The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (10 page)

“She wasn't always easy to talk to, but I knew she was a kind person. I'll never forget her.” Self conscious, she sat down and felt that she hadn't really done Marnie justice. “I was so sorry to hear about her heart attack.”
 

“Heart attack, right,” Nina said under her breath.

“The paper said they did an autopsy, and she died of a heart attack. Leave it be,” Ray said.
 

Joanna was surprised he had even heard her, and was startled by the sharp edge to his voice. He hadn’t even wanted to come, and now he was defending Marnie.

“I bet someone encouraged that heart attack,” Nina said, this time more loudly. “Some people might say she had it coming.”

“Nina, Ray's right. Maybe Marnie wasn't perfect, but who is?” Don said.
 

Nina glanced at him, then looked down at her coffee. “I'm sorry. Ray, would you like to talk next?”

Ray stood up. “Yes, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I grew up in the same town as Marnie, though I didn't really get to know her until we were adults. But since she was close with my brother I thought of her as an older sister. I feel like I always knew her, really. She even helped me get my job cooking here. Marnie wasn't meant to be a country girl, and when she followed Franklin to Portland, I came, too, a few years later.”

Don’s chair creaked.

Oh, Joanna thought, so Marnie's boyfriend, Franklin, was Ray's brother. And it was most likely Franklin, then, who died recently.
 

“What most people don't know,” Ray continued, “Is how tenderhearted Marnie was. When I had the operation on my leg, she came to see me every day and read from
The Jungle Book
to me. She was hard to get to know, but once she accepted you, you became family, and she was as loyal and generous as a person could be.”
 

Marnie’s words came back to Joanna. “You’re family,” she’d said.

“I admit I hadn't seen her in years,” Ray said. “But it’s hard for me to think she's not here anymore. I'm sorry, too, that she never did have her own family. And that she died alone. I guess it's a reminder for all of us to appreciate each other while we can.” Ray sat down. “And please help yourself to cinnamon rolls.”

Just as Nina's gaze turned to Don, the front door of the club opened and a man entered. His pale skin contrasted with his long dark hair, which he'd pulled back into a ponytail. He couldn't have been much older than thirty. The summer morning's warm air and brash light surged in with him.
 

“May I help you?” Nina said.

“Is this the memorial service for Marnie Evans?” The man looked at the few people gathered. “I'm her son.”

“Is it all right if I come in?” the man asked.

A few seconds elapsed as the people at the memorial service stared at him. “Yes, yes, come in and sit down,” Nina said. “Here, let me take those.” She lifted a cellophane-wrapped bundle of birds of paradise from his hands.

“I'll be damned,” Liz said.

“My name is Troy.” He hovered near Don. “I hope I'm not interrupting.”

“You'll have to excuse our silence, son,” Don said. “It's just that some of us didn't know that Marnie had a child. Have a seat.”
 

All eyes were on Troy. He set his backpack next to his chair. He wore what was probably concession to dressing for a memorial service: black jeans and a muted grey dress shirt Joanna recognized as a DaVinci from the early 1960s. He could have been any one of a thousand men who moved to Portland to join a band, build bicycles, or simply acquire a few tattoos.

He waved toward the flowers Nina still held. “Something about them reminded me of her.” Nina laid the birds of paradise on the stage. Impressive choice. The flowers did feel more like Marnie—at least the Marnie in the photos—than did the bouquets of lilies, gold mums, and gladiolas the others had sent.

Troy surveyed the quiet room, questions lingering in the air. A wide, warm smile broke over his face. “I hope you don't mind my coming. I saw Marnie's obit in
The Oregonian
, so I called the club about sending some flowers. The person who answered told me about this morning's gathering.”

He certainly was charming. Nina's expression softened. “We're happy to have you, of course. Would you like some coffee? Maybe a cinnamon roll?”

Joanna sat back. So, Marnie had a son. She had never said anything about children or a husband. From the looks on the faces around the room, she wasn't the only person caught off guard. She remembered an article she'd read somewhere about a man who trolled obituaries, then went to funerals to steal from the families of the deceased. Could Troy be one of those?
 

Troy helped himself to a cup of coffee and two donuts. He wrapped a cinnamon roll in a napkin and set it aside. He held his coffee cup with both hands, elbows out, like a child.
 

Ray cleared his throat. “Uh, Troy, it sounds like you've been out of touch with your mother for a while. How did she keep you hidden away so well?”

For a second, Troy looked confused. Then he relaxed and again flashed a melting smile. “Oh, I see. You're probably wondering if I'm for real. Marnie was my birth mother. She gave me up for adoption right after I was born, and I only met her about a year ago. I always wondered who my birth parents were, so I registered with the adoption agency. I guess Marnie was curious, too.” He reached into his backpack handed a folded letter to Don. “Here.”

“It’s from Marnie. Says she’s his mother and wants to meet him.” As Don returned the letter, he studied Troy’s face.

“I keep the letter with me all the time,” Troy said. “I remember exactly what I was doing when it came in the mail. And now...” He pushed his donut away.

Joanna was still skeptical. Sure, he had a letter, but there was something a little flim-flam about him. The men, especially, seemed to be calculating Troy’s age. Marnie must have been near forty, or even slightly older, when Troy was born. He was fine-boned, like Marnie, but dark haired. Any of these men, or who knows how many others, could have been his father.

“Your father never got in touch with you?” Mike, the manager, asked.
 

“No. Never. As far as I know, he’s not even aware I exist. Marnie knew how to keep secrets, that's for sure.” The tension in the room dropped a notch. “Although she never did talk much about herself, she told me she'd been a performer here. Are these her?”

Troy went to the easel to look at the photos Nina had pinned up. Nina pointed out a few of Marnie as Goldilocks and then another of Marnie smiling, leaning against the hood of a Peugeot, with her hair blown against her face and a hand lifted to brush it from her eyes. In the distance was the ocean.
 

“Where was this one taken?” Troy asked.

“Why don't you keep it?” Nina said, obviously smitten. “It was taken at the tip of the Long Beach peninsula, near Oysterville. Where Marnie grew up. Ray, too.” She nodded at Ray.

“That's where the guy running for the Senate grew up, isn't it? He came to speak at the law school last winter. He's doing some great work on roadless issues. I'm focusing on environmental law.”

Remmick. Andrew’s congressman.

Nina glanced at her husband. “Yes, I believe they knew each other.”

The service took on a new energy. Everyone stood, talking to each other and trying to chat up Troy, the women especially, giving him maternal pats on the shoulder to which he'd respond with shy smiles. Nina took Don aside for a moment. Don shook his head and pulled away, and Nina, head down, walked toward the restroom. Troy and Joanna chatted a little about law school, and Troy gave her a card for his art installation business. “It doesn't pay much, but it's helping me get through school.”

Mary's was scheduled to open for the day soon, and Tallulah’s Closet would, too. She rose to leave. She should feel happier and more settled about Marnie. After all, she'd had her chance to talk with Marnie's friends—and her son, if he was her son—and to say goodbye to her. She'd even found a potential source of stock for Tallulah’s Closet with Wendy, who said she still had some of her show clothes, now several sizes too small for her.
 

But the thought that someone wanted Marnie's key, and the uncertainty, at least in Joanna's mind, about Marnie's death kept her uneasy. Maybe once she talked to the police she would relax again. Since Marnie had died, her world seemed to have turned upside down. She looked forward to the day she could kick back on her chaise longue with nothing more taxing to think about than mapping out the next Friday's run of estate sales.

She hugged Nina and inhaled her aura of cigarette smoke and gardenias. “Thank you for arranging all this. I'd better get back to the shop, it's almost time to open it.” On impulse, she gave her a little squeeze at the end of the hug before letting go. “Let’s not lose touch.”

“Maybe we can have lunch. Soon. I’ll tell you some stories about Marnie back in the day.” She glanced back at Troy. “Crazy about the son, isn’t it?”

“That would be nice.” Nina might have been moody to begin with, but she was a good friend to Marnie, even after all these years.

“Will you take one of these photos? How about this one?” Nina handed her a photo of Marnie standing outside the club in a silver lamé cocktail dress.

“Isn't that one of her hostess dresses? She sold me that dress.”

“Yes, it is. Perfect, then,” Nina said.

On the street, Joanna tucked the photo into her purse. She slid it in an inside pocket next to the key that had fallen from the Lanvin coat.

Joanna hoped to find someone fixing the bathroom window, but Tallulah’s Closet was dark. She flipped on a few lights and picked up the phone to leave another message for the landlord. She’d call the police, too. As she began to dial, the door behind her chimed.

“Finally,” she said under her breath and turned, expecting to see the landlord. But standing at the door was Laura Remmick, the congressman's wife. Although they’d never been introduced, Joanna recognized her from events she’d attended with Andrew. Laura stood out even among Joanna's carefully tended racks of vintage clothing like a Manolo pump in a box of Hush Puppies. Joanna's expression morphed from surprise to a welcoming smile. Outfitting a congressman's wife would be a real coup. The broken bathroom window could wait a little longer.
 

“Hello. Are you looking for anything special today?”

Laura Remmick ran a hand through her caramel highlights. “Oh, I'm just looking. But I wonder if you have any cocktail dresses, maybe from the early- or mid-1960s? My husband drags me to all sorts of events, and I'm so tired of what's in my closet.”

“You’re Laura Remmick, aren’t you? I admire your husband.” Silently, Joanna thanked the vintage clothing gods. No matter how boring the congressman's wife might find boutique cocktail dresses and designer suits, few women of her sort ended up on the working class side of the river at a vintage clothing boutique. Laura was spot-on about choosing 1960s dresses, made for women with her slender hips and a modest bust, rather than 1950s dresses which tend to suit curvier figures better.
 

“Why don't you check the rack behind you?” Joanna said. “Most of our best black cocktail dresses are hanging there. I'm just opening the store. I'll put out the sidewalk sign and be back in a second to see what I can find for you.”
 

When she returned, Laura was still standing where Joanna had left her.
 

“Where do you get most of your clothes?” the congressman's wife asked.

“Oh, all over. I get some from thrift stores and estate sales. People come in and sell me clothes, too. Of course, I dry clean and steam everything before I put it out for sale.” She pulled from the rack a black lace cocktail dress threaded with a thick, sky blue ribbon around its empire waist. “You look like you're about a four. What do you think of this one? The vee in the back is really nice. And see how the ribbon makes a sash to the hem? It looks Audrey Hepburn in front, then you turn around and it's Sophia Loren.”

“How cute,” she said without conviction. “I bet a lot of interesting people come in to sell clothes. Real characters, I mean.”

“Definitely. Definitely characters.” Joanna pulled another black cocktail dress for Laura to try, this one a form-fitting sheath with a trapeze of silk chiffon over it, weighed down and given motion by a quadruple row of tight ruffles along its hem. She took a pole made from a broom handle from behind the counter and lifted a Pucci dress, the pride of store, from a hook on the wall. Finding a mint condition Pucci these days was akin to stumbling on a Picasso at a garage sale. It was more expensive than most of her customers could afford. Laura could definitely afford it, and its high-waisted cut and swirling pattern of pink, mauve, and celery green would accentuate her blue eyes.

“Sweet dress,” a trim black man said as he came in the store.

“Hi, Kevin,” Joanna said. “I put aside a few pieces for you.”

“Thanks, doll.” Kevin was better known in some circles as the drag queen Poison Waters. In street clothes he looked like a junior architect. Only his carefully plucked eyebrows gave away his profession.

Laura ignored Kevin and plowed ahead with her questioning. “Who brought in those dresses, for example?” She pointed at the cocktail dresses Joanna had put in the dressing room for her to try.

“One came from an estate sale in Sellwood, and the other I found at a thrift store. I bought the Pucci at a church rummage sale, believe it or not.” Why was the congressman's wife so stuck on where Joanna got her clothes? Most women cruised the racks eagerly and methodically, intent on snagging the best of the one-of-a-kind gowns. This one seemed to want to stand around and talk. Finally Laura went in the dressing room and drew the leopard print curtains.

“Laura Remmick?” Kevin mouthed and raised his eyebrows.

“Can you believe it?” she mouthed back, then said to him in a normal voice, “I thought you might like these Vendôme pearls. Look, gumball-sized baroque, perfect for the big girl. I had to wrassle them off Barbara Bush.”