The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (15 page)

“I'm in my car now on the way to a prep meeting with City Club, but I'm glad you called. Why don't we meet up for a drink later this week?”

She ignored his question. “Do you have any fundraisers coming up for Remmick? Soon? Maybe something not too large? But not too small, either.” She rushed the last part as she thought about the gossip that might arise if Andrew showed up with her and not his wife at an intimate function.

“Sure, practically every night. Tonight there's a dinner hosted by one of the execs at Bowman lumber.”

“Will you take me?” No point in beating around the bush.
 

“Oh, Jo, I don't know. I'll be working all night. Besides, why do you even want to go? You never were interested in going to these things when we dated.”

“Remember how you always told me I should market the shop to women on the west side? I thought this would be a great chance to meet more people. You know how these events are. All the men will be chatting in one room, and the women will gather on the patio and talk about each other.” Joanna was appalled at how well she lied, but it wasn’t too far off. With Eve trying to move into the neighborhood she’d need all the business she could get. “I could give them someone new to talk about.”

“I told Laura Remmick about Tallulah’s Closet, you know. I saw her reading the obit for that old showgirl who used to sell you clothes, and I told her about you.”

“Yes, thanks. I really appreciate it. She came in and bought a few things yesterday.” Andrew paused. Joanna could hear traffic in the background. She knew she almost had him. “I have just the perfect dress for a nice dinner party. I'll do you credit.”

“All right,” he said. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt to add a new face and shake things up a little. I'll pick you up at six-thirty.”

“Thanks, Andrew. Say hi to Heather for me.” Joanna thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to remind him of his wife.

Joanna turned off the taps and leaned back in the warm water. A bath always calmed her down.
 

She wasn't looking forward to the evening ahead. Her excuse to Andrew about trolling for new business felt weaker by the hour. Portland's society women clung to a social order more rigid than Louis XIV's court. Conservative women joined the Portland Garden Club and crafted elaborate centerpieces for fundraising dinners at the art museum, while more liberal women joined the Hardy Plants Society and arranged garden tours to support farmers' markets. Conservative women shopped at boutiques, and it wouldn't cross their minds to wear “used” vintage clothing. Meanwhile liberal society women stuck to practical shoes and pant suits. They might, however, wear a vintage velvet evening coat or a splashy 1950s crystal brooch pinned over a scarf hand-woven by African villagers.

Laura Remmick fit the liberal society woman mold, but chances were high the rest of the wives would be more conservative. In fact, Joanna was surprised Remmick would even bother trying to raise money from timber executives.
 

Tonight she’d wear a mid-century lavender cocktail dress by Ceil Chapman, one of Marilyn Monroe's favorite designers. Chapman made dresses the media had dubbed “tabletop” gowns for the display they made above the waist. This dress had Ceil Chapman's signature wrapping across the bodice over a straight skirt that ended at the knees. The sleeves dipped just off the shoulder, but not scandalously so.
 

She rummaged through her jewelry box until she found the bracelet her grandmother had left her, gold chain links dangling a large faux pearl charm. The last time she’d seen her grandmother wear it, it had been just a few months before the accident. Her grandparents were driving into town for an anniversary dinner, and her grandmother had even troubled to paint her fingernails, leaving the moons exposed as she'd been taught in beauty school during the Depression. The bracelet wouldn't fetch more than a few dollars at Tallulah’s Closet, but she wouldn't trade it for diamonds. As she fingered its links, she felt a familiar pang of guilt mixed with sadness. She tucked the safe deposit box key into her evening clutch.

Andrew pulled up to her house on time and honked the horn. He was talking on his cell phone. He honked again, then waved when he saw her. She remembered clearly why she had broken up with him.

“Hey Jo. Do you mind if I keep the top down?” he said when he finally slid the phone into his suit jacket.

“That’s fine.” She settled into the leather seat, pulling the skirt of her dress up slightly so that she could sit. “A little air would be nice.”

“It was Heather on the phone.” He sighed and started the car.
 

“You told her that you're taking me to tonight's dinner, right?” It dawned on her that Andrew might have “forgotten” to mention it to his wife.
 

“Yes, of course. I was just telling her that I was here to pick you up. I might have hinted that it was a boring event at the historical society. I figured there wasn't any reason in getting her too upset.”

She looked away. He hadn't changed at all.

“You know, you always understood me.” He cast a quick glance at her cleavage.
 

Same old tune. It was easier to take Andrew's calls and meet for the occasional coffee than not see him. At least, it used to be. She remembered the night they stayed up late years ago playing cards with friends in a cabin on Mount Hood. He was relaxed, happy to be winning a pun-fest inspired by the word “egg.” He had locked eyes with Joanna across the worn card table and lifted his lips in a conspiratorial smile. She touched the charm on her bracelet. The sooner they arrived at the dinner party and were surrounded by other people the better.

“I need to stop for gas. Shouldn't be a minute.” He pulled the BMW up to a pump across from an old pickup truck. Andrew honked the horn. “Where's the attendant?” Andrew's impatience could flash so quickly into anger. The same weekend on Mount Hood he was so loving, they blew a tire on the way home. The flat wasn't anyone's fault, but he tore a branch from a tree along the road and thrashed it against the tree until its bark shredded. Joanna had moved to the other side of the car and watched intently, measuring her breathing, until his anger was spent.
 

He honked again. “Why does everything take so long? I don't know why this state has such a stupid law about not letting you pump your own gas.”
 

“I'm in no hurry.” Despite her irritation, she fell into her old habit of calming him. “It's a nice evening.”

“Yes, I guess it is.” His voice relaxed. “Where did you find this dress? I like it.” He leaned forward to stroke the fabric at her shoulder.
 

He had crossed the line. Just as she raised her hand to push him away, Andrew leaned back and waved his hand. “Over here. We don't have all day, you know. Fill it up.”

“Then I guess you'll have to tell that to the guy who actually works here. Hi Joanna.”

She turned in her seat to see Paul standing next to the truck. He held a squeegee and must have been washing the windows on the other side when they had pulled up. “Oh, hi Paul.” Damn Andrew.

Paul dropped the squeegee into a bucket. Andrew might be wearing Gucci, but Joanna knew plenty of people who would pay good money to look like Paul in his faded jeans and tee shirt. “I think the attendant is checking the oil on the Honda over there.” Paul nodded at the far end of the lot. He opened the truck's door and slid in. As he started the engine, he rolled down the driver's side window and said, “You look great. Have fun tonight.”

When the truck pulled out of the lot, Joanna turned to Andrew. “Why are you so rude? Just because a man is washing his windows you think he works here?”

“I don't see why you're so worked up. I mean, he could have been the attendant. He looked like it.”

“And even if he was, that's still no excuse for yelling at him.” When they were dating, she never would have risked Andrew's anger by talking to him like this. It felt good to let loose.

“What's got into you? Who is that guy, anyway?”

The attendant strolled over to the BMW. “Fill 'er up?” Andrew nodded and handed him a credit card.

“What's it to you who he is?”
 

“You're just so defensive. You're not interested in him, are you? I mean, he doesn't look like your type.”

“That's none of your business. Besides, what makes you think you know my type?” The genie had officially left the bottle.

“I mean, he hardly looks like an Ivy League graduate. What does he do for a living? Deliver beer?” Andrew drew back. “Wait a minute. That was the guy changing the locks at the store, wasn’t it? Do you have a thing for him?”

“Maybe he didn't go to Harvard, but that doesn't mean that he's not worth knowing. At least he's not the kind of guy who makes passes at an ex-girlfriend while his wife is home with the baby.” The gas station attendant lifted his eyebrows. Joanna knew she was making a scene, but for once she didn't care.
 

“Listen, just because you're sorry we broke up, you don't have to take it out on me. You have no idea what's going on for me at home. It isn't as easy as you think. I'm under a lot of stress.”

It figured that the discussion would roll back around to Andrew. It always did. “I’m not sorry I broke up with you. In fact, I'm happier about it every day that goes by.”
 

“Why? I treated you well.”

“No. You didn't.” She had wanted to say those words for a long time. “I treat you well” had been one of Andrew's stock phrases. To avoid a fight, she had always let it slide. Apparently she was looking for a fight today. “You didn't treat me well at all. You put me down in a thousand little ways. You didn't listen to me. I didn't dress well enough for you. I never finished my law degree. I never was good enough, and I almost believed it. No, the best thing I ever did was to leave you.”

Joanna braced herself for his anger. Would she be able to make it home walking in her evening pumps? Instead, he was quiet. Maybe her words had been a little harsh. Regret replaced the thrill of letting loose. “Look, I'm sorry. Let's forget this ever happened.”
 

The attendant handed back Andrew's credit card and receipt and replaced the cap to the gas tank. He glanced at Joanna, fascinated.
 

Andrew started the car. He sounded subdued. “Heather says we need to see a counselor. She says if we don’t, she'll leave me. I know things between her and me haven't been perfect, but I'm so busy these days with the campaign.”

Oh lord. She pushed back in her seat and looked straight ahead. “I'm sure you'll work it out.” It was shaping up to be quite an evening.

The sun sat low on the horizon, casting the lilac light through the sky the French called “the blue hour.” They drove in silence for a few minutes before Joanna spoke. “Who will be at the dinner?”

“The host is a senior vice president at Bowman, and he's invited some people from the Forestry Institute. And Chick and Laura, of course.” His confident tone had returned. He shifted down as they approached a curve. “There’s one other person you’ll know, too.” He kept his eyes on the road.

“Who?”

“Eve Lancer.”

Great. Just great. “Andrew. Why didn’t you—”

“I know you don’t like her, but she’s dating Marlene’s brother. Marlene and Denny are the hosts.” When Joanna didn’t respond, Andrew continued. “What’s the big deal with Eve, anyway? I know you’ve got something against her, I just don’t know what.”

“She’s just not—it’s that—well, she doesn’t really love vintage clothes.” She knew that sounded lame. Andrew would never get it.

“That’s no crime. I’m not totally wild about vintage clothing, either—except on you, of course.”

She shot him a warning glance. “And now she’s opening a shop just down the block from me. It’ll devastate Tallulah’s Closet, and she knows it.”

“Maybe it will help the store by drawing more vintage clothing buyers to the neighborhood. It sounds like she’s a good businesswoman. What’s wrong with that? You could probably pick up a few tips from her.”

Joanna folded her arms. “That’s not how she plays. But never mind. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t make a scene.” Now not only did she have to figure out if and how to hand over Marnie’s key, she’d have to weather Eve’s veiled barbs.

They pulled up next to a mid-1960s house perched on the edge of a hill overlooking downtown Portland. The newly rich bought faux Tuscan villas on lots carved out of the rapidly disappearing blueberry fields on the other side of the hills, but more established families had houses here, in the West Hills. The house was a hexagon partially circled by a deck. On one side, a patio and lawn ran between the house and the edge of the steep hill. The patio stepped up to the deck, which in turn led into a large open dining and living room.

Andrew handed keys to a uniformed valet. Parking was notoriously difficult in the West Hills, especially along the crest where the houses—many supported by stilts—hovered at the edge of cliffs to better take advantage of the views of downtown with Mount Hood, Mount Adams, and Mount St Helens in the distance.
 

They stepped from the stone-paved side entrance into the house and were met by a server in black with a white apron and a silver tray of champagne glasses. Andrew ignored the server and hurried deeper into the house, probably to find the host and get the full guest list. Joanna took a glass, then did a double take.

“Colette. I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Hi, Joanna. I can't live off my paintings, but at least with catering I get a free meal. Hey, is that the dress you had in the window a few weeks ago? It looks great on you.”

“Thanks. In the end I couldn't bear to sell it.” Colette was called away, and Joanna glanced after her, certain she'd know more people working in the kitchen then she would at the party. The Remmicks hadn’t arrived yet. Eve neither.

Andrew returned and led her toward the living room. Its glass doors opened to a small group of people, champagne flutes in hand, talking on the patio. “Mrs. Porter,” Andrew said, “I'd like you to meet my friend, Joanna. Joanna, this is Mrs. Porter.”