Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (30 page)

Paul dropped into the neighbor's yard and waited for her to do the same. The neighbor's house was quiet, the TV now mute. Joanna moved toward the house, but Paul pulled her back. "They'll think of that," he said, nodding at the North's house. "This way." A small cedar fence divided this yard from the one behind it. Moonlight barely outlined the silhouettes of patio furniture and a swing set.
 

Paul boosted her over the fence and followed, yanking her through the yard, under an illuminated second story window. Joanna tripped over a tricycle, but Paul pulled her onward. No fence hemmed in the front of the house, and within seconds they were on the street.
 

***

Joanna quickly untied her skirt. It fell around her legs. She reached down to rub her calf, bruised by the tricycle, but Paul slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her upright. "Keep walking."

The street behind Helena and Gil's house fronted a ravine. Darkness, broken only by pale yellow porch lights, cloaked the sidewalk. They reached the end of the block where the residential street met the larger road, but instead of turning right to go back to the car, Paul led her across Vista. They plunged into the neighborhood. "We're taking the long way back," he said.
 

"What about the truck?"

"I'll go back and get it later." He still held her hand. The wide palm, the slightly calloused fingers, soothed her. Joanna's body settled into jittery exhaustion. Paul seemed curiously calm, even euphoric.
 

"You like this, don't you?"

They walked together a few steps before he replied. "I hope we never have to do anything like that again."

"But you liked it," she repeated.

A slight smile played on his lips. "It was exciting. I wasn't sure we were going to make it out of the house. Then the yard."
 

"Your uncle. You were thinking about him, weren't you?"

"Yes."

They walked another block together. She waited for more. She knew he had more to say.

"I always idolized my uncle. You know—he was the guy who broke into rich people's homes and took things they didn't need anyway. No one ever got hurt."

"Kind of glamorous, almost." Down in the city, a siren cried. Somewhere, someone had slipped on wet tile, or sank into an armchair clutching his chest, or hot oil had splashed from a skillet, searing an arm. It seemed so far away.

"I’ve been really down on your following up on Poppy."

"Yes." The sidewalk passed step, step, step under their feet.

"Kind of demanding."

She didn’t need to reply to this.
 

"I want to tell you something. I should have told you earlier, I just…"

She let the anonymity of the night do its work. Up the hill they walked, then turned in to a side street.

"I helped my uncle on a few of his heists."

She drew a quick breath. “You were young—" she started.

"I loved it."

Her step faltered, then she caught up with him again. "You did?"

"I did. You saw me. It’s a huge charge, breaking into a house. We always made it out, had the goods."

"What—what did you do?"

"Not much, really. I was good at cracking security systems. Then I’d let Uncle Gene take over, and I’d wait in the car."

"But you were never caught."

"No." A few seconds lapsed. "No, I wasn’t around when he was finally nailed. But I saw what it did to him." Paul turned to her. "His wife left him. He went to jail. He lost everything. I should have told you sooner."

Paul’s uncle must have covered up for him. On some level he’d felt responsible. "That’s old history now. A long time ago," she said.

"I wasn’t even out of high school yet. But you see why Poppy’s jail time for stealing diamonds got to me. I’ve lived completely straight since then."

As far as she knew, he had. Maybe that’s why he was so cautious that he didn’t even drink.

They turned to the main thoroughfare and continued to walk like any couple out for an evening stroll. Maybe their "break" was over. She hoped so.
 

They climbed the hill and crossed the Vista Bridge, pausing for a few seconds in the brisk night to take in the view. Red lights of traffic headed downtown streamed away, while the white headlights of traffic through the canyon came toward them. "When I was a little girl," Joanna said, "I remember standing somewhere like this with my grandmother and sharing my grand revelation that if you had red lights you drove on one side of the road, and everyone with white lights drove on the other. Grandma set me straight, of course."

Paul laughed, but not Joanna. She wondered if he'd be able to sleep tonight reliving the break-in and escape in his mind. If she didn't sleep, it would be worry—worry about Apple and about being caught. They hadn't been very careful. They'd probably left fingerprints everywhere. Plus, the nosy neighbor across the street had definitely seen them.
 

"Thank you for telling me about your uncle," Joanna said. "It explains a lot."

He squeezed her hand.

They traversed the neighborhood, away from the direction of the truck, then crossed Vista again. They were making a wide circle around Helena's house. The occasional car passed. Streets wound more here, and houses perched up against the hills. In some places the sidewalks narrowed to just a few feet. Paul and Joanna's gait was steady on the pavement.

They continued by a wooded area. His smile faded. A police cruiser crawled past them on a side street. She forced herself to calm down. There's no way the police knew what she and Paul were up to. They couldn't. All at once Paul pushed her against a tree, his back to the street, and kissed her. The tree’s bark grated into her back, but she barely noticed as she relaxed into Paul’s arms.

The cruiser passed, and as suddenly as he had held her he released her and pulled her back to the sidewalk. "Come on, it's only a few more blocks."

Joanna gasped. "For God's sake, Paul. Don't do that unless you mean it." With her fingers she combed a leaf from her hair.

He didn't say anything, and she couldn't read his face in the dark. "We didn't find anything at the North’s. No honey, either," Paul said.

"No." Another siren sounded in the city below, bringing back thoughts of Apple in the hospital. Maybe she was home by now.
 

"So besides Helena and Gil, you think the murderer could be the artist who painted the painting in the den, or the carnie from Oaks Park, right?"

"They seem most likely. Don’t forget about Clary. Yesterday Helena told me he was interested in her, but Vivienne didn't approve. Helena said it's all over now. I just don't know. Plus, what if Gil found out?"

"Clary. Sure. I remember him."

"Uh huh."

"Clary and Helena? But Eve—" Paul didn't finish his thought.
 

"But what?" Joanna rankled at the sound of Eve's name from Paul's mouth. Eve bought that dress for some big date. She was so damned coy about it, too.

"Nothing." He looked puzzled.
 

They continued to walk. The truck wasn't far now. The events of the evening—the whole day, in fact—had left her in a state of edgy exhaustion. But at least Paul got it now. He understood why she couldn’t just leave things alone as he’d wanted. And she understood why he’d been so protective. She glanced at him. His profile showed determination, but the lines around his mouth had softened.

"I’m glad you came with me tonight," she said.

He squeezed her hand again but said nothing.

"I’m glad you see how frightening things were getting, how I had to do something for Poppy." Their steps hit the sidewalk in tandem. "I haven’t even told you about the store."

Paul fell out of stride. "What about the store?"

She told him about the caller and the gunshot. "The window’s shattered, but thanks to the safety glass, the bullet didn’t do as much damage."

Paul stopped cold. "He shot at you?"

"Yes, but only a warning shot. That’s what the police figure."

"I’m—I’m speechless." He walked, but now strolled ahead of her.

She hurried to catch up with him. "I fell, that’s all. Just a slight concussion. Crisp says if the shooter had wanted to get me, he would have."

"Foster Crisp came? From homicide?"

"Well, yes. There were gunshots." She hadn’t even told him about the first threatening call.

"This is insane. I was right in the first place. Joanna, you cannot follow up with any more of this. This goes way beyond whatever happened to Uncle Gene."

"But…" She bit her lip. "But I thought you understood. I thought you even enjoyed it, to tell the truth. And what about Apple? I can’t stop now. I can’t."

Joanna pulled Paul's rag wool sweater tighter. Paper crinkled in its pocket. Without thinking she pulled it out. "What's this?" She flattened the paper in her palm. Under the streetlight's weak glow she made out a few words, "can't stop thinking about you" and "want to" in Paul's messy script.
 

"Give that to me." Paul yanked the paper from her, but she'd gripped it tightly. The paper tore in half.

She moved away from him, surprised at the urgency in his voice. "What? What are you hiding?"

"Give it to me," he repeated. He snatched the rest of the note from her fingers.

"What?" Joanna's voice rose in fury. Eve. Damn it. She had been right about them all along. "A rough draft? And what did she say when she got the note?" Her face burned and hands shook.
 

"Jo, I just spent the evening breaking into a house for you. We narrowly escaped. We could have both been tossed in jail—and for good reason. But you don't trust me."

"Why should I when—when you're writing mash notes to Eve?"
 

His pleading turned to anger. "What makes you think it was to Eve? Besides, you should talk. I can’t trust you to keep a promise. You told me you’d butt out of all this diamond and murder business. Then I find out about the sting operation. And now someone is trying to kill you. What if you’d died?"

"Not kill me. Just warn me."

He shook his head. "I can’t trust you. I can’t trust you to keep a promise. I can’t trust you to take care of yourself, even. You even came over to the shop when I wasn't there."

That's right—she'd forgotten. Her face burned. She should have told him. "How do you know?"

"Gemma puked up a blueberry muffin." He clenched his fists and released them. "I was wrong to think I could do this." His voice softened. "All we went through tonight, and still you don’t trust me." He wouldn't look at her. "I can’t do this. There’s no way we can make it."

Joanna slowed, but Paul walked ahead. "Paul—" She started, uncertainly.

"I’ll take you to the bus. I’m walking home."

Joanna pushed open the door of the Night Light tavern. The bus had deposited her down the block, and she had been walking past to get home when she remembered Eve mentioning the Night Light as a place she visited sometimes. Maybe she'd be there now, and Joanna could give her a piece of her mind. Yes, she'd march up to that woman and let her know exactly where she could get off. Besides, on a practical note, the Night Light would be warm. She'd left Paul's sweater wadded up on the bus seat, and she shivered in the spring night air. And, oh, how she wanted a drink.

The familiar mix of 1980s music, dim light, and muffled conversation greeted her. This month's art show focused on wizards. Wizards riding horses, waving magic wands, and drinking foaming potions. But no Eve. She slumped into a corner booth under a water color of a wizard zapping a bulky demon with a lightning bolt.

The waitress set a cocktail napkin on her table. "Long time no see." She put a hand on her hip. "You don't look so good."

"It's been a hellish day. You wouldn't even believe it."

"Oh Joanna. I'm sorry." Her kohl-rimmed eyes drew together in sympathy. "The usual?"

"Nice and dry, please, with a twist." The day's events played and replayed through her brain. Poppy's funeral. Leo. Apple in the hospital. Breaking into Helena's. And, of course, ruining things for good with Paul.
 

She was going to get good and drunk.

The Martini arrived a minute later. "On the house," the waitress said.

Joanna slid the cocktail close and tipped the icy gin into her mouth. Except for the elderly woman at the bar—the one who used to play the drums for a Nirvana opening band, and she was no spring chicken back then—the bar was full of couples. One couple, both in stocking caps and too-short jeans, played backgammon. Another couple drained pint glasses, their lip piercings bulging against the glass. A middle-aged couple took a table in the middle of the room and studied the menu. Probably in for a nightcap after dinner at the French restaurant down the block. The man seemed particularly interested in the wizard painting nearest him, featuring sleeping unicorns.

Martini number two arrived. As Joanna poured the last few drops of her first cocktail into the second, the tavern's door opened and damp night air ruffled the stack of weeklies on a nearby bench.

That halo of golden hair. It could only be Eve. Oh good. She had some choice words for that home wrecker. She put her hands beside her to boost herself up, then dropped to the seat again. Behind Eve was a man. Joanna swallowed hard as the man turned to face the room.

Clary? What the hell was he doing here?

Clary put a hand on the small of Eve's back and guided her to a booth across the room. Eve delicately scooted down the bench and Clary settled close to her. Very close. It was unlikely they'd be able to see Joanna in the darkened corner, but she was perfectly placed to see Clary and the side of Eve's head. Eve lifted her jacket from her shoulders, revealing a spill of pale green silk. The Hermès scarf. Clary had bought the scarf for Eve, not Helena.
 

Clary plus Eve. Joanna had been so wrong. Eve wasn't after Paul at all.

She'd totally blown it.

Joanna tapped her glass, signaling she wanted another drink. Someone once said, "Martinis are like a woman's breasts—one is too few, and three is too many." Tonight she preferred James Thurber's take on the old saying, "One Martini is all right; two is too many; and three is not enough."