The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries)

by Angela M. Sanders

  She nodded again.

  “In the old days, Mary’s Club had a gambling room in the back. Not legal. Don worked with some local mobsters to get things set up, and I’m sure he paid a few policemen to look the other way, too. One night he arranged to have Uncle Gene break in and steal a couple of days’ haul. My uncle got his cut, and the rest went into Marnie’s bank account—at least, temporarily. Don told his partner in the mob that the money was stolen. I’m not sure if they believed him, but they couldn’t prove otherwise.” Paul rose and carried his plate to the sink. “I think it finally caught up with him.”

  He had Joanna’s complete attention now. “But why wait so long? That was over forty years ago.”

  “I can’t say, unless it has to do with Marnie. She knew she was dying. She might have put pressure on Don for some of the payout. When he refused, she told his old partners.”

  Joanna’s brow furrowed. “It’s a good story, but it doesn’t make sense. No. Someone warned me off of looking for ‘papers.’ Some kind of papers were in Franklin’s safe deposit box, and he took them out and hid them. Someone wants them.” She looked straight at Paul. “Really badly.”

  “What do you mean by ‘papers’?”

  “I’m not sure. Not yet.”

  “Did you try telling Crisp? He'd be the one to care. If there's something on this boat you’re talking about, let the detective deal with it.”

  Paul's dog got down from the chair and sat next to Joanna, eyeing her plate.

  Joanna took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I know you're right. I’ve been trying to get out of this mess since it started, and it seems like I just keep getting in deeper.”

  “Call the police. Call them now. It's still early evening, you should be able to get someone on the phone. Tell them about your suspicions and let them look into it.”

  “I really don't think it would do any good. Every time I've tried to talk to the detective about the key, he shoots holes through my theories. He doesn't care what I have to say. Besides, I can’t call right now, I don’t have a cell phone.”

  Paul picked up his cell phone from the kitchen counter and put it on the table next to her. “It’s just one call. The worst he can do is hang up on you. They should be following up on this, not you.”

  She sighed. She didn't like being bullied, and was tempted to tell Paul to shut up. At the same time, he had a point. She wiped her fingers and reached for the phone. He watched her. She took the phone to the corner of the shop, away from him, and punched in the detective's phone number from his business card. He never seemed to answer his phone anyway. Just when she was mentally preparing a message for his voice mail he picked up.

  “Detective Crisp.”

  “Uh, yes, this is Joanna Hayworth.”

  “Yes.” The detective certainly didn't encourage a lot of conversation.

  “I didn't think you'd answer.”

  “I'm here now.”

  Well, okay. “Yes, remember when we went to the safe deposit box?”

  “I do.”

  “Remember how the bank officer said that Franklin Pursell had visited the box not long ago? I think he took some important papers from the box before he died. I think the papers are on his boat, and—”

  The detective cut her off. “Ms. Hayworth, we found Cayle's murderer.”

  “You did?” She turned to face Paul's direction. He was feeding a jojo to his dog.

  “A few hours ago we brought in Nina Kim, and she's confessed.”

  Joanna gasped. “What? Nina?”

  “That's what I said. She’s downtown right now. So, if you don't mind, I have work to do.” The detective hung up.

  Stunned, Joanna continued to hold the phone to her ear. She finally pressed “end” and crossed the room to Paul. “They found out who killed Don. It was Nina, an old friend of Marnie's. Nina killed Don. She confessed.” She sat down.

  “So you don't have anything to worry about. You're safe now.”

  “Yes,” she said uncertainly. She remembered the sickly odor at Don's house and now recognized it as Nina's Jungle Gardenia mixed with heat and blood. Nina had done it. Nina killed Don. She should have known. And yet...

  “Yes, but what?”

  “She couldn't have broken into my place. Even if she killed Don then burned rubber on the way to my house, she wouldn't have had time to break in and search it. I had seen her at the store less than an hour before I went to Don's. She couldn’t have done it then. It doesn't make sense.”

  Paul stood up. “Joanna, listen to me. It's over.”

  “I don't know, something doesn't seem right.” She rose and paced the workshop floor, leaving a trail of footprints in the sawdust.

  He lifted his hands. “It’s over. Let it alone.”

  His fingers encircled each of her shoulders. She reached up and put her hands against his chest in reflex. His skin was warm under the tee shirt. He looked down at her, and she caught her breath. She grabbed a fistful of his tee shirt and pulled him toward her until their mouths met.

  The kiss was long and full, and his mouth tasted like champagne. The electricity she’d felt earlier now trembled through her to the bone. She slid her arms around his back and pulled him closer. Then stopped.

  It was too much all at once.

  She pushed him away. “Let go of me.” Her voice came out more loudly than she'd expected. Tears burned at her eyes as she reached for her purse. “Goodbye.”

  The suitcase lay, forgotten, on the workbench.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Joanna sat in the car in front of her house and forced herself to breathe more slowly.

  The detective said Nina killed Don. But that didn’t necessarily mean she killed Marnie. And what about carving the threat in her wall? Nina wouldn’t break into her house, arrive smiling at Tallulah’s Closet to sell clothes, then head off to shoot Don. No. And what about Franklin? What could Franklin’s papers have to do with her?

  Nina had once admitted to Joanna that lots of people thought she wanted Marnie dead. Joanna gritted her teeth in frustration. If only she could talk to Nina, she’d know for sure. She looked at the house. Pepper stared at her from the front window. It would be so nice to walk in, drop her purse on a chair, and settle in for the evening, but she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She started the car. The detective had said they were holding Nina downtown.

  The streets near the police station were quiet this early Saturday evening, and for once parking was easy. Central Precinct was in a new, six-floor office building with the jail’s gym at the top. Rumor had it that women would sit in the park across the street and gaze at the top of the police building in the hopes of seeing a loved one on the treadmills.

  In contrast to the more lax neighborhood precinct where Joanna had visited Officer Riggs, reception at Central was forbidding. Joanna passed through a metal detector and had her purse searched before reaching a uniformed policeman at a desk.

  “I’d like to see Nina Kim, please. She was just brought in.”

  “Nope.” The officer scratched his buzz cut with a pen. “Visiting hours are over.”

  “It’s not to visit. It has to do with her case. It’s important,” Joanna pleaded.

  The officer raised an eyebrow. “Detective send you?”

  “Yes. Detective Crisp.” A white lie. But if he knew how important this was, he would have asked her to come.

  The officer picked up the phone. Sun-faded photos of the mayor and the police chief hung above the plastic ficus next to his desk.

  “He’s not answering. You say he asked you to come?”

  She nodded.

  “All right. Go up to the fifth floor.” He waved her to the bank of elevators.

  Upstairs, the elevator opened into a small foyer with a few chairs. She went to the counter. On the other side of a sheet of bulletproof glass, a harried-looking woman rose from her desk. Behind her lay a warren of cubicles, and offices lined the perimeter. Joanna wondered if they were interrogation r
ooms, or if that only happened on TV.

  “Joanna Hayworth. I’d like to see Detective Crisp, please.”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “He never tells me when people are coming. He’s expecting you?”

  The fewer lies she told the better. Rather than say yes or no, she smiled.

  “Have a seat.”

  She turned to the plastic chairs near the elevator. She was almost in to see Nina. Maybe Nina had already confessed to the other murders and explained about the key. If not—if she weren’t responsible—she’d tell Joanna. She knew it. Just a few minutes of conversation and her questions would be answered.

  The elevator opened, and two uniformed policemen got out. “You Hayworth?” the meatier one asked. She nodded. He hooked an elbow under her arm and lifted. The other officer hooked her other arm.

  “What are you doing?” She flailed for her purse, and the meaty officer stuffed it under his arm.

  “You’re outta here. No one’s expecting you—Crisp’s busy. And don’t think you can try it again next shift. We have your face on the computer downstairs.” In the elevator, they kept a firm hold on her arms.

  “I just wanted to ask one thing, that’s all. It has to do with a murder,” she said. “Don’t you care?”

  “Not so much,” one of the policemen answered. “And we have telephones here, you know.”

  “I tried to call, but he wouldn’t let me finish.”

  “There you go,” the policeman said.

  “Can I at least have my purse back?”

  The elevator dinged to the lobby. The policemen handed over her purse and pushed her out. The door closed. Joanna rubbed her upper arms and turned to see the guard she’d talked to when she arrived standing, arms folded in front of his chest. He nodded toward the front door, and Joanna took the hint.

  On the street, she leaned against the cement wall separating the sidewalk from the plaza above and sighed. Great. Now what was she going to do?

  A hummingbird zipped down from the plantings on the plaza to the park across the street and disappeared into the shrubbery. There on a park bench next to that shrubbery sat Nina’s husband, Gary.

  “Gary!” She ran across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a bus pulling away from the curb. She caught her breath as she neared his bench. “Remember me? From Marnie’s memorial service?”

  He turned his head away. “I don’t want to talk now.”

  She sat down next to him. Her voice was gentle. “I heard about Nina. That’s why I’m here. I came to see her.”

  He didn’t respond for a moment, then asked, “They let you in?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Her own husband. They said they’d talk to me later.”

  Her eyes softened with compassion. Her problems were nothing compared to Gary’s. “Do you—do you know why she did it?”

  “Nina is a good person.” He looked small. Joanna waited for him to add more. “She loved Don. I thought that was over, but I guess not. She told me she’d heard something about Don and went to see him. He wouldn’t talk to her, then someone else came, a woman. She knew Don kept a gun. So she...” His voice faded.

  A woman. That would be her. “But how—”

  “I thought it was over a long time ago. Why did she go see him? She told me it was over after the baby, after she...” This time anguish choked off his voice.

  The story began to gel. “Did Nina get pregnant by Don? Then have a—a procedure?”

  Gary nodded without looking up.

  Shit. “And she wasn’t able to get pregnant again?” Abortion wouldn’t have been legal that many years ago. Lord knew where or how it was carried out.

  He nodded again. When Joanna had hinted that Don might be Troy’s father, Nina had been furious. She must have thought Marnie had kept Don’s baby, a baby she could never have. Joanna glanced at the impassive facade of the police headquarters. For all her pain, Nina didn’t kill Marnie or Franklin. She didn’t care about the safe deposit box.

  Gary’s body wracked with sobs next to her. It was all Joanna’s fault. Don had died for nothing. She remembered him lying on the kitchen floor, his shirt soaked with blood. If she hadn’t said anything to Nina, maybe he’d still be alive, and Nina would be home.

  “Gary.” His gaze met hers briefly then dropped to his hands. “I’m more sorry than you can know.”

  Whatever the hell was going on, it had to stop. She would get those papers and find the murderer if it were the last thing she did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The sun lowered in the sky. Sauvie Island was only seven miles from downtown Portland but felt much further. Farms and pasture dotted the island, and a few well-to-do Portlanders had built custom mansions with views of the river. She drove with her windows open. Now that summer was near its end, the evening air was cool. The Corolla's engine knocked and hissed every few minutes, but seemed to be driving all right. She’d call the mechanic in the morning.

  She crossed the bridge onto the island and drove west along the canal separating the mainland from the island. She pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store to ask where to find the marina.

  Standing near the cashier with a box of breath mints was Andrew. He wore the black, Italian-cut suit she knew he kept for special events.

  “Joanna. What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

  “Sure, I'm fine.” Odd that he'd ask. “I'm going to visit a friend, that's all.”

  “I didn't know you had friends out here.”

  “Well, I do. I just wanted to check where his houseboat is moored.” She emphasized the “his.” “Anyway, what are you doing here?”

  “Another fundraiser for Remmick. You know the founder of Yoga Heart dotcom? He has a spread just down the road past the marina. Should be an interesting crowd. Vegan hors d'oeuvres.”

  She made a face. “Well, I'd better go.” She turned toward the cashier. “I don't want to be late.”

  “All right. Well, have fun.”

  She heard the purr of his BMW a minute later as it left the lot. The cashier drew a crude map to the marina. She took it back to the car and set it on the passenger's seat. Old Blue's starter whined once and then twice but wouldn't turn over. The third time she turned the key, she heard nothing at all. Damn. She was so close. The marina wasn’t far by car, but at least half an hour by foot. It was getting dark, too. She tried the ignition once more, and this time the Corolla reluctantly sputtered to life.

  She crept down the road atop the dike. Whenever she tried to shift above second gear, the car jolted in protest. After an excruciating few miles, she saw a line of boats—mostly houseboats but some fishing and cruising boats—moored on the canal below the road as the cashier had said. The outlet road to the marina led down to a small, unlit gravel parking lot. As she shut off the engine, it emitted an ominously final bang, shaking the entire car. She smelled burning oil and groaned. After she checked out the marina, she'd find a pay phone and call a tow truck. Old Blue wouldn’t make it back to town under her own power.

  A mercury light affixed to a power pole partway down the marina buzzed to life as night fell. Traffic hummed faintly along the two-lane St. Helens highway on the mainland. Otherwise, it was quiet.

  She strode across the parking lot and stepped gingerly onto the wooden pier. The water flowed deep and heavy below her. Windows glowed pale yellow in a few of the houseboats, and one man sat on his deck facing the canal, the tip of his cigarette a bright speck of orange. She moved confidently, as if she belonged.

  If Franklin still had the boat she'd seen in Nina's photos, it would be wooden and big enough for a bed, but not too large. She wished she'd thought to bring a flashlight. The canal was almost black now, reflecting waves of fuzzy light from the lamp down the pier.

  About two-thirds of the way up the marina was moored a wooden boat that fit the bill. She knelt to read its prow. “Goldilocks,” it said in chipped black paint on a green background. Bingo.

  Was that
a car slowing on the road above the dike? No, nothing but the lapping of water against the pier. She stood up, then stepped gently onto the boat. She paused and again looked toward the parking lot. No one could see her.

  At the front of the boat, pointed toward the canal, was a windowed cabin. A coil of rope sat on the deck next to a bucket, but otherwise the deck was clear. She pulled down the door handle. Locked, of course. She looked around the perimeter of the cabin. This was the only way in. Too bad she hadn't got that lock picking lesson.

  One of the windows toward the rear of the cabin didn't close as tightly as the others. She pried her fingernails under the window, which was designed to open out, and it gave a fraction of an inch before the latch stopped it. A nail file would have been perfect to slip in the crack to open the window's latch, but she didn’t have one. Apple’s necklace clanked against the boat as she leaned forward. Yes. She lifted the Hand of Fatima pendant over her head then slid its thin edge through the window. It easily flipped the latch, and the window opened.

  Although she could now reach inside, it was too small to crawl through and too far from the door to reach the inside handle. She could, however, reach through and unlatch the window closest to the door. Once that window was open—its latch stuck for a moment—she slid her arm into the cabin up to her shoulder and unlocked and opened the cabin door.

  Inside the cabin she stood listening. Besides faraway sounds—something dropping in the water, maybe, and the honking of an early flock of geese headed south—the night was still. She shut the windows.

  At the front of the cabin was a steering wheel and a swivel seat. The smell of damp canvas and mildew permeated the cabin. In the thin moonlight she made out a wooden dash dotted with chromium-rimmed gauges, some of the chrome flaked off and the gauges cloudy. On the far side was a bench whose padded lid looked like it might lift for storage underneath. It didn't have a lock. Joanna raised it. Nothing but a pair of rubber boots, a rain slicker, and a gas can. Nothing else in the main cabin would hold papers.

  At the rear of the cabin, a door led down into the boat’s hold. She paused a moment, her fingers on its handle. It wasn't too late to go back to her car. She could call a tow truck, and within an hour she'd be sitting in Apple's living room drinking chamomile tea. Joanna remembered the torn piece of dress left under her windshield. She couldn’t return to Apple’s. She had to find the papers.