The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (27 page)

“No half and half?” Apple shook her head. “Soy milk would be great.” As Apple reached for the refrigerator, Joanna took advantage of her turned back to deliver her carefully prepared excuse. The last thing she wanted to do was spark a fight like last night's. “I thought I'd look into getting a security system for my house. You're right. I need to protect myself.”

Apple set the soy milk on the counter and looked straight at Joanna. “Security system?”

“Yes, I—” She pretended to straighten her skirt. “I want to be safe. The police recommended it.”

“I don't believe you. A security system has a number pad, you know. It has a computer. Not exactly your style.” Her voice began to rise. “You’re up to something, aren't you? You lied to me yesterday, and you're doing it again.”

Joanna’s face burned. She'd never lied to Apple before everything started with Marnie. They'd never argued like this before, either. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I kept dreaming about the key and thinking about how you said sometimes you just have to face your troubles head on instead of avoid them.”

“You know I wasn't talking about Marnie and Don when I told you that.” She put a lid on the teapot and pushed it back on the counter to steep.

“Still, you had a good point. The police don't seem interested at all in the safe deposit box. Sure, they're going to investigate Don's murder, but I really think they're headed in the wrong direction. What's going to happen next? Franklin's wife ends up dead?” She splashed soy milk into her coffee, turning it cement gray instead of the cocoa charmeuse color half and half made.
 

Apple examined her thoughtfully. “This is about the accident, isn't it? It's not about Marnie or Don at all. You were just a kid, Jo. You weren't the one driving. I know it was...horrible, but you have to stop blaming yourself.”

Joanna looked away. “I need to do this. I want to visit Franklin's wife and try to find something out about the papers. If I know what they are, or at least where they are, I can tell the police, and they can figure out what to do next. I'm not going to confront anyone, honest. This is my best bet for getting everything back to normal.”

Apple poured tea into a porcelain cup painted with four-leaved clovers. “Those papers could be anywhere. Even if you knew what and where they were, how would you get your hands on them?”
 

“I don't have every detail worked out yet. Franklin didn't seem to have kept them in his office. He might have hid them at his house, but maybe not—after all, he kept them from his wife in the safe deposit box all those years. At home, she might find them. But maybe he has another apartment or a vacation house.”

“And how are you going to find that out?”

“I’m not exactly sure yet. Could you bring your laptop to the shop?”

“Why don't you ask Franklin's brother?”

No, she couldn’t do that. Ray’s warning had been final. “I can't. If he found out I was digging around in Franklin's business—well, I hate to think about it. He was adamant that I stay out of it,” she admitted.
 

“He warned you away, too?” Apple sighed. “Oh, Joanna. I don't like this. I don't like it at all. But it doesn't look like you're going to quit.” She drew her robe closer and took a sip of her tea. “All right, I’ll bring the laptop. Wait a minute.” She went to the basement then came back with a thin, silver pendant suspended on a leather cord. “Wear this for protection.”

“What is it?”

“It's the Hand of Fatima. See?” She held it up. The pendant had the shape of a stylized hand with fingers extended. Silver swirls covered its front. “Don’t do anything stupid. Promise me.”

Joanna draped it around her neck and hugged Apple. The necklace glinted against her black cotton blouse. “If it will make you feel better. I’ll meet you down at the store. It’s about time to open.”

She called goodbye down the stairs to Gavin and Curly and made her way to the car. The leaves on the maple in Apple’s parking strip ruffled in the summer breeze. From up the block, she saw something stuck under her windshield wiper. It didn’t look like a ticket.
 

She approached the car and started to tremble. It was lilac fabric. Torn from her Ceil Chapman dress.

***

Apple closed the laptop perched on the tiki bar at Tallulah’s Closet. “Nothing,” she said to Joanna. “I can't find anything on Franklin in the city's database except that he has a house out on Yamhill, on the other side of Mount Tabor. From the internet photos, it looks like a family home. I doubt he’d hide anything there.”

The dog lounged at the back of the store in an armchair normally used by men waiting while their wives or girlfriends shopped. He was charming two suburban women looking for dresses to wear to a friend's wedding. On the stereo, Julie London exhorted some man to cry her a river.

 
Joanna got up and wandered to a clothes rack. Deep in thought, she methodically straightened the dresses, spacing the padded satin hangers evenly along the rod. She couldn’t stay at Apple’s. Not now. And home was out of the question. She had to get to the bottom of this, find those papers.

A truck from Zapped Electric rumbled up Clinton and stopped in front of the theater. Apple groaned from the front window. “Eve’s already getting bids on the new wiring. When do you think she plans to open?”

A pang shot through Joanna. Eve. No time to think about that today, but soon. After she figured out who had killed Marnie and Don and broken into her house. Very soon. “Don’t know.” She continued spacing the hangers.
 

Apple returned to the tiki bar. “We're going to need another lint roller to get the dog's hair off the upholstery.” She stopped and turned around. “Hey, are you listening?”

Joanna’s hand reached an apricot chiffon negligee with a matching robe. “I have an idea.” She held up the peignoir.
 
Yes, this would do just fine. With any luck, she wouldn't have to use it.
 

***

Franklin's house was a split-level ranch on Mount Tabor, an extinct volcano on the east side of town. Joanna parked on the steep hill below the house, praying the Corolla's emergency brake could take the strain. She climbed the steps and paused at the landing to look behind her. In the distance, the crags of Mount Hood rose from the summer haze. The roofs and fenced gardens of modest houses cascaded down the hill to the far away facades of the Chinese restaurants and used auto dealerships of 82nd Avenue.
 

All she had to do at Franklin's was explain the situation and ask his widow if there was any place—a cabin, or maybe somewhere around the house—he might have hidden some papers. It shouldn't be too hard, she tried to convince herself. She pressed the doorbell.

An elderly woman wearing stylish glasses opened the door. Silver streaked her long black hair, which was wrapped on top of her head and fastened with an ivory comb. Frantic barking came from the backyard. “May I help you?”
 

“Ms. Pursell?”
 

“Yes.” She looked friendly, but wary.

“My name is Joanna Hayworth. I'd like to talk to you about Franklin.”

The widow's expression began to harden.

“I know things have been difficult for you lately, and I'm so sorry for your loss. It's just—I think Franklin may have been mixed up in something dangerous, and people's lives are at risk. I know that sounds dramatic, and it's a little complicated, but I need your help.”

Franklin's wife made no move to invite her in. Through the thin slice of open door Joanna saw a Native American basket hanging on a wood-paneled wall.

“May I come in? It shouldn't take long to explain. You can call Ray and ask about me if you want.” On second thought, maybe that wasn’t such a good suggestion, but too late now.

The widow paused. “All right. For a minute.” She opened the door, and Joanna entered a sun-bathed room smelling gently of lemon wax and cedar. A low couch upholstered in beige linen anchored one side. Modernist wooden chairs with leather seats flanked the fireplace. They’d fetch a few month's mortgage payments at a downtown boutique. Shelves of books and Native American artifacts lined one wall.
 

“This room, it's so—”
 

“I know. I was an anthropology professor. Married to a plumber, you don't have to say it, I heard enough about it from my colleagues.” She turned to the sliding screen door to the backyard, where a large black and white mongrel bared its teeth and growled with lapses into frantic barking. “Blackie, shut up!” She turned back to Joanna. “My husband's dog. I've had it with her. Never wanted her in the first place.” She pushed the sliding glass door shut, muffling the barking, and lowered herself to the couch.
 

Casting around for a way to ease their conversation, Joanna remembered her talk with Roberto, Franklin’s partner. “Anthropology, huh? You and your husband must have shared that interest. I understand he was writing a history of his tribe.”

The widow shook her head and snorted. “Franklin was a plumber. I'm sure he had some nice stories, but I wouldn't call that anthropology. Anyway, he never asked for my help. But that's not why you're here. Tell me, what’s so important that I know?”

“Well...” She realized to tell the story, she'd have to talk about Franklin and Marnie's relationship. She didn't want to be the first to tell her, and if the widow already knew, she didn't want to reopen old wounds. She took a breath. “Have you seen Ray lately?”

“Yes. Just this morning, in fact. He—”

A toilet flushed down the hall. Troy sauntered into the living room and stopped short at seeing Joanna. “Hello.”

Her jaw dropped.
 

The widow's glance passed from Joanna to Troy. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah, I know Joanna. She used to be friends with my mother. My birth mother, that is.”

Franklin's wife's eyes narrowed. She stood up. “Get out.” The dog began to bark again at a higher pitch, this time punctuated with snarls.

“I—”

“I said get out. No friend of that, that woman is welcome here.” She moved to the sliding glass door and placed her hand on its handle, poised to open it. Foam gathered at the corner of the dog's mouth. “Leave.”

Joanna backed toward the front door. On the landing again, she heard Troy's cheerful voice inside. “Bye, Joanna. Give me a call.” She took the steps in twos to the street, her heart racing faster than her feet on the flagstone.

What the hell was Troy doing at Franklin’s house? She started the car. Sure, he'd want to get to know about his father, and it's possible another letter in Marnie’s glove box, one she hadn't seen, divulged that Franklin was his father. Or maybe Ray had talked to Troy. In any case, Franklin's wife hadn't been keen on Marnie, but she seemed to have taken to Troy. That figured. Something about him brought out the mothering instinct in women. As her grandmother would have said, Troy could charm snakes.

A few minutes later with Troy still on her mind, Joanna eased the Corolla into a parking space in front of the police department's southeast precinct. Plan A hadn't worked so well. Apple was right. She doubted Franklin had hidden the papers in his house—the house was clearly his wife's domain. She hoped Franklin had carved out a space for himself and his dog in the basement, at least. Funny how a man who’d deserted a woman because she was a dancer would find himself looked down on by his wife because he was a plumber.
 

Time for Plan B. A blast of air conditioning hit her as she pulled open the police precinct's heavy front door. “I'd like to see Officer Riggs, please. It's about the Don Cayle homicide.”

The receptionist picked up the phone. A row of institutional chairs crowded the waiting area. Why offices felt compelled to buy special “office” furniture instead of using regular, comfortable furniture she never understood.
 

“Go through the door to the left then take the first door to the right. Riggs is at his desk.”

Joanna entered a large, open room with two rows of desks. At the front of the room, hand-scrawled notes covered a white board. The window air conditioner unit vibrated noisily. Officer Riggs, his large body crammed behind the small desk, sat toward the back. Two other officers looked up as she came in. One returned to his paperwork while the other grabbed his hat and left.

“Hello, Ms. Hayworth.” Riggs said. Then, more quietly, “Nice bracelet, by the way. Is that a Judy Lee?”

Joanna sat down at Riggs's desk and touched the green and coral charms on her Chinese-themed bracelet. “Good eye. It's from the early 1960s.”

“The quality on a Judy Lee is so much higher than its given credit for.”

“I always look for them, especially the necklaces and bracelets.” She set her bag on the floor next to his desk. “But I came here to ask you something.”

“About the Cayle case? Are you sure you don't want to talk to Crisp?”

The police officer toward the front of the room looked back at Riggs and Joanna. Joanna leaned closer to Riggs. “I feel more comfortable with you.”

Riggs blushed. “Well, all right. Did you remember anything about that afternoon that you wanted to tell us?”
 

“It's complicated, but—” She looked him straight in the eye. “I hoped you might be able to tell me if someone named Franklin Pursell, who died not long ago, had a vacation house. Maybe something at the coast. You must have a computer database that gives that sort of information.”

“We do, but that's for official business only. Why?”

“Oh, but this is official. I’ve figured out that Don’s killer was looking for papers—papers that Franklin may have hidden before he died.” She gave a beseeching smile. Apple would be so much better at this.

“Franklin Pursell? Never heard that name. Besides, Crisp already has a suspect and is out following up on it right now. And it doesn't have anything to do with anyone named Pursell or his vacation house. I think you've got it wrong.”

A suspect? This was new. “Who?”

“I can’t say.”

She hesitated at the news, but felt firm about her hunch. “This would mean so much to me. Just one little address. I don't want to know anything personal, just an address. Besides, Franklin's not even alive.”