Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

"Why was she auctioning off all her stuff before she died?" Paul rose to tend to the pancakes.

"Can’t say. Maybe she was downsizing." She remembered Vivienne's crisp dismissal of Eve and smiled. Her smile morphed to a frown. "Poor Vivienne. I wish I could have known her. She moved in completely different circles, but even half an hour and a coffee with her would have been fascinating." She absently drew a heart on the table with her finger. "I wonder if I'll ever get those clothes now."
 

She'd never even touched a Mainbocher suit before, and she nearly had two she could have spent hours examining. The clever cut of the stand-away collar of the Givenchy. Gone. Besides that, without them she couldn't begin paying back the credit line the bank had extended her for the auction.
 

She shifted in the chair. It was still a little early to call Poppy for more information. It wouldn’t hurt to check on her mood, either. She’d seemed so out of it.

Paul lifted two pancakes to a plate and poured more batter in the pan. "I don’t understand why the police took her things away. Doesn’t make sense to me. What would vintage clothes and furniture have to do with a homicide investigation?"

Joanna toyed with her fork. "I don’t get it, either."

You’re worried about the money, aren't you?"

"Yes. A little."
 

He set the plate of pancakes on the tiny kitchen table. Gemma trotted over, clearly hoping for a scrap. "Do you know if the clothes are actually still yours? I mean, you didn’t take possession of them before the police carted them away. If the clothes aren't really yours, the auction house will have to refund you the money, and you won't have the bank to think about at all."

"No way. They’re mine. I have the receipt and everything." She shook her head. "I want those dresses even if I have to sell a kidney to get them."
 

"That’s my girl," he said. "Undaunted. We’ll work out the money angle one way or another."

"In the meantime, more coffee, please." She reached up to scratch where the rough wool brushed against her shoulder.

"You bet. That robe itches, doesn't it? Why don't you bring over one of your own?"

"Maybe I will." Embarrassed, her gaze slipped to her plate.

"Not to rush you. It took long enough to get you here in the first place." He rose and kissed her ear, and she laughed. "Not that I’m complaining."

"You’re a patient man," she said. "A patient man who could use a shave."

"Still a little shy, but we’re making progress." He reached over to refill her cup. "Now, if I could just get you to bring over a robe—"

"Yellow light," she said, their pet term for "caution," but she smiled when she said it. Her smile faded. "Something is wrong with Poppy, too. I’m sure."

"From what you told me last night, she doesn’t want to talk about it." He dropped a hand to scratch Gemma. "Do you want to give her a call? You can borrow my phone."

"Thank you."
 

"You must be the last person in the country without a cell phone," he said with affection. "You and some Amish people."

Joanna took his phone from the counter and punched in Poppy's number with her thumb. Cellphones felt so flimsy, not like the solid princess phone she had at home.
 

Poppy answered on the first ring.
 

"I hope it’s not too early to call. I thought I’d see if the police gave you any updates when they left. I mean, they left, right?"

Poppy sighed. "Eventually. They let me keep the furniture, but they practically took it apart first. They hauled out Vivienne’s wardrobe, though."

"They didn’t give you any idea of when they’d release it?"

"No." Poppy’s voice was flat. Tired.

"How are you holding up? You looked pretty stressed last night. Is there anything I can do? Maybe help you call clients?"

"I’m all right. Ben’s here to help me." A pause. "I’ll see you at the NAP auction meeting this afternoon, right?"

"Right." Damn. She'd forgotten about the meeting. Gemma wedged her body under the kitchen table and laid her head on Paul's foot. It was so warm here, so cozy, but it didn't look like she'd have time to enjoy it.
 

"That’s everyone." NAP's events coordinator, Jeffrey, closed the door to the conference room. Rain streaked the ceiling-to-floor windows. The room's fluorescent light cast the group’s reflections against the glass. The sharp contours of Portland's tallest skyscraper, nicknamed "Big Pink" for its rosy granite exterior, filled the background.

Jeffrey rested his phone in easy view. "Joanna, I'd like you to meet Clarence and Lacey. They're leading the table host committee. I thought they should look at the dresses before we make any decisions. You already know Poppy."

Clarence rose and offered his hand. "Please call me Clary." Lacey lifted her head from her phone long enough to nod hello. A black Pomeranian squirmed in her lap.

Joanna had run into Clary a few times at auctions and estate sales. He had a rare books boutique in the Pearl District. People called him "Baronet" behind his back because it was rumored he'd bought a title on the internet. He certainly dressed the part with his starched dress shirt buttoned to the neck and small, wire-rimmed glasses. Some might say he acted the part, too. She hadn't met Lacey before, but her blond highlights and puffed lips gave her the look of a dozen other local society women, the sort for whom Clary had probably played the role of walker many times.
 

Poppy rose for a hug when Joanna crossed to her side of the table and scooted over to make room for her. The clever use of concealer brightened Poppy’s eyes, but her usual enthusiasm was absent. A large sheet of paper covered with circles indicating tables, some with names scribbled next to them, lay in front of her. Her job was to know where the big spenders sat and to tailor her pitch to them.

"How are you?" Joanna whispered.

"Okay. Considering."

Jeffrey continued. "I thought we’d start with the outfits. Is that all right?" He looked to Clary for permission to go on. Clary nodded. "Joanna has agreed to lend us a few gowns. I told her we'd take care of dry cleaning, and we'd pay for any damage—not that there'll be any. We'll need five ensembles for the greeters, then another five for the art handlers."

"I don’t know about vintage for the hostesses," Lacey said. "Why not something new? You know, nice?"

Joanna sat up. She thought it had been settled that she’d provide the dresses.

Clary swiveled toward Lacey. "Oh no. Vintage is the only way to go. We want something unique. Hollywood glamour, you know."

Jeffrey nodded. "Hollywood glamour. Yes, yes. Definitely."

Clary leaned forward. "But, of course, we'll need to make sure they fit in. We'll have very high-end donors. They expect excellence. The aesthetic must be perfect."
 

Jeffrey swiveled his head toward him and nodded faster.
 

Poppy crossed her arms defensively. "Joanna has terrific taste. I see these donors, too, you know, at all sorts of charity auctions I work. I guarantee the volunteers will look better at the NAP art auction than they did at the art museum's gala."

"Thank you, Poppy." Joanna pulled an envelope from her bag and slid out a sheaf of photographs. Apple had offered to make a slideshow on the laptop, but Joanna loved the old-fashioned permanence of a photograph with its glossy surface, even though she had to have one of her customers, a photographer, develop for the film for her. "It wasn't easy finding the larger sizes—so many vintage dresses were made for smaller people—but I think I came up with a good selection."

The first photo showed a floor-length 1940s gown with a black and white plaid taffeta bodice and a black crepe skirt. Its vee neck was ruffled, and a plaid sash encircled its waist, culminating in a large bow at the back. "I kept the palette to black and white. This dress is a modern size eight, but there's room at the hips and the waist if we tie the sash looser."

"I see the references in late '90s Prada," Clary said. Spot-on fashion knowledge, Joanna noted. Impressive. "I don't want to be insulting, but how does it smell?" he added.

"Yes, the smell," Jeffrey said and nodded twice, his attention on Clary.

The Pomeranian yapped and leapt from Lacey's lap. "Porsche, get over here."

"Portia?" Joanna said. "Like in
The Merchant of Venice
."

Lacey retrieved the dog. "No, like in the Boxster."

Joanna swallowed a grimace, then turned to the table. “As for the dresses, I dry clean everything. I'm wearing vintage now." She plucked the collar of her Mugler dress. "Hopefully it smells all right to you." She suppressed her irritation and withdrew the next photo, another 1940s dress with strong shoulders and a drape of fabric at the waist. "Plus, I put a few drops of lavender oil in the steamer water."
 

"That one looks like it could be in a Humphrey Bogart movie," Lacey said, having corralled the Pomeranian again. "Very film noir." She frowned. "In fact, maybe too film noir. Are they all like that?"

"A lot of them are." Joanna pulled two more photos from the stack, this time tea-length black cocktail dresses from the early 1950s. "The fabric absorbed a lot of light in this photo. It's hard to see the ruching on the bodice."
 

Lacey wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. Clary, what do you think? War-era dresses are just so—so depressing."

"They're gorgeous," Poppy said, always loyal. "They make me think of dancing to big band music."

Clary straightened in his chair and crossed his legs, revealing a polished calf loafer. "I agree. I don't find them depressing at all. If you ask me, these are the real hourglass dresses. But I get your point. Couldn't we have something a little more—I don't know—grand, maybe? You know, more Academy Awards, more satin and décolleté?"

Jeffrey's head darted from Lacey to Clary to Joanna.
 

Joanna pondered her stock. She could probably pull together four or five dresses that weren't too small, although it would wipe out her collection in that era for a few weeks. It would be worth it, though, just for the exposure at the auction. She’d need another five, too. She glanced at Poppy. If only she had Vivienne's dresses. They would be great advertising for the new, higher-end direction the store was taking. Then again, maybe the dresses were too fine to lend for a charity auction. Not worth the risk of an accidental Merlot stain.
 

"I do have a handful in the store that might work, although most of them are awfully small. Size twos and fours."

"Why don't we ask Eve at Eve's Temptation what she has?" Clary said. "I know her pretty well. I bet I could convince her to lend some dresses for the auction."

Eve? Never. "No. I can get them." Joanna was surprised at the force of her voice. She'd be damned if Eve ended up making money over this. "I mean, I've also bought some gorgeous dresses at auction, lots of them, but the police have them right now. I'll look into getting them returned."

"From Vivienne North," Lacey said. "They're her things, aren't they? Oh, that would be marvelous. Once I went over for tea and she showed me a few. I’m not a huge vintage wearer, but I admit they were pretty impressive." She leaned forward. "But you said the police are holding them? Does it have to do with her murder?"
 

Joanna marked her interest in the dresses and noted her as a potential buyer—if the police ever released them.

"I'm afraid so," Poppy said. "Although I'm not sure why. I can't imagine she'd worn most of the clothes for years. Decades, even."

Clearly excited, Lacey turned to Clary. "You know Helena Schuyler North, don't you? Vivienne's daughter-in-law, the sociology professor? Vivienne was living with her. Maybe she has more dresses that she kept."

Clary shifted in his seat. "Yes, sure, I know her. With all the talk about her mother-in-law’s death, she might not want to be opening Vivienne's closet to the world just now—"

"The police probably have everything of hers, anyway," Joanna said.

"Why? I’ve never heard of the police taking someone’s wardrobe—clothes they haven’t worn forever—in a murder investigation." Lacey put a hand on Clary's arm. "You could convince Helena to lend a few dresses, I know you could. Besides, Helena’s going to the NAP auction. Her husband has a painting in it."
 

Joanna watched intently. If she could talk to Vivienne's daughter-in-law, maybe she could get more information about when the police would release Vivienne's clothes. "I'd be happy to visit her daughter-in-law, take a look at the dresses. If there are any." She shot a look at Lacey.

Clary fidgeted. "I don't know if she's taking visitors right now. Even if she is, she might not feel up to meeting with a stranger. I mean, she and her husband were the ones who found Vivienne's body."

"I can understand she'd be upset." The thought of Vivienne sprawled on the floor gave her a momentary shiver. Her death still seemed unreal. "But I'm used to dealing with people who are taking care of their family's estates. Sometimes it's a relief for the family to be able to talk about business for a change. Talking to a stranger, like me, makes it even easier."

Clary stared vacantly at the image of a black rayon dress still in his hand. "I guess I could give her a call."

"Do it," Lacey said. "Call her now."

"It would be nice to have this part of the event taken care of," Jeffrey added with hesitation, as if he were unsure whether he should be siding with Joanna and Lacey or with Clary.

"My schedule is open," Joanna said.

"All right. Just a moment." Clary reached inside his jacket for his phone and walked to the far end of the conference room.
 

Joanna raised her eyebrows at Poppy. Surely, if anyone knew what was going on with the police investigation, it would be Vivienne's family. And, who knows? Maybe Vivienne did leave a few dresses her daughter-in-law would be willing to part with.
 

Clary returned, sliding his phone again into the pocket and withdrawing a gold pen. "She's not sure what Vivienne has, but she can meet you tomorrow morning. Here's her address," he said, scrawling the name of a street in the West Hills in an ornate script. "Be careful with her. She's, well, she's fragile."