The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (5 page)

“Yes.” The gin absorbed seamlessly into her bloodstream. It must have been weeks since she’d talked this much, except to Apple. She looked at Paul more closely. “For instance, think about a model home or a hotel lobby. No matter how perfectly everything in them was chosen, often they're not beautiful, because they're not honest. They're dead.” Reminded of Marnie, she paused at the last word. “Anyway, I'd always loved old clothing, and one day it occurred to me that it was what I should be doing—finding and selling vintage clothes.” Gosh, she couldn’t shut up. She raised her glass to her lips again. “Am I boring you?”

“Not at all. Do you want another drink?” Surprisingly, her glass was nearly empty. Paul signaled to the bartender. After a minute she brought a second Martini and another O'Douls along with their food.
 

“For you,” the bartender said as she set a plate of fried chicken in front of Paul, “And for the princess. Bon appetit, as they say in France.” Joanna was a little lightheaded and glad to see food to soak up some of the gin, but noticed that the bartender could benefit from a few sessions at Berlitz. And maybe charm school.

Paul looked up, ready to continue the conversation. It was unfair that a man would have such long, thick eyelashes. And her skin felt awfully warm. Must be the alcohol. “So, how did you end up working for my landlord?”

“During summers in high school I used to help out my uncle. He was a woodworker, among other things. Finish work. We replaced pieces of the altar in the old chapel at St. Phillip Neri, for instance. It turned out that I had a knack for it.” He fastened his gaze on Joanna. “I know what you mean about beauty. Anyway, he went—away—and my aunt agreed to sell me his shop. So I'm still doing woodwork, but I'm moonlighting to make a little extra money to pay off the shop and some of the tools.”

“Woodworking. That must be really satisfying.” She leaned back. The Reel M'Inn wasn't such a bad place after all. “The past few days have been hellish,” she said, then paused, surprised she had actually spoken.

“And now you need new locks,” he prompted.

“Yes, I, it's just...” She didn't know if she wanted to get into it, but the combination of exhaustion, gin, and a sympathetic stranger was hard to resist. “Yesterday I found a body in the store. I guess I'm still a little bit in shock. It was a woman who’d sold me clothes. I can't stop thinking about it and wondering what happened to her.”

Paul put down his O'Doul's. “Apple told me a little about this. She was supposed to come back for some money but never did, and you were worried. Then she turned up at the store.”

“She was getting up there in years and didn’t look very healthy. I don't even know if she has family around here. She lived alone. Plus—”

“Plus what?”

“She wanted me to give her back a coat I sold her, and I told her to wait.” She looked up. “I found her under that same coat two days later.”

He pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser and passed some across the table. “That doesn’t mean she died because of you.”

“The police seem to suspect me. They said they’d be following up.” She wiped grease from her fingers.
 

“Of course. They suspect everyone. You saw her alive a few days ago, so they’ll want to ask you questions. Only natural.”

She shook her head. “I think I still can’t believe it. The last time I saw Marnie she was smoking, looking for cash, complaining about my store's decor—all the usual things.” A quick laugh escaped. Her tone grew solemn again. “Then I see her and it's, well...” She took a breath. “I’m really going to miss her.” Her voice broke and she looked away. She focused on one of the hipsters who had taken a break from Boggle and was playing a video game involving a rifle and a digital safari. She slowly let out her breath. “I wish I could do something for her.”

Paul watched her. “Would it make you feel better to talk to her family, or maybe some friends? It shouldn't be too hard. Portland’s such a small town.”

She tore a piece of skin from her chicken breast, and steam escaped. Standing outside the store that last day, Marnie had been so tiny and frail. And stubborn. Maybe talking with some of Marnie's friends would be a way to dispel the burning knot in her stomach—not helped, incidentally, by the fried chicken and Martinis. “She used to dance at Mary's Club.”

“Mary's Club? No kidding. I bet she had a few stories.”

“Oh yeah, every once in a while she'd talk about them. From the sound of it, she was pretty busy in her day. But she never said much about her life now.”

“She was older, right? My uncle used to know the manager. They used to work together.”

Her focus sharpened. “Really? Maybe he could introduce me. Maybe he knew Marnie.”

“It’s not really a good time now. He’s not really available for visitors.” He toyed with his fork, then backed up his chair. It hit one of Joanna's boxes. “Hey, what do you have in these, anyway?”
 

She pulled open the box next to her and lifted out a pink poodle skirt with a full crinoline. “Costumes from the opera. This one's from a 1950s
Carmen
.” She laid it across her lap and unfolded a leather vest and blue pantaloons and held them up. “
Don Giovanni
.”

A tall, bearded man undoubtedly with a few pints under his belt came up to their table. “What's this?” He lifted the pantaloons. “May I?”
 

Joanna looked at the pantaloons and shrugged. They had already survived a month of performances, surely a biker monkeying around in them for a minute couldn't hurt. The pantaloons were made for a man of Pavarotti's dimensions, but the skinny beer drinker pulled them over his jeans and tucked the extra fabric into his waistband. “Hey, look, Ruthie,” he yelled to a woman smoking at the bar. “Wait a minute.” He hustled to the juke box. A few seconds later the throbbing bass of Michael Jackson's “Billie Jean” flooded the tavern. He began to moonwalk in front of the bar.
 

Ruthie stubbed out her cigarette and came over to Joanna and Paul's table. “What else have you got? What's in this one?” She reached into the box next to Paul. She tried to pull up one of the poodle skirts, but it was too small, so she buttoned on a nightshirt and stuck a silk rose between her teeth. Then she went to join Don Giovanni by the juke box.
 

Paul put on Brünnhilde’s horned hat. “Hello, dance party.”

Before long, Joanna's boxes were empty, and the tavern's patrons were dancing to the BeeGee's “Staying Alive.” Only the Boggle players declined to dance. They did, however, push their table closer to the corner to open up the floor.
 

“Shall we?” Paul asked.

“I don't know—we don't have any more costumes.” She'd drunk the second Martini faster than she'd intended.
 

He leaned forward. “Come on,” he whispered.

She laughed. “Oh, all right.” She slipped off her 1970s Céline sandals. Too tall for dancing. Paul took her hand and they squeezed into the melee just as the juke box flipped to “Magic Carpet Ride.”
 

The last time she’d danced was years ago, at a wedding with Andrew. He was a competent dancer and proud of it, but he kept checking over her shoulder to make sure someone influential wasn’t at the punch bowl. Paul, on the other hand, was relaxed and easy. He touched her briefly on the upper arm to direct her away from the video poker machine behind her. The spot he touched stayed warm.

Before “Magic Carpet Ride” ended, a skinny man with prominent sideburns and arms tattooed from wrists to shoulders cut in front of Paul and grabbed her hands. As he flung her around the room, she wondered if anyone had ever danced swing to Steppenwolf before, especially to such a strong lead. Joanna’s head whipped back from the force of his twirl. “Smile, darlin’,” he said. “It’s not that bad.”

The bartender had emerged from behind the bar, hands clapping above her head, and edged up to Paul. After a turn through the highlights of
Saturday Night Fever
, some Led Zeppelin, and a few Marvin Gaye tunes, Joanna returned smiling but exhausted to the table. She was in sore need of something to settle her stomach. The tavern's customers had already stuffed some of the costumes back into the boxes, and the few remaining dancers, seeing Joanna was getting ready to leave, took off their costumes and piled them on a chair. She glanced across the bar to see that the brunette who had greeted Paul earlier had returned and cornered him by the video poker machine.

“Could I get the check?” Joanna asked the bartender, who was pulling a draft beer and still wearing a mantilla from
Carmen
. The bartender reached up to unpin the mantilla. “Please, keep it.”
 

The bartender smiled. “Tonight's dinner is on the house, darling. Now, I'm expecting you back soon. And you, too,” she said to Paul, who had left the brunette and joined Joanna.
 

Joanna reached into her purse to get money for a tip just as Paul was pulling out his wallet. She laughed and put a hand to her warm face. “What do they put in those Martinis, anyway?”

Paul shook his head and smiled, showing the gap between his front teeth. “Let me get the tip. It’s the least I can do. It’s not every night the Reel M’Inn turns into a disco,” he said. “And I’ll help you get these clothes to the store.”
 

Paul easily picked up both boxes. Night had fallen, and outside the temperature had dropped just enough that she hugged her bare arms. The rain from the day before had cleared the sky and the moon cast a faint shadow over the bar.
 

“This is your car?” he asked.

“Uh huh. You sound surprised.”

“Your store is so—meticulous. I expected something different. A vintage Bel Air, say, or a Volvo Ghia.”

Joanna unlocked the Corolla’s hatchback. “I get that a lot.”

He stacked the boxes in the car, shoving aside a few bags of estate sale clothes, and sat in the passenger seat. If she lifted her elbow, it would touch his. Sober all at once, she picked through her purse for her keys, avoiding looking at him.
 

The starter whined, then quit. She turned the key again after giving the engine more gas. This time it started.

As Paul had predicted, parking had freed up on the block in front of Tallulah's Closet. She unlocked the store's front door, and he began to unload the car. A few minutes later, Joanna set the last box in the store. Paul was on the curb, closing the hatchback.
 

“Thanks for your help,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thanks for the intro to the glories of broasted chicken, too.”
 

He laughed, then hesitated. Should she say something more? They stood a moment, looking at each other.
 

“I guess I’d better be going,” he said at last. “Wait.” He stooped to the sidewalk and picked something up. “We must have dropped this.”

It was a frayed silk rose from the
Carmen
wardrobe. As she reached for its green wire stem, her fingers brushed his. Electricity shivered through her body. Crazy. Just like the movies.

He set the rose on the car and gently moved his other hand to her back. His lips slowly and softly met hers. His lower lip slid to her cheek as it lifted.
 

“Joanna,” he said. “I'd like to see you again.”

“I…” Adrenalin rattled her bloodstream. For such a chaste kiss, she could hardly breathe. Say yes, say yes, she told herself. Her lips froze.

The streetlight cut across his face, highlighting the curve of his lower lip. “You're probably already seeing someone.”
 

No. No, she wasn’t.
Tell him, idiot.
She still couldn’t speak. Between fight and flight, flight always won.

“I see. Well, thanks for the evening,” he said. “I should be able to finish up the painting tomorrow or the next day, at the latest.”

She wanted to say something to keep him there, to try to explain, but she wasn’t sure she could.
 

“Do you need a ride?” she finally managed to get out.

“No. I don't live far.” He met her eyes. “Bye.” He walked to the end of the block and turned the corner.

The next morning Joanna rose with a sense of purpose. Paul had been right: finding Marnie's friends and family and telling them about her death was something concrete she could do. What she’d tell them, she didn’t know. That Marnie had somehow materialized at Tallulah’s Closet dressed for an evening in front of the television and died? That she had no idea why Marnie was there or even what had killed her?

As Joanna put the kettle on to boil, the shock of finding Marnie returned, this time mingled with unease. She still hadn’t heard from the police about the autopsy. Detective Crisp’s business card lay on the dining room table. Should she call? No. The police could do their job, and she’d do hers. But she’d slip the card in her purse just in case. In the bottom of her purse her fingers touched the silk rose.
 

“What is this, Auntie V? I mean, honestly. A silk rose. Could it get any cornier?” Joanna asked the portrait. “Besides, it’s not like it was some steamy kiss.” Joanna swallowed as she remembered the tremor that had passed through her when they touched. “He probably kisses everyone goodbye like that.” Like that brunette at the Reel M’Inn. She tossed the rose on the table. Well, no chance of anything happening anyway. She’d scared him off for good.

As for Marnie, the first step was to find her friends. She knew Marnie had danced at Mary's Club and that she'd even had a bit of celebrity in her time. Another potential lead was that an old lover had given Marnie her house. She’d heard the story from Marnie more than once. It was a long shot, but maybe the ex had still been in touch with Marnie or would at least know how to contact her family. Joanna could put her legal research skills to use. Public records should show who owned the house before it was transferred to Marnie, if it actually had been. She could go to the courthouse and try to figure it out, but it was Saturday. She’d have to wait two full days. Or, the computer. Surely that sort of information was online now.