The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries)

by Angela M. Sanders

  “I have important phone calls to make, and this woman is harassing me. Escort her to her car and make sure she leaves.”

  “Wait,” Joanna said. Flattery. Talk to his ego. “I understand. I heard you back there. You want to save jobs, do something good for the economy. Your record shows that. That’s why you’ll be our senator.”

  Remmick’s gaze stayed fastened on Joanna, but it softened slightly. The desk lamp cast dark shadows under his eyes. The guard backed off from Joanna but hovered near the door.

  “I just wanted to tell you that you can have it both ways, Mr. Remmick. Why not toss the tribe a bone? Make them partners with Bowman Industries? You’ve done so much good for the state. You can’t help what happened. You were just unlucky.”

  He slumped into the chair. “Unlucky,” he muttered. “If that damned Indian didn’t keep his end of the deal, I’d never have had to—” He pushed the whiskey glass away and gathered the papers in one sweep. Rage returned. “None of this has anything to do with you. Get out now.”

  The congressman's wife, Laura, appeared at the door. “There you are, Charles.” Puzzled, she looked at Joanna then again at the congressman. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Hold on,” Joanna said as the guard took her arm. “Ask him why his pants are torn.” After years of working in vintage clothing, she could spot a moth hole or a ripped seam from across the room. The tear must have come from the sharp-edged latch on the bench in the boat.

  “Ask him about those papers,” she said. “He's been down at the marina, that's where he got them. He's killed for them. He murdered Franklin Pursell and hid the death of Marnie Evans.” She was running out of breath. She suspected that she sounded like a lunatic. The guard's hand on her arm tightened to a bruising grip.

  Remmick shook his head. “Look at you.” His confidence regained, he spoke calmly. “You need help, but I'm afraid you won't find it here. And I've been in the library mostly all evening, haven't I?” He looked at Laura, then put his arm around her.

  Laura drew back.

  “Haven't I?” he repeated.

  “Marnie,” Laura said, almost to herself. She backed up a few steps and looked at the floor. “No, Charles. I tried to find you an hour ago, and you weren't here. The car wasn't here, either.” Her voice quavered.

  He looked at Laura as if she were a stranger. His voice took on a cold edge. “I had something I needed to do. It didn't concern you.”

  “You didn’t kill her, did you? Tell me you didn't kill Marnie,” Laura said.

  “She doesn't know what she's saying.”

  Bewildered, the guard loosened his grip. Remmick, still holding the tribal papers, strode to the patio door and opened it. Joanna tore free of the guard and ran after him. The people around the fire pit smiled and a few rose to meet Remmick, but he ignored them and tossed the papers into the flames. The blowing heat caught some and torched them orange and then brown and scattered others over the patio. She grabbed frantically at the loose papers.

  The congressman lifted a poker resting in the fire. “Put them down.” He pointed the poker at Joanna. “Give them to me.”

  “Someone stop him!” she said.

  “They don't let us carry guns,” the guard whimpered.

  The tip of the poker was white hot fading to orange. She retreated until her back flattened against the cool glass of the main room's window. A reflection off the windows of the dining room showed the woman demonstrating yoga poses now in downward dog.

  “Give me the papers. Now.” The congressman spoke so quietly only she could hear. She smelled the whiskey on his breath.

  Probably ten people stood and watched, but no one moved. “Chill, dude,” one of the guests said.

  “Stay put,” Remmick told the wide-eyed guests. “I've got this under control.”

  Joanna’s breath was shallow and ragged. He’s lost it, she thought. He’s completely lost it. Andrew stood at the edge of the crowd. She looked at him beseechingly. Surely he would help her.

  He looked troubled, but kept his distance. “I can’t.”

  Remmick smirked. “Who do you think broke into your house? He knows where you hide your spare key. And how do you think I found you at the marina? Nice lead on the tribal rolls.”

  She shivered at the chill in his voice. The fingers of one of her hands slipped toward the zipper on her wrist clutch behind her. In her other hand, she held tight to the papers she had saved, fearing her sweaty palms had obliterated their writing.

  “Now give me the papers.”

  She needed just a few more seconds. “You know you can't get away with this. Ray is still alive.” She hoped this was true. “He'll tell everything.” Digging past the lipstick, past her coin purse, her fingers found what they sought. Now, if she could get it in the right position. “It's too late. You may as well just give up.”

  “It's too late for you, you mean.” Remmick raised the poker to her neck. Her hand, clutching the vial of Tabac Blond, shot to his face and pressed the atomizer.

  Remmick dropped the poker and staggered back, holding his eyes. The leather and vanilla perfume mingled with the scent of wood smoke. She slid from the wall. Poised to run, with the forest at her back, she darted from the congressman.

  A motion in the living room caught her attention. Two policemen stood in the window.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Joanna and Paul leaned over a table at Tallulah’s Closet. The Lanvin coat lay splayed open between them. Joanna took a pair of scissors and sliced up the middle of the lining.

  “If I'm right, we should see the stain,” she said as she cut. “The lining is definitely newer than the coat, and it makes sense Franklin would have had the old one replaced, especially if it was bled on.”

  She peeled the lining back on both sides. A large, dark brown mark shaped like Australia spread across the top half of the coat.

  “Sure enough, you're right,” Paul said.

  “It's got to be Remmick's blood. And the aunt’s. Isn’t it funny that evidence against Remmick was here all along?”

  Paul leaned back and pulled from the bottle of non-alcoholic beer he'd brought. “Marnie probably never even knew the key was in the coat the whole time she had it.”

  “When Franklin gave her the coat, he must have thought he and Marnie would always be together, and he'd always be able to get to it. Even after he married someone else, they still saw each other. Witness Troy.” She pointed to his bottle. “Hey, do you have another of those?”

  “Right here.” Paul handed her a bottle from his bag.

  She twisted off the cap and drew a swig. “Ugh. Foul.” She pressed the cold bottle against the bandage on her shoulder.

  “Yep.”

  “Anyway, I doubt Marnie wore the coat at all. It’s too big for her and not really her style. She kept it only because of Franklin, I'm sure.”

  The bell at the door jangled. A woman stuck her head in. “Are you open?”

  “Not officially, but come in,” Joanna said.

  The woman went to a rack with a few pairs of 1980s boots hanging from it and looked at the tags. “These are so Studio 51,” she said.

  “Studio 54?” Joanna said.

  “Or Area 51,” Paul said.

  Joanna sipped again from the O'Douls and grimaced. When she got home, she'd have a proper Martini.

  “I went to see Ray today at the hospital,” Paul said. “He has a nasty lump on the side of his head, and he broke a rib when he fell, but he should be all right. I don't think we did him any favors by dragging him out of the boat the way we did.”

  “It was better than leaving him in there.”

  “Marnie’s son was at the hospital, too, calling him ‘Uncle Ray’ and asking a lot of questions about the tribe. He really seems to be into getting to know his new family. He even wants to help Ray reopen the tribe’s case for recognition.”

  “It must have been Ray who broke into the store the second time and stole the coat. Had to have been.”
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  “He said he wants to tell you he’s sorry in person.”

  “He doesn’t have to. I’m just glad to hear he’s going to be all right.” She’d bring Ray something decent to eat tomorrow. He must be hating that hospital food.

  The woman who was shopping had moved to a circular display of skirts and was flipping through them.

  “He asked about Nina,” Paul said.

  “It’s not looking good for her.” Nina was out on bail but ordered not to leave her house until her trial.

  Paul set his drained bottle on the display table next to the coat. “Joanna, when everything settles down, do you want to, you know, have dinner or something? I won't ask again. I just thought that after everything—”

  She felt heat spread over her face. She couldn't look up at him. “I don't know.”

  “All right.” He stood up and turned to walk to the door.

  “I mean, yes.”

  Their eyes met. She drew in a breath. He said, “You know how to get in touch with me.” He walked by the front window and out of sight.

  The shopper, who by now was near the back of the store, held up a blue slip. “How much is this? I don't see a price on it.”

  Joanna turned her head toward the shopper. “Hmm?” She absently drew the tip of Paul's bottle across her lips.

  Afterword

  Many of the places in The Lanvin Murders are real, but what happens in the novel is entirely fictional. At the top of these real locations is Portland’s The Xtabay, the model for Tallulah’s Closet, and a top-drawer vintage boutique where I’ve spent many hours as both an employee and a shopper. With a bedroll and a camp stove, I could happily move in full time.

  Although I avoided naming the tribe in the novel, it could stand in for a number of Native American tribes in the Pacific Northwest that go without federal recognition as legitimate nations. They have rich histories and have endured discrimination and indignity we might have assumed never takes place in the United States. Think again.

  Crafting good, smart trashy reading isn’t a solitary venture. I have many, many people to thank for helping me smack The Lanvin Murders into shape. Chiefly, I’d like to thank my writing group: Christine Finlayson, Doug Levin, Dave Lewis, Ann Littlewood, and Marilyn McFarlane. I’m grateful for your patience, advice, and tolerance for descriptions of vintage accessories.

  Thank you, too, to the dozen or so readers of early drafts. You were all invaluable in helping me bring the novel from idea to finished manuscript, and I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Yet more thanks to Wes Youssi at M80 Branding for the cover, interior designer Eric Lancaster, and all-around design advisors David Cipriano and Meredith Hamm.

  Thank you!

  Thanks for reading The Lanvin Murders. I hope you enjoyed it.

  You’ve just read the first novel in the vintage clothing mystery series. Dior or Die will be out in autumn 2014 and the third in the series, featuring Schiaparelli, toward the beginning of 2015. I hope you enjoy them all!

  Would you like to know when my next book is available and catch up on fashion tips and living the vintage life, Tallulah’s Closet-style? You can sign up for my newsletter at www.angelamsanders.com and follow me on twitter at @angelamsanders. Don’t hesitate to get in touch with me at angela@angelamsanders.com.

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