Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (23 page)

The painting's colors drew her closer. She was no expert on contemporary art, but she understood how the painting mesmerized with its broad, rolling shapes punctuated with tiny, precisely rendered objects. A perfect monkey wrench, not more than an inch long, was painted near the canvas's edge as if it were resting on a cushion of blue waves.

"Gil wasn't very happy I brought it home." Helena was next to her. "I'm not sure why. It won him a prize. I thought for sure he'd want to keep it."

"It's beautiful," Joanna said, still entranced by the painting. "Maybe he was reluctant because, well, because of Poppy and all. Or his mother's death might have set him off kilter. It happens."

Helena nodded. "Friends have been really supportive. You know who's been particularly helpful—to me, at least?" Helena started tentatively, but her words picked up speed. "Clary. He's been such a godsend." She looked as earnest as a teenager.

"I noticed he was at your table at the NAP art auction." Joanna was alert now.
 

"He was so sweet to invite me. He knows how much Gil has been preoccupied with his painting. Then with Vivienne's death." Helena tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. "Although Vivienne..."

"Yes?" Joanna encouraged.

"Vivienne—well, Vivienne never approved of Clary. She never thought he was good enough."
 

Joanna moved to the den's white sofa. "I’m surprised. He’s so generous, too," she added, thinking of the Hermès scarf.

Helena lowered herself next to Joanna. "Maybe it was her European background, but she was downright mean about Clary. He used to make her so mad that she’d slip into French. She thought he only wanted to know us because of our standing. She called him a poseur."

Maybe he was—a bit. But surely Clary's love of history and romance for another time inspired the "baronet" business. He wasn't looking to conquer Portland's social hierarchy. At least, she didn't think so. "But he's a good guy. Look at all the work he did for the auction."

"I know. Vivienne and I had a big fight about him the night she died." Her eyes dropped. "Oh, Joanna, I feel so bad."

"But I thought Vivienne was more forgiving—you know, more spiritual than that."

"You mean the convent? She could be a total snob. Sure, she'd been a fashion model and everything, but her background wasn't as high and mighty as she led people to believe. She was from some village in central France with more sheep than people. Her father was a tanner."
 

Joanna had always imagined Vivienne cradled in Paris nightlife. Apparently, you never knew where people really came from. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "You can't blame yourself for her death."
 

Helena hesitated. "I haven’t told anyone about this, because I didn’t think it mattered. But with Poppy’s death—"

"Where was Gil?"

Helena's gaze had traveled the room, from liquor cabinet to fireplace to bookshelves, as she spoke. Now she fastened it on Joanna. "The night Vivienne died, Gil was upstairs getting ready for the biennial's award ceremony. Vivienne stayed in. She said she wasn’t feeling well."

"You told the police about the fight, right? Or didn’t you?"

"No, I didn't even tell Gil. What good would it have done? I figured, well, I figured I'd stop seeing Clary." She crossed and uncrossed her legs. "Not that I was seeing Clary that way. I mean, we're just friends." She looked at Joanna to make sure she understood.
 

"If Gil found out, got the wrong idea—"

Helena dismissed the idea with a wave of the hand. "Gil wouldn't care. Maybe it would have made a difference if he did." Her voice wavered. "Anyway, I called Clary from my room that night before I went out. I—" She cut her sentence short.

Joanna sat up straight. "You don't think—" Clary? Kill Vivienne? "Did your husband hear you make that call?"

"I don’t know. Maybe. I don't know what to think. Honestly."

"You've got to tell the police."

"Joanna, I can't. I don't have any proof. Besides, I don't want to get anyone in trouble."

This was not right. "You can’t shelter Clary—or your husband. It’s best to come clean."

"Gil didn’t do anything," she said emphatically. "And Clary doesn’t deserve to be raked over the coals by the police. If anything happened—and I'm not saying it did," Helena added quickly, "Vivienne's death had to have been an accident."

Poisoning? Not likely an accident. "What about the other cocktail glass? Plus, the police said someone was hanging around."

Helena shrugged that off, too. "It's a public street. And I'm not saying someone wasn't here—maybe even Clary. But that doesn't make him a killer."

She was hiding something. Joanna was sure of it. "Do you know if the police have any theories yet?"

"No. Gil has talked to Detective Crisp. It doesn't sound like he has any solid leads."

"This morning I saw the Mother Superior at the convent Vivienne was involved with," Joanna said. Helena leaned in. "The Mother said Vivienne acted strange after your visit to Oaks Park. I wonder," Why not be straightforward? "Could she have seen you and Clary together?"

"Oaks Park?" Her voice was urgent. "Did she tell anyone else?"
 

"I don't know," Joanna said. "I doubt it."

"No. Not Clary." Helena clenched her hands. She seemed to be making a decision. "Okay. Yes. Yes, she saw me and Clary. He had something he needed to tell me. In person. I didn’t think he’d actually come to Oaks Park. And, yes, Vivienne saw us. Please don't tell anyone, though. I know, I just know, he didn't have anything to do with Vivienne's death. He couldn't have. You won't tell anyone, will you?" She grabbed Joanna's hands.

"What was so important that he tracked you down at an amusement park?"

Helena lowered her eyes.

"What’s going on with you two?" Before today, Joanna would have sworn Helena was deeply in love with her husband.

"Nothing. I told you."

"If the police asked me, I'd have to tell them. Remember, Poppy was killed, too." Joanna looked at her hands, still in Helena's tight clasp.
 

Helena released them and wound her own hands in her lap. "But, the auctioneer—didn't she hang herself?"

"No," Joanna whispered. "She couldn’t have done it. Couldn’t have." She now regretted sitting down in the den, the room where Vivienne died. The day outside, once so crisp and clear, started to cloud over. The den's beeswax and lemon started to feel oppressive.

"Do you really think Clary had anything to do with Vivienne's death?" Helena began to twist the hem of her blouse. "I mean, I don't understand it. He killed Poppy, too?"

"It's hard to imagine Clary a killer," Joanna said. He was strong enough, though, to carry out Poppy's murder, and he bought a gift for a woman very like Helena. He was clever enough to figure out how to poison Vivienne’s drink while sipping a glass of scotch next to her. Her stomach turned at the thought. Were the Hapsburgs poisoners?

"Helena, someone is a murderer. And it might be someone you never suspected."

"I know," she whispered.

They sat in silence for a moment.

Helena sighed. "Let’s go get Vivienne's dress. It's up in my bedroom." Helena's voice sounded calmer. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing a bedroom with its door ajar, allowing a glimpse of a leather easy chair and plaid bedspread. A man's room. Helena's room was at the end of the hall, the opposite end from the entrance to Vivienne's suite above the garage. A French regency bedroom spread over white carpet. It looked like a little girl's vision of a princess's bedchamber. The nightstand was bare except for a ruffle-shaded lamp and a book on herb gardening. A long, blue dress hung from the closet door.

"Is this the dress?" Joanna asked, disappointed. The dress looked expensive, sure, but only a few years old. Not the kind of thing she'd sell at Tallulah's Closet.

"No, I'm wearing that to the Rose Festival gala tomorrow. Vivienne's dress is here."

She strode to the closet and placed one hand on the hanger of a dress, then backed up and sat on the bed. "I really don't want Clary to get in trouble. Just because Gil..."

"What?" Then, more quietly, "Helena?"

"I made such a big mistake. Oh, Joanna. Sometimes it hurts even to breathe."
 

Concern coursed through Joanna's body. "It's going to be okay. These things work themselves out. Are you sure you won’t go to the police?"

"I don't know," she said. She slumped on the bed and stared toward the corner of the room.

The chimes of the doorbell broke the silence. Helena sighed and stood. "Here’s Vivienne's dress. I hope you can sell it." She lifted the hanger from her closet, and a full rayon skirt swished from out of the earth-toned blouses.

"That looks great. What can I pay you for it?" Joanna took the dress, barely looking at it. Helena had mentioned a "big mistake." What could it be?

"Nothing. Oh, if you gave some of the money to the convent, that would be great. I know Vivienne would've appreciated it." She led Joanna from the bedroom and hurried down the steps to the front hall. She opened the door to two men in overalls. Behind them, a rusted pickup truck ticked as its engine cooled.

"Ms.—uh—North? This says you got some beehives to take away?"

"Yes, around back. I'll open the side gate."

Joanna draped the dress over her arm. "I'd better be going."
 

Helena turned to her and lowered her voice. "Thank you for coming over and for listening to my—troubles. I'm sorry I kind of lost it for a minute. I need some time away. I'm trying to talk Gil into a week at our place on the coast. Wait." She spun toward the kitchen. "Why don't you take a jar of honey? You like to cook, right?" Without waiting for her response, Helena disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small mason jar of amber liquid. "Gil and I put these up."

The honey was cloudy, nearly opaque. "It looks like it’s started to crystallize."

"Oh, that’s extra pollen. It’s good for you, especially if you have hay fever. An old folk remedy."

"Thank you." Joanna slipped the jar into her bag.

"It's the least I can do. You've been so kind to listen to me."

In the car, Joanna laid the dress, a peach-toned, mid-1950s day dress, on the seat next to her. Funny, Vivienne wouldn't have looked good in peach at all.

Joanna hung the Dior Bar suit on the rack behind the counter at Tallulah's Closet. Although the design dated from 1947, it was the 1955 photo of model Renée taken on the banks of the Seine that elevated the suit to icon. Say "New Look," and fashion lovers flash to Renée's black-gloved pose, one hand palm up, the other pointing gracefully at the cobblestones, an alley of bare plane trees stretching into the distance behind her.

The suit was a worthy distraction, but nothing kept the knotty question of Vivienne’s and Poppy's deaths far from her mind. Vivienne didn't trust Clary. Clary wanted Helena, and Gil might be on to it. Gil lied about his painting. Tranh resented Gil winning a medal for his work. Vivienne had refused to leave her money to her family. What was going on?

She turned up the volume of Marty Robbins’s "Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs." Just for a moment she might look at the Dior and ignore the thought of Poppy's funeral the next morning. While she contemplated the jacket's padded hips and nipped waist she could tune it all out. And Paul. She wouldn't think of Paul at all. No. She wouldn't.

"Really?" A voice rang from behind her.

Joanna dropped the Dior's black jersey and spun around.
 

"Cowboy songs? For real?" Eve asked.

Irritated, Joanna turned down the volume. The woman would have to show up now. "Eve. What a surprise."

"I need a date night dress—" Eve dropped her purse on the counter. "Oh my God. That's the Dior Bar, isn't it? Is it real?"

Joanna nudged the collar open, revealing the rectangular silk label reading "Printemps - Eté 1947." "Numbered and everything. Only fifteen sold to private clients. This one was Vivienne North's."

Silently they stared at the suit. "Looks like it's in good shape," Eve said.

"Isn’t it amazing to see it in real life? You can touch it, if you’d like. The ridges on the Shantung jacket almost feel like grosgrain ribbon."

Eve reverently touched the jacket, then the skirt’s soft wool. "Wow."

"It was meant to be a day suit. I bet Vivienne didn't wear it much once she got to Oregon." She boosted a canvas dressmaker's dummy from behind the counter. "I'm going to take a few photos and see if I can interest a curator in it."

"My God. It's definitely museum-worthy. I know someone at the Brooklyn Museum who might be interested. I'll give you her number."

Joanna studied Eve. Maybe she really did love vintage clothing. It was hard to tell with all the trendy boutique items she wore. And she was being suspiciously nice right now. Other than that remark about Marty Robbins, that is. It would kill Joanna to send one of her dresses home with Eve, but right now she needed the sale. The rent was taken care of, thanks to the Scaasi and a local collector, but the plumber was still waiting.

"Thanks. And thanks, too, for coming by for a dress. You didn't have anything in stock?"

"No. I want to surprise a man with a new dress. He's seen everything I have at the store. I want something sexy. What do you have in a two?"

"Are you thinking black, or do you want to go with color?" What poor schlub was she seeing now?
 

"If you have something in a romantic color, that would be good. No busy patterns, though."

"The color cocktail dresses are here." Joanna walked to a rack on the opposite wall and pulled a rose-pink satin dress with a swagged back that dipped low. "This color would look fabulous on you." And it would, damn it.

Eve shook her head. "The front's too uptight. I want something that shows a little cleavage. So far we've had some heavy flirtation, but nothing serious. This might be the night, you know what I mean?"
 

Sure, she knew. And if Eve put her mind to it, no man would be able to resist. Joanna held up a red lurex dress from the forties. "How about this? Definitely figure hugging."