The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (29 page)

But where to begin? She remembered weeks when her mother would lay in bed, staring, unseeing, at the ceiling. Her father was long gone. When the county social worker drove her to her grandmother's, Joanna hadn't said a word. She sat in the backseat and focused on tracing a perfect circle in the fog left by her breath on the window.

“When I was a kid, I went to live with my grandparents.” Everything was different there. After a while, she had come out of her shell. She made up funny songs and sang them while she and her grandmother picked blackberries early in the morning, before the summer heat set.
 

“One day...one day I was in the backseat of my grandmother's car.” An old orange Datsun, tiny compared to most of the cars on the road then. “We were driving into town, and I was chattering nonstop about something. We were on a winding, two-lane highway. You couldn't always see well coming through the canyon.” Her throat tightened. “My grandmother was concentrating on driving, but I wanted her to see something I'd drawn. She kept saying, 'Just a minute, honey,' but I didn't listen. Finally I pulled her shoulder back.”
 

The logging truck had struck the driver's side of the car, hurling the Datsun against the shale embankment, where it flipped on its back in the road. Her grandmother's scream against crunching metal haunted her sleep for years. It was half an hour before an ambulance arrived. The logging truck's driver had pulled her from the wreckage and set her in the cab of his barely damaged truck. She was bruised and had a lump on the side of her head, but was otherwise unhurt. “Close your eyes,” he'd said again and again. “Close your eyes. Don't open them.”

“It was my fault,” she repeated. “She died.”

Paul slid his hand across the table, palm up. “I'm sorry,” he said simply.

Surprised even as she did it, she rested her hand in his. His callused thumb touched the side of her palm. His dog jumped down from her chair and stared up at them—or more likely, their plates. Feeling self conscious, she withdrew her hand and picked up a jojo.
 

“Did you hear about Don Cayle from Mary’s Club?” Paul asked.

“Uh huh.” She took unusual pains arranging the chicken on her plate.

“He was murdered.”

“That’s what I heard.”

He picked up his fork and set it down again. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She avoided his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I just asked you about Don Cayle’s murder, and you don’t want to talk about it. What’s up?”

The emotional energy in the room had taken yet another turn. The chicken in her mouth turned to cardboard, but she continued chewing, then swallowed. “I told you that I’d heard about it. I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

He started nodding, but ended by shaking his head. “You’re not satisfied, are you, about Marnie’s death? And now Don.” He nodded toward the locked, empty suitcase now sitting next to the table. “What’s the deal with the suitcase? And I see that you're dressed with a little more restraint than usual. All black.”

Joanna continued to avoid looking straight at him. “It's not exactly the time for cheerful dress, is it? As for the suitcase, I just happened to notice when I was taking a few things to Apple's that it was locked shut. I thought maybe you could pick the lock for me.”

He pushed his chair back and folded his arms. “Why are you taking things to Apple’s?”
 

Uh oh. She was getting in deeper. “Well, my house was broken into the day before yesterday.”

“Your house was broken into.” He tapped his finger on the table a few times. “You’re up to something, aren't you? You're not a very good liar. You want to pick a lock, and you hoped maybe I could show you. You don't need the suitcase at all. That's the truth, isn't it?”

Frustration piled on top of the emotion of the last few weeks set off a wave of anger. “What if it is true?” Her voice rose. “What's it to you?”
 

“Joanna, your store and house were broken into, Marnie was found dead, and Don was shot and killed. I don’t know what’s going on, but this isn't anything you should be messing around in.”

First Apple, now him. Trying to stop her. She stood up. “I want my life back.” The force of her voice startled her. The dog sat up, alert.

“Where’s your boyfriend, anyway? Why doesn’t he talk some sense into you? I didn’t see him at the neighborhood hearing, either.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” This wasn't going at all the way she'd planned.
 

Paul barely paused. “Besides, what makes you think you know something the homicide bureau doesn't?”

“Listen. I’m almost positive this whole thing centers on some papers hidden on a boat at Sauvie Island.”

“A boat?” He shook his head. “So you thought you would sneak down there tonight. In a dress, no less.” Then, more emphatically, “Don't do it. It isn't worth it.”

She refused to look at him. She was too upset to talk. What was she thinking, telling him about her grandmother? She sat down again, but turned her head away.

He leaned back and took a breath. “Look, I'm sorry. None of this is any of my business. I guess, well, with my sister and everything I didn't want to see someone else get hurt.” His voice had softened, and he pushed aside his plate. “Remember how I told you about my uncle, the one in prison for burglary?”

She nodded but still wouldn’t raise her head.

“He and Don did a job together in the early 1960s. When all this came up—Marnie, your store—I went to talk to him.” He paused. “Are you listening?”
 

She nodded again.

“In the old days, Mary’s Club had a gambling room in the back. Not legal. Don worked with some local mobsters to get things set up, and I’m sure he paid a few policemen to look the other way, too. One night he arranged to have Uncle Gene break in and steal a couple of days’ haul. My uncle got his cut, and the rest went into Marnie’s bank account—at least, temporarily. Don told his partner in the mob that the money was stolen. I’m not sure if they believed him, but they couldn’t prove otherwise.” Paul rose and carried his plate to the sink. “I think it finally caught up with him.”

He had Joanna’s complete attention now. “But why wait so long? That was over forty years ago.”

“I can’t say, unless it has to do with Marnie. She knew she was dying. She might have put pressure on Don for some of the payout. When he refused, she told his old partners.”

Joanna’s brow furrowed. “It’s a good story, but it doesn’t make sense. No. Someone warned me off of looking for ‘papers.’ Some kind of papers were in Franklin’s safe deposit box, and he took them out and hid them. Someone wants them.” She looked straight at Paul. “Really badly.”

“What do you mean by ‘papers’?”

“I’m not sure. Not yet.”

“Did you try telling Crisp? He'd be the one to care. If there's something on this boat you’re talking about, let the detective deal with it.”

Paul's dog got down from the chair and sat next to Joanna, eyeing her plate.
 

Joanna took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I know you're right. I’ve been trying to get out of this mess since it started, and it seems like I just keep getting in deeper.”

“Call the police. Call them now. It's still early evening, you should be able to get someone on the phone. Tell them about your suspicions and let them look into it.”

“I really don't think it would do any good. Every time I've tried to talk to the detective about the key, he shoots holes through my theories. He doesn't care what I have to say. Besides, I can’t call right now, I don’t have a cell phone.”

Paul picked up his cell phone from the kitchen counter and put it on the table next to her. “It’s just one call. The worst he can do is hang up on you. They should be following up on this, not you.”

She sighed. She didn't like being bullied, and was tempted to tell Paul to shut up. At the same time, he had a point. She wiped her fingers and reached for the phone. He watched her. She took the phone to the corner of the shop, away from him, and punched in the detective's phone number from his business card. He never seemed to answer his phone anyway. Just when she was mentally preparing a message for his voice mail he picked up.

“Detective Crisp.”

“Uh, yes, this is Joanna Hayworth.”

“Yes.” The detective certainly didn't encourage a lot of conversation.

“I didn't think you'd answer.”

“I'm here now.”

Well, okay. “Yes, remember when we went to the safe deposit box?”

“I do.”

“Remember how the bank officer said that Franklin Pursell had visited the box not long ago? I think he took some important papers from the box before he died. I think the papers are on his boat, and—”
 

The detective cut her off. “Ms. Hayworth, we found Cayle's murderer.”

“You did?” She turned to face Paul's direction. He was feeding a jojo to his dog.

“A few hours ago we brought in Nina Kim, and she's confessed.”

Joanna gasped. “What? Nina?”

“That's what I said. She’s downtown right now. So, if you don't mind, I have work to do.” The detective hung up.

Stunned, Joanna continued to hold the phone to her ear. She finally pressed “end” and crossed the room to Paul. “They found out who killed Don. It was Nina, an old friend of Marnie's. Nina killed Don. She confessed.” She sat down.

“So you don't have anything to worry about. You're safe now.”
 

“Yes,” she said uncertainly. She remembered the sickly odor at Don's house and now recognized it as Nina's Jungle Gardenia mixed with heat and blood. Nina had done it. Nina killed Don. She should have known. And yet...

“Yes, but what?”

“She couldn't have broken into my place. Even if she killed Don then burned rubber on the way to my house, she wouldn't have had time to break in and search it. I had seen her at the store less than an hour before I went to Don's. She couldn’t have done it then. It doesn't make sense.”

Paul stood up. “Joanna, listen to me. It's over.”
 

“I don't know, something doesn't seem right.” She rose and paced the workshop floor, leaving a trail of footprints in the sawdust.
 

He lifted his hands. “It’s over. Let it alone.”

His fingers encircled each of her shoulders. She reached up and put her hands against his chest in reflex. His skin was warm under the tee shirt. He looked down at her, and she caught her breath. She grabbed a fistful of his tee shirt and pulled him toward her until their mouths met.
 

The kiss was long and full, and his mouth tasted like champagne. The electricity she’d felt earlier now trembled through her to the bone. She slid her arms around his back and pulled him closer. Then stopped.

It was too much all at once.

She pushed him away. “Let go of me.” Her voice came out more loudly than she'd expected. Tears burned at her eyes as she reached for her purse. “Goodbye.”
 

The suitcase lay, forgotten, on the workbench.

Joanna sat in the car in front of her house and forced herself to breathe more slowly.
 

The detective said Nina killed Don. But that didn’t necessarily mean she killed Marnie. And what about carving the threat in her wall? Nina wouldn’t break into her house, arrive smiling at Tallulah’s Closet to sell clothes, then head off to shoot Don. No. And what about Franklin? What could Franklin’s papers have to do with her?

Nina had once admitted to Joanna that lots of people thought she wanted Marnie dead. Joanna gritted her teeth in frustration. If only she could talk to Nina, she’d know for sure. She looked at the house. Pepper stared at her from the front window. It would be so nice to walk in, drop her purse on a chair, and settle in for the evening, but she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She started the car. The detective had said they were holding Nina downtown.

The streets near the police station were quiet this early Saturday evening, and for once parking was easy. Central Precinct was in a new, six-floor office building with the jail’s gym at the top. Rumor had it that women would sit in the park across the street and gaze at the top of the police building in the hopes of seeing a loved one on the treadmills.

In contrast to the more lax neighborhood precinct where Joanna had visited Officer Riggs, reception at Central was forbidding. Joanna passed through a metal detector and had her purse searched before reaching a uniformed policeman at a desk.

“I’d like to see Nina Kim, please. She was just brought in.”

“Nope.” The officer scratched his buzz cut with a pen. “Visiting hours are over.”

“It’s not to visit. It has to do with her case. It’s important,” Joanna pleaded.

The officer raised an eyebrow. “Detective send you?”

“Yes. Detective Crisp.” A white lie. But if he knew how important this was, he would have asked her to come.

The officer picked up the phone. Sun-faded photos of the mayor and the police chief hung above the plastic ficus next to his desk.
 

“He’s not answering. You say he asked you to come?”
 

She nodded.
 

“All right. Go up to the fifth floor.” He waved her to the bank of elevators.
 

Upstairs, the elevator opened into a small foyer with a few chairs. She went to the counter. On the other side of a sheet of bulletproof glass, a harried-looking woman rose from her desk. Behind her lay a warren of cubicles, and offices lined the perimeter. Joanna wondered if they were interrogation rooms, or if that only happened on TV.

“Joanna Hayworth. I’d like to see Detective Crisp, please.”
 

The woman rolled her eyes. “He never tells me when people are coming. He’s expecting you?”
 

The fewer lies she told the better. Rather than say yes or no, she smiled.

“Have a seat.”

She turned to the plastic chairs near the elevator. She was almost in to see Nina. Maybe Nina had already confessed to the other murders and explained about the key. If not—if she weren’t responsible—she’d tell Joanna. She knew it. Just a few minutes of conversation and her questions would be answered.