The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries)

by Angela M. Sanders

  “Come on, Chet.”

  Joanna watched them get in the patrol car. Once the customer had left with her purchases, Joanna turned to Paul. “What was that all about?”

  Paul set the paper bag on the counter. “Detective Crisp arrested my uncle. A couple of times, actually. They go back a long way, when Crisp was investigating robberies.” He drew a small bottle from the bag and looked at her. “I brought you something for your scrape.”

  “He seemed concerned about the store.” Joanna took the antiseptic from Paul's hands and sprayed some on a tissue, but her gaze remained on Paul.

  “My uncle’s a burglar. High-end stuff—jewelry and art, mostly. He had quite a reputation. Crisp chased him down for years before he finally caught up with him. He knows my uncle and I were close, and I suppose he wondered—” Paul picked up his toolbox. “Anyway, no need to worry about him. Uncle Gene’s at Deer Creek state pen.”

  No need to worry about me, either, his tone implied. Aware of Paul watching her, she wandered to the stereo and pulled a record from the stack. Detective Crisp’s cowboy boots had put her in the mood for this one in particular. She dropped the needle, and “Take Me Back to Tulsa” twanged from the speakers.

  “Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys,” Paul said. “You’re kidding.”

  “I love it,” she said stubbornly.

  “I do, too. It’s just not a popular choice these days.”

  “Story of my life.”

  They looked at each other. Joanna felt her skin flush. The phone rang, but she didn’t move to pick it up. After a few rings it stopped. Bob Wills sang about Little Bee getting honey while Big Bee got the blossom.

  Paul broke the silence. “I’d better take care of the window.”

  She surprised herself by touching his arm. “Have you had lunch yet? I was just going to order something from next door. They do a Middle Eastern plate that's pretty good if you eat your way around the hummus.”

  “No, but thanks.” He picked up his tools and started toward the bathroom. “This shouldn’t take long, and I’ll be out of here.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Later in the afternoon, Joanna took the safe deposit box key from her purse and pressed it on the counter. It was small and made of brass, with a five digit number and “U.S. Bank” inscribed on it. If Crisp wasn’t going to follow up, she was. Marnie might have had an alias. Who knows? She picked up the phone.

  After a few seconds of a jazzy version of “The Long and Winding Road,” a woman answered. “U.S. Bank Personal Services. May I help you?”

  “Yes, I wonder if you have a safe deposit box registered to Marnie—or Margaret—Evans?”

  “I'm sorry. We can't give out that information.”

  Joanna had expected as much. “It’s like this. Marnie Evans died, and I found the key in her things. What happens to the contents of her safe deposit box, assuming that she does have one?”

  The woman on the phone explained that the executor of Marnie’s will would have to prove Marnie died before getting access to the box, unless Marnie had authorized someone else to have access to it, too. That is, if she did have a safe deposit box.

  “I see. Thank you.” She clunked the phone back in the cradle. So she wouldn’t be able to walk into the bank herself and see what was in the box. She picked up the phone again to order a bowl of soup from next door. After Paul left, a flurry of customers had kept her busy until now, and she was starved. As she waited for the food to arrive, she tapped a pen absently on the counter.

  The police thought she was overreacting about the key, but she wasn’t buying it. Someone broke into Tallulah's Closet and slashed the coat’s lining first before stealing it. Gisele’s apartment was broken into. The coat and Marnie were the only things common to both situations. And Marnie had ended up dead. Whoever wanted that key must be the same person who moved Marnie to the store and slashed the coat’s lining.

  She stared at the key on the counter. Her first instinct was to get rid of it. She could toss it off the Hawthorne Bridge. If the key was gone, the threat was gone. On second thought, whoever wanted the key wouldn't know it was gone. He—or she—would think Joanna still had it.

  But who would even know Joanna had the key in the first place? It would have to be someone who suspected that the key was in the coat and also knew that the coat was at Tallulah’s Closet. Laura Remmick had seemed unnaturally interested in Marnie, and she had wanted to try the coat on. She was slender and fit enough to have come in the bathroom window. But she wouldn't break into a store and steal the coat, then come back the next day.

  The oscillating fan whooshed in the background. Marnie, oh, Marnie. How could Marnie have knowingly put her in this kind of risk? Joanna fidgeted with a pen, then threw it down. Blossom Dearie’s baby-talk crooning on the stereo began to irritate her, and she replaced the LP with the Barbarella soundtrack. She shouldn't be mad at Marnie. She probably hid the key so long ago that she'd forgotten it was even in the coat until after she sold it. Whoever wanted the key hadn't forgotten, though.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the waitress from Dot's carrying a bowl of soup on a tray. “Here it is. Tomato today. I tossed in an extra roll.”

  “Thanks,” Joanna said and handed her cash. The ringing phone pierced the store’s calm. Joanna’s hand hit the edge of the soup bowl, and it crashed to the linoleum floor. A large, red stain spread slowly at her feet. She grabbed a handful of paper towels from the bathroom to soak up the soup as she answered the phone. It was an automated call encouraging her to refinance her mortgage. Cursing, she slammed the soaked paper towels into the garbage and went to the bathroom for the mop. At least it was almost time to close. She could make something comforting to eat at home—maybe tagliatelle with truffle oil, Pecorino Romano, and a little parsley from the garden. Or a tomato pasta.

  The bell at the door rang as a pregnant woman with bleached platinum hair, roots showing, and a raft of bluebirds tattooed over her shoulders entered the store. “Still open?”

  “For another five minutes.” Joanna leaned the mop against the wall. Damn it. Hopefully the customer would be quick about it. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Maternity wear.” The customer picked up a pair of shoes. “Look, it says ‘Henry Waters Shoes of Consequence.’ That’s hilarious.”

  “We have a few pieces over here. Two 1950s smock tops by Lady in Waiting.”

  “Lady in Waiting. Where do they get those names?”

  Joanna forced a smile.

  “I don’t know if I’ll get this big.” The pregnant lady examined one of the tops and patted her belly. “I’m vegan. My doctor says I should be eating more protein. Dairy, even. My doula says vegan is fine if I do supplements.”

  She could eat a whole canned ham for all Joanna cared. “We have some house dresses, too. A couple of wrap dresses in cotton. They’d see you up to the last trimester.”

  “Look at that.” The pregnant lady ignored Joanna and picked up a navy patent slingback with suede trim. She read from the inside of the shoe. “‘Fiancés, Go Steady With,’ it says.”

  “Yeah, those names are really something.” Would she ever leave? It didn’t look like she wanted to buy anything.

  She put down the shoe. “Bug’s father—I’m calling him ‘Bug’ for now,” she said as she rested a hand on her belly “—thinks dairy is a good idea. Sometimes I get a little lightheaded. My blood pressure is low, you know. But I’m like, hey, you’re just the father. We’re not even married. You don’t have a real say at this point.”

  An unmarried mother, like Marnie. And the father had no say. Could that be it? Could that be what’s in Marnie’s safe deposit box—the identity of Troy’s father? Joanna directed her focus to the pregnant lady. She didn’t want to rush her—after all, she needed the sale, especially with Eve’s store opening—but she had to think. What else could it be that someone would be so desperate to hide?

  “I’m sorry there’s nothing here for you today. We
get new stock all the time, so make sure to check back. If you leave your phone number, I can give you a call if anything comes in.”

  When at last the customer left, Joanna flipped the sign at the front door to “closed.”

  It’s not stocks or jewels in the safe deposit box. It must be proof of the father of Marnie’s child. A secret someone is desperate to hide.

  ***

  Joanna shut off the lights and closed the shop for the night, making sure that the bathroom window was also locked, and left for home on foot. Neighbors were walking their dogs after work, and the jasmine-like scent of blooming Glorybower trees wafted through the late summer evening. She unlocked her front door and stood just inside the house for a moment, listening. The house was quiet. Normal. The portraits stared in the dim light. This is ridiculous, Joanna thought. I'm getting paranoid.

  In the garden she plucked a large, ripe Caspian Pink tomato still warm from the sun. She pinched the tips of a basil plant and put the leaves in her skirt, which she'd gathered up and held in one hand as a basket. She picked a handful of green beans and added them to the pile of vegetables. She’d peel and cook the tomato with the green beans, add a few tablespoons of cream, and toss them with pasta. After a day like today, a starchy dinner was just the ticket.

  She double-checked doors and windows before bed to make sure they were locked, but that night she slept uneasily. The neighbor, home from swing shift at the sewage treatment plant, woke her as his car pulled in the driveway outside her bedroom window. A blast of Crosby, Stills, and Nash quit suddenly when he cut the engine. The predawn train whistles at the Brooklyn yards a few miles away woke her, too, even though she normally slept through them and even liked their faraway eeriness when she did hear them. She thought about the key resting in her purse's inside pocket. Someone broke into the store to find it. Would he come here, too?

  Worry held her in the strange world between consciousness and sleep. Images of Marnie on the beach with Ray and his brother, Troy holding a bouquet of birds of paradise, and Eve smiling at Paul floated in and out until Joanna finally woke. The sun was still soft on the horizon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Pioneer Courthouse Square overflowed with people. Some clutched to-go cups of iced lattes. Others balanced children on their hips or in front-packs against their chests. Still others out on the sidewalk waved signs reading “Environmentalists for Remmick” or simply “Remmick for Senate.” Loudspeakers played music fuzzy with static.

  Joanna and Apple wedged themselves between a man with a patient Labrador retriever and a group of junior high school girls with pink and blue hair.

  “So you really think Marnie was hiding a birth certificate or something like that in her safe deposit box?” Apple asked.

  “What else could it be?”

  “Maybe she was blackmailing him. The father, I mean.”

  “If she was, she wasn’t very good at it. She always seemed to be broke. What I wonder is, why now? Troy must be thirty-ish. Why wait so long?” Joanna frowned at a teenager holding a skateboard who pushed his way past her.

  “Maybe because Marnie knew she was dying. Maybe she needed money to pay the doctor. I guess we’ll never know.” Apple peeled up the edge of her broad-brimmed hat to look at the stage. “Do you see Andrew?”

  “No, but I'm sure he's here. He'd better be. I had to close the store this morning to be here.” She surveyed the crowd. “How is it that Portlanders manage to look like they're camping even when they're downtown?”

  Some of the crowd were street-cool with tattoos and clothes likely scavenged from the Goodwill bins. But much of the rest of the crowd, the people who wrote the larger checks to Remmick, Joanna guessed, wore tee shirts with hiking shorts and flip flops or rubber clogs. Some even sported the horror of sandals with socks. In the 1950s—the years of vintage clothing she loved best—downtown on a Sunday afternoon, men would have worn straw fedoras and ladies would have worn cotton dresses with pumps that matched their handbags. The women would have put on lipstick and set their hair. These days, everyone from a janitor to the mayor wore fleece vests.

  A handful of women in cotton tees and leggings edged near Joanna and Apple. They looked to have just come from yoga class, leaving a flotilla of Subaru wagons in the parking lot.

  “I bet they're all on the board of the same Montessori school,” Joanna whispered. “I wonder where the kids are?”

  “At Suzuki camp, probably. Or terrorizing the labradoodle.”

  Heat rose from the square's brick pavement. A woman jostled Joanna as she made her way closer to the stage. The light rail train’s bell sounded twice as its doors opened and more people disgorged onto the sidewalk bordering the square.

  At last the music shut off, and the crowd's noise began to rise. Congressman Charles Remmick took the stage. Remmick wore khakis and a button-down shirt open at the neck and looked entirely at ease in front of the crowd that now roared with applause and whistles. His arms and face were tan, maybe from his much-publicized river rafting trips or from training for the Portland marathon he ran each year, even at his age.

  “Thank you,” Remmick said, his voice reverberating through the square. The crowd quieted. “Thank you all for coming out. I always know I can count on Portlanders to want to talk about the issues.

  “As you know, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I grew up watching my father come home from the cannery every night, tired, worried about the broken arm that might plunge my family into debt we couldn't shake, or thinking about the college that he couldn't afford for me.

  “But I'm not here to give you a sob story about growing up poor. I just want you to know I understand where so many Oregonians are coming from. And living on the coast also gave me a keen appreciation of our wilderness. I played in the woods with my friends, pretending we were Lewis and Clark. I got to know our Native American friends and see, firsthand, their daily struggles.”

  The crowd cheered again. Joanna remembered Andrew telling her one night that Remmick's big break as a young lawyer had come when he had defended a tribe that sought federal recognition. Ultimately, the bid failed, but Remmick made headlines that boosted his first run for Congress.

  “All my life I've loved Oregon and known I wanted to do what's right for its people. I want to make sure that we all have healthcare and that we have the best colleges and universities. I want to know our pristine wilderness stays that way—” this brought a whoop from the audience “—that salmon runs are strong, and that our air and water are pure.”

  Joanna began to tune out Remmick's words. She supported him one hundred percent, but over the next half hour he would lay out why he was the best candidate for the Senate, mostly for the benefit of the television cameras that would broadcast snippets to Pendleton, Baker City, and points east. She’d heard it before. The crowd pressed against her.

  “Look, there's his wife,” Joanna whispered to Apple and nodded toward the stage. “Doesn’t she look like she could have walked straight out of central casting for 'politician's wife of uncertain age'? I still can’t believe she bought the Pucci.” Laura Remmick tossed her artfully dyed hair and laughed with the crowd at something her husband said.

  Apple looked intently at the stage. “He has a waxy aura.”

  “Andrew?” Joanna asked.

  “No, Remmick. He has a huge blue reach, but a waxy residue on the edges. And pointed on top.” She shot a glance at Joanna. “You know what I think of Andrew's aura.”

  “What does a pointed aura mean?”

  “Dishonesty, usually.”

  One of the Montessori moms glared at Apple and made a “hush” noise. Apple flashed her a “peace” sign.

  Dishonesty. As far as most people were concerned, Remmick’s reputation was unimpeachable. He’d done so much good for his district. From the stage, Laura Remmick smiled at her husband. No children joined them—too bad, the papers would have loved that. No children. Unless...Marnie? Could Remmick be the father? The crowd cheere
d to something he’d said, and Remmick beamed, a light wind ruffling his hair. No. Impossible.

  They stood for a moment, listening to more platitudes about jobs, the environment, and the need to turn out for the election. Antsy, Joanna looked at Apple, and Apple nodded. They wove their way out of the crowd and across the street surrounding the square.

  “Air, at last,” Joanna said.

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I can’t help but think about Marnie and wonder why she hid that safe deposit box key. The store just doesn’t feel the same anymore.” Their footsteps hit the sidewalk in unison. “Hell, my life doesn’t feel the same. Ever since she brought in that coat, everything has turned upside down. Marnie died, the store’s been broken into, and now Eve plans to run me out of business.”

  “I never felt good about that coat from the get-go,” Apple said.

  “It’s not the coat’s fault. It’s that key. I’m sure of it.”

  “The store’s closed until lunch, right? I have some mugwort in my bag. Why don’t we do an energy clearing? The coat’s gone, Marnie’s—gone. Maybe if we clear the energy things will get back to normal.”

  “I don’t know. Last time you smudged, you set off the smoke detectors. I thought we’d never get them turned off again.”

  “You have to admit that things went much more smoothly around there after I cleared that load of Jantzen bathing suits. The toilet started working again, remember?” Apple's bracelets jangled as she lifted a hand to push up her sunglasses. “It can’t hurt.”

  “Oh, all right. I’m meeting up with Nina, Marnie’s old roommate, this afternoon, but I guess we have a couple of hours.”

  “That’s plenty of time. The car’s just around the corner.” Apple picked up her pace.

  Joanna was skeptical. Turning around her life now was way too much work for a little bit of herbs.

  ***

  “First, let’s move these mannequins. We need privacy.” Apple lugged two mannequins—one adorned with a sky-blue lace dress with a full skirt and three rhinestone brooches pinned in a cluster, the other in a dusty brown 1950s suit with a thick mink band encircling the wrist of each sleeve—to build a screen between the tiki bar and the wall the store shared with Dot’s. With a rack of hats between them, they shut out the view of the back of the store from the front window.