As Joanna pulled a lemon-yellow Emma Domb crinolined gown from the rack, her thoughts stayed with Marnie. She had been so determined to get the coat back, and Joanna had never known her to wait around when someone owed her cash.
“What size shoes do you wear?” Joanna asked the daughter. “You really should try the dress with heels, see where the hem hits your calf.”
“An eight,” said the daughter.
“Not too high, though,” the mother said.
Joanna grabbed a pair of silver evening sandals by their ankle straps. Maybe Apple was right. Marnie was probably fine, and Joanna was making too big a deal about it. She helped the daughter zip up her dress. Yellow was a trying color, but it suited the girl’s porcelain complexion and crow-black hair.
She’d try calling Marnie again tonight, from home. Yes, that’s what she’d do. Maybe this time she’d answer.
***
The next morning, Joanna prepared for work. When exactly four minutes were up, she plunged the handle on the French press and poured her morning coffee into a thermos. She wrapped a Spode teacup in a linen napkin embroidered with bees and tucked both the cup and thermos into a tote bag. The opera length black gloves from Gilda stuck in her mind. If she could get her hands on a few pairs, they’d sell like hotcakes.
The tote bounced gently against her hips as Joanna walked the scant five minutes to Tallulah’s Closet. She needed the extra boost of caffeine. After watching the movie, she’d stayed up past midnight reading. Marnie hadn’t answered her calls. Joanna had toyed with the idea of somehow finding her house and visiting her in person, but Marnie was a private person and wouldn’t appreciate an unannounced drop in, anyway. Or so Joanna had convinced herself.
The morning was dim, and it was still raining off and on. People ducked in and out of the corner café, but the other businesses along Clinton Street wouldn’t open for another hour, when the lunch trade began. Joanna rounded the corner, raised her head to take in the view of Tallulah’s Closet’s front window, and halted in her tracks.
Where was the Lanvin coat?
The front window’s mannequin stood slightly turned, the bottom half of its silk slip reflecting light from the street. Surely she’d left the coat on the mannequin at the end of the day. She was a stickler for making sure the window always looked good. But maybe a customer had tried it on and left it near the dressing rooms. Maybe.
Frowning, Joanna unlocked the door and flicked on the front light switches. She set her tote on the store’s center bench and glanced toward the dressing rooms at the rear. No coat there. Panic rose. Could it have been stolen? She rushed to the tiki bar to look for the cash box and let out a sigh of relief. The Lanvin coat lay heaped on the floor. She must have forgotten that she’d put it on the rack behind the counter, and at some point during the night it slipped off its hanger. She grasped the heavy coat by its shoulders to fold over her arm then instantly let it fall to the ground behind her.
Under the coat lay Marnie, face up, eyes open. Dead.
CHAPTER THREE
Joanna grabbed the edge of the jewelry counter for support. Breathe deeply, she told herself. Stay calm. She took a shuddering breath and stepped again behind the tiki bar. Her heart clutched. Yes, definitely Marnie.
The skin on the older woman’s face was clean and translucent white, and her open eyes, glassy, stared to the left. Thin wisps of hair clung to her scalp. She hadn't ever seen Marnie without a wig or makeup. She looked so small, vulnerable. Hands trembling, Joanna stepped away. She didn't have a lot of experience with death. Once on a high school choir trip the school bus passed an accident, and she had seen a man's body hanging out the driver's side of a car. Then, of course, there was her grandmother. Naturally, they didn't have an open casket. Couldn't.
Joanna couldn’t force herself to reach across Marnie’s body for the phone under the tiki bar. She ran next door to Dot’s Cafe and banged on the door. Maybe someone was setting up for lunch. The prep cook greeted her with a smile, but Joanna shoved past him and ran towards the phone. She returned to Tallulah’s Closet a few minutes later and sank on the bench, gaze firmly averted from Marnie’s body.
A rapping on the door jolted her to her feet. A uniformed policeman and policewoman stood outside the door. “Back there.” Joanna gestured toward the tiki bar. They pushed past her.
An unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up behind the cruiser. A tall man wearing a bolo tie and cowboy boots got out. He dropped his cell phone in his pocket and slammed the car door behind him.
In the store, he extended a hand. “Detective Foster Crisp.” He approached the tiki bar and stopped short of the Lanvin coat, a pile of fur and wool now pushed to the side. “What’s that?”
“A coat. It was covering her.” Joanna reached to pick it up, but the detective stepped in front of her.
“Please, don’t touch it. We’ll need to check it for evidence.” The police behind the tiki bar parted as the detective knelt beside the body. After a few minutes, he rose. He placed a hand in the small of Joanna’s back and directed her back to the red velvet bench.
“You know the victim?” he asked.
“Yes, Marnie. Marnie Evans.” Joanna didn’t want to leave her, but at the same time she was glad to be distracted. “How did she die?”
“Crowley?” Crisp asked one of the policemen.
“Can’t say until the autopsy. Nothing obvious.”
“Sit,” the detective said and patted the bench. A chunk of turquoise anchored his bolo tie. Its silver-tipped ends dangled as he leaned forward. “This is your store, is it?”
She nodded, still casting anxious glances behind the tiki bar.
“Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning.”
Joanna recounted the last quarter hour, from noticing the Lanvin coat missing to trembling over the phone at Dot’s.
“Did—” Detective Crisp looked at his notebook “—Ms. Evans have a key to the store?”
“No. I don’t know how she got in. The door was locked when I got here.”
“Only a handle lock. Easy enough to pick. I’m surprised you don’t have better security, actually. But there’s no reason she would be at the store?”
“Closed? No.” She bit her lip. “That coat, the one that covered her. She sold it to me the day before yesterday. That same day she called to say she wanted it back. I told her she could come by yesterday morning to get it, but she never did.” She wouldn’t have come back to get it by herself, would she?
The detective made a few notes. “Tell me about Ms. Evans.”
While a policeman stepped away from Marnie and punched numbers in his cell phone, Detective Crisp kept his attention on Joanna. From where Joanna sat she could only see one of Marnie’s slipper-clad feet.
“I've known her not quite a year. She sells—sold me—some of her old clothes.”
“Tell me about it,” the detective said.
The day Marnie first appeared the fall before, the store had been quiet. Joanna had looked up from a skirt she was mending to find Marnie standing at the door with a cardboard box at her feet.
“Do you buy old clothes?” she'd asked.
“Yes, I do.” Although Marnie's appearance—baggy pants, waterproof jacket—didn't suggest a glamour puss, Joanna had enough experience to know the box could contain anything from 1930s silk nighties to an old wedding gown to a stack of batik hippie skirts.
“Got a few things I don't need anymore.” Marnie had pulled a dress from the box and held it up by its shoulders. It was Nile green and covered with an intricate pattern of bugle beads that gleamed in the dim morning light. From its length and strong nylon lining, Joanna guessed it was from the mid-1960s. She could imagine a guest wearing it on the Merv Griffin Show. Maybe Nancy Sinatra.
While Joanna was trying to figure out how to flush the cigarette smoke out of the dress, Marnie had commented on her grandmother’s ring. She took Joanna’s hand in her dry palm and touched the ring’s pearl. Then she mentioned she
had a few other things she could bring in, as well.
Early on she had dreaded when Marnie came to the store because she was so difficult to talk to. But as they got to know each other, their relationship eased. Marnie might sit on the red velvet bench in the center of the store, the bench Joanna sat on now, and recount her days dancing at Mary's Club. She described her dresses, the nightclubs she visited, and laughed about some of the people she used to know. One snowy afternoon when the store was deserted, she’d even brought Martinis from the bar next door to sip while they sorted through some Ship 'N Shore capris and blouses. Joanna had come to look forward to Marnie’s visits.
How could she explain to the detective the friendship that had sprung up between them? She tried to think of a polite way to put it. “We had a sort of understanding, but I’m not sure Marnie was the type to have a lot of close friends.”
“Maybe the type to have enemies?” The detective looked alert again.
“I didn't say that.” Was he trying to confuse her? “Why, do you think someone killed her?”
“Is there a reason she'd be murdered?”
“No, I mean, not that I know of.” She grabbed a scarf on a nearby display and began folding it meticulously, willing her hands to be calm. “But I don’t know why she’d go out in house shoes.”
The detective glanced at Marnie’s feet. “Getting a little confused, was she?”
Joanna shook her head. “She had a bad cough and could be curt, but she was still sharp. Nothing wrong there.”
“I see.” Detective Crisp’s tone was indifferent. “Anything else?” he prompted. The policeman who had been on the phone was engrossed in figuring out the latch on a lizard handbag.
“No. Nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” His gaze unnerved her.
He jotted a few things in his notebook. Joanna couldn’t read his upside down, scratchy writing. “You don't have any plans to leave town right away, do you?” he asked.
“No. I'll be here.” The detective couldn't possibly think she killed Marnie. Could he?
The policeman had abandoned the lizard clutch and was examining a marabou boa. Detective Crisp had to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. “Sorry. The medical examiner will be here in a few minutes, and you can get back to business.”
“Crisp, look at this.” The policewoman held the Lanvin coat open with latex-gloved hands. A foot-long cut sliced the lining cleanly a few inches above the hem.
Joanna’s jaw dropped. “That wasn’t there yesterday. I’m sure of it.”
“The lining looks old. Could have frayed. Maybe one of your customers got her heel stuck in it. That happened to my wife once,” Detective Crisp said.
“Sure, but not against the grain of the fabric like that. I’ve seen enough old silk to know shredding from a clean cut. That lining was definitely slit.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Lanvin coat hung lifeless from the mannequin’s shoulders. Each time it caught Joanna’s eye later that day, she remembered Marnie. Remembered the gurney trundling past a rack of skirts. Remembered Marnie’s frail shape under the white cover.
A man the landlord had sent to replace the lock on the front door worked quietly. He was tall with sandy brown hair and long, tapered fingers. He wore a tee shirt with an old wool shirt open over it, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The odor of raw wood and oil drifted from the front of the store.
She picked up the steamer and ran it under the skirt of a 1940s peach slip, releasing the scent of lavender sachets. She’d shut off the stereo. No music suited her mood. June Christie was too sad, Sarah Vaughn too yearning, Tom Jones too Tom Jones.
The bell jangled as a tall blond man in a business suit entered the store. Her ex. “Hey Jo, I brought you a poster for Chick's rally. Think you could put it in the window?” He set his umbrella near the door. His words rattled the emotion-laden silence. He glanced at the workman. “Am I interrupting something?”
With her foot Joanna clicked off the steamer at its base. “Hi Andrew. No, I just—” She thought about telling him about Marnie, but she didn’t want to get into it. Not with him. “—I’m getting a new lock.”
Despite the rain, Andrew looked cool and unruffled, more like a tennis pro on his day off than a congressional aide in the heat of a contentious campaign.
“It's stuffy in here,” Andrew said. “You should get air conditioning.”
“You know how I feel about that. No thanks. Stand by the fan.” People were slaves to climate control these days. Why architects began making office buildings with windows that couldn’t open was beyond her.
Andrew ignored her advice and stared at the man at the door. Responding to Andrew’s attention, the workman stepped forward. “Hi, I'm Paul.” He wiped his palm on his jeans and shook Andrew’s hand. “A little bit of a mess.” He nodded at the pieces of brass at his feet and then glanced at Joanna.
“Is he going to be here long?” Andrew sized up the workman.
What was his deal? He had no reason—or right—to be jealous. He was married now.
Paul unflinchingly returned his gaze. She took a second look at the workman. Not movie star handsome, but there was something about him.
“I don’t know. As long as it takes, I guess,” Joanna said. She noted Andrew’s expression and changed the subject. “Why are you delivering posters, anyway? Don't you have volunteers to do that?”
“Sure, but I was in the area and thought I'd drop by. Chick asked, actually. He said this is an up-and-coming neighborhood.” He set the poster on the bench at the center of the store and sat down. “I left you a message the other day, but you never called back.”
“It's been busy.” She clicked the steamer on again. If Andrew was going to stick around, she might as well get some work done. “How's the campaign going?”
He grimaced. “The polls are close. Mayer is arguing that Chick’s too old, that he's too much of an insider, all the standard bull. In the Senate, though, he'll be far from the oldest. And he’s definitely the best candidate, policy-wise.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
“He’s a little freaked out, actually. We’ve stepped up the campaigning. It's been a lot of running around. I think last night was the only night we’ve had off for weeks.” He picked a piece of lint from his pants. “You're coming to the rally on Tuesday, aren't you?”
“I don’t know. Apple has the day off and I’d have to close the store.”
“Only for a few hours. You have to come. Tell Apple and Gavin to come, too. It’s a big deal.” His cell phone buzzed, and he glanced at its screen. “Got to go. But I’ll see you at the rally.” He rose from the bench and gave Joanna a quick peck on the cheek as if the matter were settled. “Arpège, right? Smells nice.”
“Thanks.” She’d chosen the Lanvin perfume in honor of the coat. Now she didn’t think she’d ever wear it again.
He picked up his umbrella by the door. He turned and smiled again, but his smile dropped off when he caught sight of the workman. Andrew had so many good qualities. He could be so engaging, so charming. If only he weren’t so self-absorbed. She had spent three years thinking “if only” before deciding to pull the plug.
The workman put down his screwdriver as Andrew left. “The lock works now, but I need to get longer bolts to replace the ones I put in today. I'll be back tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”
As he came closer, she smelled the soap he'd used to shower that morning. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Must be lack of sleep. “Your shirt looks like an old Pendleton,” was all she could think to say.
He slipped off the shirt to look at the label. The tee shirt he wore underneath showed strong shoulders and a tiny scar on his upper arm. She saw half-dressed women all day at the store, but this felt distinctly—different. Apple would have a heyday if she knew he was here. Paul slung the shirt over an arm. “Yeah, you're right. It was my uncle's.” He smiled, revealing a gap betwe
en his front teeth. “Well, until later then.”
Her gaze followed him out the door and past the front window. Where it landed, again, on the Lanvin coat.
***
Joanna closed the store an hour early. True to the twists of weather that make up a Portland summer, the rain had stopped, and the sky shone brilliant blue. She lived in what a real estate agent might have once called a “G. I. dream house”: two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom barely larger than something found on a train, but a comfortable kitchen and a living room with a fireplace.
“I'm home. Godfrey, prepare my Martini,” she commanded the imaginary butler. “And make it snappy. I’ve had one hell of a day.”
She tossed her purse on the down cushions of the chaise longue near the front window and piled the mail on the end table next to a stack of Depression-era Vogues. She kicked one shoe, then the next, across the faded oriental carpet, and saluted the mishmash of amateur portraits on one wall. “Hello, Aunt Vanderburgh,” she said to a pastel of a tight-lipped woman.
In the bedroom, Joanna slid off her dress and hung it on a satin-padded hanger. She pulled a loose 1940s housedress over her head. Its cotton skirt swished about her legs as she made her way to the kitchen.
She took a hefty ribeye steak from the freezer. With a pile of mashed potatoes and a handful of green beans from the garden, her dinner would be as close as she could get to Valium on a plate. No pre-fab meal here. People were always surprised when they found out she refused to have a microwave or even a cell phone. If Carole Lombard didn’t need them, why should she? Joanna laid the steak out to thaw.
Her hand paused over a salt shaker that had belonged to her grandmother. On the face of it they couldn’t be more different, but her grandmother was a lot like Marnie. Like Marnie, her grandmother knew how to take care of herself. When Joanna was six years old, after her grandparents had taken her in, she had heard the saying that “dogs are a man's best friend,” but also that “diamonds are a girl's best friend.” She complained to her grandmother she understood how dogs could be a friend, but wasn't claiming diamonds as a friend going too far?
The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) Page 2