Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

"Who's there?" a gruff voice yelled from upstairs. "Bring them up."

Mary Frances looked alarmed. "But Mother—"

"Bring them up, I said."

Apple kicked Joanna’s foot, and she flashed her a glance. There was no way Joanna was going to miss this. "We'd love to meet the Mother if she's up to receiving guests."

"This is highly unusual—"

"And be quick about it," shouted the nun from upstairs.

"This way." Mary Frances sighed and led Joanna and Apple back to the entry hall and up the stairs. If anything, the second floor was more dingy than the first. Strips of paint had bubbled yellow from the ceiling. A water mark stained the edge of one wall. Mary Frances stopped at a door and knocked twice before opening it.
 

The scent of humid soil greeted Joanna's nose before she even entered the bedroom. Once inside, she saw why. Orchids as brilliant as parrots perched on nearly every surface. In the center of the cacophony of sword-like leaves and frilled petals stood a double bed made up in crisp white sheets. In the bed lay the Mother.

This was the room from which Joanna had seen the moving curtains outside, but it must have been someone else at the window since the Mother Superior clearly couldn't walk on her own.

"Mother, I'd like you to meet Joanna and Apple. They stopped by to ask about Vivienne's clothes. I told them we'd put them up for sale already."

The Mother first examined Joanna, then shifted her eyes to Apple, where they rested longer. Leaning against the wall on the other side of the bed was a folded up wheelchair. A porcelain tea cup painted with violets sat empty on the bedside table next to a half-eaten macaron—where did she get such good-looking macarons in Portland?—and a gold and green Cattelya orchid.
 

"You can go now," the Mother said to Mary Frances. She turned her head toward Apple. "You. What do you know about it?"

Joanna raised her eyebrows. What was she talking about?
 

Apple returned the Mother's stare. "Nothing really. Some strange music, but that's all."

Joanna's gaze shot to the bedridden nun. What was going on?
 

The mother nodded. "The police have it all wrong. They'll never figure out who killed her if they keep this up."

"Are you talking about who killed Vivienne North?" Joanna said. The Mother must have been able to hear them downstairs.

"Of course. You want your clothes, don't you, the dresses you bought at the auction?"

"Well, yes."

"Then you're going to have to help keep the police on track. I can't get out like I used to. Vivienne was a dear friend to us, and to me in particular." The old woman shifted in her bed. "Besides, we need that money."

Joanna shook her head. "Look, I'm happy to call the police and ask when they'll be finished with Vivienne's things, but as far as the investigation goes, it's in the police's hands." She remembered the murder investigation she'd been sucked into the summer before. No way she was going down that road again. "I mean, have you talked to the detective in charge yet?"

"Mary Frances," the Mother bellowed. Quick steps sounded on the stairs. "Here's the deal. You look into Vivienne's death, and I'll make sure you have Vivienne's clothes—the ones we have up for sale—for your charity auction."

"But I don't even know where I'd start."

Sister Mary Frances stood breathing hard at the door. The Mother said to Joanna, "You'll make do. She'll help." She nodded at Apple. "But don't do anything stupid. And report back." The Mother fell back into her pillows, her face whiter than before. She closed her eyes.

"This way," Mary Frances whispered.

On the street, Joanna was grateful for the cool air. "What was that all about? Did all that really just happen?" Or had they somehow stepped through a tear in reality and ended up on the set of
The Sound of Music
?

Apple didn't reply, but glanced back at the house.

"And what's up with the way she looked at you?"

"She's psychic, too." Her voice was thoughtful.
 

"For God's sake," Joanna said. "I have a headache."

"What are you thinking?" Paul asked. Holding a hand plane in his fingers, he stood over his workbench and contemplated the leg of a table. Its curve, in raw mahogany, approximated the calf of a tall dancer. Cyd Charisse, maybe.
 

Joanna leaned back in the armchair and rested her leg on a box. Not quite Cyd Charisse, but could be worse. Cyd would have liked her shoes—pale green satin closed-toe sandals, although the fabric was frayed and soles scuffed. "When I was a kid, I used to climb fir trees. The big ones have good footing. You can get pretty far up, but spiky little branches poke out everywhere. The bark's sappy, too. I can't tell you how many times I got up a tree then realized it was going to be a painful scrape down." She let out a long breath. "That's how I feel now."

"You mean with Vivienne's clothes, or the nuns?"

"All of it." Joanna longed for a Martini. She wished for the hundredth time Paul drank. "I guess I could try calling the police station at a different time. Maybe I'd get someone who would tell me something I could use for the nuns. I need to borrow those dresses." She imagined Clary looking at her with a "What did I tell you, she'll never come through, we should have gone with Eve to begin with" look.
 

"I have to admit I'm kind of worried about money, too," Joanna added.
 

Paul put down the hand plane and plucked a piece of sawdust from her hair. "Why don't you let me help you?"

"You? You’re as broke as I am."

He returned to the workbench and picked up a sheet of sandpaper. He focused on the table leg. "Money isn’t everything. Besides, we could move in together. I could set up my shop in your garage."

Joanna lifted her head. This was new. Paul smoothed the angle of the table leg and turned it slightly. Her house was no palace but plenty big for two people. And he was right about the garage—it was large, and with some insulation and a little more electrical work it might make a decent workshop. This was a lot to take in.

"You surprise me," she finally replied.

"Just something to think about." He didn't seem bothered by her lack of an immediate "yes." He set the table leg down and wiped the sawdust from his hands. "I might be able to help you with money, though. It looks like I'll be starting a new project soon, a big one."

"Oh, really? Doing what?"

"Building some cabinets for an office. The woman running the project wants it really high end: a built-in desk, some bookshelves, and a full-wall wardrobe—plus all the trim in the room. Lots of Myrtlewood. The wood alone is going to cost a fortune, but it will be great to work with. Should keep me busy for at least a month."

"Sounds perfect. What kind of office?" Trim and cabinet work were Paul's specialties. He loved restoring older pieces, but it was rare he had the chance to build fine cabinets from scratch.

"She said it's some sort of consulting business where she finds things people want. Sounds like she's done a lot of scouting for people in New York already. You know, first edition books, fancy lamps, whatever. She even scouts for vintage clothes. There's one thing, though."

"What?"

He picked up his file again. "It's Eve Lancer."

Joanna's leg dropped to the floor. "You can't work for her."
 

"Why not?" He drew the file along the mahogany. "She's not selling vintage clothing anymore—well, not exclusively vintage clothing, anyway."

"You know my history with her. She tried to run Tallulah’s Closet out of business last year. Remember? She tried to buy Vivienne's clothes out from under me, too."

"But she never did open that store. And as for the auction, the idea is that people compete with each other to buy things, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"You don't think she'd skip out on paying me or anything?"

"No, she has plenty of money, but—"

"But what?"

Joanna fidgeted. What could she say? That Eve had something personal against her? That maybe she'd even enjoy stealing Paul away?
 

"You're jealous," Paul said. Joanna stared in reply. "You don't have any reason to be. You know that." He strode to the far end of the workshop near the kitchen. He placed his hands on the counter, then turned to face her. Joanna watched nervously. "I need the money and Eve needs the work. I have to take this job, Joanna. You get that, right?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but thought better. "Yes. I understand."
 

The room was silent for a minute except for the clicking of Gemma's toenails as she crossed the cement floor to her water dish. Joanna stood and put her arms around Paul. He kissed the top of her head. His chest smelled of clean cotton and wood. Damned Eve.

"I don't want to take your money, but how would you feel about doing some work for some nuns? One of them seems to have a knack for web design. I bet she'd finish the Tallulah’s Closet website for me if you helped shore up the convent a bit."

"The nuns you saw today?"

"They're a quirky group. I think you'll like them." She filled him in on the Mother Superior’s offer to trade the dresses for information on Vivienne’s death.

Paul pulled a wavy section of hair gently and released it. "I could do that. At least give them an idea of how much work needs to get done."

"What are you going to do about the police investigation?" he asked.

Joanna felt his arms tense. She leaned into him. "I don't know. I guess I'll call Helena Schuyler North, Vivienne's daughter-in-law. She was friendly. The police must keep her up to date with what's going on."

"All you’re doing is asking, right? And telling the nun? No digging around on your own." He strung his fingers in her hair. "Remember last year," he murmured. "How dangerous it was."

"I know," she whispered. God, she was lucky to have him. "I’m just passing along information. That’s all."

His arms relaxed. "Helena Schuyler North. What a name for a rich lady. Too perfect."

"Mm-hmm." Joanna only half heard him. Crisis averted. For the moment, at least.

"It's so nice of you to come down to the store." Joanna rose from behind the bamboo-fronted tiki bar that served as the cashier’s table at Tallulah's Closet.
 

Helena closed the door behind her. "I enjoyed talking with you yesterday. Besides, I was having lunch just up the street and thought it would be nicer to stop by rather than just return your call. I wanted to see your boutique, too."

Her blunt-cut bob and earth-toned ensemble contrasted with the rack of pastel cocktail dresses beside her. Her diamond wedding ring caught the light from the front window and flashed watery brilliance on the opposite wall. "I’ve never been in a vintage clothing store. It’s fabulous."

"Thank you. Against that wall are all the black cocktail and evening dresses. In the middle, in front of the bench, is casual wear—mostly house dresses and cotton sundresses—and over here are the color cocktail dresses. The dressing rooms are in the back."
 

"What are you doing there?" She pointed toward the tiki bar, covered in papers.

Joanna had been making a list, and some of the papers had half-sketched dresses on them. "Oh, counting my chickens before they hatch, I guess. If the police ever release Vivienne's clothes I want to have a fashion show, invite the press and some of my regulars. These" —she tapped her pen on a drawing— "are some ideas for an invitation."

The sunlight into the store darkened for a moment as a familiar figure passed the front window. He paused for a moment and looked in, then seemed to think the better of it. "Was that Clary?" Joanna asked.
 

Helena turned to follow Joanna's gaze. "Yes, I think it was. I had lunch with him just now."

She placed her purse on the glass-topped jewelry case and fingered a pair of crystal Eisenberg earrings. "You said on the phone you wanted to talk about Vivienne." She unclipped one of the earrings from its post and held it up to her ear, turning her face to the mirror.

A girl, not more than twelve years old, strode into the store. Wearing designer jeans and sandals with heels, she was dressed more like a co-ed than the middle-school student she must be. Joanna glanced behind the girl to see if her mother followed, but she was alone.

Joanna waved. "Let me know if I can help you find anything."

"Just looking, thanks." The girl’s heels clicked toward a display of reptile box bags from the 1930s.

Joanna returned her attention to Helena. "I'm sorry to bring up Vivienne again. I know it can't be easy for you." Helena nodded but turned toward the girl. "I went to the convent, like you suggested, to see if the nuns would lend me a few of her dresses, the ones she didn't auction off. They said they would, but the Mother Superior put a condition on it." Joanna looked up to see if Helena was paying attention. She seemed to be listening, but was still turned away.
 

"Anyway," Joanna continued, "She wanted me to find out what I could about Vivienne's death. I guess the police won't tell her anything. That’s why I called you."

"Watch her," Helena murmured.

"What?"

"The girl." She raised her head. "You," she said to the girl. "Give it over."

"Really, she’s okay," Joanna said, surprised at Helena’s harsh tone. "I don’t mind if people want to look around. They don’t all have to buy.”

"I saw you put that scarf in your bag. Give it over."
 

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," the girl said.

"The scarf. Now."

The girl pulled a vivid green and blue Vera scarf from her bag and tossed it on the bench. "Take your stupid scarf." She edged toward the door and left without speaking.
 

"Sharp eye. Thank you," Joanna said and retrieved the scarf.
 

Helena shook her head. "Gypsy kid. Probably here because of Rose Festival. Take my word for it—you don’t want her type in here."