The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (17 page)

She flipped the brochure upside down, hiding the raven from view.

***

After the salmon course, the catering staff began to clear dinner plates. Eve returned but thankfully seemed distracted by the man who had sat between them at dinner. It was completely dark out now, and the lights of the city sparkled like loose rhinestones through the plate glass windows. She still had somehow to pull Remmick aside and feel him out about the key. How would she get him alone? Guests were hanging all over him.

“I thought we'd have dessert in here and then go outside for coffee and pear brandy,” Marlene said.

After a dessert of berry crisp, Marlene opened the doors to the patio, where the staff had set up coffee service. The air had cooled a little, but the patio's flagstones were still warm underfoot. Two women, now more friendly than before dinner, asked Joanna for her business card. A few other guests, small crystal snifters in hand, wandered through the paths in the gardens that tiered down from the patio.
 

Remmick walked toward the edge of the patio and around the corner of the house, just out of view. Joanna might not get another chance to talk to him alone. Nervous, she paused, then followed him. He pulled a pair of glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket and put them on to read an index card he'd taken from the opposite breast pocket. He saw Joanna and smiled.

“Just reviewing my appointments for tomorrow. Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Yes, I did.” Joanna extended her hand. “I'm Joanna Hayworth. We met earlier.”

“Yes, of course.” The congressman shook her hand. “You sold my wife that lovely dress.”

“Ms. Remmick could make anything look lovely.” Up close, the lines around the congressman's eyes belied his body, lean and strong from years of running. His hair was precisely cut and dyed a gentle brown. She thought he might be examining her, too.

It was time. Joanna drew a deep breath. “I understand that you grew up in Oysterville. I think we may know someone in common. Marnie Evans.”

Remmick thought for a moment. “Oh yes, Marnie. Yes, I went to school with her. She was a few years behind me, as I recall. How is she doing?”

No way. Marnie's death couldn’t be news to him. After all, his wife had known. It was even in the newspaper. “You know she died, don't you?”

“Did she? That's a shame,” he said mildly.

Great, Joanna thought. He wouldn't even own up to knowing about her death. Of course, if he'd fathered a child he didn't want to recognize, he'd want to distance himself as much as he could. “I thought maybe you had known her better than that.”

“No. Wasn't she in the entertainment business?”

Was he implying that just because Marnie was a dancer he couldn't possibly know her? Joanna’s blood pressure began to rise. Maybe Marnie wasn't a saint or loaded with money, but she was a fine person. Certainly better than some of the guests at tonight’s dinner. “I had thought you knew her intimately, even. Or maybe that's something you'd rather not have people know?”
 

The mood changed abruptly. The congressman put his glasses back in his jacket and looked straight at Joanna. “What are you getting at?” His voice was pure ice.

“You had an affair with her, didn't you?”

“Yes, I did. A long time ago. It's nothing I need to, or care to, hide.” He hadn't missed a beat.
 

Her jaw dropped momentarily. She snapped her mouth closed.
 
“But if you had a child with Marnie, you'd want to hide that, wouldn't you? A baby with an ex-stripper? That wouldn't reflect very well on someone of your stature, now would it? With such a close election?” Her voice hit a high pitch. If she could just give him the key and get it over with.

Laura Remmick came around the corner. “Chick, there you are darling.” She squeezed his hand. “And Joanna. How are you? Everyone loves the dress.”

Remmick hadn't taken his eyes from Joanna, but he spoke to Laura. “Joanna was just telling me about the baby I had with a childhood friend. Supposedly I want to hide this child so he won't sully my reputation. Did I get that right?”

Laura’s eyebrows pulled together. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, darling, that a long time ago, long before I met you, I spent some time with a girl I knew from Oysterville.”

“Of course, you told me about that before we married,” Laura said calmly. Was it Joanna's imagination, or did she pause just a second before she responded? Remmick broke his gaze with Joanna and smiled at his wife, then returned to Joanna.

“Perhaps you haven't noticed that Laura and I don't have children. It's not because we don't want them or because Laura has any physical problem. The fault, I'm afraid, is all mine. This is more explanation than you deserve. I don't know what you want from me, but I'd appreciate it if you took your accusations and left.” Remmick draped his arm around Laura and led her back to the patio.

Joanna froze. Her face stung. She had just accused Remmick of fathering a child he couldn't possibly have had. Maybe he even thought she planned to blackmail him. What an idiot she was. Why couldn't she have kept her mouth shut?

She couldn't go back to the patio and face him. She walked away from the guests and up the side yard to the front of the house. The valet was leaning against the wall of the garage and smoking a cigarette. He stood up expectantly.
 

“No, that's all right, I'm not looking for a car. Are the caterers still here?”

He gestured with his cigarette toward the kitchen. “Try the side door.”
 

She continued around the house and entered the kitchen. Colette was loading a bus tub with serving platters. The fluorescent light shone bright after the night outside.

“Colette? Are you leaving soon?”
 

“I just need to load the van. Why?”

“Do you mind if I catch a ride home with you? I'm done with this party, and I don't want to wait around for Andrew.”

“Sure, it won't be but a few minutes.”

Joanna stood outside the kitchen for a moment. The faraway sounds of conversation pierced by loud laughter mixed with the chirp of crickets. A moth hit the driveway light, struggled, and fell, dead, on the pavement.

She gathered her courage and crept through the dining room to the deck. She stood back until she saw Andrew, fortunately on the opposite side of the patio from the congressman. Eve was with him, her hand resting on his arm. He seemed to have forgotten all about the campaign donors he was supposed to be schmoozing with. Joanna tapped his shoulder. “I have a horrible headache, so I'm going to get a ride home with one of the catering staff. Thanks for bringing me tonight.”

“Too bad about the headache,” Eve said. Anyone who didn’t know better would have thought she was sincere. “I saw you talking to Chick over there behind the house. Anything interesting?”

“Just telling him what a great rally it was this morning.” Joanna knew her face flushed. “Andrew, I’ve got to go.”

“I thought maybe we could get a drink on the way home. You know, catch up.”

Remmick turned to face her direction. Although he was far enough away to be out of earshot, she backed toward the house. “I know you're busy. I need to leave now. See you later.”

Her elbow hit something slick, and a vase of lilies shattered on the stone patio. All eyes were on her. “Clumsy,” someone to her right said.
 

“Sorry. Sorry,” she muttered and hurried for the kitchen.

Although she hadn't had much to drink, Joanna woke the next morning feeling hung over. She groaned remembering the look on Chick Remmick's face when she accused him of fathering Marnie's child. What made her think she could march up to Remmick, say a few words, and hand over the key? He was supposed to be grateful. She was supposed to go home feeling safe and satisfied. Instead she felt like a first class heel.

As long as she had the key, and as long as someone wanted it, she was still at risk. Or was she? Sunlight filtered through the blinds in her bedroom. Maybe she was overreacting. Then her thoughts turned to Marnie’s eyes, open in death, and the razor-clean slit in the Lanvin coat's silk lining. She shivered.
 

She pushed off her sheets and felt next to the bed with her feet for slippers. She'd talk to Troy and see if Marnie had dropped any hints as to who his father was. Troy's father had to be the connection to the key.

Cup of coffee in hand, Joanna called Troy. “Remember me from Marnie's memorial service?” A trace of vintage L'Aimant, a perfume that had always comforted her, rose from her dressing gown. “Could we meet? I'd like to talk to you about Marnie.” She wrote “Velveteria, 10 a.m.” on the back of an invitation to an art opening and hung up the phone.
 

She still felt roundly humiliated from talking to Remmick. Aunt Vanderburgh stared disapprovingly from the wall above the couch.
 

“I know, I know,” Joanna said to the portrait. “You don’t think I should be giving away the key anyway, especially to someone who would break into the store—and God knows what else—to get it. You’re right. That was dumb. I was desperate.”

The portrait’s lips remained pursed.

“All I want now is to know the enemy. Maybe once I figure out who wants the key, I’ll know what to do. Maybe Troy can shed some light on that.”

Joanna set down her coffee mug and stretched. The key still sat in her evening clutch, tossed on the dining room table the night before. She slid out the key and looked at it, as if it could tell her something. Apple said the spirits said things had to do with a “baby.” If Remmick wasn’t Troy’s father, who was? She put the key in her hands and closed her eyes as she'd seen Apple do when she wanted to feel an object's energy. Nothing.
 

She shrugged and went to the bedroom to get dressed.

***

A few minutes before ten o'clock, Joanna pulled up in front of a storefront on East Burnside. Her destination, a museum of paintings on velvet, was wedged between a store selling raw pet food and another with a window display of western shirts. Through the open door, she glimpsed Troy on a stepladder adjusting track lights. He bit his lip in childlike concentration on his task.

When he saw Joanna, Troy stepped down and smiled. “Thanks for meeting me here. I've been so busy lately that I haven't had much time even to grab a beer with friends.”

He was so damned charming. She couldn't resist returning his smile as she set her purse on a 1970s gold velvet side chair with heavy wood trim she thought of as the “Spanish Galleon” style. “I bet it's been hard to keep up with studying, too. Law school is such a time suck.”

“Yeah. But it's summer break now.”

“That's right. No internship for you this year—you must be starting your second year.”

Troy shifted on his feet. “Yeah. Second year.”

Something about Troy's response gave her pause. “Who did you have for torts?”

He fidgeted with a pair of pliers. “I can't remember. His name sounded kind of, uh, Scandinavian.”

Whoa. There's no way a student would forget a first year professor before the second year even started. “Rasmussen, maybe?”

“Right—that’s it. Rasmussen. He was a tough professor.”

“I can imagine he would be.” If he existed. This was rich. “Does he still wear a toupee?”

“Yeah, a really bad toupee.” Troy laughed nervously. He slipped the pliers into his rear pocket and stepped back up on the ladder. “Can we talk while I work? Got to get the show up by noon.”
 

Aside from his dark hair and sharp cheekbones, he resembled Marnie. He was slight and moved gracefully. He squinted as he focused on measuring the placement for the next painting, then looked down and smiled again when he caught Joanna watching him. Troy would have no problem collecting girlfriends with the urge to mother. Although he might be stretching the truth about law school, it didn't mean he wasn't Marnie's son. But it didn't mean he was, either.
 

“Do you hang all the shows here?” she asked as she looked around. Behind her was a series of Michael Jackson portraits ranging from the Jackson Five days to his last bleached skin and sculpted nose look. Below those were several velvet Elvises.
 

“No, this is the first I've done here. Mostly I put up shows in cafes and places like that.”

“This month it's all about clowns, it looks like.” Joanna gestured toward the canvases, stacked two and three deep along the partition, waiting to be hung. In the painting closest to her, a clown in a top hat, its curves slashed with white paint, cocked his head at an unnatural angle.

“Yep, clowns. Creepy, aren't they?”

“And sad.”
 

“So, how did you know Marnie?” He took a pencil from behind his ear and picked up the level resting on the top of the stepladder.

“She used to sell me clothes. I own a vintage clothing store, Tallulah’s Closet.”
 

Troy marked a spot on the wall, then picked up a spool of wire. “Oh yeah, the place on Clinton. Next to Dot's. That’s yours?”

“Uh huh. It wasn’t in the papers, but I was the one who found her. In my store. It was awful.”

A curl of wire dangled from the spool. “You what? You found her dead? I guess I thought—” He didn’t finish his sentence. A moment passed before he picked up his pencil again.

If Troy really was her son, maybe Joanna hadn’t been very sensitive. “You know, Marnie would have appreciated that you hang paintings. She had a thing for watching home decorating shows on television. I'm not altogether sure she wouldn't have liked the clowns, either.”

He laughed and snipped a length of wire before attaching it to a cable running along the top of the partition.

“I have to admit that I was surprised when you showed up at her memorial service. She always seemed so—alone.” She kept her eyes on him. Lying about law school, indeed.

“I can see that. I was surprised when I met her. I never thought my birth mother would be a stripper.”

“Did you see her very often?”

“No, not really.” He stepped off the ladder to pick up a painting of a clown with a glistening tear drop on his cheek. “We talked on the phone from time to time, but we only met three times since she first called me about a year ago. She took me out once to Higgins. Lunch was great, but I think it almost killed her to go that long without a cigarette.” He paused a moment, the clown dangling mid air. “Bad choice of words, but you know what I mean. Anyway, she was proud that I'm going to law school and used to send me money every month. It was funny—she never sent a check, just cash. Tens and twenties mostly.”