Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

"But, surely, just because she’s a gypsy doesn’t mean she steals." Any girl might be fascinated by old things and drawn in by the window display.
 

"True. Not always. But there was something about her—" She didn’t finish her thought.

“I had no idea there were gypsies around here,” Joanna prompted, fascinated.

"Oh yes. You’d be surprised." Helena returned to the counter. "But you were telling me about the nuns. About the Mother Superior wanting to know about Vivienne."

"I thought gypsies lived in caravans and read fortunes."

"Not American gypsies. Not these days. For one thing, they drive RVs. Nice ones, too." Helena must have picked up on her surprised expression. "Sociology professor, remember. I did my dissertation on travelers—that’s what you call them in this country. But about Vivienne."

"Yes," Joanna said, still thinking of the girl. She’d have to tell this story to Apple. She’d love it. "If you don't mind filling me in on what you know about the police investigation, it would help me out."

 
"I’m happy to. I don't have a lot to share, though. The detective hasn't come by or called since they searched Vivienne's room. I don't know if that's good or bad. Gil has called them a few times."

"Did they give you any hint as to how Vivienne died?"

"I wish they did. But we know no more than the papers said. Poisoning. The police aren't even sure what exactly was poisoned. They tested her liquor and came up dry. Gil and I were out that night at the biennial art awards ceremony. When we came home, we found her. In the library."

"She was reading?"

"She'd had a guest. There were two glasses—Vivienne's and a tumbler, like for Scotch. She'd had her usual
apéro
as she called it, at five o'clock, before we left. She must have decided on another when the guest arrived. I imagine she made herself a drink, then sat by the fire. The coals were almost burned out. A few things were knocked off the coffee table, but the doctor said that would have been normal if she’d had a seizure." Her eyes had a faraway look. "She was just lying there. She'd always had so much dignity, but—" She seemed unable to finish her thought.
 

Joanna's stomach turned at the grisly image. "But no sign of the guest."

"No. We don't know who it was. The police have questioned all the neighbors. One of them saw someone—a man, she thinks—hanging out in the front in the early evening, but she didn't see him go in."
 

Joanna waited for her to say more.
 

"I wish I could say I was more attached to Vivienne, but I wasn't. I feel kind of guilty about it, actually. I let her down in so many ways. For one thing, we never had children. But I really don't see the need to bring children into the world. That was a huge disappointment to Vivienne. Also..." Her voice trailed off. "Is that your husband?" she asked suddenly.

Helena's gaze had caught a small photo of Paul that Joanna had taped to the inside of the tiki bar along with a bent bobby pin. "Oh, my boyfriend," she said. "It's a long story, but once we were stuck together on a boat, and he used that bobby pin to pick the lock to get us out."
 

She remembered the night before, when Paul had suggested they move in together. This talk about death made her regret she hadn’t said "yes" right away. Waking up next to him every day, coming home to him every night—what could be better than that? And yet, it was still a little soon. She couldn’t explain it.
 

Helena nodded. "This whole thing has been hard on my husband." She paused. "It's created some—well, strain, and I don't know what to do."

Her intimacy surprised Joanna. She wasn't sure how to respond. Then again, just in their two meetings they'd talked about death and loss—subjects perhaps even more intimate. "That's natural. His mother died a horrible death. He's probably traumatized."

"It's more than that. He never had to work, so I was glad when he took up painting. But now he’s even lost interest in that. His medal from winning the art biennial seems to mean nothing to him. He’s so anxious. All the time. It’s like he expects more disaster." She searched Joanna's face, looking for some kind of comfort.

"It must be hard for you both. I can’t even imagine."

"Maybe it’s all the stress, but I keep having this feeling that—" A few seconds passed in silence.

"Feeling that what?"

"Well, I know it sounds strange, but I don’t feel safe yet. I feel as if—as if someone is watching me." Helena bit her lip.

"Oh," Joanna said. "Have you told the police?"

She shook her head. "It’s just me. Out of sorts. We have a new security system, I’m safe. At least, I should be safe."

"Maybe family should come stay with you for a while."
 

"I don’t have any. I was an only child, and my parents are dead now. Gil is it for me." She started to play with the earring again. "I have friends, of course."

"Of course." Money didn't necessarily make everything better. Although Apple was like a sister, Joanna knew what it was like not to have family near.
 

Helena seemed to be near tears, but she managed a short laugh. "I know we just met. You've been so kind. It's kind of a rough time right now, and I don't want to burden you with it. Thank you for asking about Vivienne and for telling the nuns. Vivienne would have liked that."
 

"It’s all right. I hope you’ll think of me as a friend." Joanna remembered Clary's warning that Helena could be "fragile."

Helena drew a deep breath. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
 

"I wonder when it will all be over? The police have had Vivienne's things for a few days now," Joanna said.

"Hopefully it won't be long. Gil says Detective Crisp told him they're following up something big. He thinks there'll be a break in the case soon. I hope to God so."
 

"That's great news." For both of them, since the police might release the clothes. And Detective Crisp—that was a stroke of luck, too. Joanna knew him from his investigation of the murder the summer before. She touched the sketched invitation on the tiki bar. Maybe she'd hold that fashion show yet.

***

Blossom Dearie's baby-like voice sang from the record player. One of the Rose Festival princesses, accompanied by her official chaperone, had just bought the expensive pink tulle dress that had been on display. Its pale rose set off the princess's creamy Asian skin and dark hair. Joanna dropped a few business cards in her bag, hoping she'd tell the other Rose Princesses about Tallulah’s Closet. Couldn't hurt.

Despite the sale, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Twice she’d had the sensation that someone was watching her through the store’s front window, but when she looked up, no one was there. She chalked it up to the strange interaction with the gypsy girl earlier in the day. That and the landlord’s impending deadline must have made her edgy.

The shop’s bell startled Joanna, nearly causing her to topple the mannequin in the front window. She’d been fastening a strapless daffodil-yellow satin gown around it.
 

She turned to find Clary next to her. "Whoa, let me help you."
 

With one hand, he reached for the mannequin to steady it. He had three book-shaped packages under his other arm, each wrapped in brown paper. Today he looked professorial in khaki trousers and a tweed jacket, complete with leather elbow patches. The gentle wear on his Belgian loafers and a wrinkled corner of handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket kept him from coming off as too self-consciously put together. No wire-rimmed glasses today, either. His eyes were gray flecked with amber.

She stepped down from the platform at the front window. "Thank you. How are you?"

"I was just at the bookstore around the corner." He set the packages on the counter. "Thought I'd check in on how you're coming along with the dresses for the art auction."

Wouldn't he already have this information from Helena? "I might have seen you pass by the store earlier."

"What? Oh, yes. I was getting these books." He patted the package.

 
"I visited Helena." She glanced up to see if his expression changed, if he would volunteer that they'd had lunch. Nothing. "Vivienne didn't have any other vintage pieces at home. Helena did give me a lead to a group Vivienne had donated gowns to, though. Should be no problem."

"Eve is pretty excited about some dresses she could lend. Really, if it's any trouble at all for you to—"

"No. Not a bit of trouble. In fact," Joanna faked a laugh, "it would be more trouble for me not to donate them at this point. Everything is worked out." Shoot. She'd better get in touch with the Mother Superior right away.

"If you're sure," Clary said absently.

"Oh, I'm sure all right."
 

He didn't reply. He seemed absorbed in looking at the store.

"You like it?"
 

Clary nodded. "I was just marveling at all the colors. They don’t make blue like that anymore." He touched the sleeve of a mid-century swing coat. "Did you go to design school? Parsons, maybe?"

"No. Law school, if you can believe that. But I always loved vintage clothing. The world it evokes is so glamorous, so Golden Age. Maybe it's from watching a lot of old movies, but I can't help but think that someone wearing a Grace Kelly-style dress will surely lead—I don’t know—a charmed life full of roadsters and Manhattan penthouses."

When she was in high school, at a church bazaar Joanna had picked up a cardigan in a saturated lavender color she'd never seen before. "Pringle" its label said next to a small crown. The cashmere was soft as a kitten's paw. She’d buttoned it over her blouse and admired the form-fitting cut and sleeves that stopped just below her elbow.
 

"You like that?" the woman minding the table had said. "Used to be my aunt's."

The sweater had felt so right, so her. She was ready to leap on a Vespa as she’d seen Audrey Hepburn do in
Roman Holiday
, although the church's Bible study room in the backwoods of the Pacific Northwest was about as far from mid-century Rome as you could get. "I love it."

"Come to my house later in the week, and I'll show you a few other things she had."

At first Joanna only wore the older clothing at home. But little by little she ventured out in full-skirted cotton day dresses from the 1950s and wild-patterned blouses from the sixties. She showed up her first day in college in a broad-shouldered rayon suit that had undoubtedly been worn by a secretary during World War Two. She’d haunted thrift stores and yard sales for vintage fedoras, coats with fox fur collars, and Pendleton plaid skirts.

The record player's arm bumped at the end of the album. She flipped the record and lowered the needle at the beginning.

"Law school, huh? Funny," Clary said. "I went to law school, too, and even worked a few years in one of the big downtown firms. Finally couldn't take it anymore. Only it wasn't old movies that lured me to antique books, it was history. Even as I kid I used to chart the royal families of Europe. I could tell you every Hapsburg back to when their first castle was built in one-thousand-twenty." He laughed. "I’m embarrassed to say I even bought a Baronet title on the internet." He raised his eyes. "Maybe you heard? I get teased about it sometimes."

"No, never," Joanna lied. Clary was a lot more likable than she'd anticipated. Charming, even. A quick vision of being with someone like Clary—he in his place across town and she in her house here, of course—flew across her brain. No sawdust, no stubbornness, no over-protectiveness. Maybe even the occasional nightcap.
 

The bell at the door rang as Paul strode in. His tool box clattered to the counter beside Clary's books. "Hi Jo. Here and ready for duty. Where's that loose clothing rod?"

She couldn’t help smiling at the sight of him. Maybe being with a man like Clary would cut down on the sawdust, but she’d rather sweep up pounds of it a day than lose out on Paul.

Clary nodded at Paul and picked up his books. "I'll see you at the NAP auction," he said to Joanna.

When the door shut, Paul turned to Joanna. "Who's the Poindexter?"

"No one you need to worry about." She pulled his palm to her lips.

***

Later that afternoon, Joanna was arranging a pair of sage green suede pumps next to their matching purse when the phone rang.

"Poppy's been arrested." Apple's voice over the phone was agitated.
 

 
Joanna set down the pump and focused on the phone in her hand. "What? Poppy?"
 

"Gavin saw it on TV at work and called me."

Joanna's thoughts whirled. Poppy couldn't be in jail. She's not a criminal. "Why did they arrest her? Not Vivienne's death?"

"They said she was selling stolen jewels. I don't know if it's connected to the murder or not."

Jewel theft? Absolutely not. "No. Poppy wouldn't do that. There's no way." She paced to the front of the store as far as the phone's cord would let her, then back to the counter.
 

"That's what the police say. You know all those diamond thefts this past year?"

Helena's diamonds had been stolen, and she'd seen news reports of other break-ins. But still, it couldn't be Poppy. Impossible. "Did they say anything else?"

"That's all I know. I wanted to tell you right away."

Joanna hung up and hurried outside to drag in the sandwich board. Poppy was no diamond smuggler. This was all a big mistake. There had to be some other explanation.

Joanna flipped off the store's lights and reached for her keys.
 

The Justice Center's visiting room was small and gray. Gray linoleum floor, dull gray walls, and a gray, formica-topped table. A slab of smudged glass separated rows of visitors and inmates, and emotional chatter filled the air. Poppy was already seated when a guard chaperoned Joanna to her seat.
 

"You’ve got thirty minutes," he said.

"Oh Joanna, it's all a mistake." Poppy's skin was almost translucent with dark circles under her eyes. Mug shots were always hideous, and now she knew why. Nobody looked good in this place. If only Joanna could stretch a hand through the glass to comfort her.