morning."

  Their conversation was flat and uninflected with emotion. Helena's footsteps passed down the hall. The painting. Surely Gil would see the painting and raise the alarm. Then what?

  Paul put his mouth close to Joanna's ears. "Stay up against the wall. The floor won't creak here."

  An anguished shout rose from downstairs. He'd found the remains of Pacific Five. Helena's steps sounded light and quick down the stairs. Joanna had never heard Helena yell, but her anger sliced the air. "I'm calling the police!"

  Blood rang in Joanna's ears. Now there was no way they could announce their presence. God knew what would happen if they did. If Gil called the police—and why wouldn't he?—they'd be arrested for sure.

  "No," Gil's voice shot out. After a shocked moment, Helena's higher pitched voice continued, but more quietly. "No, and that's final," he responded. A cupboard door was thrown open and another door slammed. Joanna's eyes widened. Maybe they'd have to save Helena after all. She held her breath.

  After a long pause, Helena's footsteps re-entered the upstairs hall.

  "We can wait here until they go to sleep, then leave," Paul whispered.

  How long would that be? Hours, maybe. The evening news was at what—ten o'clock? She carefully leaned against the wall.

  Helena's door creaked open. "Honey, did you close my bedroom curtains?"

  Damn. They'd forgotten to open them again. Helena was obsessive about her space. She'd probably notice if even a bobby pin were moved.

  "No. You know I don't go in there." Gil sounded tense, but calmer.

  "They're closed. I didn't close them."

  "Maybe you did and forgot. You've been a little distracted since mom's death."

  A pause. "No, I'm telling you, I didn't close them."

  Joanna froze, every fiber of her body tense.

  "Gil," Helena said, "Come up here."

  Joanna felt Paul shift. Their smallest movement set off whispers of noise that seemed to reverberate thr
ough the house. She caught Paul's hand and hurried him to the bedroom off of the sitting area. "There's a window to the backyard." The bedroom door was already ajar. Paul closed it silently. Joanna glanced behind them. Helena and Gil's voices murmured down the hall. Don't come in here. Please.

  The casement windows opened out. Paul unlatched one side and looked down, then back at Joanna. She nodded. They'd have to jump. She tied up her skirt. Paul hoisted himself into the window frame, legs first, put his hands beside him and jumped. He landed on his feet with a thud and fell to a crouch. Next door, a dog began to bark.

  Steps sounded in the hall. She glanced back to see a ribbon of light under the door. No time to lose. Hands trembling, she perched in the window frame as she'd seen Paul do and looked down. It was at least a fifteen-foot drop. She heard the door to Vivienne's sitting room open behind her. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer. She kicked off the window sill. The fall seemed to last a lifetime. Paul's arms cushioned her landing. He pulled her to her feet and the ground wobbled beneath her. She put a hand to the tender side of her head. The concussion.

  "Come on!" He whispered urgently.

  They raced through the backyard on a narrow stone path, beyond the vegetable garden to the stands where the bee houses once stood. Chests heaving, they huddled against the fence. It only took a few seconds to make it to the back of the yard, but it would take less than that for Helena to reach Vivienne's bedroom and find the window open. She peeked around the side of the empty bee house stands. Light glared from Vivienne's windows.

  "They know we're here," Joanna whispered. She flattened a hand to her forehead. If only her head would steady for a moment.

  Paul grabbed her free hand. They fled along the back fence toward an old rhododendron. He pulled her under just as the backyard filled with light. There way no way they'd make it to the front gate without being spotted. The rest of the yard was fenced shoulder-high. They were trapped. The police would arrive any minute now.