Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (10 page)

He looked at the carpet. "Nothing."

"But you were there at night. You knew you weren't supposed to be."

"I can't tell you," he mumbled.

"You had a reason for being there. I know you did. Travis, look at me."

He looked up. Fear filled his eyes.

Joanna's pulse leapt. "You saw something, didn't you? What was it?" Somehow he knew to go back to the auction house after hours. What would terrify him so much he'd let himself be fired without standing up for himself? "Did it have to do with the diamonds?"

"I don't have anything to say, okay?"
 

In what she hoped looked like a casual gesture, Joanna rested her purse on the coffee table, on top of the list. She stood. With both hands she swept up her purse and the papers, tucking the bundle under her arm, papers in.
 

Travis's eyes darted through the room but didn't settle anywhere. Safe, so far.

She edged toward the door. "All right," she said. The bird squawked. "I'm leaving. Keep your secrets. But don't be surprised if it ends up making more trouble than you think."

Outside, Joanna filled her lungs with fresh air. A few minutes later, Travis and the Kari Ann were behind her. The list was in her purse’s side pocket.

***

At Tallulah's Closet, Apple counted receipts for the day's sales. "We sold the Weiss brooch and that houndstooth suit with the peplum. Plus, another prom dress is on hold." Apple looked at Joanna. "Not too bad."

"No, not too bad."
 

"And the landlord came by again for the rent check."

The rent. With all this craziness, she'd forgotten about the rent. Damn. Where was she going to come up with the rest of the cash? If she put off the plumber and web designer she might be able to make it. "Thanks. I'll give him a call."

"He was pretty urgent about getting the money right away." Apple bit her lip. "I've been thinking. I haven't been getting as much painting done as I'd like. Maybe you'd like to take a few of my shifts?"

Joanna set the bag from Goodwill on the bench. "Oh Apple. We're not that bad yet. It's just the money I sank into getting better stock and upgrading the website. And then the plumbing disaster. I hadn't budgeted for that. The NAP auction is coming up. I bet that will draw some new business." God willing, she added silently. "I found a few things at the thrift stores. One's a suit. I'll drop it at the dry cleaners this afternoon. Do you think you could tag the rest?"

"Sure. Any news on Poppy?"

Joanna filled her in on the visit to Travis and laid the list she'd taken flat on the tiki bar. The top was dated and labeled "Vivienne North." "This is the manifest. This is it, I’m pretty sure." She tapped it for emphasis. "I'm going to have to go to the auction house, see if I can find the inventory that matches this. Travis obviously thought something was wrong and went back to try to clear up what he thought was his mistake."
 

"You stole it?"

Feeling guilty, Joanna folded the manifest and returned it to her purse. "I think Travis forgot he even had it."
 

"Don’t get me wrong. I’m impressed. But how are you going to get the inventory without letting Ben in on it?"

"The thought had occurred to me." If Ben were guilty, he couldn't know about her nosing around.

"You can't do this alone. You need someone to distract Ben. I'll go with you. I'll tell Ben I'll read his aura for him. People love that. I could chew up a good fifteen minutes that way. You could dig around in Poppy's office." She dropped the bag and turned toward Joanna. "It would be fun."

"I don't know. Besides, someone has to stay at the store."

"Please. It's not like it's been super busy lately."

Joanna laughed then grew somber. "Seriously, App. I mean, what would be our excuse? You're right, though. I do need someone else with me."
 

She absentmindedly stacked the receipts. Who would have a good reason to go? Her hand hovered over a receipt. Helena, that's who. Helena could say she wanted to know if there was any news about Vivienne's things being released. Plus, the way she noticed the gypsy girl? She was observant. Yes, she'd ask Helena.

While Apple sorted through the Goodwill bag, Joanna reached for the phone.
 

***

Later that day, when Joanna arrived, Helena was already sitting in the bar at the Portland Golf Club. Just off the main lobby, the bar looked over a crewcut-short lawn studded with massive oak trees. A golf cart trundled silently in the distance. The low, late afternoon sun streaked the grass chartreuse.

"Thank you for meeting me out here. I hope it wasn't too much trouble." Helena's face, scrubbed of makeup, glowed from exercise.

Joanna slid into a chair across the table from her. "I’m glad you were able to talk on such short notice." She'd never been to the Portland Golf Club, although she'd heard of it, of course. The club had been around for a century, and membership dues ran in the thousands of dollars—that is, if you were elected to be a member at all. She hoped Old Blue wasn’t being towed from the parking lot as they spoke.

"It sounded important."

A small Asian waitress appeared. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, Birdie. Thank you," Helena said. "An Arnold Palmer. Anything for you, Joanna?"

"Coffee, please."

"If you want a drink, please, go ahead. I get a little lightheaded after an afternoon on the links, but that shouldn't stop you." She lowered her voice. "Seriously, Joanna, ix-nay on the offee-cay. It's pretty awful."

Joanna smiled at her Pig Latin, then glanced at a clutch of white-haired men drinking Old Fashioneds at a nearby table. "How about an Old Fashioned?"

The waitress left. "Clary always drinks Old Fashioneds," Helena said while she fumbled in her bag for a small, brown bottle.
 

He would. With top drawer whiskey, too, no doubt. Interesting that Helena brought him up. "Have you known him a long time?"

"He went to Yale with my husband. That's where I met them both. At one point we even dated, before Gil and I got serious, that is. Clary was drinking Old Fashioneds even then. He has a set of Waterford tumblers he uses for his drinks. Even has a cut crystal ice bucket." She unscrewed the bottle’s lid and squeezed an eyedropper of green-tinged liquid into her water glass. "Peppermint oil. For energy," she said. "Want to try it?"

Joanna shook her head. Clary was straight? This was news. She imagined him, right down to the satin-lapeled smoking jacket he probably lounged in while he mixed cocktails. She couldn’t resist asking, "What's his house like?"

"A restored Victorian in Northwest. Lots of books, of course. Over the sofa is a gigantic oil painting of some minor Austrian count or something like that." She laughed. "He’d make a great sociological study. He’s a good guy, really." Her gaze softened. "Good cook, too. He had a dinner party not long ago. One of the guests owns some kind of vintage clothing business, actually. Maybe you know her."

"Eve?" She stifled a grimace.
 

Helena must have noticed. "That's what I thought, too. She's a piece of work, that one. Beautiful, but—you know what I mean. I don't know why she's not in Hollywood."

Joanna nodded. "She'd have given Joan Crawford a run for her money."

The waitress deposited the Arnold Palmer and an ice-laden Old Fashioned on the table and left to tend to the white-haired men.
 

Helena turned to Joanna. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"
 

Joanna took a breath. "Poppy, the auctioneer. And your diamonds."
 

"My diamonds?" Her hand went to the wrist where her tennis bracelet would have been.

"Yes." Joanna couldn’t help but think a pearl bracelet might suit Helena better. Diamonds were so aging. "I’m not sure exactly how everything fits together, but I went to see Poppy in jail."

Helena studied her. "I heard she was arrested for selling stolen jewels. Do you think she has mine too?"

"No. She’s not a thief. But the night Vivienne died—" Joanna stalled, then frowned. "I'm sorry for bringing it up, but the night she died she called Poppy."

Helena's jaw dropped. "Vivienne? What did she say?"

"Not much. A few things that didn't make a lot of sense, I guess. Something about voyeurs, maybe. Poppy couldn’t make it out completely. Anyway, she called the police, but by then you and your husband had already come home and found her."

Helena continued to stare at Joanna.

"I'm sorry," Joanna repeated. "I didn't come here to upset you. There's more to the story."

Helena seemed to snap to the present. "No, no. I want to hear what happened. It's just that—it's just that every once in a while it hits me." She set down her glass. "Plus, the police didn't say anything about a call. But please go on."

"Well, to make a long story short, the diamonds that the police found were in one of Vivienne's lamps."

Helena wrinkled her brow. "Are you saying Vivienne stole my diamonds and hid them in the stuff she sent to auction?"

"I don't know why she'd do that. It doesn't make any sense, I admit. But I'm convinced Poppy had nothing to do with any of it." Joanna described the manifest and Travis getting fired for being at the auction house after hours. "I can't figure out how it all fits together, but as long as the police believe Poppy is guilty, we'll never know who really stole all those diamonds."

Helena sat back. Joanna picked up her Old Fashioned. Some of its ice had melted, and it tasted watery. She set it back on the sodden napkin.
 

"We need to figure out what Travis was trying to find and tell the police," Helena said.

"Exactly. The inventory sheet." Joanna warmed at Helena's use of "we." She wouldn't share the final detail, the part about the sting operation. After all, they might not find anything useful. Or the police might laugh at her. She'd wait and fill her in later if it all panned out.

"You have a legitimate reason to visit Poppy's," Joanna said. "I wondered, why I wanted to talk to you, well, would you be willing to go with me to the auction house tomorrow morning? I need you to distract the manager while I try to find the inventory sheet that goes with the manifest."

Helena held her glass mid-air. Her lips were parted, but she didn't say a thing. Then she nodded, first slowly, then faster. "Yes. Yes, I do want to know what really happened—for Gil's sake, too. He, I—" She paused. "I can help. Let's talk."

Joanna pushed her way inside the dark auction house. "Ben?" she called out.
 

Helena entered next to her. "They're open, right?"
 

"Should be. It's almost nine."

The auction house was silent but for the splatter of rain on the windows and the distant rumble of commuter traffic. Victorian divans and Queen Anne dining room sets hulked in the warehouse's front room.
 

To the right, the shriek of a cuckoo clock set off an avalanche of chimes and bells from dozens of clocks as they struck the hour. The cacophony reverberated through her body, setting off a surge of adrenalin. She grabbed the door frame.

"Joanna?" Ben walked toward them.
 

She struggled to regain control of her breathing. "For God's sake. You should post a warning."

"Sorry. We're doing an auction of some guy's clock collection. I had to set them all for the appraiser. He'll be here soon."

"Hi, I'm Helena Schuyler North." Helena proffered a hand. "Vivienne North was my mother-in-law. She's been on my mind so much lately." She'd jumped right into her role.
 

Ben pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I was so sorry to hear about her death."

"You must have a lot to do without Poppy to help," Joanna said. She listened to his voice. Was he the one who’d called the shop the night before? She couldn't tell.

"We have auctions lined up every weekend for the next month, and I've got to postpone them—at least until Poppy is free or until we can get a substitute auctioneer. There's a truck unloading for another one now, and I don't even know if we'll be able to pull it off."

Joanna had seen the Kay semi with its signature roadrunner logo pulled up to the loading dock. It had to be a nightmare for Ben to keep the business going, not knowing how long his boss would be out. People might cancel their auctions and take them elsewhere. He had his job to think of, too. If the auction house folded, he'd be out of work.

"That's what I'm here about," Helena said. "I'd like to talk about Vivienne's auction. See what we can do to take care of the people who bought things but haven't been able to take them home." Their signal.
 

"If you don't mind, I'd like to use the restroom," Joanna said.

"In the back by the loading bay."
 

The temperature dropped as Joanna passed through the door separating the work area from the heated front of the warehouse. She didn't have much time. Helena might be able to keep him talking for five or ten minutes, but probably not longer. Joanna glanced behind her to make sure they were out of sight.

Poppy's office was to the left, behind the counter where clients paid for their bids. Wood wainscoting framed the lower half of the office, and glass windows extended from waist height to the ceiling, allowing Poppy to keep an eye on things while she worked. Joanna tried the door handle and it opened. She whispered "yes" under her breath.

The inventories had to be here somewhere. A gooseneck desk lamp shone a pool of light on stacks of papers covering the desk. Next to it was a coffee mug shaped like a margarita glass with "Cabo, Mexico" painted on its side. She slid open the deep bottom drawer of Poppy's desk. It was empty except for a jar of peanuts and a bag of potato chips with its top neatly folded.
 

After another glance to make sure Helena and Ben were still in the showroom, she tried one of the filing cabinets. Locked. Damn. Filing cabinet keys were too small to fit well on a keychain. She'd be willing to bet Poppy hid them somewhere. No room for a key above the door. She opened the top desk drawers and fished through pens and paperclips. No key there, either. She dipped her hand into the pencil holder. Her fingers touched a small, steel key. Success.