Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (26 page)

"How's the investigation? Do you have any idea who did this to her? Or who shot at me?"

"We're following up on a few things."
 

In other words, he had nothing. Why else would he be at Poppy's funeral, if not to hope for some kind of new lead? "I can't figure out who would want to kill Poppy. She was so loved. Even her ex-husband has nothing but good things to say about her."

"She was popular," he repeated.

"She's dead. So's Vivienne." Joanna rubbed her arms despite the room's stifling heat. "What's the link? Could it be the diamonds?"

"No. That one's in the bag. Kay was the ringleader, and Ben helped him. Poppy had nothing to do with it. Neither did Vivienne."

"Then what?" Her tone might have been harsh, but it was easier to release her emotion in anger than tears.

They stared over the marsh. The tip of the Ferris wheel began to rotate in the distance. The Mother Superior had said Vivienne saw something alarming at Oaks Park. Even the words "Oaks Park" seemed to rattle Helena. She could tell Crisp, but tell him what? That Helena had been anxious about meeting Clary, and Vivienne noticed it? That maybe Gil knew, too? The police wouldn't care. The link to the murders was too tenuous. But it was all she had.

"Look, I want to find who did this as much as you do, and I wish I had more to tell you right now." The detective moved a step closer, the ends of his bolo tie dangling. "You need to be patient. Let us take care of this."

Gaze fastened on Oaks Park, she nodded.

Joanna stepped out of her car and breathed river-moist air. Oaks Amusement Park. Past the entrance gate, a carrousel wheezed a march, and a man in a seven-foot chipmunk costume walked by. Moms pushed strollers, and kids—most looked preschool age—waited in line to ride a towel down a wavy pink slide. Coming through the gate behind her were a dozen children wearing neon orange tee shirts emblazoned "Montavilla Daycare."

The Mother Superior had said Vivienne and Helena had been here the morning Helena ran off. It would have been colder then, the trees bare. Joanna walked down the fairway, passing a ride featuring child-sized cars, rolling in an eternal circle. Each car had four steering wheels—one at each seat—and the gas pump in the middle of the ride touted gas for 25 cents a gallon. Those kids would be in for a shock when they grew up.
 

The roller skating rink dominated this end of the fairway. Joanna turned and headed back, the river on her right. She passed bumper cars and a shooting arcade. She wasn't sure what she expected to find. Helena said she met Clary here. Why would that scare her? Unless word got back to Gil. How any of that related to Vivienne or Poppy was beyond her.

A mom pried a corn dog stick from a crying toddler's hands and threw it in the trash. Not the kind of place Clary usually hung out. Then again, he was on the board of a couple of nonprofits in town, including one serving homeless families. He might have accompanied a group of kids, like the nuns did. One thing was sure: with his wire-rimmed glasses and ramrod posture, he would have stood out. Maybe someone saw what happened between him and Helena.

Joanna reached the south end of the park, beyond the Tilt-a-Whirl and roller coaster, both darkened until the park opened to older kids in the afternoon. Along the river stretched a few acres of lawn dotted with old oaks beginning to leaf out. She sat on one of the cold benches.

Who was she fooling? She didn't even know what she was looking for. Did she think one of the Mother Superior's "clues" was going to fall out of the trees? Mother had warned her away from looking for Poppy's killer, anyway. Then there was the caller. She caught her breath, remembering his warning. A chill wind blew off the river. She tucked her fingers into her sleeves for warmth. Crisp hadn't sounded very encouraged by the investigation, either. She shook her head and surveyed the heavy river for a moment longer before deciding to turn for home.

A rustling rose from behind her. A short man in a gray jumpsuit set down a garbage bag with his work-gloved hands. Not only Clary, but the nuns would have stood out in the park, with their blue habits. And the Mother in a wheelchair. It was worth one more try. She stood. "Do you work here most mornings?"
 

"Most, sure. Why?"

"I wonder if you remember a few nuns, in pale blue, visiting a month ago or so. One of them would have been in a wheelchair."

The workman's face broke into a wide smile. "Yes, the Marys." He unzipped the top of his jumpsuit and dangled a crucifix on a chain from the leather finger of his glove. "The mother gave me this. I helped her with the chair, you know, especially on the grass. It gets mushy. Hard to push."

What luck. "Do you remember, about a month ago when they were here, seeing a well-dressed man with glasses talking to a woman who came with the nuns?"

He shook his head. "No. Nothing like that. I remember the sisters' visit, though. They showed up with a beautiful old lady and a younger one. Her daughter, I think."

"Exactly. The younger one may have been meeting someone else, a well-dressed man."

The workman shrugged. "Don't remember anyone in particular. Why?"

"Well, the Mother Superior saw him" —hopefully telling lies about nuns wasn't a mortal sin— "and wanted me to track him down. Her friends—the ladies you saw—were interested. He may want to support their charity."

He laughed. "I guess you don't tell the Mother no."

She pretended to chuckle.

"I didn't see any man, but Mother's friend, the younger lady, saw someone she knew."

Bingo. This was turning out to be a cinch. Maybe Clary had played down the prosperous WASP look that day to blend in with the fleece-bedecked moms. "What did you see?"

He looked at Joanna for a moment and fingered the crucifix. "Meet me at the roller rink." He abruptly turned and swung the garbage bag after him. It bumped along the ground as he took off in the opposite direction.

 
She stared after him. Well, what did she have to lose? She retraced her steps up the midway, dodging moms with strollers and accidentally jostling a few Seabees on shore leave for Rose Festival's Fleet Week. One of them grabbed her hand and pulled her in for a photo. "Come on. Let's take a picture." Her mind on the grounds worker, she quickly smiled for the camera, then hurried toward the barn-sized roller rink.

The rink's neon "Skate Today!" sign was dark. Joanna cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed them against the glass front door. Although the roller rink was closed, some kind of activity went on inside. Was that organ music she heard?

"You're here. Good." The workman she'd seen minutes ago took a key from his belt and unlocked the front door. "After you."

Dingy carpet paved the way to a brightly lit central room. The scent of stale popcorn hung in the air. A massive platform, as big as a small house and heavy with organ pipes, hung over the wooden skating floor. The organ tooted "Row, row, row your boat" while—could it be?—people seemed to be working under the skating floor.
 

"What's going on?" Joanna asked.

 
"Rain in the forecast. A huge storm," the workman said. "We're checking the barrels under the skating floor to make sure they're tied on good. Sometimes the river floods, but with these empty barrels, the floor just floats right up."

Amazing. She took in the rink's lockers, the snack bar, the benches where people swapped shoes for worn roller skates. "But everything else floods?"

"Pretty much. We roll the organ onto the skating floor, and some of us take sleeping bags and spend the night. Make sure everything's okay. Last time this happened, a German restaurant boated us in some bratwurst."

 
The organ music shifted to "Old Man River."
 

"Over here," the workman said, leading Joanna to an entrance to the skating floor. "Luisa," he called out. "There’s someone I want you to meet."

From under the floor a set of small feet kicked out, followed by legs, then the body of a boyish woman. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and dust smeared her face and hands. The workman stuck out a hand and pulled her up. She raised her eyebrows at Joanna.

"Luisa, I'd like you to meet—I'm sorry."

"Joanna," she said and extended her hand.

"I'm Jorge, and this is my sister, Luisa. Luisa, this lady is a friend of the Marys. Tell her what happened when the sisters came here last."

"What?" Luisa asked. When she turned toward her brother, a tattoo of a unicorn's head showed on the side of her neck.

"You know, the lady with them and Whitey. Remember?"

Whitey? Joanna looked at Jorge and Luisa in turn. This ought to be interesting. Who was Whitey? Not Clary.

Luisa took off her work gloves and smoothed a piece of hair behind her ear. "Why does she want to know?"

"Never mind, I'll tell you later. Hurry. Tell her. I'm supposed to be on garbage detail."

Luisa shrugged. "I was working on the Scrambler with Whitey" —she gestured absently toward the midway outside— "and he saw someone he knew. A lady. She was with the Marys. It was really weird. He waved his hands like this" —she waved both hands excitedly— "and the lady ran over to see him. She didn't look too happy about it."

"Could you hear what they said?" Joanna asked.
 

Both Jorge and Luisa started at the creak of the rink's front door. Joanna turned, too. A large man strode toward her. Luisa's feet disappeared under the skating floor, and Jorge darted toward the snack bar.

"Ma'am, can I help you?" the man said. An Oaks Park ID badge was clipped to his pocket.
 

"Uh, yes. I was looking for the restroom."

"The restroom here's closed. In fact, the whole rink's closed to the public. We're getting ready for the storm. You can use the bathroom out on the midway."
 

"Yes, thank you." She glanced back where Luisa had disappeared—what was it she had been about to say?—and reluctantly fell into step with the man. A security guard, she guessed. Maybe he could help. "I'm here on business. I'm looking for a man called Whitey. Do you know where I can find him?"
 

The security guard stopped suddenly. "Whitey? How do you know him?"

She was getting somewhere. "For legal reasons I can't tell you, but it's very important that I find him." Whoever Whitey is, she thought.
 

"Here's the restroom," the guard said, pointing toward a door wedged between a stand selling curly fries and another with soft-serve ice cream. He glanced at the leaden sky. "Going to rain this afternoon, but that's supposed to be nothing compared to the front rolling in tomorrow."

"Sure, Rose Festival and all," she said quickly. "But what about Whitey?"

"I can't help you about Whitey. He packed up and left almost a month ago."

"What?" Joanna said. She was so close to finding out what had spooked Helena, only to arrive at this dead end.

The security guard seemed to take pity. "Look, there's not a lot I can tell you. Some folks say Whitey came into some money and left, I don't know. He was good at his job." He shook his head. "We wouldn't take him back now, though. Not after running out like that."

"Where would someone with his skills go to find work?"

"You might try Thrillmeister. They’re local. Always looking for mechanics. Won’t do you any good if he came into money, though."

If Luisa was right, maybe Whitey saw Helena and Clary together and knew Helena was married to someone else. Her picture turned up often enough in the paper. He could have blackmailed her, threatened to tell Vivienne. With Vivienne dead, Whitey would have lost his leverage over Helena and might have had to look for work again. Or maybe Joanna's imagination was running wild.

Once the security guard moved on, she returned to the roller rink, slipping in the back way, through the parking lot. The door was locked, and no one let her in this time. Jorge was no where to be seen on the grounds. She put a hand on her hip.

She had to know who this "Whitey" was. First step, track down Thrillmeister.

***

Joanna's phone calls got her nowhere. Without Whitey's real name, Thrillmeister's central HR department couldn't tell her if he worked for them, and no one in the local office would confirm or deny they had anyone named Whitey on record. It would be easy enough for Whitey, clearly a nickname, to call himself something else in his new job. Even the Central Library’s reference staff came up dry.
 

Fine. If the phone didn't work, she'd visit in person.

Thrillmeister's local headquarters were east of town on the grounds of an abandoned drive-in movie theater. Joanna eased Old Blue past the theater's marquee, now studded with holes, past an unmanned ticket booth, and into the gravel parking lot. Her windshield wipers swished against the rain.
 

From the warmth of the car, she surveyed the Thrillmeister lot. What had once been the viewing area for the drive-in was now jumbled with amusement park rides probably waiting to be fixed or sent to a fair. Two Cobras, their cars lowered, were closest to Joanna. Beyond them loomed a House of Mirrors and a rusted roller coaster. The drive-in's screen marked the edge of the property. Her windshield began to steam up. Figuring the drive-in's old snack building was where the office was located, she clutched her sweater and darted through the rain.

Joanna knocked hesitantly on the building's metal door. The rain beat on its aluminum roof as she waited for a response. Finally, she gripped the cold handle and yanked.
 

"For God's sake, close the door," a voice shouted from the other side of a cubicle wall.
 

Joanna stepped inside and wiped the rain off her sleeves. The office was warm—almost oppressively so. The snack shack had been gutted and fitted with fluorescent lights, surplus desks, and cubicle walls in motley colors from the 1970s. She heard a thump, then saw a child-sized woman with an adult’s head come around the cubicle corner. Her head was half shaved and the remaining hair dyed magenta.