Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (17 page)

Joanna scanned the crowd for Sedillo, then realized it would be useless to try to pick him out in the sea of gowns and tuxedos. She found her table toward the back and sat down. A column partially obscured her view of the stage. Still, she knew she and Apple were lucky to get even part of a table at the auction. Clary had been right—it had sold out quickly once news got out that Poppy would be the auctioneer.
 

On the plate next to hers was a name card for Paul. Her heart dropped. She turned the card away so it wouldn't taunt her. The detective could sit there—if he ever showed up.
 

Lacey appeared at her side, waving a white marabou stole at someone a table away. Porsche’s head poked out, his little black nose sniffing the air. "No rain tonight, lucky us," she shouted above the rising chatter of the crowd.

"No kidding, it being Rose Festival and all," the guest shouted back.
 

Joanna practically mouthed the words "Rose Festival" along with her. Someone should make it into a drinking game.

Lacey glanced at Poppy then leaned toward Joanna. "Poppy looks all right so far."

From the stage where she was adjusting her microphone, Poppy threw back her head and laughed. Joanna smiled. "She's happy. She'll do a bang-up job tonight. Thanks for giving her a chance."

"You're lucky. If things don't go well, I’ll make sure everyone knows you're responsible." She flung the stole over one shoulder and clicked toward her table, Porsche’s furry rump sticking out from under her arm. A caterer approached her, but Lacey waved him away. "The dog stays. Service animal."

Apple was nowhere in sight. Joanna waved at Summer Seasons, a popular drag queen, but more importantly to Joanna, an expert seamstress she relied on for repairs. Summer, in full sequin-bedecked drag, was chatting with one of the Von Trapp Family Singers. Only in Portland.

Before long, sparkly evening bags dangled from chair backs. Waiters fanned through the dining room, setting salads at each place, hoping to lure guests back to their tables. No Sedillo yet. Had he changed his mind and decided it wasn't worth the effort to send anyone?

She scanned the room again. There was Gil, seated next to Helena at a table next to the stage. Clary, wearing a crisp tuxedo, sat with them. His hand draped casually over the back of Helena's chair. Candlelight gleamed off the tux's satin trim and caught the edge of his glasses.
 

Apple slid into the chair next to Joanna. "I saw Tranh," Apple said.
 

"What?"

"Remember? The artist I told you about from life drawing? He's the waiter over there. Looks like he's going to say hi to Gil."

A thin Asian man with a shaved head approached Gil with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The two men were too far away for Joanna to hear, but Tranh's expression was placid, while Gil's eyes shot around the room. Gil placed a hand on Tranh's shoulder, and Tranh moved on with his tray.

Behind Gil, Helena engaged Clary, her eyes fixed fully on him. She turned away briefly and saw Joanna, but when Joanna smiled and waved, Helena returned her smile before turning to Clary. If all went well, at the end of the evening she'd tell her their efforts at the auction house had paid off.

Still no sign of the detective.
 

"Can I borrow your phone?" Joanna asked Apple.

"You’ve already left him a bunch of messages. Let it be. Besides, you should get your own phone," she said.

Joanna winced. "No. Not Paul. I want to call Detective Sedillo. See where he is." Damn him. He wouldn’t lead her on and then let the whole plan drop, would he? The lights dimmed twice, signaling the guests to be seated.
 

A hand rested on her shoulder. Detective Sedillo.
 

"Thank God you showed up," she said. "I thought you’d blown me off."

"Sorry I'm late—you know how hard it is to find a good boutonniere in this town?" He sat and spread a linen napkin over the knife-sharp pleats in his tuxedo pants. The fragrance of the detective's gardenia mingled with the scent of dinner drifting from the caterers' entrance.
 

Joanna leaned closer. "Where are Lee and Tommy? I haven't seen them anywhere."

The detective ignored Joanna's question. "Where's Poppy?" the detective asked. "You’re supposed to be watching her."
 

"She’s near the stage. Didn’t you come earlier? You know, prepare?"

"Don't worry about it," Sedillo said. "What's for dinner?" Despite his question, the detective's gaze was fixed on the other side of the stage where Poppy, the emcee at her side, pointed here and there in the room, then back to a piece of paper in her hand. Ben and a tall African American man, Poppy's spotters tonight, joined her. They both wore black pants and starched white dress shirts with red bow ties. Of course. Poppy would have coordinated their outfits with hers.
 

"That one's Ben, her office manager. I’m surprised to see him. He doesn't usually work as a spotter. I don't know the taller guy to his left. If our theory's right—and I think it is—Ben's the one to watch," Joanna said.

"Mmhmm," the detective said as he picked up the menu card at his place. "Don't worry. We talked about all this, remember? Do you think there's cilantro in the Bollywood saumon en croûte? Can't abide the stuff. Julia Child felt the same way, you know."
 

"You heard what I said about the spotters, right?"

"I heard." He turned over a bit of lettuce on his salad. "Nice. Whole herbs here. A leaf of tarragon." He transferred the tarragon from fork to mouth. "Much better than cilantro."

"Do you even care about Poppy?" Joanna said in frustration. So far it looked like he was only here for the free dinner.

The detective pulled a folded spreadsheet from his jacket's inside pocket. A column of names ran down its long side. Sedillo's finger stopped next to one. "Do you know him?"

Daniel S. Kay. "The trucking guy? I see his name plastered on semis all over. Why?"

"He's at table eight."

"And?"

The detective didn't answer. He slid the list back into his pocket.

Most of the guests were seated now. Volunteers hoisted the paintings to be auctioned into the room and placed them on easels along the wall. The music quieted as the emcee rose from her stool at the back of the stage.

Sedillo raised his hand at a passing waiter. "Is there cilantro in the salmon course?"

Come on.
Was the detective here to work or eat? Maybe the plan would turn out to be a bust. And what was this about the trucker?
 

Sedillo held his hand over his wine glass when the waiter passed. "Just water for me tonight."
 

She hoped this was a good sign.

A flourish from a five-piece brass ensemble signaled that the program was about to start. The crowd quieted as the emcee took the microphone. "Welcome to Northwest AIDS Project’s twenty-sixth annual art auction. With your help, we can prevent new HIV infections and care for people already living with HIV and AIDS. All you have to do is enjoy dinner and take home work from some of the Pacific Northwest’s most revered artists."
 

The emcee, an anchorperson on a local television station, was smaller than she looked on TV. Her starched, frosted hair, however, was larger. Between her hair and sequined mini dress, she resembled an aging refugee from Josie and the Pussycats. Joanna had seen her earlier that evening smoking a cigarette on the loading dock and trading salty words with a security guy. If Joanna had the chance, she'd give her a business card for Tallulah's Closet. In stock now was a size two Angel Sanchez jersey disco dress that was just her style.

From Joanna's seat, she had a straight shot past a table of already-tipsy real estate agents to Helena, Gil, and Clary nearer the stage. She craned her head a bit to get a better view of the guests at that table and made out an attorney who was rumored to be planning a run for City Council, and a smaller, blond woman she didn't recognize. As the woman turned her head, Joanna's stomach dropped. It was Eve. She didn't seem to have noticed Joanna. Eve laughed, and a spray of sparkling fringe from her earrings caught the light. The waiter pouring wine turned his head toward her, and Clary had to touch his arm to draw his attention away from Eve's brilliant smile and back to his empty glass.

Joanna calmed her breathing. Maybe Paul had called her at home and left a message. It would only take a minute to try the pay phone down the street again, to try to explain. The detective had things under control here.
 

Apple followed Joanna's gaze to the table where Eve sat. She leaned toward Joanna. "Don't even think of calling him again." She tapped the salad plate. "Eat."
 

The detective, loading up his fork, took Apple's advice to heart, but halfway to his mouth he lowered the fork and emptied it but for a strand of watercress. Finally, he pushed the salad plate away and rose from the table. "I'll be back," he said and lumbered toward the exit.

 
A handful of black-clad volunteers wearing white gloves stood at the edge of the room in a line next to the easels holding art to be auctioned. One of the volunteers nodded and lifted a painting. Ben was stationed on the other side of the central stage. Only the back of his head showed.
 

"They're starting, and Sedillo just left," Joanna whispered to Apple.

A waiter slid plates of salmon with roasted cauliflower and potatoes in front of them. "This should bring him back," Apple said.

As the volunteer wove through the dining room holding the painting, the emcee gave a short description of the artist who painted it. "A postmodern masterpiece by one of the Northwest's most esteemed artists," she finished.

Poppy strode to the center of the stage, microphone in hand. As always, Joanna marveled at the presence she commanded. The air around her practically crackled with energy. "Do I have five thousand dollars? Five thousand?" She gestured to a waved bid card. Her words came rapid fire. "Six thousand? A work of art your neighbors will envy. Seven thousand? Mr. Bronson, seven thousand. Seven fifty? Seven thousand five hundred dollars? Sold for seven thousand dollars to Mr. Bronson, bidder number one-thirteen. Congratulations, sir."

A woman holding an abstract sculpture ascended the stage. Joanna scanned the dining room. The detective was still gone. Ben was now in view and seemed to search the crowd, too. Their eyes met for a second. Joanna quickly looked away.
 

The next painting up was Gil North’s. He seemed deliberately not to notice. Two men held
Pacific Five
between them and hovered at the edge of the room until they were summoned to mount the stage. Tranh, Apple and Gil’s painting friend, a bus tray held flat in front of him, stood, transfixed, a stone's throw from the painting. Although Apple said he and Gil were close, Gil had his back toward him. Gil turned away from his own painting, too. Curious. It was the rare artist who skipped the chance to gaze at his own work.

"Next, we are honored to present
Pacific Five
by Gil North," the emcee said. Applause rippled through the dining room. "Mr. North donated the painting to the auction before it earned its gold medal. Now is your chance to it take home."

The emcee called Gil to the stage. He rose reluctantly and blinked into the audience.

"Gil North, people." The emcee's sequined dress sparkled in the baby spot light. More applause and a few hoots filled the room. "Tell us about this amazing painting."

From near the caterer's entrance, Tranh stared. He waved away a waiter who tried to draw him toward the kitchen.
 

"There he is," Joanna whispered to Apple. The detective lurked on the other side of the room, his black tux blending in with the pipe and drape, except for the pinpoint glow of his gardenia.
 

Gil fidgeted. "I don't really have much to say."

"Reluctant artist." The emcee tossed her bleached waves. "What does this painting mean to you?"

"To me, it's about, well…" a few seconds passed as the painting absorbed him. "It's about the twin sides of freedom. The exhilaration and the responsibility, the choices and the limits." His voice picked up intensity. "The act of painting itself embodies these conflicting but complementary forces. It's choice against limitless options."

He's not an artist so much, Joanna thought, as a thinker about art. A critic, maybe, or a professor. She searched the room again for the detective, but he was gone.
 

The emcee released Gil to return to his table, where Helena rose and kissed his cheek. Poppy again took center stage. Gil settled next to his wife.
 

"Do I have five thousand for
Pacific Five
. Bidder seventy-three. Seven-fifty? A masterful work of art, biennial gold medal winner. Thank you, sir. Ten thousand dollars. Do I have ten thousand?" Poppy's words came fast. The spotters moved through the crowd gesturing toward bidders, the white cuffs of their shirts flashing as they stretched their arms.
 

Helena raised her hand. She was bidding on her own husband's painting. Joanna traded glances with Apple.

"Thank you, Ms. North." A murmur rose from the crowd. "Ms. North at ten thousand dollars. Do I have twelve-fifty, twelve-fifty?"
 

The detective reappeared near a pillar a few tables down from Joanna's. His mouth moved and eyes narrowed. He had a radio in his ear. What was going on? He nodded toward someone across the room, and Joanna followed his line of vision to Tommy, in plain black pants and a black button-up shirt. He could have passed for one of the waiters but for his lack of an apron. Tommy nodded in return and his hand moved inside his blazer.

What happened next took only seconds.
Pacific Five
bobbed and fell forward, and the art handlers scrambled to catch it. The crowd gasped. Apple grabbed Joanna's arm. Ben appeared to stoop to the ground for a second, but he was too far away for Joanna to see more than the top of his head disappear. Guests at the table near Ben leapt to their feet. Tommy yanked a pair of handcuffs from his blazer.