Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

Joanna looked up in surprise. Fragile? What did that mean?

"Don't be ridiculous, Clary," Lacey said. "She'll do just fine."

***

Before ringing the bell next to the police warehouse's metal door, Joanna fluffed her hair and adjusted her skirt. She hoped the Thierry Mugler dress with its space age, curve-hugging fit and spritz of Balmain's violet-leather Jolie Madame perfume would work some magic. She needed Vivienne's dresses, and the sooner the better.

"Yes?" The door cracked open, revealing a man in a white jumpsuit with an ID badge clipped to its pocket. He chewed gum as he examined her. He didn't appear as impressed with the Mugler dress as she'd hoped.

"Hi." She gave her best smile. "I think it's starting to rain out here—you know, it's Rose Festival, and like they say, it always rains during Rose Festival." She laughed nervously. "Could I come in?"

The man looked behind him. "I guess. Just inside." His jaw continued to work the gum.

The warehouse's exterior, dingy aluminum siding unbroken by windows, didn't prepare her for its vast, fluorescent-lit interior. Rows of tall metal shelves, each numbered and sheathed in plastic, took up a third of the space. An open area with larger objects, including, to her surprise, an SUV, filled the rest. A few desks and a stained Mr. Coffee were near the door.
 

The man in the jumpsuit stepped between her and the room. "What is it you want, lady?"

"Oh." She laughed again, then stopped at the sight of the man's unmoved expression. This ingénue business wasn't getting her anywhere. "My name is Joanna Hayworth." She extended her hand.

"Yes?" His hands remained in his pocket.

So that's how it was, was it? She withdrew her hand and pulled her cardigan tighter. "I bought some vintage clothing at an auction yesterday. Vivienne North's estate. You guys took them."

"And?"

"The clothing—"

"Evidence, you mean."

"—Is very delicate. Valuable, too. I need to make sure you know how to store it. Old fabric is sensitive to temperature change, and—"

"How did you find the warehouse?" With an air of long practice, he spit the gum into a wastebasket an arm's length away.

"Just a quick call to the police station." In fact, she'd spent nearly an hour with Kimberly at the Central Library’s reference line, who’d scoured city databases until she’d located it. The reference team had long been Joanna’s substitute for a web browser. Kimberly was a new hire, but she was top notch, and Joanna always requested her. She’d have to ask the library’s team lead how Kimberly might feel about a vintage charm bracelet for her trouble.
 

"Really." He folded his arms in front of his chest and widened his stance. "Look. I have work to do. I can't stand around talking."

"But what about the clothes? When will you be done with them? I can bring down some acid-free tissue—"

"You seem pretty eager to get the clothes back."

"Yes." At last he was listening. "I need those clothes for my store. I've already bought them, and I need to sell a few pieces to pay some bills."

"So the clothing is valuable."

"Very valuable. Those pieces are ridiculously rare nowadays. People would kill to own just one of the dresses." She clapped her mouth shut. Bad choice of words.

The man nodded. "Including you? Is there something we ought to know, Joanna Hayworth?" He stressed each syllable of her name.

She felt a chill. "No, it's just—"

"Then it's time for you to go." He opened the door behind her.
 

It was really raining now. She backed up a few inches. He moved forward and her feet hit the gravel of the parking lot. He took a fresh stick of gum from a pocket in his jumpsuit. "Did it occur to you that a major crime was committed? We're doing all we can to find out what happened. I'm sure a few dresses can wait."

The door shut with a thud.
 

In most Portland neighborhoods, the North home would have stood out as a mansion. In this older part of the West Hills, it was merely a modest Tudor-style home with a stretch of velvety lawn and a protective ring of old rhododendrons, their hot pink and pale purple blossoms just starting to fade. The rain had stopped during the night, and cool sun bathed the yard.
 

Joanna left her Corolla, nicknamed "Old Blue," on the street and walked up the brick path to the door. The brass knocker was heavy in her hand. No one answered after a few, tentative raps, so she knocked again, this time harder. The June sun warmed her back. Vent Vert, the crisp, mossy-green perfume she’d dotted on her wrists, was perfect for the day.

Just when she had turned toward the street to leave, a woman in a dirt-smeared Trail Blazers sweatshirt opened the door.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You must be Joanna. I was working in the garden and didn't hear you. Come in."

"Thank you. I'm here to see Helena Schuyler North." She stepped into an entry hall with oak-paneled walls fragrant with lemon and beeswax. The entry opened to a larger central hall with French doors at the far end, giving out to a broad stone patio and a large garden hidden from the street. No sign of anyone else. Hopefully Vivienne’s daughter-in-law remembered their appointment.

The gardener slid off a glove and proffered her hand. "I'm Helena. Sorry I wasn’t quite ready for you. The garden really needed some work. I’m afraid I let it go during spring term." Now Joanna noticed the precisely cut bob, no Super Cuts job, touched with gray. A lot of women with her money would have dyed their hair blond. Helena's mouth widened into a smile, revealing a few lines around her almond-shaped eyes. With her eyes and straight nose, her profile could have been lifted from a Greek coin.
 

"If it's not too cold for you," Helena said, "would you like to sit in the back for a few minutes? I want to run upstairs and change." She led Joanna to the patio and gestured toward a chair at a small metal table in the sun. "You can sit here, if you'd like. Or feel free to wander the garden. The Paeonia delavayi are blooming. Would you like some tea?" The words came out in a girlish tumble.
 

Joanna smiled and nodded. "Thank you."

The back garden could have been lifted from the pages of
Town and Country
. Roses were only starting to open, but rhododendrons bloomed profusely. A hummingbird whirred by and hovered at an azalea before darting on. A fenced-off vegetable garden filled the far corner of the yard.
 

Joanna took the slate-paved path to check it out. Vegetable gardening had to be a rarity in this neighborhood, but here a row of peas crawled up string, and French breakfast radishes broke through the black soil. Just beyond the vegetable garden were two stacked, white boxes on stands. Joanna stepped off the paved path, her 1940s sandals sinking into the damp grass, to look more closely at the boxes.

"I see you found my beehives," Helena said.
 

Joanna whirled around. She sure had changed her clothing fast. Now she wore loose pants and a linen tunic. Nothing flashy, but not cheap, either. "Just looking at your vegetable garden."

"I'm sorry if I startled you. Change in plans. Let’s go into the house. It's cooler than I thought out here." She lifted a tray with tea things from the small table and carried it in. "Clary said you wanted to talk about Vivienne's clothing."

"Yes. But first, let me say how sorry I was to hear about her death. This must be a difficult time for you."

"Thank you," she said simply. "People have been very kind." She nodded toward a vase of lilies of the valley on a side table. "In fact, Clary sent those. Such a nice man. Magnificent taste, too."

Joanna thought of his creased trousers and nodded. Most Portland men couldn't operate a steam iron if threatened at knife point. "He helped come up with this year's theme for the art auction, Hollywood glamour."

"I've got the evening blocked out in my calendar. One of my husband's paintings was selected for the live auction." At the mention of her husband, Helena's face lit up.

"Is that one of his?" Joanna nodded toward a small canvas of a nude. The painting looked competent, but not unusual. But who was she to judge?

"An earlier work." She looked at the painting with obvious pride. "Two galleries in town and one in L.A. want to represent him, but he can’t decide."

"Maybe being at the auction will help. I’m pulling together some outfits for some of the people volunteering that evening. I know most of your mother-in-law's clothing was sold, but we wondered if she might have held back a few dresses that you'd be willing to lend us." She'd wait until she saw what Vivienne might have left before mentioning that Tallulah's Closet was always looking for new stock.

Helena led her into a large room overlooking the front yard, just off the entry hall. She rested the silver tray on a coffee table. Sun pooled on the coral and pale green tones of the oriental carpet, and bunches of white tulips, big as fists, sat on the fireplace. "To tell the truth, I'm not completely sure what Vivienne kept and what she sold."

"You probably haven't had time to go through her things since her—since she died. I hope I'm not causing too much trouble."

Helena's expression remained calm. "She'd been living with Gil—my husband—and I for only a few months now." She lifted the teapot's lid and stirred the leaves. "She'd decided on a change of lifestyle and sold her house and moved into ours. She auctioned off most of her furniture and wardrobe. You'd be amazed at the clothing she'd kept over the years."

Joanna thought longingly of the trunks of beautifully crafted dresses. "I bought some of it at the auction—I have a vintage clothing store. They're gorgeous pieces." She glanced out the window to catch an elderly woman walking a King Charles spaniel. The woman cast a disgusted look at Old Blue as she passed.
 

Helena followed Joanna's gaze and laughed. "That your car? Don't mind her, the old snob." She poured tea for each of them.
 

"It does look a little out of place." She eyed the brand new Range Rover parked across the street.

"We’ve been living here for almost ten years, and sometimes I still feel a little out of place, too." Helena touched Joanna’s hand briefly. "Don’t worry about it."

Joanna set down her tea cup. "The police seized the clothes I bought from Vivienne at the auction house. Did they take her things here, too?"

"Oh, they had a whole team here taking photographs and nosing around, but they didn’t take anything away. At least, I don’t think so." Helena’s gaze lost focus.
 

"I can't imagine how you feel." Why had the police, then, hauled off Vivienne’s auction items? It didn’t make sense.

She shook her head. "Someone came in here, in this room, and killed Vivienne." She grasped a throw pillow and pulled it into her lap. She drew a deep breath. "It wasn't the first time someone broke in, either."

 
Joanna inhaled sharply. She passed her gaze once again over the carpet's soothing tones, the tulips on the mantel. "I can't imagine."
 

"The house was broken into a few weeks ago, and my jewelry was stolen. It wasn't much—a tennis bracelet and a pendant. But Gil had given them to me. Vivienne's jewelry was all in her safe deposit box. She was going to send it to Sotheby's." Helena gave a bitter laugh. "Not that it mattered in the end."

"I'm sorry. I’ve heard about all the diamond thefts lately." Joanna wondered if Clary had been right. Maybe it was too soon to be visiting the Norths. After all, it was just a few dresses. Not worth stirring up all this pain.

Helena pushed back the tea tray. "I’m sorry for burdening you with this. Why don't we go upstairs and see what she had?"

Joanna rested one hand on the polished banister as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hall darkened as they reached a closed door at its end. Helena pushed it open.

"This part of the house extends over the garage. It was originally a nursery. We didn't use it much until Vivienne came to live with us." She moved the windows and pushed open the curtains. She ran a finger along the windowsill. "I need to get up here and dust."
 

Sunlight illuminated a suite of simple blond wood furniture. The room looked like a cross between a sitting room and a chapel, with a small fireplace and bookshelves on one end and an oil painting of the Madonna and a prayer bench with a purple velvet knee pad on the other. Joanna knelt and touched the pad. Silk velvet. They didn’t have silk velvet kneelers at the church where she grew up, that was for sure.

"It looks practically—monastic," Joanna said.

Helena sighed. "Vivienne had recently become quite religious. That's part of the reason she arranged to sell everything and move in with us. She didn't think it was right to have so much when so many people have so little."

Joanna remembered the furniture sold at the auction and the dizzying bids for some of it. Her estate must have collected a real packet.
 

Helena shook her head. "I can't explain it. Since we don't have children, she left most of her estate to the convent." Seeing Joanna's puzzled expression, she added, "Sisters of Saint Mary Salome the Myrrh Bearer. She knows the Mother Superior."

"That’s an unusual choice."

Helena moved to the window and picked a piece of lint off the curtain. "Yes, but it’s all right. We're doing fine. Obviously." She looked shy for a moment. "Maybe she didn't see the need to put us in her will. Then there was the convent. But that's more than you want to know, I'm sure." She gestured toward the other side of the room. "The bedroom is through there."

The bedroom, facing the back garden, was as simply furnished as the sitting room. A twin bed occupied one wall, and a dresser with a framed painting of the Virgin Mary hung on the other. Yellow roses, now limp and scentless, filled a red glass vase next to the painting. Helena opened the closet. "She did save her wedding dress, but that's in a cedar chest downstairs. This is what's left."

A trace of the rich tuberose of Fracas perfume still clung to the few clothes in the closet. A pale blue, quilted bathrobe hung from its door. Not exactly a nun's habit. Joanna felt its charmeuse lining and imagined the buttery texture on her skin as, warm and damp from a bath, she slipped into it. On the floor was a pair of mules with beaver trim. "Vivier" in gold script ran down their lasts. Joanna glanced back at the bed. From a distance, the pillowcases had only looked like cotton muslin. Now she realized they were linen, probably Italian.