The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (7 page)

“No. Or at least I don’t know for sure.” She wasn't sure how to say what she needed to say. “I found her.” She looked up at Don. “I'm sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry about, honey. That must have been tough on you. Tell me about it.”

Joanna winced at the memory of lifting the Lanvin coat. “She was in my store. I have a vintage clothing store on the east side. She’d somehow got in overnight, and I found her there the next morning. I can’t figure it out.”

The waitress put a fresh drink in front of Don. He removed the tiny red straw and set it on the paper cocktail napkin before lifting the glass. His hands were steady now. “Marnie. What a shame.”

“I don't—didn't—know her very well, and I don't know if she has friends or family around here. But I'd like her friends to know. I think she should have some sort of goodbye. I hoped you might know some of the people close to her.”

“That's real nice of you.” He leaned back in the booth. “I don't know who she was spending time with lately, but when she was at the club and I was the manager, she was good friends with the cook, Ray. And she used to room with another one of the dancers, Nina. I'm not sure what Ray's doing these days, but Nina comes to the club's picnics every summer. You can find her at the Wet Spot tropical fish shop. She and her husband own it.”

“You were a friend of Marnie's, right?” She didn’t want to stop talking about Marnie just yet.
 

“Sure. At one time we were close. A long time ago.” Don looked into the distance. From the side he resembled Kirk Douglas, including the cleft chin. “She was something else, that Marnie. A real pistol on stage. Off stage, though, a different person. Private. She and I went together a few years, but half the time I never really knew what she was thinking. One day she called me and told me it was over. That's it. No explanation. I haven't seen her in probably twenty years.” He pulled his gaze back to Joanna.
 

She responded to the regret in his voice. “I don't know what she was like when she was younger, but Marnie could be difficult to talk to.”

“I suppose it's my own fault more than anything. I was a young man trying to build my business, and I didn't give her the attention she deserved. I left her alone too much.”

“I'm sure she enjoyed going out on the town with you, though.” Don and Marnie would have turned heads back in the day.
 

“Marnie didn't like going out as much as other girls. She was real self-conscious, embarrassed about being a dancer. I told her that I didn't care—hell, I used to manage the place she danced, and it's not like we were dining with the queen when we went out, anyway.” He paused and then laughed. “Sometimes we went to the Desert Inn over on Stark. I don't suppose you've heard of that place? No? You're too young. This was back in, oh, '57 or '58. They had some gambling in the back room, and the entertainment might have, well, crossed the line from time to time.
 

“Anyway, they were raided one night when Marnie and I stopped by. While the uniforms were at the front door, Marnie took a little piece of paper from her purse and asked the bartender for the phone. She called the head of the vice squad. Got him out of bed. He was known for enjoying the sights at Mary's Club, see. I guess he didn't waste any time calling police headquarters and telling them to lay off the Desert Inn. A few minutes after the call, another police car pulled up, and the officer came running in like his pants were on fire. He rounded up the other policemen and shoveled them out the door before Mick even had time to freshen up my drink.”
 

Don's smile faded. “I don't know where she got the idea that anyone was looking down on her.” The waitress swapped Don’s empty glass for another drink, his third by Joanna’s count. Hopefully he wasn’t driving.
 

“I wish I could have known her then.” She imagined Marnie young, with soft curves instead of the thin, bony frame she knew.

“Are the police following up on her death?” Don asked as pulled out the cocktail straw and laid it next to the others on the napkin. His voice quavered slightly at the word “death.” Whiskey or emotion?

“I suppose so. The detective said the medical examiner decides if the death was suspicious, and if there should be an investigation.” She recalled the detective's questioning. The police hadn't called her. Yet.

“You don't happen to remember the officer's name, do you?”

Joanna pulled his card from a pocket on the side of her purse. Her fingers touched Marnie’s cash and the safe deposit box key that had fallen from the coat. “Detective Foster Crisp.”
 

Don nodded. “Yep, she was quite a gal. They don't make them like that anymore.”

The Wet Spot was just off a busy stretch of Sandy Boulevard in a squat 1960s storefront. A bell jingled when Joanna pushed open its door. The humid room glowed eerily from row upon row of lit fish tanks. Scores of filtration systems hummed and burbled, muffling the noise of the traffic outside.

“May I help you?” An Asian man stood behind the counter polishing the walls of an empty tank.

“Yes, I'm looking for Nina.”

“Nina? May I tell her who wants her?”

“My name is Joanna Hayworth. I understand she knows—or knew, at least—Marnie Evans.”

“Marnie? Old Goldilocks?” He cocked his head slightly and yelled toward the back. “Hey Nina. There's a friend of Goldilocks out here.”
 

A woman built along the lines of Jane Russell emerged from the back. She towered over the Asian man. She wore a wrap dress tied high on the waist that emphasized her bust, and her hair was dyed the color of charcoal briquettes. Only as the woman walked nearer did Joanna notice the crepey skin on her chest and lined face that told her age. “I'm Nina. How can I help you?” she asked in a low, silky voice. The scent of gardenias rose above the chlorine.

Joanna told her about Marnie's death. It hadn’t got any easier since she told Don that morning.

Nina tucked her hand under Joanna's elbow and turned her toward the door. “Gary,” she said to the man, who was now sprinkling flakes into a large tank full of long-finned fish, “We're going down the street for a little while. If the lady comes by for the Ink Fin Kapampa, it's in tank thirty-nine.”

Nina led her out onto the sidewalk and a few blocks to Poor Richard's, a restaurant and bar known more for its stiff drinks than fine cuisine.
 

Happy hour had just started at Poor Richard's, and a few seniors were enjoying the early bird special of roast beef in the dining room. Nina and Joanna sat at a booth in the Almanack Room, a dim bar with faux beams straddling the ceiling, stamped-brass platters displayed on a plate rail, and a large TV tuned to a baseball game.
 

Nina extracted a pack of cigarettes from her purse and tapped one out. She lit it, her fingers tipped with long, frosted pink nails. A charm bracelet dangled from her wrist. She pointed the cigarette at Joanna. “Is that blouse an Alex Coleman?”
 

Joanna was surprised. “Yes, it is. You know your labels.”
 

“I used to have quite the wardrobe. Marnie and I both did. I may have had a blouse exactly like yours.”

A waitress came over from the bar. “The usual?” she said to Nina, who nodded. “And you?”

She could order another coffee, but it was getting late in the day and her nerves were on edge.
 

Nina said, “You need a drink, honey.”

Joanna glanced toward the bar where a young guy pulled a beer. He wore a stringy beard but had a face straight from a Botticelli. Could he possibly know how to make more than a rum and coke?
 

“She’ll have what I’m having. Bring us some garlic bread, too, and some fried clams. Sound good?” Nina directed the last part to Joanna.

She realized she was hungry and nodded. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. As for “what I’m having,” she feared it would be a glass of white Zinfandel, but too late now.

“So, Marnie was murdered,” Nina said.
 

“They don't know that it was murder.” Joanna stifled a shocked laugh.
 

“Found dead in your store, and you didn’t let her in. Doesn’t sound like the Marnie I know to do something like that.”

“I admit I've wondered myself. She wasn’t dressed to leave the house—didn’t even have on her wig. But who would kill her? And why?” Her thoughts flashed to the story Don had told her about the head of the Vice Squad. So much of Marnie’s life was a mystery to her.

“Lots of people. Some folks might even say I'd do it.”

“You?”
 

“Sure. At one time Marnie knew a lot of secrets and pissed off a lot of wives.” Nina sighed. “I just wonder what she got herself into. When I married Gary—that was him at the store—she made fun of me. I always thought it would’ve done her some good to settle down. A lot of girls got screwed up by dancing.”

“What do you mean?” She noticed Nina hadn't said why she might have killed Marnie.

“When you're up on stage with all these men looking at you, you start to see that you have some power. Well, a certain kind of power, anyway. At the same time, you can't trust it, you know what I mean? These men have some crazy idea in their minds about who you are, but they don't know you from Joan of Arc. Naturally, when a man truly was interested in you, you didn't trust it.”

“Have you been with your husband a long time?”

“Sure. He used to stick around after my shift and walk me to the car to make sure I was all right. He did it every night for a year and a half before I'd go out with him. He's never let me down.” She took a long drag off her cigarette. “Although I admit that I get tired of fish. Maybe that's why I like this place. I can eat the suckers.”
 

“Two Pink Squirrels.” The waitress placed drinks on the table. “Food will be up in a minute.”

“Been drinking them for years,” Nina said as she touched her glass to Joanna's. She flipped ash off the tip of her cigarette. “So, how’d you get my name?”
 

The drink was sweet and thick with cream. “I stopped by Mary's Club this morning, and the manager gave me Don Cayle's phone number. I had coffee with him this afternoon.” Or at least one of us had coffee, she thought, remembering his grip on the tumbler of whiskey. “He’s the one who told me where I could find you.”

“Don, huh? What did you think of him?” Nina's green eyes focused on her. Expertly applied kohl swept up from their outer edges.
 

Was this some sort of test? “He seemed very nice, helpful.”

“He had a thing for Marnie. He bought her a house, you know, but that was a long time ago.” Nina blew a stream of blue smoke to the side. “What'd he say?”

“Not much, really. He wanted to know what happened, talked a little about the old days.”

“Did he hit on you?”

“No, no. Not at all.” Joanna didn't expect this question. Don had been fatherly more than anything. She had seen her share of Lotharios and wouldn't have pegged Don as one.

“He's a passionate man, Don. I don't know why he never married.” Nina stubbed out her cigarette.

“Maybe he's still hung up on Marnie.” She remembered the regret in Don's voice when he had talked about not paying Marnie enough attention.

“No.” Nina was firm. “No, that's not it. It doesn't sound like you know Marnie at all. Why are you going to all this trouble? Finding her friends and all?”

“I don't know. I feel responsible for her, I guess. I hate to think of her dying alone. I know she could be difficult, but—shouldn’t she have some sort of goodbye?” A memorial service. She hadn’t thought of it until now. Even just a handful of people would be something.
 

“Are you married?”

“No.”
 

Nina nodded, as if this was the answer she'd expected, but asked, “Why not?”
 

If Nina hadn't been old enough to be her grandmother, Joanna would have laughed off the question. She wasn't sure if Nina broke the conventions of her generation—former stripper, afternoon cleavage, pink cocktails—or if she was a prime example of her generation—all the above plus a firm emphasis on marriage. “I guess I don't feel a rush to get married. And I know I'd rather be alone than stuck with someone I'd be unhappy with anyway.”
 

“So you think you might end up like Marnie, and you feel sorry for her, so you want to throw her a little goodbye party. It sounds to me like it doesn't have much to do with Marnie at all.”

Joanna’s face burned. “No. No, that's not it. I mean, I do feel bad for her. She was obviously struggling for money, and she didn't seem to have many friends.” Maybe she made a mistake assuming Nina was one of them. What did she say to set her off like that? “But for all her crankiness, I did like her. She deserves more than an anonymous burial.”
 

Nina's demeanor softened almost as fast as it had prickled. She patted Joanna's hand. A small rhinestone decal of a shark fin adorned the tip of her thumbnail. “I'm sorry. Don't feel bad about Marnie. She had plenty of opportunity not to be alone, if that was what she wanted, and don't believe for a minute that she was hurting for cash. If Marnie was anything, she was a survivor. She just didn't show her hand is all.”

Joanna nodded, although she remembered Marnie's frequent complaints that she needed cash.
 

“And don't write off marriage, either. No one tells you how long you spend being old. Got to follow your heart, you know? Got to take a few risks.” Nina's gaze lost focus, as if she were remembering something, or someone. She slowly drew a finger down the condensation on the side of her cocktail glass then looked up at Joanna. “So, what next?”

“About what?”
 

“A memorial service. You want to hold one, right?”

“Well, so far I've just talked to you and Don.” She drained the end of her cocktail. What had she got herself into? “To tell the truth, the memorial service idea only just occurred to me,” she said tentatively, “And I'm not sure who to invite. Who else do you think would want to come?”