Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (31 page)

Her stupid, stupid jealousy had ruined everything. The bartender strained the cocktail into a glass and dropped in a twist before signaling the waitress. Light reflected off the tiny ice particles floating on its surface. Joanna sighed. Drinking wasn't going to help anything. She'd just wake up in the morning with a sour stomach and an awful taste in her mouth. She'd pay her bill and leave. At home waited a stack of torch songs and a few boxes of tissue. If only she could get out without Eve and Clary seeing her.

The waitress deposited the cocktail on Joanna's table.
 

Joanna touched her arm and said in a low voice, "Is there an exit in the annex?" She nodded at the doorway to the bar's side room. It was only open for private events or when the bar was particularly busy. It would be a lot easier to sneak out through there than dart by Clary and Eve for the front door.

"Sure, but it lets out at the dumpsters behind the tattoo parlor. What's wrong with the front door?"

"Some people I know just came in, and I don't want to talk about" —she paused to find a good word— "everything that's happened today. It's all too much."

The waitress nodded, her shoulder-dusting earrings swishing. "I'll turn off the alarm for a couple of minutes so you can make your getaway."

Joanna withdrew some bills from her purse and tossed them next to the untouched Martini. She slid from her booth and glanced toward Eve and Clary. Their heads were close, Eve talking while Clary, enraptured, looked on. The coast was clear.

She stood, slightly swaying. Sister Mary Alberta was right. Booze did not mix well with a concussion. She should have drunk more water with those Martinis. Had she even eaten lunch? She backed toward the wall and stood until the room leveled out. Man. This was ridiculous. On a normal day, she could handle two cocktails just fine. Hand against the wall, she moved toward the entrance to the back room, but her feet tangled with a bar stool, sending it careening to the floor with a crash.

All eyes turned to Joanna. The murmur of voices halted, and Herb Alpert's trumpet filled the void with a couple of bars of Spanish-inflected brass before people resumed talking. Joanna's face flamed with embarrassment. The bartender picked up the stool, and Joanna felt a hand at her elbow. Clary.

"Are you all right?" With his other hand, he pushed in his glasses.

Eve joined them. "Joanna. You've been drinking, haven't you?" She looked at the two empty cocktail glasses on Joanna's table.

"It's a bar. I might have had something to drink."

"Why don't you come sit with us for a minute? I'll order some coffee. You're not driving, are you?" Eve asked. Her voice was soft. She seemed genuinely concerned.

"No, no, I'm walking. It's just a few blocks. I need to get home."
 

"Are you sure?" Clary said. "It's no trouble to take you home."

"If you’d like, I can call Paul," Eve said.

That would be the final humiliation. Joanna willed a confident smile. "No. Please don’t. Really, I'm fine. Clumsy, that's all. See you soon."

She strolled toward the back room. "Emergency Exit Only," the door to the alley read. She pushed it open and emerged into the alley, scaring a rat from under the dumpster. The bar's alarm bells clanged through the night.

Had she really fallen asleep? The gray daylight seeping through the curtains signaled morning, so she must have, despite tossing and turning all night.
 

She dragged herself to the closet and pulled out an old housedress in drab gray and dark blue to wear. Rain splattered from the gutters, matching her mood. She dialed Apple's house. With any luck they had released her from the hospital last night and she'd be home by now.

Gavin answered. "Oh, she’s fine. A little worn out, but all right. I think she's enjoying the attention. I'm just glad she's okay." Apple's voice sounded in the background. "She wants to talk to you."

"Joanna," Apple said. "You've got to be careful. Someone is really dangerous—unhinged."

"I know, believe me."
 

"No, I mean it. I'd never felt so out of it last night, but I kept having dreams. Horrible dreams. It's cold and wet and I smell engine grease. I hear screaming. Warn the sisters, too."

"I know. I mean—obviously."
 

"Call the police again. I'm worried. See if they know anything new."

Detective Crisp. He'd be happy to hear from her. Right. Joanna hesitated, and Apple added, "Promise me."

Joanna sighed. Maybe he'd have news about the honey, at least. "Okay, I promise."

"Good. I need to go now. Gavin's bringing me breakfast in bed." She must have moved the phone away from her mouth. "Gavey? Don't let that steep too long." Then, into the phone's receiver, "Be careful, and call the detective."
 

Joanna hung up, then picked up the phone again and dialed.

"Foster Crisp."

"This is Joanna Hayworth. I—"

"Ms. Hayworth. I was just going to call you. We need to talk. In person."

In person? Alarmed, she said, "I was just going to the store."

"Fine. Can you meet me there right away?"

***

Despite being in such a rush to meet her at Tallulah's Closet, Detective Crisp was nowhere to be seen when Joanna arrived. Why was he so eager, anyway? He couldn't possibly know about last night at the Norths, could he? Her throat tightened.
 

The store's lights barely illuminated the gloom cast by the rain outside. The radio had broadcast a "severe weather alert" warning about floods. Not a very welcoming environment for customers. Replacing the window in the door would cost at least three cocktail dresses—or a part of one of Vivienne's suits. Hopefully she'd get some business today.

She flipped through her record albums to find something suitable for the morning. Maybe the Carpenters. That song about rainy days and Mondays would hit the spot. Record in hand, she started at the sharp knock on the plywood nailed over the door. The detective.
 

"May I?" Crisp shook out his umbrella and set it next to the door. He sat on the bench in the center of the store, the scent of wet wool rising from his pants. He motioned for Joanna to join him. "I'm sorry about your friend. Why don't you tell me what's been going on?"

Joanna picked up a gold lamé mule near her feet and set it on the bench. Another loose end, just like everything else in her life right now. She'd find its mate later.
 

"Apple was poisoned by honey that Helena Schuyler North gave me. I'm sure of it. I bet the honey was what killed Vivienne North, too. We need to figure out who poisoned it. I brought it to the station last night."

Crisp's cowboy boots scuffed the floor as he repositioned himself. "You have ideas?"

She couldn't tell if he was serious or just humoring her. "A few, actually."

"Let's hear them." He couldn't have seemed less interested.

"You don't care, do you?"
 

"It's not that, Joanna. It's just—"

The emotion of the past weeks teetered like a snowball on the top of a cliff. If she let go now, the detective was in for a real treat. "Poppy was my friend. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up dead. First you guys wrongly arrested her for selling stolen diamonds, so she spent time in jail. Some of her last days. In jail." She leaned forward. "That last night Vivienne was alive, she called Poppy. Did you know that?"

"Yes. We know."

"Poppy said she sounded delirious. It had to be the poison. Every night Vivienne drank a cocktail called a Bee's Knees. It's made with gin and honey. I know you tested the gin, but you must have forgotten the honey. That's all I can think."
 

Crisp's expression remain unchanged. "I know. We got preliminary results this morning."

"And?"

"No poison."

Joanna's jaw dropped. "Nothing?"

He shook his head.

"You said 'preliminary' results. You just haven't found the right poison yet. Apple—"

"She must have eaten something else. Maybe at lunch."

For a moment, Joanna couldn’t find words. "But I…"
 
It had to be the honey. Had to.
 

He fastened his gaze on Joanna. "Speaking of telephone calls, the Norths reported a break-in last night. We discovered they'd received a call from a cellphone that evening. Your boyfriend's phone."
 

Joanna's anger melted into fear. She fidgeted and looked at her lap. "Really? A break-in?"

"You didn't ask if anything was stolen."

She drew a breath and looked him in the eyes. Less suspicious that way. "Was there?"

He paused, still watching, and said finally, "No. Nothing they could find. One of Gil North's paintings was damaged, though."

Fearing her lower lip would quiver, she put a hand over her mouth. She wanted to scream and blurt out that it was already destroyed when they arrived. But she couldn't. "That's awful. He must be really upset."
 

"Strangely, he isn't. That doesn't mean we won't find out who broke in. People try to hide things from us all the time, and we find them out." He stood. "I suppose you'll want to be opening the store now." He headed toward the door, then turned around. "One more thing. Where were you last night? We tried to call."

"Me? I went to the hospital, of course. Then I—" Flustered, Joanna paused. "I guess I was in shock and went to sleep. The concussion, you know. The last thing I was thinking about was talking on the phone." Now she was lying to the police. Again.

"I see. Oh, I almost forgot. One of the Norths' neighbors reported seeing a pickup truck in front of their house last night. Not a truck she recognized, either, although she said she's sure she would know it again if we showed her a photo."
 

Paul's truck. Damn. His phone, and now his truck. There's no way she was letting him take the blame for her terrible plan. No way. She drew a shaky breath.
 

"Maybe I didn't tell the whole truth. I didn't want to tell you where I was last night because—because it was embarrassing. I needed to ask Helena something... personal, so I used Paul's phone to call her—you know I don't have a cell phone—then borrowed his truck to go see her." Should she have called a lawyer before talking to Crisp? He wasn't taking notes. Too late now. "She wasn't home, so I left."

Completely unconvincing. Even as the words left her mouth she knew how bogus they sounded. Despite the blood hammering at her ears, she felt faint. He would surely reach for the handcuffs now and take her away.
 

Instead, Detective Crisp picked up his umbrella. "I see." He stood and stretched. He pointed behind her. "By the way, that other gold shoe? It's under the chair."
 

She turned her head. The lamé mule's toe peeked from under the chair's ruffle.
 

Crisp looked at her for a moment longer than necessary, then left the store.

***

Rain pounded on the aluminum awning and gushed down the gutters. No one had been in the store for hours. Joanna had already spaced the dresses evenly along the racks and tidied the hat and jewelry displays. She moved a lamp to illuminate the shadow caused by the plywood nailed over the door. Now she was scrubbing the seams of a pair of patent leather stilettos. They were already clean, but she'd do anything to keep from thinking of the mess she was in. Maybe Detective Crisp was talking to Helena right now, and maybe Helena was telling him she saw Joanna running through the backyard when her house was broken into. She pushed the stilettos to the side.
 

Just as Joanna had decided to sort through a jar full of buttons, the bell jangled. It was one half of the nearly indistinguishable couple who usually shopped together. Natalie—or Nicole.
 

Natalie or Nicole shed her coat by the door. "Is it okay if I leave this here? I'm drenched. What happened to the door?"

"Accident. I'm hoping to get the glass replaced some time this week." Change the subject. "Where's—uh—"

"Nicole? Cleaning the gutters. They're predicting floods. The mayor's even talking about stacking sandbags along the river." Natalie smoothed her wet hair and set down two to-go cups with tea bags dangling from them. "I just dropped in to see Apple."

"She's—she's not feeling great today." Big understatement. "Can I help you?"

"I brought her some tea, that's all. There's a Zandra Rhodes caftan I wanted to show her a picture of, too."

Joanna expected Natalie to pull out her phone with the photo, but she wasn't paying attention. She stared at Vivienne's peach dress behind the counter. Joanna hadn't had time to price it and put it out.
 

"Did Eve sell you that dress?" Natalie asked.

Eve? "No, I picked it up a few days ago from the owner's daughter-in-law. Why?"

"I could swear I saw it at Eve's. Is it an Adele Simpson?" She pulled the dress from the rack. "It is."

Joanna grabbed the dress's right sleeve and fingered the seam near the wrist. Yes, there it was, the tiny, telltale hole left by a price gun. She dropped the sleeve as if it were molten metal. The truth took a moment to sink in.

Helena had lied to her. Why?
 

Natalie slipped on her raincoat. "Well, tell Apple I stopped by, and I hope she’s feeling better soon. I'll leave the other tea with you. If you don't mind my saying so, you look like you could use it."
 

"Thanks, and stay dry," Joanna said absently.
 

Helena had used the dress to lure Joanna to her house. She wanted to tell Joanna about Clary, cast blame on him. And give her the honey.
 

No. Couldn't be. Crisp said the honey wasn't poisoned. Plus, the killer had tried to implicate Helena by making Joanna tell the police she'd seen her leaving Poppy's body.

Joanna circled the store, straightening hangers and spacing dresses evenly along their rods, even though they didn't need it. If the killer were Helena—ridiculous, but consider it a moment—she would have known the police would clear her immediately. By calling Joanna and forcing her to lie to the police, she made Joanna look bad, not her. After all, Joanna herself had seen Helena at her table before she went to the green room in search of Poppy. But earlier, Helena had been away from the table. She could have killed Poppy then.