Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

The office's overhead light switched on. Her heart stopped.

"What are you doing in here?" Ben leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms in front of his chest. Joanna had forgotten how tall he was.
 

She backed into the bookcases. "Where's Helena?"

"I asked you a question."

Her mind raced. "I wanted to see a list of the things I bought from the North lot. Poppy told me the inventory was in the filing cabinet," she lied. "I saw her in jail."

"So you just came in here and started looking around?"

Deep breath. Appear normal, she told herself. Calm. Why the hell hadn't Helena kept him away? Time for the back-up plan.

Joanna unclipped her purse and drew out a piece of a pronged jewelry setting. Ben wouldn't know it was costume, severed from an orphaned earring that morning and slipped into her purse just in case. "Look what I found outside the bathroom."

He leaned forward. She withdrew her hand before he could look too closely. "Evidence from the diamond thefts. Broken off of a stolen piece of jewelry. I'm bringing it to the police."

His face stiffened. "That's nothing. A piece of old metal. There's stuff like that all over the place here."

She clenched a fist to keep her hand from trembling. "I bet the thief left it behind when he pulled the diamonds from a setting. You know, so the jewelry couldn't be traced."

"You said 'he.' The police say it's Poppy."

Joanna mustered up a confident tone. "No way. She’ll be out soon. Once the judge sets bail it shouldn't be long." She turned the broken jewelry setting in her palm. "Maybe this will help clear her."

Ben ran long fingers through his hair. "Give it to me. I'll take care of it." He reached for the setting.
 

She closed her fingers around it. "No. I'll deal with it." The real diamond thief had to be someone with access to both the warehouse and the office. Someone like Ben. A chill ran through her.
 

"Why? It was found on the auction house's premises."
 

"And I'm the one who found it. I'll give it to the police."

His glasses bizarrely magnified his eyes. They narrowed. "You don't trust me. You think I'm the thief, don't you?"

Ben’s body filled the doorway. If she had to, she could grab the gooseneck lamp and swing it at him. She felt the cool wood of the bookcase behind her. They say women should fight with their legs. "It had to be someone here, right?"

"That's what I was thinking, too." He stepped forward and slumped into the chair across from the desk. Joanna's momentary panic faded. "Something's been a little off with Travis. When the police questioned me I didn't want to say anything. He's just a kid, you know?"

"Poppy told me something about you having to fire him." Was he trying to throw suspicion off himself?

"He was nosing around here after hours. Like you."
 

Where was Helena, anyway? She opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the creak of the door between the showroom and warehouse. "Anybody home?" a man's voice asked.

"Must be the appraiser." Ben heaved his body from the chair. The fluorescent overhead light emphasized the dark hollows under his eyes.
 

"I'll be right behind you," Joanna said.
 

"No. We're finished here. I'll lock up." Ben waited until she'd left Poppy's office. She glanced regretfully at the filing cabinet where the inventories were likely still locked away.
 

Helena, breathless, appeared from the showroom. "Joanna? Are you all right? I'm sorry. I got a call from Gil. I had to take it." Her skin was clammy, and she breathed shallowly. "He’s at the hospital. Something is really wrong."

That night, hours after the store closed, Joanna leaned over the tiki bar to tally receipts. The student had come back for the lemon chiffon prom dress, but otherwise the day's sales were pathetic. Joanna moved to her bills. The web designer agreed to take trade, but she faced the rent, a stack of dry cleaning invoices, and a shockingly large plumbing bill. Honestly, plumbers must earn more than plastic surgeons. She'd managed to put off the landlord until after the NAP auction, but he'd made it clear she wouldn't have a day longer. To make things worse, the first payment on her line of credit was coming due.
 

The store was dark but for a small pool of light from the Marie Antoinette-shaped lamp on the tiki bar. There was no way around it. Unless she got her hands on Vivienne's clothes, and fast, she couldn't make ends meet.
 

What was she going to do? Joanna shoved the bills to the side. She could ask Paul for a loan. He wasn't rich, but he said he had a few jobs in the offing. Warmth spread over her at the thought of him. Too bad he wasn’t there right now, relaxing in the armchair by the dressing rooms. She glanced toward the chair at the darkened rear of the store, imagining his hands turning the page of a Raymond Chandler novel. But she wouldn’t ask him for money. Especially when it originally came from Eve.
 

A faint sound, like a pebble hitting tile, tapped from behind her. The skin on Joanna's neck prickled. She rose from the stool and eased the bathroom door open. Night showed through the window to the alley. It must have been something out back—maybe a cat. She boosted the window open and glimpsed someone relieving himself behind the Dumpster down the block. She shut and locked the window and shook her head. Nerves.

She returned to the tiki bar and bundled the receipts to take home. To help pay bills she could get a roommate, but that thought galled. What if the roommate wanted to hang some mall crap in the living room or put in a microwave? Forget it. Of course, Paul could move in and share the mortgage. She shook her head. Not that it mattered, since by then her bills would be long past due.
 

A movement in the front window caught the corner of her eye. White skin and dark eyes, looking in. It was only there for a moment before ducking away. Adrenalin surged through her body. Calm down, Joanna willed herself. People pass by the window all the time. It's a busy street. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Nonsense, she thought. Everything that's been happening lately is getting to me, that's all. I'm going home. She piled the bills in her purse and clicked off the lamp.
 

The phone rang.

At this hour? As Joanna watched the phone, her uneasiness grew. The phone continued to ring three then four times, when the answering machine would pick it up. The machine clicked on to a dial tone. Joanna let out her breath. The caller probably just wanted to find out the store's hours and wasn't patient enough to wait through her message.

The phone rang again. The hairs on her arm stood up. This is ridiculous, she thought. Why are you afraid of the phone? She turned on the lamp again. At the third ring she grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hello, Joanna," a voice whispered harshly.

She sucked in her breath. "Who is this?"

"You're alone."

Her blood turned to ice. "No, I'm not. I have—have people here."

"I see you." The whisper’s rasp removed any indication of whether the caller was a man or woman. "There's no one with you."

Her heart pounded. With the single light in the store, she'd be a clear target to anyone looking in. She glanced at the front window, but only the silhouettes of late night diners in the restaurant across the street moved. Too far away to hear her scream. Still clutching the phone, she sank to the floor behind the counter, out of view, and yanked the lamp's plug from the wall. "What do you want?" she asked.

"You can't hide from me, Joanna. I'll always find you. Stay out of business that doesn't concern you."

"What do you mean?" Her voice shook. Then, in a firmer tone, she said, "This is a hoax. Some kind of joke."

The raspy laughter was freakish. "Look in the dressing room. And don't say I didn't warn you." The phone call ended abruptly.

 
A cold sweat broke over Joanna's neck and forehead as she replaced the receiver. She sat still, hearing only the occasional car on the street. A minute passed, then two. I can't stay here forever, she thought. I have to get up, turn on a light. I have to go home.
 

Look in the dressing room, the voice had said.

Lights still off, Joanna felt around the tiki bar's lower shelf until she found a broken hat pin. As a weapon, it wasn't much, but it was all she had. Taking a deep breath, she crept from the protected area behind the counter and tiki bar. Cold Dupioni silk brushed her face as she passed a rack of dresses. Behind the zebra-striped chair, she paused again and listened. Silence. She leaned forward for a clear view of the front window. No one.

The curtains encircling both dressing rooms were closed. Who had been in the dressing rooms last? Apple closed shop today. She would have cleaned them both out before she left. They should be empty.

Shaking, Joanna stood and jerked open the curtains of the first dressing room. Nothing. All she saw were the small, velvet-topped bench and gold-framed mirror usually there. That left the other dressing room.
 

She glanced again at the darkened window, then focused on the dressing room's silk curtains. God, she wished someone were with her. She bit her lip and counted silently. One, two, three—she drew aside the curtain and instantly let it fall closed again. She clicked on the store's overhead lights then ripped aside the dressing room curtains. Hanging from a hook was a shredded silk nightgown, its top bunched like a head. It dangled from a tiny silken noose.

***

Joanna ran all the way home. Gasping and cursing her kitten-heeled pumps, she collapsed against her front door. Locked. Good. Inside, her house, lit by a single lamp on the fireplace mantel, was still. Pepper raised his head from the couch.
 

The police had been useless. They wouldn't even send a cop to the store to take a report. Once she'd reported nothing was stolen and no one hurt, the dispatcher had transferred her call to a sleepy sounding officer who replied "Uh huh" to everything she said and offered a case number. Probably doing a crossword puzzle the whole time they talked.

Remembering the caller's threat, her anxiety mounted. The voice—she couldn't tell if it was a man or woman—had warned her to mind her own business. The diamonds. It had to be about the diamonds. Or was it? The only thing she’d done was to see Travis and Ben. Maybe she’d struck closer to home than she’d thought.

"Damn it." She threw her purse on a chair. That caller would not have the last word. Destroying the nightgown, threatening her. Anger replaced fear.
 

First, she’d search the house to make sure she was alone. She grasped the fireplace poker, then took a trembling breath and began to sing at top volume while marching through the house. "Hello my honey, hello my baby, hello my ragtime gal." Pepper darted under the couch.
 

She paused at the bedroom door, then, poker raised, plunged in. It looked just as she'd left it that morning, down to the lilac-sprigged scarf she'd decided not to wear at the last minute and tossed on the bed cover.

Still singing, she moved on to the second bedroom, her office. "If you refuse me, honey you'll lose me, then you'll be left alone, so baby, telephone, and tell me I'm your own—you bastard." Nothing amiss here, either. Her voice was beginning to feel the strain as she made her way to the basement after checking out the kitchen and bathroom.

Everything looked in perfect order.
 

Upstairs again, she stopped singing and, emotionally exhausted, slumped against the door to the hall. She dropped the poker to the floor. What had she got herself into?

There was no way she was spending tonight at home. She shoved a few things into an overnight bag and called Paul.

"I'd like to come over, if you don't mind." The soundtrack from
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
played in the background.
 

"Of course not. You know that," Paul said. His voice was reassuring, if surprised. She'd be safe there. "Is something wrong? You sound funny."

"I was singing kind of loudly just now."
 

"Singing? What's going on?"

"Nothing. I just—"

"What's bothering you?"

The fear of the evening started to drain away, leaving her shaky. Paul had warned her not to get involved with the diamond thefts. If she told him, he'd make her promise to drop everything, and the sting operation—the chance to free Poppy—would be for nothing. She hesitated. She didn’t want to hide anything from him, but...

"Tell me," he insisted. A little stubbornness had crept in.

Well, she could be stubborn, too. "Just a long day, I guess. I'll see you in a few minutes."

***

Joanna opened Paul’s refrigerator as quietly as she could and reached for the milk. The refrigerator’s light spilled into the dark kitchen. She hadn’t dared turn on a lamp for fear of waking Paul, but the moon though the wood shop’s high windows illuminated the room just enough for her to see to heat the milk and pour it into a mug.
 

It was well before dawn, and she couldn’t sleep. Tonight, Paul’s warmth in bed disconcerted more than comforted her. Not telling him was eating her alive. But if she told him, she’d have to admit that she’d already been working on Poppy’s behalf, despite his warning, despite her promise. By not saying anything about trying to clear Poppy, she was lying to him. He’d be angry, for sure. If he found out about the call to the store—well, she ached at the thought of it.

Poppy was in jail with the very real possibility of staying there for years for something she didn’t do. The police had no motivation to clear her. They thought they’d nabbed a key figure in a ring of diamond thieves. What was she supposed to do?

"Jo." Paul’s voice above her was quiet, but clear.

She looked up to the sleeping loft, where his head and shoulders leaned over the bannister. Gemma’s tail wagged twice between the rails from her blanket at the foot of the bed.