Death and Decopauge

by AR DeClerck

  “My daughter is being married in three months. I require a suitable dress for the occasion.” Mildred fanned herself even harder.

  “The ladies of the church social club need costumes for our upcoming recital.” Isabelle Grayson waved at the other ladies in her group with a thin, pale hand.

  “We’ve heard about all the fashions you brought back with you from Paris!” Kate Pike said with an excited smile. “No one can stitch a seam like you, Franny!”

  “Thank you.” The young woman’s unbridled enthusiasm sweetened Franny’s sour stomach a bit. Chances were that none of these ladies had ever seen a dress that didn’t come from the Woolworth’s. “I’d be happy to help, of course.”

  “My mother says you also teach decoupage.” Isabelle looked at the trinkets on display all over the shelves that lined the walls.

  “Lessons every Thursday night at seven,” Franny confirmed. It was a cheap and relatively easy craft that no one in Prudence seemed to understand, so it seemed natural that she figure out a way to sell her knowledge along with her dresses.

  “I’d like to come!” Miss Stanford volunteered. Kate and several of the other ladies nodded as well. It seemed that Franny’s little shop was going to do better than she’d hoped.

  Franny picked up the fashion plates and waved the ladies to the circle of chairs in the center of the room. As they settled in to look over the styles and fabric swatches, she hurried to the back to make a pot of tea. It was far too warm for traditional hot tea, so she settled for a few chunks of ice from the icebox in each cup, with a bit of sugar and honey mingled with the tea. She jumped in surprise when the back door banged open and her sister hurtled through.

  “Oh, Franny!” Geneva threw her arms around Franny dramatically. “I was so worried!”

  “I’m fine, Genny.” Franny stirred the tea with a barely suppressed roll of her eyes. “Just some damage to the car.”

  “Papa said you were all right, but I had to come see for myself!” Geneva wiped imaginary tears from her ridiculously long lashes and fluffed her cornsilk-blonde hair. She peered through the door to the group of women in the front of the shop. “You’ve got quite a crowd.”

  “Mother always said that sewing wasn’t a waste of time.” Franny raised her eyebrow at her sister, who had spent more time thinking about boys than about her needlework.

  Geneva laughed, never one to take too much offense, even when it was intended. Her happy nature often clashed with Franny’s volatile one, but that didn’t seem to bother her either. “I’m awfully proud of you, Franny. I’m glad you decided to come home.”

  Franny smiled and accepted the hug from her sister, not daring to tell Geneva, once again, that she’d only returned to Prudence because Paris had suddenly become a hotbed of political debate and she’d begun to fear that another war was imminent. Expatriates had a hard enough time in Europe without the fear-mongering that drove normally sane people to do insane things.

  “I need to get back to work,” she said to Geneva a moment later. “I have several dresses on commission.” The idea of having work to occupy her idle hands was satisfying, but it didn’t assuage her curiosity about the body in the road. “Did Papa say anything about the body?”

  “Not to me, but you know I hate that kind of talk.”

  Ah, yes. Geneva’s strange aversion to the dead. Strange, because she’d grown up around corpses her whole life, but she couldn’t stand to even speak of the dead now that she was grown. “I feel terrible for the poor girl.”

  “Girl?” Geneva frowned. “I saw Papa bring in a man.”

  “She was dressed in men’s clothing and had attended the 9am show at the theater just this morning. Of course, I could have found out more if Sherman hadn’t barged in.”

  “A woman in men’s clothing? That’s unusual.”

  Franny chuckled. Her sister had a way with understatements. She turned when she heard a small gasp from the doorway. Miss Stanford stood there, her face pale and her mouth open.

  “Miss Stanford?” Franny hurried toward the young woman, afraid she was going to faint. “Are you all right?”

  “Virginia?” Geneva handed the girl a glass of the tea. “What’s the matter?”

  “You... you said a woman in man’s clothes?” the young woman stammered.

  “Why yes.” Franny eyed her more critically now. Did she know something about the body? “Do you know such a person, Virginia?”

  Virginia gulped down the tea, and Franny did not miss the way her hand shook, clinking the ice in the glass. “I...I might.”

  “Who is it?” Franny led the girl to one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs. “What can you tell me?”

  “I was in the theater this morning with Jack Brown. I went into the ladies’ room and when I came out there was a man threatening what I thought was another man. He raised his fist and I realized that it wasn’t a man, but a woman in a man’s outfit.”

  “Who was the man threatening the woman?” Franny felt hot satisfaction roll through her gut. Sherman Jump was going to eat his words when she was finished with him.

  “I’ve never seen him before, but she called him ‘Viktor’.” Virginia put the tea on the table and rubbed her palms over her skirt. “The man saw me watching and shook his fist at her again before marching off.”

  “And the woman?” Geneva sat next to Virginia, but her eyes were alight with interest. It amused Franny that her sister was just as easily caught up in a mystery, even if she didn’t like to admit it.

  “She took off a moment later without saying a word.”

  “Was there anything at all you remember about the two of them that might give us more clues to their identities?” Strangers weren’t as rare anymore, but surely a woman in men’s apparel stood out a bit.

  “I think...” Virginia bit her lip and then nodded resolutely. “I think they were Russian.”

  Franny was a bit taken aback by the news. Russians were definitely not regular visitors to Prudence, Illinois. Franny often referred to the little town as “the place even God forgot”. It shouldn’t be too hard to retrace the steps of a pair of Russians.

  “We should tell Papa or Sherman right away.” Geneva stood up, but Franny grabbed her hand.

  “No.” She shook her head and gave her sister her hardest stare. “The two of you will tell no one what we’ve just discussed. Is that understood?”

  “But Franny—-”

  “No. One.” Franny crossed her arms and glared at them. “Remember who lied to Daddy when you snuck out in tenth grade, Genny?” Geneva’s face turned red and she nodded. Franny turned her eyes on Virginia. “And you want a gorgeous gown for the dance, don’t you?” Virginia nodded, and Franny smiled. From their nervous gulps she figured she looked a bit predatory, but she couldn’t help it. It would feel so good when Sherman Jump was tasting crow. “Good. Then you’ll keep your flappers shut and we’ll all get what we want.”

  Virginia and Geneva nodded silently.

  “Wonderful!” Franny picked up the tea tray, her day looking brighter by the moment. “Go along home, Genny. Tell Papa I’ll be there for supper. Virginia, go pick out your pattern.”

  The young girl hurried off and Franny waited for her sister to leave. At the doorway, Geneva turned back uncertainly. “You have that look again, Franny.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that says you’re going to get into trouble and Papa won’t like it.”

  Franny laughed. “Papa gets a kick out of it, and you know it! Now go home and keep your mouth shut.”

  Geneva left, and Franny hurried back toward the ladies in the salon. The sooner she took their orders and got them out of there, the sooner she could do a little snooping.

  FRANNY SIGHED AND LOOKED at the mass of fabric on the floor. The sun was near to setting and she’d only just gotten the ladies out of her shop. There was no way she was going to have time to investigate the strange Russian pair tonight. She began to gather up the fabric and lump it together wi
th its corresponding plate, hoping that she recalled correctly that Virginia wanted the purple muslin and Kate the pale yellow. She froze, hunched behind the counter, when the bell over the door rang. It was well past closing for most of the shops on the street, and she’d turned down the lights ages ago. She listened to the heavy footfalls and knew that her customer was a man. Slowly, so that he wouldn’t detect her movements, she peered around the counter to get a look at him.

  “See anything you like, Ms. Calico?”

  Franny stood tall, fuming. “Nothing at all, Sheriff.”

  She hurried past him to the front door and turned the sign to ‘closed’. The streets beyond were deserted except for her Packard and his police car. She sighed in annoyance. She was hungry and irritated that she’d missed out on an opportunity to put him in his place with a new clue.

  “What can I help you with?” she asked sharply. In the dim lighting he was handsome in his deep brown uniform. He looked at her with a serious frown, his arms crossed over his chest. “Surely you haven’t come to arrest me?”

  “No, you haven’t broken any laws that I know of.” He smirked, as if he knew she might have broken one or two he wasn’t aware of. “I came to apologize.”

  “Oh.” She was surprised, to say the least. Sherman Jump had never been the kind of boy who apologized, even when he knew he was wrong. ‘Stubborn’ and ‘pig-headed’ were the adjectives most often used to describe the men in the Jump family. She raised an eyebrow when he didn’t continue. Did he think she was going to take his intention to apologize as an actual apology?

  He flushed, and she knew she’d been right. He expected her to forgive his bullish behavior simply because he intended to apologize!

  “I’m sorry if I seemed harsh out on the road earlier today.” He looked at his feet, obviously uncomfortable with admitting his failures in etiquette. “I’m new to this job and I would prefer if everyone in town took me seriously and respected my knowledge of crime scene procedure.”

  “I see.” Franny leaned against the counter and studied him intently. She knew she was making him more uncomfortable with her perusal, and it tickled her fancy a bit to put him on the spot. “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered my offer to be of help on this case, then?”

  His eyes snapped to hers, suddenly full of fire. “No.”

  “Why not?” Franny could feel her ire rising and she knew she was bound to say something silly if she let him make her too angry. So, she did her best to calm the storm pulsing in her stomach. It had been many years since she’d allowed a man to make her feel as unworthy as Sherman had done.

  “Exactly how seriously can the town take me if I allow a dressmaker to help me solve crimes?” His lips twitched, as if the very idea was ridiculous. “I understand you were of help to Sheriff Paulson in the past but...”

  “But what, Sherman?” Franny stood tall and raised her chin, staring down her nose at the man. “A lowly dressmaker most certainly couldn’t have the wit or good sense to help the new Sheriff solve a crime?”

  “Now, Ms. Calico, that’s not what....”

  “Or is it that you’re simply worried that I’ll actually solve it?” She moved toward him, getting closer with each purposeful word. “Does it bother you that I might be a better detective than you’ve ever been?” She poked him hard in the chest with her forefinger. She poked him again for good measure.

  “No, that’s not what I was trying to say at all. Crime is a dangerous business, and it’s not fit for a lady...”

  “A lady?” Franny knew her voice rose in pitch as she repeated the words with disbelief. She poked him again, hard. “Have I ever been a lady, Sherman Jump?”

  “Well you were a tomboy as a child, yes, but you’ve gone off to Paris and grown up into a lovely woman and that’s not the kind of thing a beautiful woman should spend her time doing.”

  Franny stared up at him, perplexed by his backhanded compliment. He thought she was a lovely woman? She’d been called many things, but lovely was never one of them. “What should I be doing, then?”

  He was close enough that she could smell the starch of his shirt and the lingering scent of his tobacco. When had he grown so tall and so... muscled? She pulled her eyes from his chest and up to his chin, wondering if she dared to look into his eyes. Was he mocking her, like he’d done as a boy? She stiffened when his hands settled on her shoulders lightly. He didn’t make any other moves, just settled the warmth of his fingers against the bare skin of her upper arms.

  “A woman like you should be dancing. Or having dinner with a man who thinks you’re a knockout and proud to have you on his arm.”

  “Oh, really?” Franny lifted her chin and met his dark brown gaze. “A girl can’t be a knockout and solve a murder, too?”

  She’d never seen him laugh, but he laughed then, throwing back his head and guffawing loudly. His teeth were white in the growing gloom, and his fingers tightened a bit on her shoulders as he shook with merriment. It took him several moments to find his calm again, but he was smiling when he looked at her again.

  “Why didn’t you ever get married, Franny?”

  He’d slipped into calling her by her name, which she took as a sign that he was loosening up a little. It was fine, except his question was galling. She pushed away from him, breaking his grip on her arms as she glared. “Because married isn’t the end-all, be-all for a woman’s life, Sherman. This is 1937 and I’m only twenty-nine. I have a lot of life left and not all of it needs to be spent barefoot in some man’s kitchen making him a supper!” She glared at him and pointed at the door. “You can go, now.” She couldn’t tell him that no man had ever asked her to marry him, though many had wanted to use her or keep her on the side. Her strong will and quick wit kept most men at bay. Wives were supposed to be docile and sweet, like Geneva, and that meant she was far from wifely material.

  He looked at her with his eyebrow raised, like he was confused at what he’d said to make her angry. She figured he was confused. Most men had no idea that their hammer-headed way of thinking was just plain ignorant. Most of them would never imagine that a woman might not want to fall into wedded bliss and marital doings as soon as she was able.

  “Good night, Sheriff.” She opened the door, hoping he’d get the hint and find his way out.

  “Don’t try to go behind my back and solve this case, Franny,” he warned. His smile was gone, and he was back to his standard frown. “It will only serve to make our relationship harder.”

  “Relationship?” She waved at the door, urging him to get on with the leaving. “We have no such thing.”

  “I’m the Sheriff and you’re a business owner and we need to remain civil, but I will arrest you for interfering if you insist on pursuing this case.” He paused in front of her and sighed. “I don’t want us to part on bad terms again, Franny.”

  “Thank you for stopping by, Sheriff. If you ever find yourself in need of decoupage, please let me know. Good night.” She held out her hand to him and glared at him coldly. How could she find herself attracted to a man who managed to make her so very angry?

  His fingers closed gently around hers and he shook her hand. “I’m trying to make sure you’re safe. It’s my job to keep my citizens safe.”

  “Tell that to the dead woman.” She pushed him out the door. “Now good night.” When she shut the door in his face she felt a moment’s sharp satisfaction at having the last word. It plummeted a moment later when she heard him say quietly through the door,

  “Good night, Franny.”

  Chapter Three: The Russian Connection

  Franny found herself in a frightful mood the next morning as she parked the Packard in front of the shop. She’d spent an irritable evening with her father and sister, eating a cold pork dinner and listening to the radio. Nothing they’d said or did had managed to pull her from her terrible funk. She’d tossed and turned the whole night, replaying her exchange with Sherman, and awoke to find herself determined to solve the murder more than ever
.

  Her father had not helped her mood by refusing to discuss the case with her, at Sherman’s request, of course. As the county was her father’s primary employer, she knew that he was bound to listen to the request, but it galled her still. She climbed out of the Packard, thankful for her chiffon and lace over-dress that allowed the scant wind to cool her. She’d almost decided to leave off with her silk stockings in defiance of the heat, but she expected more customers and didn’t want to shock them with her bare-legged appearance. Bare legs were all the rage in Paris, but Prudence had yet to pick up on the appeal.

  She unlocked the doors of the shop but didn’t turn the sign. She had a few things she wanted to take care of before she allowed anyone into her space. Namely, she wanted to find out if any strange Russians were in town, and where they were staying. She picked up her telephone and dialed the operator.

  “Geneva, it’s me,” she said into the phone.

  “Hello Franny!” Geneva was as bright and pleasant as always. “How may I direct your call?”

  “I need you to tell me if any Russians have shown up in town in the last few days. And if so, where are they staying?”

  “Franny does this have to do with what Virginia told us?” Geneva’s voice dropped low. “I thought Papa said the Sheriff will arrest you for investigating!”

  “He can try.” Franny knew she sounded cross, but she was tired, and the heat was making her mood worse. “Do you know of any Russians, Genny?”

  The line was silent for a bit, but Franny waited it out. Geneva knew all the comings and goings in Prudence, and she was usually on the line when all the juicy gossip passed. Franny smiled when she heard Geneva’s sigh on the other end of the line.

  “Carston’s Rooming House. Three Russian men boarded there last week. I don’t know if they’re still there. Peggy Carston said they drank a lot of vodka and played cards well into the night.”

  “Thank you, Genny!” Franny hung up the phone and looked at the clock. She had approximately one hour before her first fitting was scheduled to arrive. She picked up her brown and beige cloche and pulled it down over her hair. She locked the door behind her and hurried down Main Street toward 5th and 9th, where the Cartson’s Rooming House sat on the corner. The summer sun beat down on her head as she marched down the street, but it was still early enough that she had the sidewalk mostly to herself. Her brown Oxford T-straps rapped smartly on the pavement as she hurried, ignoring the people who passed.