Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (19 page)

"I don't know why you promised not to get involved in the first place. Why didn’t you explain it to him?"

"I couldn’t. I know it sounds stupid now, but I was afraid he’d break up with me. I figured I could pull everything off without telling him. It didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time. Besides, why should he be telling me what to do?"
 

"Look how well that worked. I’m not saying he doesn’t have issues, but you could have talked it over earlier."
 

"Right." Joanna stared at the fire.

"Jo?"

"I keep thinking about Poppy. I had a hand in this—this trouble—and now there's nothing I can do to make it better."

"You need to put your mind somewhere else for a few days. Take it easy." Pepper jumped into Apple's lap. "Focus on Paul. Explain things to him. That, at least, you can do something about."

Joanna showed no signs of hearing Apple. Her gaze remained fixed on the fire. "I never could figure out how Vivienne's death tied into the diamonds, either."

"Diamonds were found in Vivienne's things. That's the most obvious connection."

"Might have been coincidence. Maybe the police only found them because they were looking. Diamonds could have been hidden in other lots. Who knows? But maybe somehow Vivienne found out what was going on, so she was poisoned." She pulled a piece of split alder from the basket next to the fireplace and opened the screen. When the new log caught fire, she returned to the couch.
 

"If Poppy’s death wasn’t suicide, then whoever killed Poppy had to be at the event," Apple said.

The adrenaline that had kept Joanna up all night was starting to ebb. She rubbed her eyes. "That limits the suspects to about five hundred people."
 

Apple settled a hand on Pepper's back. "Or worse. The back of the warehouse—the area we set up in—was open all night. Once the event started, it was empty. The caterers were all on the opposite side. Anyone could have gone in there."
 

Joanna picked up her mug of tea. The Sunday newspaper thunked at her front door. Pepper lifted his head. What an awful, awful day.
 

"Don't go there, Jo." Apple set her tea cup on the coffee table. "I need to get home. Gavin's waiting, but I don't want to leave you alone." She dumped Pepper off her lap and pushed open a velvet curtain. An apricot sunrise streaked the sky. Across the street, a bundled woman walked a Bernese Mountain dog. "People are already up." She turned to Joanna. "Will you be all right?"

Joanna rose and hugged Apple. "I'm fine. Thanks for seeing me home."

She locked the door behind Apple and turned toward the living room. The fire was dying. Paul's work shirt still draped across the couch's arm. Where the hell was he, anyway? Didn't he know she needed him? She touched his shirt, then pulled it over her and settled on the couch to sleep, willing away the image of Poppy's dangling body.

When Joanna awoke, the fire was dead and the midday sun streamed through the front window. Pepper had made himself at home sleeping on her stomach. She lifted him off, then swung her legs to the floor. She stretched her back. The couch was no Posturepedic, that was for sure.
 

She brought a cup of coffee to the bathroom and drew a bath. Last night's mascara caked around her eyes. Normally a bath equalized her moods, but today all the soap in the world wouldn't wash away her sadness—and foreboding.
 

She reached for a towel. What was Paul doing today? He usually started his workday early, but this was Sunday. He might be at the convent, or—Joanna let the thought pass quickly—at Eve's. Maybe Eve called him after the auction to fill him in on the diamond bust and Poppy's death. But he might be at home, too, reading the Sunday paper with Gemma at his feet.
 

If this were a normal Sunday, they'd be together. They'd make waffles or omelets or walk up to the bakery for pastries. He’d let her talk about Poppy, and his presence alone would be a comfort. Not today.

Tallulah's Closet wasn't due to open yet, but she could go in early and sort through Vivienne's clothes. Three trunks full needed sizing and tagging. Joanna let that idea rest in her brain. Nothing. Not the tiniest hint of excitement. When gazing at vintage Dior couture didn't rouse her, something was truly wrong. Not that she should be surprised.

"Aunt Vanderburgh," Joanna asked the pastel of a tight-lipped woman on the living room wall, "What should I do?"

Auntie V stared reproachfully.
 

"Okay, you win." Apple was right—maybe she couldn't do anything about Poppy, but she could at least find out where she stood with Paul, try to explain. She pulled her "pinochle dress," a 1950s housedress with a blue and gray print of alternating queen of hearts and jack of spades, from her closet and took a thick wool cardigan from a hook inside the door. With both hands she pulled her hair into a pony tail—no time, or need, to get fancy. She dabbed some vintage Femme perfume between her breasts for luck.

Paul clearly wasn't going to respond to her calls. If he wouldn't come to her, she'd go to him.

***

Paul's shop windows were dark. Joanna knocked on the door anyway and heard the dog bark. "Hush, Gemma," Joanna said through the door, and Gemma the Beast gave a short, happy yip, nails scrambling on the cement floor. Joanna had bought some muffins for Paul as a peace offering. Their fragrance wafted from their bag.

She cupped her hands around her eyes to peer through the door's window. Two unfinished drawers sat on Paul's workbench, but he didn't appear to be home. Gemma scratched at the door again and ran in a tight circle. Joanna paused. He hadn't asked for his key back. If they were broken up, she had no right to be there. But everything had happened so suddenly. It couldn’t be over yet. They still needed to talk. "Oh, all right," she said to Gemma and let herself in.

The dog whined and licked her hand. Joanna pulled a jar from on top of the refrigerator and gave her a dog biscuit. Gemma took it to the corner of the workshop, near her bed, to eat.
 

Joanna stood in the center of the shop, immobile. Now that she was in, she knew she shouldn't be there. A few days ago, he would have welcomed her dropping by and leaving a note. Not now. Besides, she’d broken his trust already. She’d better leave before he returned.
 

Had she had left footprints in the sawdust? No, the path from the front door to the kitchen had been swept clean. A faint clattering pierced the silence, and Joanna jumped before realizing it must have come from the cleaning crew in the kitchen of the restaurant next door.

"Bye, Gemma," Joanna said, bending to give her a last stroke between the ears, when a small piece of ivory bond paper on the floor caught her attention. She leaned forward. Eve's name and phone number were written in a woman's loose script. Her heart tightened. Of course he'd need Eve's phone number, she thought. He was doing work for her. He had to be able to get in touch with her to work.
 

Or something else.

She struggled to slow her breath. Turn and walk away, she told herself, but stopped short. Cradled in tissue paper next to some small-tipped hand tools on the workbench was a box no bigger than her palm. She crept closer to examine it. Dozens of dovetails fastened its edges. Finely honed strips of wood—pink, pale yellow, the honey tones of pine—were sanded to a satin finish. An ornate letter "J" was inlaid across its lid. This box was—had been—for her. She knew it would have taken Paul countless evenings to make it, to hone its edges seamless. She lifted its lid. Empty.

Ashamed, she turned toward the door. Her stupid reluctance to talk had ruined everything. It couldn't be too late, though, could it? If she could just see Paul again and explain how she’d had to try to help Poppy. They could make it work. She'd tell him so—if he ever talked to her again, that is.

She took a last glance around the shop and strode the few steps to the door.
 

The rumble of an engine cutting out disturbed the silence. Gemma raised her head. Paul? Joanna stood motionless, holding her breath. A car door slammed shut, jarring her. Her purse tumbled off her arm to the floor, spilling its contents. A second later she heard two voices—neither of them Paul's—cross the alley. She let out her breath.

Before Joanna could stop her, the dog had ripped through the bakery bag and made short work of one of the muffins. A shrunken blueberry stuck to her lip.
 

Joanna knelt to pick up lipsticks and crumpled receipts and stuff them back in her purse. God, she was exhausted. This was ridiculous. She had to forget about Paul for the moment, leave him alone. But what next? She couldn't just go home. She'd climb the walls. She had to do something.

The Mother Superior. Yes, that's what she'd do. She'd go tell the Mother Superior about the auction as she'd promised. Plus she needed to talk to Mary Alberta about Tallulah’s Closet's website. First she'd stop by the store, then go to the convent. Maybe by then she'd have the energy to inventory and tag some of Vivienne's clothing.

The light filtering through the windows on the garage door dimmed as the sun moved behind clouds. Time to get out of here now, before anything else happened. The dog jumped into an armchair licking her lips then her paw. Standing at the door looking back at the shop, Joanna couldn't see any trace she'd been there.
 

She closed the door. It locked behind her.

"I'd wondered if you'd come in today." Apple set down the pen she was using to write price tags.
 

Joanna tossed her purse behind the tiki bar and absently picked up a price tag. "You'll be spotted in this lovely leopard cardigan," she read. "That line never gets old. Did you get to bed once you got home?"

"Surprisingly, yes. Gavin's the one who suffered. He stayed up waiting for me, then couldn't get to sleep. I hope he went back to bed after I left. What about you?"

"I conked out on the couch. I kept thinking about Poppy, though."

They were both quiet a moment, Joanna staring at her hands, and Apple looking out the window.

"She's passed over," Apple said. "She's in a better place now."

It could have sounded trite, but Apple's words comforted Joanna. She reached out and touched Apple's shoulder in thanks. Apple grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

"I thought about Paul, too. All this with Poppy drives home, well..." Joanna started. "I went to see him this morning, but he wasn't home." She leaned on the tiki bar. "I messed it up for good with him." She looked up, hopeful Apple might have another take on the situation. "Or maybe not?"

Apple averted her eyes and busied herself with a display of scarves. "I don't know. You can give it a try."

Joanna sat on the red velvet bench at the center of the store. "Poppy, Paul—it's too much. I feel like I'm losing it. I want to do something, but I can't. And—" She bit her lip. "I'm turning into a crazy stalker. I've got to pull it together."
 

Apple hurried to the bench and took Joanna by the shoulders. "Jo, honey, it's all right."

She leaned her head against Apple's sturdy shoulder. "Thanks for being my friend." Her eyes started to tear up.

"As your friend," Apple said, "I suggest you hustle to the bathroom. Here comes the Baronet up the street, and it looks like he's headed to the store."

Clary? Head bent, Joanna rushed to the tiny bathroom at the rear of the store, just beyond the tiki bar. She closed the flimsy door and ran water on a paper towel.

"...Joanna?" She heard Clary say.

"She's running errands now. I can tell her you stopped by," Apple said. "How did the auction do, I mean, given everything—"

"Fine, fine. I don't know." Clary sounded a little confused.

"And Poppy. I can't believe it. We were at the police station nearly all night."

"A tragedy. We're donating a portion of the auction's proceeds to the Cat Adoption Team, one of Poppy's charities. Feeble, I know, but it's the least we can do."

There was a pause. "Was there something in particular you wanted from Joanna? Maybe something I can help you with?"

Joanna willed her breathing to calm and leaned against the bathroom door to hear more clearly.
 

"I wanted to buy a gift, for a woman." Confidence returned to Clary's voice.

Joanna raised an eyebrow.

"Great, tell me about her. We have an amazing selection of costume jewelry right now."
 

"She's a woman with very fine taste, you know what I mean? I'd like to buy her something rare, not ostentatious, but something other people wouldn't have. That's why I was thinking vintage."

Who was Clary buying for? He wasn't at the auction with a date. Of course, as the committee chair he was working that night.

"How about a minaudière? We have a 1980s Judith Leiber shaped like a peony."

A pause. Joanna leaned closer to the door. "Nice, but too flashy. Do you have something more subtle, something high quality but that doesn't draw attention to itself? The kind of thing Joanna would like."

Clary's voice faded. Apple must be leading him to another part of the store. Joanna dabbed her eyes with the paper towel again and examined her face in the mirror. The bathroom window let in the scant light from the alley. The skin under her eyes had darkened.

"That would be perfect," she heard Clary say. "It's not priced, though."

"We just got it in. It's Hermès, a classic pattern. These are almost impossible to find, especially in such great condition. Look how the hem is rolled and hand stitched, not even crushed after all these years." God, Apple was good. "We're pricing it at three hundred dollars." Joanna gasped. She would have put the scarf at one twenty-five and been open to bargaining.

"Sold. Do you have a box?" Clary asked.
 

Apple deserved a raise.
 

"Uh, Joanna...is she still seeing that construction worker?"

"You mean Paul?" Apple asked.