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

"When are you going to pick up the clothes?" Apple asked. Her style couldn't be more different than Joanna's. Today she wore a 1970s Indian caftan, and sometimes she'd even work the store barefoot. Despite her Haight-Ashbury look, Apple could knock out a fully accessorized 1950s cocktail ensemble that would make a customer seem to have stepped from a George Cukor movie.
 

"Tonight, after the auction house closes," Joanna said. "Poppy arranged for her trucking company to help. I can't wait."

"Tell me about the celebration," the bartender said. The hollow pop of the champagne cork drew the attention of the two skinny men drinking at the end of the bar.

"I just bought some vintage couture. I'm talking the real thing, too—clothes the owner had to buy in Paris or New York."

"Anything in a womanly size?" She put a hand on her ample hip.

"Small. Fours and sixes, mostly. But she had some fabulous accessories. In fact, I saw a cocktail hat I think you'd love. It's a molded cap of blue-black feathers. The veil’s studded with rhinestones."

The bartender eyed the chair next to Apple, but one of the men at the bar tapped his empty glass against the counter. "I'll be with you in a second," she shouted across the room, then turned back to their table. "Food?"
 

"How about the hummus plate?" Apple said.

"Forget about being healthy. Let's do cheese fries," Joanna said. If they were going to celebrate, they might as well do it right. "I can't wait until you see the dresses. A real Dior Bar suit, can you imagine? The jacket is amazingly constructed. The hips and shoulders are so padded they could almost stand on their own."
 

"Nice."

Joanna twirled the stem of her glass in her fingers. "You should have seen Vivienne North at the auction. Wide cheekbones and long fingers. She could still model, if she wanted." Joanna imagined Vivienne and Apple shaking hands. Vivienne, elegant and spare, and Apple's Indian bracelets dangling. Apple would undoubtedly have a lengthy commentary on Vivienne's aura or a few psychic hits to share afterward.
 

Apple poured champagne into the wine glasses. She nudged the bottle back into the margarine tub. "Cheers."
 

"Cheers." The cool wine fizzed against her tongue. With Tallulah's Closet's new website, the remodel—well, at least a new paint job—and now these clothes, the store would be reborn.
 

As usual, Apple seemed to read her mind. "Maybe we should paint the rear wall near the dressing rooms dove gray, like Dior's salon."

"Once we sell a few pieces." Joanna took a long sip of champagne and let her focus relax.
 

"We could even get a laptop for the store to track inventory. I know, we could stream music off the web. No more changing records."

Joanna’s attention snapped back. "What?" She referred to her ledger books and record-keeping as "hand-crafted," and they’d have to pry her turntable out of her cold, dead hands. When she’d bought it at a yard sale, the seller had lovingly patted its side and said, "I listened to
Abbey Road
for the first time on that hi-fi."
 

"Just making sure you’re awake," Apple said. "In any case, we should expect a boost in business. I didn't want to say anything earlier, but the landlord stopped by again."

"He usually gives me until the tenth, at least—"

"I know. But he might be looking for the chance to break the lease. Rents have gone up around here." She leaned back into the red Naugahyde. "Not that we have to worry. Not now. Maybe you can sell a few of the dresses to the NAP auction crowd."

Oh yes, the Northwest AIDS Project auction. Joanna had promised to dress the event's hostesses in vintage evening gowns. Lots of potential for new business.
 

The bartender drifted to the window behind them. "It’s raining again. Just in time for Rose Festival."
 

The old saying went that, despite taking place in June, "it always rains during Rose Festival." They could look forward to two weeks of parades, concerts, and sailors on shore leave. "Maybe we’ll sell some vintage evening wear to the Rose Princesses, too" Joanna said.

Apple raised her glass. "Another toast. To the new Tallulah's Closet."

Joanna touched her glass to Apple's. Bubbles rose in giddy ribbons.

***

That evening in the auction house’s parking lot, Joanna hummed "La Vie en Rose" under her breath as she shut her decrepit Corolla's door. Even the rain couldn't dampen her happiness that evening.
 

"
Il m'a dit des mots d'amour
," she sang and pulled open the warehouse's front door.

She stopped in her tracks. "Poppy?"
 

The loading docks were open, and men hauled crated goods into trucks marked with police badges. Toward the rear of the warehouse, three cops, their breath hanging in the cool night air, worked under portable lights.

"What's going on here?" Joanna asked.

Poppy took a drag from a cup of coffee. A take-out container of Thai food sat on the counter next to her. "Oh Joanna." Her voice was more raspy than usual. "Didn't you get my phone messages? I'm afraid you're not going to get the clothes after all, at least not any time soon." She rubbed her eyes.
 

"What happened?"
 

"The police are here. They're taking everything. Vivienne, that lovely woman—I can't believe it."

Joanna set her purse on the counter. "Poppy, slow down. Tell me. What happened?"

"She died. Vivienne did, tonight. They think she was murdered."

Joanna stood, frozen. "I can’t believe it. Vivienne—?"
 

Poppy pushed away her coffee. "It happened sometime tonight. The police showed up a couple of hours ago, and it’s been like this ever since." She glanced back toward the loading dock.

"Here? She died here?"

"Oh, no," Poppy said. "At home. At least, that’s what the police told me."

Joanna slumped onto the counter in disbelief. Vivienne North, dead. She’d seemed so vital, so full of life only that morning. "What happened?"
 

Poppy shook her head. "I think—"
 
She picked up a paper clip already twisted into a knot and bent its ends together until it snapped. She tossed the pieces on the counter. "Never mind what I think. Bottom line, I don’t know. The police told me they suspected homicide, they closed off the warehouse, and that’s it."

"Poppy, something else is wrong, isn’t it?" Sure, Vivienne North’s death was a shock, and who knew what the police were up to, but it wasn’t like Poppy to worry so intensely. She always seemed so capable, so able to see the bright side. Once, at an auction Joanna attended, from her podium Poppy had seen a bidder suffer a stroke. She’d managed to summon an ambulance, keep the crowd calm, and finish the auction without batting an eye.

Tonight, Poppy’s eyes were bloodshot, and she avoided looking at Joanna directly. "I’m fine. I just have to get in touch with the people who bought things at the auction. Not looking forward to it."

Joanna leaned forward. "Is that all? You’d tell me if something else were wrong, wouldn’t you?"

"Everything’s fine."
 

Joanna picked up a hint of defiance in Poppy’s voice. If she didn’t want to talk about it, there wasn’t much Joanna could do. "What about the police? Did they say when they might be finished?"

"Not sure. They might—"

"Miss," a deep voice rang behind Joanna. "What are you doing here?"

Joanna turned to see a uniformed policeman. "I bought the trunks of clothing in today’s auction. I came to pick them up."

"Name, please." The policeman consulted a clipboard.

"Joanna Hayworth."

His finger ran down a list and stopped. "How long have you known Ms. Madewell?"

"Poppy? Nearly four years, I guess." She glanced at Poppy, who nodded briefly. "I met her just before I opened Tallulah’s Closet, my vintage clothing boutique."

She’d been on the verge of tears that night trying to secure one clothing rack that just wouldn’t stay put. The store was due to open that weekend, but all around her heaped bags of unpressed clothing. The store’s fixtures were pushed to the center of the room while paint dried on the walls.

"Well," Poppy had said from the door. "This place has come a long way from the bike mechanic’s shop that was here before."

Joanna set the screwdriver aside and wiped her hands. "Can I help you?" She recognized Poppy from excursions to the auction house, but they’d never talked. She looked so small off the stage.

"Poppy Madewell." She extended a hand. "You bought the oak counter display case, right? Yep, there it is. God" —the word came out "Gawd" in her Jersey accent— "that thing’s a monster. Anyway, it came with tassels for the knobs. Must not have been in the cabinet when you picked it up. Thought I’d slide them through your mail slot, but you’re here."

"Oh," Joanna said. Tassels hardly seemed important with the disaster around her. Although, as Poppy had pulled one from its envelope and dropped it in her hand, she saw that the tassels were lovely, woven of gold silk. They’d add a luxurious touch to the cabinet.

"Let me give you a hand with that clothing rod,” Poppy had said. “That’s a job for two." They’d been friends ever since.

Not that the policeman tonight would care about all that.

"This is a crime investigation. You’ll need to leave," he said.

"But I’ll be able to take the clothes, right?" Beyond Poppy, the police crew methodically sorted through boxes.

"No, miss," the policeman said. "They’re evidence. We’re writing up a receipt now. We’ll let Ms. Madewell know when they’re ready to be released. She’ll be responsible for contacting her clients."
 

"I'm sure Vivienne North hasn't worn those clothes for years. You think she's been swanning around in fifty-year-old Fath evening dresses?"

"Look, these guys aren't fashion mavens," Poppy said. "I don't know what they want with the clothes. I'm sorry. Hopefully it won't be too long."
 

Poppy almost seemed to side with the policeman. Joanna raised an eyebrow at her, but Poppy’s expression remained impossible to read. Joanna turned to the policeman. "When you test the clothes, you don't cut them up, do you? Or pull fibers from the fabric?"

"Ms. Madewell will be in contact when we’re finished with the items," the policeman said.

Lost in thought, Joanna pulled her bag onto her shoulder. "What are you looking for, anyway? Vivienne North didn’t die here." She glanced toward Poppy again, who shook her head helplessly.

The policeman ignored her. "I’ll see you to the door."

The slant of the light confused her. And she was on the wrong side of the bed. As Joanna opened her eyes, she stretched out a hand and felt fur. Gemma the Beast. She was at Paul's. The German shepherd mix thumped her tail against the bed and G.I. Joe'd a few feet closer. She laid her head on Joanna's chest. The fragrance of coffee mingled with wood dust rose from the shop floor to the small sleeping loft.

"Hey, sleepyhead." Paul's head popped above the banister. "Here's coffee." His smile revealed the tiny gap between his front teeth. Warmth shot through Joanna.

She pulled the sheet up and leaned forward to take the mug. "Thanks. I'll be down in a second." Gemma jumped off the bed to follow Paul.
 

Joanna set down her coffee and yawned, then pulled back her arms mid-stretch. The auction, Vivienne North’s death. The image of Vivienne's faint smile appeared. How could she be dead? Joanna's chest tightened. And Poppy. Something was up with Poppy, she was sure. Something more than the admittedly huge stress of having the police gum up the auction.

Joanna let out a long breath. All those gorgeous clothes, lost now. She imagined ham-handed policemen rifling through the dresses, smearing everything with fingerprint dust. With a groan she tossed back the blankets and found the old robe of Paul's she'd been using. Its scratchy wool slid over her skin.
 

In the kitchen, Paul slid one arm around her waist and kissed her cheek while the other hand held a pancake turner. "How'd you sleep? You didn't worry too much about the auction, did you?"

"Not too much. A little, I guess." The dresses were going to save Tallulah’s Closet. Maybe they still could.

She took her coffee to a worn armchair. On the nearby worktable lay two pieces of birds'-eye maple delicately joined to form a corner of dovetails. Last night he had shown her how he worked them by hand, patiently fitting each slat into the other and shaping their edges to a finish so smooth that if she'd felt the join with closed eyes she wouldn't know they were two pieces.

For most of his youth, Paul had spent his after-school hours at his uncle's wood shop. The shop turned out to be cover for a jewel-theft operation that rivaled the Pink Panther's. When his uncle went to prison, Paul ended up with the shop and a career in woodworking.

"Here you go." Paul slid a plate onto the kitchen table.
 

Joanna laughed. Paul had made her a pancake shaped roughly like a dress, complete with blueberry buttons. "Not bad," she said. "With the prim collar and all, it could be an early Chanel. If you get tired of woodworking, you could go into fashion design."

"I figured you needed a special dress to tide you over until you get the clothes you bought yesterday." He put another plate of pancakes, these round, across the table and sat down. "Seriously, though, it's good to see you laugh about it. The paper has a story about Vivienne North's death. I guess her family's a big deal around here. They're saying she was poisoned."

Joanna cupped the coffee mug in her hands. "Poisoned? It's so hard to believe. I had just seen her, too. She must have been in her eighties, but she looked strong to me. Really elegant. Full of personality. You know what I mean?"
 

She pulled the newspaper toward her. Below a story about a recent flurry of jewel thefts was Vivienne’s photo, taken at a gala the year before. Joanna couldn't quite summon the image of the regal woman on the medical examiner's table, her vibrancy gone. "She didn't strike me as someone who would have a lot of enemies," she said. "Although I guess you never know." She remembered Vivienne's focused gaze from across the auction hall. There probably wasn't much she missed.