The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries)

by Angela M. Sanders

  “And sad.”

  “So, how did you know Marnie?” He took a pencil from behind his ear and picked up the level resting on the top of the stepladder.

  “She used to sell me clothes. I own a vintage clothing store, Tallulah’s Closet.”

  Troy marked a spot on the wall, then picked up a spool of wire. “Oh yeah, the place on Clinton. Next to Dot's. That’s yours?”

  “Uh huh. It wasn’t in the papers, but I was the one who found her. In my store. It was awful.”

  A curl of wire dangled from the spool. “You what? You found her dead? I guess I thought—” He didn’t finish his sentence. A moment passed before he picked up his pencil again.

  If Troy really was her son, maybe Joanna hadn’t been very sensitive. “You know, Marnie would have appreciated that you hang paintings. She had a thing for watching home decorating shows on television. I'm not altogether sure she wouldn't have liked the clowns, either.”

  He laughed and snipped a length of wire before attaching it to a cable running along the top of the partition.

  “I have to admit that I was surprised when you showed up at her memorial service. She always seemed so—alone.” She kept her eyes on him. Lying about law school, indeed.

  “I can see that. I was surprised when I met her. I never thought my birth mother would be a stripper.”

  “Did you see her very often?”

  “No, not really.” He stepped off the ladder to pick up a painting of a clown with a glistening tear drop on his cheek. “We talked on the phone from time to time, but we only met three times since she first called me about a year ago. She took me out once to Higgins. Lunch was great, but I think it almost killed her to go that long without a cigarette.” He paused a moment, the clown dangling mid air. “Bad choice of words, but you know what I mean. Anyway, she was proud that I'm going to law school and used to send me money every month. It was funny—she never sent a check, just cash. Tens and twenties mostly.”

  So that’s why Marnie was so eager to sell her clothes. It would be like her to send Troy envelopes stuffed with cash instead of writing a check. But would she have thought to verify that Troy truly was her son?

  “The money really helped out, but I don't have to worry so much about it now, at least not once the house sells.”

  She raised her eyebrows. No, Marnie couldn’t have. “You must have had a terrific job between college and law school to buy a house.”

  “Oh, no.” He turned toward Joanna. “Didn't you know? Marnie wrote me into her will. Her lawyer saw her obit and got in touch with me. She left me everything, including a really sweet Mercedes. I got myself into a little financial trouble a few years ago, and, well, the money from the house will definitely come in handy.”

  He finished hanging the clown and straightened it on the wall. “But that's not why you stopped by. Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

  She chose her words carefully. He’d already wheedled his way into Marnie's estate. Who's to say he wouldn't try to take advantage of a potential father, too? “Yes, there is, in fact. I wondered if Marnie had ever told you anything about your father? I have something Marnie left behind. It seemed right to give it to him.”

  “Nope. Don’t know who he is. I asked her once, and she ignored me. I sort of figured I was the result of a one-night stand.”

  “I know she had affairs—or at least judging from the flowers she got at the memorial service, some especially dedicated fans. But she had serious relationships, too.”

  “I have to admit when I looked around at the crowd at the service I wondered if any of them could be my father.”

  She thought back to the dim room at Mary's Club, the sound of Judy Garland's voice wafting over the sound system. The black light mural behind them, washed out under the houselights. Ray, Nina, her husband, and Don all looking at each other when Troy walked in. Ray seemed to see Marnie as a big sister, not a lover, although you never knew. Marnie’s first love, Franklin, was dead. Besides, they’d been involved too long ago for Franklin to have fathered Troy. Then there was Don.

  “She had a long relationship with Don Cayle, the man sitting closest to the stage.”

  Troy nodded. “I remember him. The guy with the pinkie ring.”

  “Yes. I think he gave Marnie the Mercedes.”

  “Hey, pinkie ring or not, the man has good taste. He gave me his card, said he'd be calling about getting together sometime. It seemed a little out of place, but I thought, you know, whatever. You never know when it might come in handy to have someone’s number.” Troy paused, pliers in hand. “Marnie did mention a guy she used to know. Once or twice she said something about him. Someone she used to work with at Mary's Club. I wonder if it was Don?”

  “I wouldn't be surprised.” Troy sounded interested. Of course, he would be if he thought if Don were his father. It was no secret that Don had money.

  “I had the feeling that she was a little sorry for him. She didn't talk much about her old life, but she did mention she felt she owed someone something. What is it you want to give my dad, anyway?”

  “It hardly seems important now,” she lied.

  Troy waited for more explanation. When Joanna didn’t reply, he said, “Well, I'm sorry I can't help you more.” He set his pliers on a rung of the stepladder. “It's funny. Marnie seemed to be cleaning things up, as if she knew she was going to die. It's like she sought me out and wanted to make amends by giving me money. She even drew up a will.”

  “She did have pretty advanced cancer. She must have known she wouldn't live long.”

  “I don't see why she was so secretive. She could have left a letter with her lawyer telling me who my father was, but she didn't even do that.”

  Then Joanna had another thought. “Do you know what you're going to do with Marnie's clothes?”

  “I guess I thought I'd hire an estate sale company to sell everything.”

  “I could give you a better price than an estate sale company. I'd love to have first crack at Marnie's wardrobe.” It would be another chance to look around Marnie's house. Maybe she'd find something to point her in the direction of Troy's father.

  Troy stepped down the ladder and faced her, his hands folded in front of his chest. “That’s why you really came today, isn’t it?” He nodded as if he’d caught her in something. “You wanted her clothes. You made up some kind of story about my dad, but it was Marnie’s clothes you wanted all along.”

  Yikes. She put her purse down again. “No, no. Really, it was about your father. The clothes are a total afterthought. If you want to wait for the estate sale company, that’s fine with me.”

  He stood silent, arms still folded, watching her.

  “I really can give you the best price, though.” She guessed when you’re looking for the advantage like Troy is, you think everyone else is, too.

  He burst into laughter. “It’s all right. I get it. I’m no fool. You’ll pay faster than an estate sale company anyway, and I can use the cash.”

  “Really, I—”

  Troy waved her away. “I have the keys to the house now to look around a little, but I have to give them back tomorrow. The house isn't really mine until probate is through. I doubt the lawyer is going to come down and count Marnie’s dresses. If you want, you could come by later this afternoon.”

  “Late afternoon would be good.” Apple could take over at the store. “Maybe around five?” She glanced at her watch. Almost time to open.

  “All right.” He moved the ladder away from the wall and stepped back to survey his work. “What do you think?”

  The velvet clowns stared back, each creepier than the last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Before opening Tallulah’s Closet for the day, Joanna stopped by Dot's to order something for lunch. Then she readied the store for business. She turned on the lights, set out the sign, and selected a Judy Collins album for the stereo. Seeing the paintings at the Velveteria had given her an itch for “Send in the Clowns.�
� Apple had left a note by the phone saying she’d put a crystal in the window to ward off bad energy. Its light spangled near the front door.

  Even the routine of opening the store brought her pleasure. The lush patterns of fabric on the racks, the faint perfume of a scented candle, the row of leather pumps against the wall confirmed every day that she’d made the right choice in opening a vintage clothing store. Damned Eve. What could she do?

  Her sandwich arrived as she was checking the phone messages.

  “I'm calling for Joanna Hayworth,” a reedy voice played on the answering machine tape. “This is Rick Matthews with Cord Matthew McKeen. I'm calling about the Margaret Evans estate.”

  Marnie’s lawyer. The breath stalled in her throat. She copied down the attorney’s phone number, then pushed away her sandwich, where she’d laid out a yellowed linen napkin and a sterling table knife she’d bought at at an estate sale. She picked up the phone and was quickly put through to the attorney.

  Rick Matthew’s voice was businesslike. “I'm handling the probate for Ms. Evans’s estate. I called to let you know that Marnie left you something in her will. We've put a certified letter in the mail, but I wanted to tell you firsthand.”

  “No kidding? I'm surprised she thought of me.” So sweet—and unexpected—of her.

  “Just a second and I'll read you the passage.” The attorney was back on the phone in the time it took Joanna to eat a tater tot. “Here it is: 'To Joanna Hayworth, I bequeath my ivory beaded Helen Rose dress, stored in my cedar chest, and all the clothing in my closet and bureau’.”

  If the Helen Rose dress was in good condition, it would be a remarkable score. Helen Rose had designed Grace Kelly's wedding dress and Elizabeth Taylor's wardrobe for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. And the dresses. She’d have to make a special “Marnie” section in the store. She could tell customers Marnie’s story. A pang went through her as she remembered the stolen Lanvin coat.

  “Thank you so much. Marnie meant a lot to me.”

  “There’s more.” Matthew cleared his voice. “You were always special to me, Joanna. You’re every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined.” Paper crinkled. “That’s all.”

  As she’d imagined? As if Marnie knew who Joanna was before they met. Unlike Troy, Joanna was certain of her biological parents. Maybe the police detective was right, and Marnie was starting to lose it just a little. She took a moment to let it all sink in.

  “Ms. Hayworth, are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry.” Joanna stood up straighter. “Thank you for reading that.” Her thumb reached across her palm to touch the back of her grandmother’s ring. “I saw Marnie’s son just this morning. I understand he's pretty much inheriting the whole estate.”

  “Yes. Troy.”

  Joanna paused. “So, there's no question that Troy is her son?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I just—I guess you hear all those stories about impostors.”

  “All I can tell you is that Troy is in Marnie's will, and she refers to him as her son. If she's sure, then I'm sure.”

  “I don't know if you can reveal something like this, but did Marnie ever mention Troy's father? Maybe leave something for him in her will?”

  “A will is public record, so I'm not betraying any confidences in telling you there's no mention of the father of her child.”

  Joanna smiled at a customer who entered the store and waved a finger to indicate she’d be with her in a minute. “There's one more thing, since I have you on the phone. Marnie sold me a coat, and I found a safe deposit box key in it. Have you got into her safe deposit box yet?”

  “The police asked about that. As far as I know, Marnie doesn't have one. All her papers—the deed to her house, that sort of thing—were in a lockbox in her bedroom. They're in our safe now.”

  “Why would she have a safe deposit box key?”

  “Can't say. Maybe she had a box at one time and never turned the key in.”

  Deep in thought, she hung up the phone. Marnie knew she was going to die and rushed to prepare for it. The lawyer didn't necessarily know all of her secrets. Maybe bringing the Lanvin coat to Tallulah’s Closet was part of a greater plan. She was more interested than ever to get to Marnie's house.

  ***

  Older, well-kept homes lined Marnie’s neighborhood just below the Alameda ridge. Marnie's house, covered with textured yellow stucco, was up a short flight of concrete steps from the street. In front of her minivan sat a car draped in a gray tarp, perhaps the old Mercedes convertible she’d bragged about. It was Troy’s now.

  What must have been Troy’s bicycle, a well-used fixed-gear, leaned against the garage. The front door was ajar.

  “Hello,” she yelled into the living room. The low slant of the late afternoon sun filled the room. She shut the door behind her and turned to look at the row of neatly kept lawns undulating down the street. Maybe Troy wouldn't get much for the furnishings, but Marnie's house would earn him some real money. She put her hands on her hips. Troy barely knew her. It didn't seem right.

  For an ex-showgirl, Marnie kept a grandmotherly house. Pink swags draped the windows, matching the mauve and rose upholstered furniture. Two Queen Anne-style chairs, probably unused for years, flanked a cherry table holding a silk flower arrangement. Judging from its worn seat, the couch was where Marnie spent most of her time. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter sat on the end table next to it, and a half-eaten sandwich and cup of coffee rested on the table in front. The dirty dishes stood out in the otherwise tidy room.

  “Hey.” Troy came in from the kitchen wearing cut-offs and an old tee shirt. A bandanna was tied lopsided around his head. “I'm cleaning up. The refrigerator is full of spoiled food, and there’s glass all over by the back door.”

  Where someone had broken in. And shocked Marnie to death? Or was she already dead?

  A black cat with a white spot on his chest wandered into the living room and twisted through Joanna’s legs. She knelt. “Pepper,” his collar read and listed Marnie’s address. “I’ve heard a few stories about this cat.”

  “I’m allergic. The cat box is disgusting, too. I’m going to call the pound.”

  Pepper nudged his head on Joanna’s calf. Marnie’s cat going to the pound? No. “I could take him.”

  “He’s yours.” Troy toyed with his sponge. “Rick Matthews, Marnie's lawyer, called me this afternoon and said Marnie left you her clothes. I guess you won’t be buying them off me after all.”

  The Helen Rose. “I'm really curious about one of the dresses in particular. It's supposed to be in a cedar chest.”

  Troy put down the sponge and moved toward the hall. “I saw a chest in the second bedroom. This way.” He led her to the crowded guest bedroom and squeezed between a twin bed and some stacked boxes to open the curtains. “Right here,” he said as he moved a stack of romance novels from a wooden chest.

  The varnished cedar chest looked almost exactly like one her grandmother had. Her grandmother had called it a “hope chest” and said she’d embroidered pillowcases and tea towels as a girl to save in the chest for her eventual marriage. Joanna opened its lid, releasing a sharp, woody scent. It was nearly empty except for a bundle wrapped in white tissue. When she set it on the bed, a chiffon skirt slid from the paper.

  “That's got to be it. If you don't mind, I'm going to get back to the kitchen. I want to get the garbage out before it really stinks up the house. When you're done in here, Marnie's clothes are down the hall in the other bedroom.”

  As she unwrapped the dress and laid it across the bed, the sounds of the radio and running water made their way from the kitchen. “My God. Gorgeous,” she whispered. The dress was a breathtaking composition of ivory silk chiffon with a buttery silk underskirt and bodice. Mousseline, as delicate as a spider's web, covered the bodice and shoulders, extending beyond the silk lining to form three-quarter length sleeves. The dress’s full skirt would have hit at tea length. But what really set it apart was the extravagant beadwo
rk covering the front of its bodice and dipping below the waistline in a vee. The beads, all white, ivory, or glittering pearl, formed a full-blown rose. Some of the beads dangled, designed to move with the woman who wore the dress.

  “Oh, Marnie,” she murmured. “You were planning to get married, weren't you?” To whom? Don, maybe? She couldn't possibly sell the dress. She stretched its waist between her hands. She couldn't possibly wear it, either. Marnie had been tiny.

  She returned to the cedar chest, but all she found was a pair of yellowed gloves. She passed her hands once again over the gown’s delicate bodice. She'd have to buy more acid-free tissue to store it. Had Marnie gazed at the dress with sadness over the years or closed it in its chest and never looked back? She gently rewrapped the dress and carried it down the hall to Marnie's bedroom.

  Troy had opened the bedroom windows, and warm, fresh air poured in. He must have watered the garden, too. A few sparrows splashed in the birdbath. He was turning out to be quite the homemaker.

  On the dresser sat a jewelry box shaped like the Virgin Mary with a tangle of necklaces in its tray. Although most of it looked to be costume, she picked up a baguette-cut emerald ring whose value would put the Mercedes outside to shame. Next to the jewelry box was a framed photo. Judging from the style of the clothes, it had been taken nearly fifty years before. Its color had faded into watery reds and ivories, but she recognized a younger, lively Marnie standing next to a wooden boat on the river. She was laughing and kicking an espadrille-clad foot into the air. A dark-haired man had his arm around her shoulders, and another man smiled next to them. Ray. The second man had to be Franklin.

  Joanna pushed open the closet to a row of tiny but elegant mid-century cocktail dresses from the old Nicholas Ungàr department store. Gorgeous. Two of the dresses shimmered in raw silk with full skirts. One was brilliant coral with a demure neckline in the front but a plunging back with a small bow at the bottom. Next to it hung a green peau de soie strapless dress, slightly lighter green tulle crisscrossing its bodice.

  She slid them off their hangers and laid them on the bed. The green peau de soie dress would be perfect for Jennifer, a Tallulah's Closet regular. At the back of the closet were two coats: a smock-style black velvet coat with rhinestone trim that Marnie might have worn with the cocktail dresses, and a leopard print raincoat she guessed was from the late 1960s. The raincoat didn't show much wear. Both coats joined the stack on the bed. At least Eve wouldn’t be getting these, she thought.