Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

Their eyes met. "Don't get any ideas." He pinched her toe. "I mean a kind of sting operation. You know, hold an auction, give the diamond thief the chance to do his thing. Then nail him."

She shook her head and rested it again on the couch. "That’s ridiculous," she said. Nonetheless, she was listening. "Whoever’s selling the diamonds would be crazy to take a risk like that. Why would he? He knows Poppy’s already been arrested."

"But not convicted. This would seal it." Paul paused. "You’re fishing for more info, aren’t you? Forget it."

"But I—" A sting operation. Hmm. The mantel clock ticked. The NAP art auction was Saturday.
 

"Jo." Paul interrupted her stream of thought. "I know that look. I was just talking off the cuff. You know, making stuff up."

"You never did answer me about the ceiling color."
 

"Stop it. You’re right, you know. A sting operation would never work. Too risky. I shouldn’t have said anything."

"Relax. It’s okay. I told you I’d leave it alone, remember?"

He didn't even smile. "I’m serious. Let the police handle it. There's one dead body already."

***

Joanna rolled over in bed and pulled a pillow over her head. Poppy, pale and anxious in the jail's visiting room, had haunted her dreams. She wished she had accepted Paul's offer to stay, but she'd sent him home instead. He’d hesitated at the door as if he’d had something to say, but had seemed to think better of it and left. She tossed the pillow on the floor.
 

Today, Apple was working, so Joanna didn’t even have Tallulah’s Closet to distract her. There was only one thing to do when anxiety whirled: go thrifting. Eighty-second Avenue—the ill-named "Avenue of the Roses"—defined the eastern border of town. A Goodwill, Salvation Army, Value Village, and Deseret Thrift Shop staked outposts along a dingy three-mile stretch also home to used car lots, taquerias, and muffler shops.
 

An hour later, Joanna eased her Corolla into a parking spot next to a dented panel van. In past visits, this Goodwill had yielded a periwinkle leather jacket from the 1960s, a pair of evening pumps from Henry Waters Shoes of Consequence with tiny mirrored fans adorning the toes, and, to her great surprise, a pair of Manolo Blahnik slingbacks.

Joanna worked a shopping cart free of the two tangled with it and pushed it into the store. One of the front wheels wobbled, but with a strong hand she could keep it from veering to the right.
Wichita Lineman
played over the stereo system. A hipster trolling the T-shirt rack stopped to air-pluck the song's bass solo.

Joanna rolled the cart down the linoleum floor. First stop, women's suits. Because suits usually cost so much, people tended to hang on to them for years, even if they were rarely worn, before finally offloading them to Goodwill. Joanna knew she stood a good chance of finding an old YSL blazer or at least a keenly styled Louis Féraud pant suit from the 1980s.
 

As her hands flipped through the racks, her brain relaxed into a meditative groove. Thrifting was a slow and laborious way to find new stock for Tallulah's Closet—the store's best things came from estate sales and boxes of clothes people brought to her to sell. But the flip-touch-next of searching a rack of dresses, the rhythm of plastic hanger on metal rod, focused her mind. She trusted her fingers to stop at the tight weave of good fabric and her eyes to alert her to the telltale colors of a 1950s print while her brain worked over what it needed.

Sure enough, her fingers lit on silky wool. She drew a navy blue pinstriped suit jacket from the rack, probably bought in the 1980s
Dress for Success
era and originally worn with a blouse tied at its neck with a fat fabric bow. The suit was department store Dior. Joanna examined it quickly for moth holes or stains, then dropped it in the cart. A Tallulah's Closet customer would likely style it with a vintage rock T-shirt and patent leather loafers. Maybe she'd pin a tattered silk flower to its lapel.

Joanna pointed the cart toward lingerie. Occasionally she found crisp rayon nightgowns and slips whose owners had deemed too nice to wear. The lingerie sat in drawers for decades until the owners died and their children sent it all to Goodwill.
 

As she sorted through acrylic slips and cheap lace, her thoughts drifted to Poppy. Poppy thought she was being framed, and Joanna agreed. Her fingers trembled with anger and she flipped past a few fleece bathrobes. An African woman wrapped in bright cotton print looked up at the smack of the hangers. Joanna willed herself to calm down. Nothing in lingerie.
 

Next stop, shoes. Joanna remembered the warehouse full of Vivienne's things. Even if the police thought they could charge Poppy with selling stolen diamonds, it didn't mean they could link her to Vivienne's murder. At least, Joanna hoped not.
 

Chunky-soled loafers from the 1990s crowded the shoe racks. Among them Joanna spotted a pair of black patent leather Ferragamos with a grosgrain bow at the toe, but their heels were too worn to resell. Besides, they were 10 AAA. Women with long skinny feet seemed to love Ferragamo. A pair of Kennedy-era black satin Daniel Green slippers caught Joanna's attention. Nice and not even worn. Probably a Mother's Day present that didn't quite fit. They joined the Dior suit in the basket.

Paul had said if he were the police he'd try to draw the real diamond thief into the open with a sting operation. Great idea, but Joanna bet that once Poppy was in jail, the police had quit pursuing any other leads. For them, a sting would be a non-starter. Besides, Paul would flip out if he knew she were even considering it. And yet…

The cart's listing front wheel squeaked as she pushed it toward housewares. Tallulah's Closet stuck to clothes, but Joanna liked to look for etched crystal cocktail glasses and Murano ashtrays for home. Three chunky ashtrays sat on her dresser now holding bracelets and earrings.

She considered the sting operation idea. The NAP art auction was just around the corner, and Poppy had been scheduled as its auctioneer. If Paul was right and the real jewel thief would seize the auction as an opportunity to square the blame on Poppy, it might work.
 

As Joanna pondered the idea, she picked up a black resin pen holder with glittering shells suspended in its base. "Roy Rogers Museum" wound in gold script below the cap designed to hold a now-missing pen. For ninety-nine cents it would look chic on the store's tiki bar. She could stick a feathered pen in it. Customers were always walking off with her pens, but a pen with an ostrich feather, something she could pick up easily at a wedding supply store, would stay put.

As for the police, Joanna knew they'd never even consider a sting operation unless she had evidence pointing firmly away from Poppy. Poppy had mentioned Travis. Maybe Joanna would be able to wheedle information from him the police couldn't. After all, she wasn't threatening. She could find some excuse to talk to him. She'd need to feel out Ben, the auction house manager, too. He might have seen something Poppy missed.

Paul’s warning came back to her. "Promise me," he’d said. If he found out she was even considering nosing around at the auction house, he’d be furious. But was she supposed to ignore Poppy, when a quick talk with a couple of her employees could free her? It wasn’t really investigating, she convinced herself. Once she had a little information, it would be all in the police’s hands, anyway.

It would only take her a couple of hours. Tops. Paul didn’t have to know. Her conscience twinged. But who was he to tell her what to do? A year ago, she could have done whatever she’d wanted. Plus, he was working for Eve, and it wasn’t like Joanna was happy about that. Once Poppy was free, he’d surely understand.
 

If she was going to gather evidence to spring Poppy, she’d have to be quick about it. The NAP auction committee met tomorrow. Besides convincing the police a sting was a good plan and that they should release Poppy for the evening, she'd have to talk the committee into honoring Poppy's contract. Joanna shook her head. Finding evidence, getting both the police and the NAP auction committee on board—nearly impossible. But what was the alternative?

Joanna hurried the cart toward the cashier, the cart's wobble and squeak reaching a fever pitch. For Poppy, she had to try.

If the phone book was right, Travis lived somewhere around here. His address was a 1960s apartment building called the Kari Ann. Some people were fascinated by the names cosmetics companies chose for lipsticks or auto companies for cars, but Joanna loved the names of apartment complexes. The Crown Royal, Princess Judy, Andrew Jackson, and Big John's were a few of her favorites. Despite the buildings' grand names, most sported peeling siding and overgrown arborvitae.
 

The Kari Ann was typical of its genre. The apartment complex formed an "ell" with the parking lot along the long edge. Two levels of apartments with exterior stairs made up the complex. The whole mess was painted dingy mauve. An industrial-sized dumpster took up the last parking spot next to a handful of misshapen conifers perhaps once trimmed into poodle-like hedges.
 

On the third bank of mailboxes, Joanna found the name T. Kowalski. She passed under the darkened stairs and rang the doorbell. Crumpled flyers for a housecleaning service lay wadded on the ground. The door opened a crack behind a brass chain, and Travis peered out. A bird shrieked inside the apartment.
 

"Yeah?" he said. "Oh, it's you."

"Joanna Hayworth," she said, extending her hand through the crack.
 

He undid the chain and opened the door wider, but didn't invite her in. "Yeah?" he repeated.

She withdrew her hand. "I went to visit Poppy yesterday," she began, watching his face. "In jail. She told me I should get in touch with you about the things I bought in Vivienne's estate. May I come in? It's damp out here." Travis, in a tee shirt and jeans that clearly hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine recently, didn't seem to notice the cold.

"Why me? I don't work there anymore."

"Please. It won't take long."

He shifted his feet and glanced down the hall. Finally, he moved out of the way of the door. "I guess. But only for a minute."
 

Joanna passed through the entry hall into the living room. A parrot in a cage surrounded by bits of seed occupied one corner. The bird squawked and skittered sideways on his perch, turning his head to point one fishy eye at her.
 

She lowered herself to the edge of the sofa, not so much to be proper as to avoid the ripe-smelling sweatpants tossed along its back. The morning’s quick spray of Nahéma, a peachy rose perfume she’d chosen in honor of Rose Festival, wasn’t up to the competition. A video game was on pause on the large, pristine television. Its screen showed a robot crouched on a green-tinted planet. A box in the corner revealed Travis had earned over nine thousand points and five nunchucks.

"Yeah, well I don't know why Poppy told you to see me. Ben is the one who's taking care of everything down there."

"She looked terrible. Poppy, that is. I can't believe the police said she was selling stolen diamonds." She kept her hands on top of her purse in her lap.
 

Travis fidgeted in his recliner. Its corduroy upholstery was worn to the nub at the head and arms. If he were involved in selling stolen jewels, he was sure getting the short end of the stick, money-wise. "Yeah, diamonds. I don't get it."

"Yet the police said they found diamonds hidden in some of Vivienne's things."

Travis didn't reply. Joanna waited. The bird clucked again.
 

"Why are you really here?" Travis asked.

Joanna ignored him. "What's worse is they said Poppy killed Vivienne to cover it all up. Poisoned her and left her to die."

"They're saying that? Poppy would never do anything like that." Travis's voice exploded into the room, silencing even the parrot. Joanna tensed. Maybe she'd gone too far with her story. Travis stood. "They said—I know Poppy didn't do anything like that, okay?"

"You sound so sure."

"I am sure."

She really didn't know anything about Travis, she realized. Maybe it was a little rash to come down here alone. She glanced toward the hall to the front door.

"Have you talked to the police?" she asked.
 

Travis paced the living room. On the coffee table in front of her sat several sheets of paper, folded as if they'd been in a pocket. It looked like some sort of computer-generated list. With Travis's back toward her, she quickly stuck her fingers in the papers and pried a few pages apart. Travis turned, and her hands shot to her lap.

"Sure, they talked to all of us," he said.

"Did they ask about Vivienne's visits to the auction house?" The list looked like some sort of inventory. Could it be one of the manifests Poppy had mentioned?

"Yeah, but I don't know anything about that. Ben's the one who’d know. I saw her once. Vivienne. She was with a nun." Travis pulled at his sleeve and frowned. "I'm telling you, Poppy is not like that."

"I know," she said. "Poppy isn't like that at all." She looked around the room for something to comment on to calm him. An artist's portfolio leaned against the wall. "Do you draw?"

He looked at her with surprise, then followed her glance to his portfolio. "I'm making a story. For gaming. Poppy gave that to me."

"Poppy is so encouraging," Joanna said. "She gave me a lot of advice after I opened my store. I really counted on her."

Travis's face softened. He settled back into his chair. "Yeah. She gave me the job at the auction house, too."

And let Ben fire him. But he didn't seem to hold it against her. In fact, he almost seemed to have a crush on her.
 

"For her birthday," Travis continued, "I gave her a couple of Jimmy Buffet bootlegs I found online. She was so psyched."

Joanna bet she was. "That was awfully nice." Travis blushed. "But Poppy's in jail now, and we both know she's not guilty." She leaned forward a few more inches. "What happened the night Ben found you at work?"