Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (27 page)

"You—" Joanna started.

"Little person. Not midget," the woman said.
 

"I'm Joanna Hayworth." She proffered a hand. "I was going to say you have a gorgeous bracelet. That's not a Schiaparelli, is it?" She either got very lucky at an estate sale or paid a pretty penny at a boutique.

She touched the faceted black stones surrounded by carved silver leaves at her wrist. "In fact it is." She appeared to take in Joanna's leopard print sweater, added after the funeral, and stack of Lucite bracelets before her gaze settled on Joanna’s feet. "Nice boots."

"Oh, thanks. I hope I'm not tracking anything in."

"Nope, nothing but the cold. I got this place rigged up with heaters. Still can't keep it warm enough. I'm Marla, the operations person here. What can I do for you? You haven't come by to complain that it isn't a drive-in anymore, have you?"

Someone else, a man, had answered Joanna's earlier calls to Thrillmeister. Maybe Marla would be more helpful. "I'm looking for a mechanic named Whitey. He used to work at Oaks Park."

Marla's lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not saying we have anyone here named Whitey—in fact, I can tell you for sure we don't. Besides, we're busy now. Loading out rides to the waterfront for the Rose Festival's fun center. But why?"

She clearly knew something. "I'm afraid I can't tell you much. Legal reasons."
 

Marla's face shut down.
 

"Good legal reasons," Joanna added hastily. "In fact, Whitey might stand to come into some money." She nearly held her breath hoping her lie would pass.

"You don't look like a lawyer. At least, I've never seen a lawyer in leopard and driving a crap Toyota."

So, Marla had noticed her arrival. "I work for a nonprofit law organization. Protecting the underrepresented." She laughed. "Vintage is about all I can afford."

Marla seemed to relax. "Me, too. They know me by name at the bins. That's where I got the the Schiap. Can you believe it? Needed a new clasp, that’s all." She toyed with the bracelet's safety latch. "So, you represent travelers, then?"

Joanna’s smile froze. What were travelers? The term was vaguely familiar, but didn’t click into place. "Yes, we do. All sorts."

"I told you we don't have anyone named Whitey here, and that's true. But there might be someone you want to talk to working on the Rock-O-Plane right now. Northwest corner of the lot. Shut the door behind you." With that dismissal, Marla returned to her cubicle.

***

Outside, Joanna again scanned the Thrillmeister lot. The northwest corner would be up to the right of the old movie screen. She made her way past an abandoned Scrambler, its arms severed from its cars, and past a metal foundation painted "The Zipper" in bright red, but with no Zipper attached. Grass sprouted between cracks in the asphalt. At least the rain was beginning to let up.

A semi with a long bed crunched up the driveway rimming the drive-in's lot. It stopped with a loud hiss of its brakes. The driver leapt from the cab and was met by another man in overalls. The two men stopped their conversation and stared as she approached.

"Hi," she said, a little breathless. Neither man spoke. "Could you point me toward the Rock-O-Plane?" Still silent, the driver gestured to the opposite side of the yard. "Thanks." She took off in the direction he'd indicated.

"Hey," the driver yelled after her, "You got a spot on your sweater." Joanna looked down at her sleeve. The leopard print covered it with spots. The two men laughed.

Beyond the pitted facade of a funhouse was the Ferris wheel-shaped Rock-O-Plane. But instead of a Ferris wheel's open, swinging benches, the Rock-O-Plane held closed cages. Each cage rotated freely from the larger wheel. With a lurching stomach, Joanna remembered being a ten-year-old trapped in one with Apple at the county fair. Joanna had gripped the bar in front of her to try to keep the cage from spinning, and when their cage dipped to the ground, she and Apple yelled for the operator to stop the ride. He was too busy flirting with a busty teenager to pay attention. Apple threw up caramel popcorn when they were finally on solid ground. Even the thought of the ride in motion set her concussed head spinning.

"Hello?" Joanna yelled toward the Rock-O-Plane's base.
 

"Who are you?" The voice came from behind Joanna. She spun around. Now she knew why the woman in the office had seemed so sure Whitey worked there, even though she didn't know anyone by that name. The man standing arm's length from Joanna had white hair and pink-white skin. Despite the dim weather, he wore sunglasses. Other than his grease-smeared overalls and glasses, the man was completely white. Albino.

"I'm Joanna Hayworth." She extended a hand, and Whitey removed a leather work glove to shake it. Even the tiny hairs on the back of his fingers were white.

"Leo," he said, eyeing Joanna's coat and shoes.

She struck a confident tone. "I understand you used to work at Oaks Park."
 

"What about it?" His eyes were hard to read behind the dark lenses of his glasses. He rested on hand on a long wrench in his tool belt.

Mentioning Helena wouldn't help matters if he'd blackmailed her. He'd just think Joanna was gathering info to prosecute him—or maybe even serve him papers. She had to try a different angle. "I heard you left work at Oaks Park quickly—no, wait!" Leo had turned and started to walk away. "I think we have the same interests at heart here."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly.

"I do. I think you saw something—someone—who didn't want to be seen. And that person was going to make things hard on you. Maybe you even found a way to, um, benefit from the situation."

"What are you talking about?" He slipped off his sunglasses. His face could have been that of a Roman sculpture with its straight nose and almond eyes—all marble white, except his irises, which shone almost red. They wavered, as if he had trouble focusing.

Joanna tried not to stare. "Helena, of course."
 

"You're having an affair with Gil?"

Helena's husband? "No, Clary. You saw Clary, right? And Helena?"

Leo started to laugh. Joanna smiled at first, then her face grew somber when he didn't stop. A drop of rain slid down the back of her neck into her sweater.
 

Leo's laughter subsided. "I saw Helena, sure." He turned to walk away, then looked over his shoulder at Joanna. "Oh, and if you see her again, tell her we know where to find her."

On the drive home, Joanna puzzled over what she'd learned in the few minutes she had with the mechanic. Leo, Whitey—whatever he called himself—had walked away laughing and refused to answer any more of her questions. Plus, he’d practically threatened Helena. Puzzling.

At the next stoplight, Joanna mopped the dampness from Old Blue's windshield. Traffic moved again. The only clue Joanna had was that he was a "traveler." Whatever that was.

At home, Joanna tossed her purse on the dining room table and reached for the phone.

"Second time today," Kimberly at the reference desk said. "The last question was about Thrillmeister employees. I can’t wait to hear this one."

"Can you tell me anything about people called travelers?" Joanna asked.

"I’m on it." The clicks of a keyboard filled the background as Kimberly plumbed digital databases. She came up with a response within a minute. "Ready?"

"More than ready."

"In short, travelers are a form of American gypsy. It looks like a really rich culture—lots of history. Fascinating. Many were traditionally tinkers, mechanics. They're clannish." Kimberly spent another minute describing their origins. "I can pull you a reading list, if you’re interested."

Now she remembered—Helena had called out the girl in the shop as a traveler and said she’d written a paper on them. Could she have been more involved than that? It made sense, then, that Leo was a mechanic, but it didn’t clarify the day’s events.
 

"Thanks, Kimberly. I’ll get back to you on the reading list."

Joanna put down the phone examined the row of bottles on her buffet. She wanted a drink. Yes, a Bee's Knees. Maybe it would put her in the right frame of mind to have Vivienne's cocktail. Mary Alberta said she shouldn't drink with her concussion, but surely a small one wouldn't hurt.

Joanna opened the jar of Helena's honey, cursing as she accidentally spilled some down its side. The ants would love that. Oh well, she'd clean it up in a second. She scanned her collection of cocktail glasses, mostly crystal orphans from the 1920s and ‘30s, before settling on a small glass with lilies of the valley etched on its side. She wrapped the shaker in a dishcloth and shook until ice formed, then poured the frothy liquid into the glass.
 

The phone rang. Joanna wiped her hands on a dishcloth and hesitated. It shouldn't be the caller from the store. She'd told the caller she'd do what he wanted. She glanced at the front door. Locked. At last the phone clicked to the answering machine. "Joanna? It's Apple, I—"

She grabbed the receiver. "Apple?"
 

"How was the funeral this morning?"
 

"Oh, it was—I hated it." Hated being there, hated that it had to happen at all. "A real crowd showed up for Poppy. Detective Crisp was there, too, and I don't think he's any closer to finding who killed her." Too bad she'd left her cocktail in the kitchen. The princess phone in the living room, while satisfying to hold, was the old fashioned kind connected to the wall with a cord. She lowered herself to the couch and pulled the mohair throw over her legs.
 

"I have something that might cheer you up at least a little. Sister Mary Alberta came by with a proposal for the store's website. I'm closing shop now. How about if I drop it off on my way home? It won’t be a minute," Apple said.

Pepper jumped into Joanna's lap as she slipped the phone into its cradle. She stroked his ears, her brain full of images: Oaks Park, the diamonds, Poppy's coffin, the second cocktail glass in the North's den, Leo's white hands clutching a wrench. How did it all fit together? The cat stretched and flipped to his back, giving her the rare chance to pet his silky belly fur. How did Helena’s study of travelers relate? Judging from her treatment of the girl who visited Tallulah’s Closet, Helena was not a fan.

 
Pepper launched from her lap at a rap on the door. Apple shook out her umbrella before stepping inside and hugging Joanna. "I know it's been a rough day. I brought you a present." Vanna White style, she presented a powder blue book.
 

"
How to Catch a Man, Keep Him, and Get Rid of Him
. Zsa Zsa Gabor." Joanna laughed. "Thank you. Although 'getting rid of' seems to be my specialty."

"Ha ha. Thought you'd like it. And here’s the proposal. I took a peek—it's pretty good." Apple slid a portfolio from her bag and set it on the table. Through the clear front cover read, "Website development proposal for Tallulah's Closet prepared by the Sisters of Saint Mary Salome the Myrrh Bearer."

"They could work on their business name," Joanna said.

"Look." Apple flattened the portfolio open. "The site's home page is laid out like a real closet."

"She pulled the typeface from the sandwich board, too. Clever."

"You click on the closet's front door, and it opens. Like this." Apple flipped the page. "See? You can sort by era or garment." The next page showed the open closet grouped with dresses in one section, blouses and skirts in another, and suits in still a third section. "Click on the drawer below and you get shoes, scarves, and purses."

"And that jewelry box—"

"Exactly," Apple said. "Sectioned by type of jewelry—bracelets, earrings, whatever." She tapped the page. "You travel through the store's stock just by clicking a mouse."

Travel. Travelers. "Have you ever heard the term 'travelers' as a kind of people?"
 

Apple drew back. "No. Why?"

Joanna told Apple about her trip to Oaks Park and the Thrillmeister center. "So this guy, Leo, said to tell Helena that they knew where she was. Someone else at Thrillmeister mentioned travelers and hinted that he might be one."
 

Apple pushed the portfolio away and rested an arm on the table. "It just gets more and more complicated."

"Whitey—that is, Leo—must have seen Helena and Clary together and threatened to expose them. Blackmail. He obviously knew Helena from another life. Her sociology work, maybe."

"But what does that have to do with Vivienne?"

"Hmm. Maybe Clary hired Leo to kill her. He might have shown up at the house when they were out and snuck poison into Vivienne's drink." Mentioning the drink reminded her of the Bee's Knees warming on the kitchen counter. She rose to fetch it.

"And his was the second cocktail glass? You think Vivienne was having drinks with an unknown carnie? Not likely."

"It does sound a little out there." Joanna set the Bee's Knees on the table.
 

Apple snatched it up. "For me? Thank you."

"That was mine." She shot her a dirty look. "Never mind. I'll make another."

Apple raised her glass in a mock cheer. Joanna pulled an ice tray from the freezer. "He wouldn't have been a stranger. She saw him at Oaks Park, remember. And Tranh—Tranh knew about Vivienne's Bee's Knees even though it hadn't been in the news. He said Gil told him, but now I wonder."

"What kind of poison was it?"

"Don't know." Joanna cut a lemon in half and pulled the reamer from the sink. "They found traces in Vivienne's glass but not in the gin. Someone must have slipped something in her drink."

"Which leaves out Gil and Helena since they weren't home." Apple fanned herself with a hand. "It's warm in here."

"Right. But there's still Clary, Tranh, and Leo." Joanna reached for the honey, then pulled her hand back. "Helena told me the police had tested the gin used in Vivienne's cocktail, but I wonder if they thought about the honey."
 

"Good question."
 

"Stop." Joanna pulled Apple's glass toward her. "Helena gave me that honey. She said she and Gil bottled it. I used it in your drink."