The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) (8 page)

“There's more than a few men around town who might want to pay their respects but wouldn't necessarily want to show their faces.”

“How about family?”

Nina shook her head. “I recall Marnie's mother dying some years ago. I don't think she has any family. Living, that is. When she moved to Portland, started dancing, most of her family cut her off. Tell you what. Why don't you let me plan the get-together? I can call Mike. I bet he'd let us hold it at the club some morning before they open.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? A few minutes ago—”

“You can help. I'll give you Ray's phone number, and you can call him. He used to cook at the club and was like a younger brother to Marnie.”

Joanna nodded. “Don mentioned him.”

“I'll call some of the other girls. I have some photos, and I can put together some sort of tribute. Monday morning, before the club opens, would be good. Most people my age have time weekdays. I’ll call Don, make sure he can come. Is that all right with you?”

“Nina, thank you so much.”

“Oh, don't thank me. After all, I'm sure we'd all want the same, wouldn't we?”

The Sunday paper lay spread over the bed’s cotton matelassé cover. Joanna sorted its sections, separating the ads from articles as she performed what she called the paper’s “filet.” The National section featured an article about the election. A photo of Congressman Remmick showed Andrew’s tiny image in the background. Polls were still close.
 

The Metro section opened to a grainy black and white photo of Marnie circa 1960. “Margaret Eleanor Evans, aka 'Goldilocks' dies at 71” the headline read. Joanna pulled the newspaper closer.

Margaret Evans, known as “Marnie” to friends and “Goldilocks” to her many admirers, died on Wednesday of cardiac arrest. She was 71 years old. Evans had advanced ovarian cancer at the time of her death.

Nicknamed “Goldilocks” for her long, blonde hair, Evans made her reputation as the star attraction at Mary's Club in the late 1950s and early 1960s. At the time, Portland was home to a handful of burlesque clubs, many reputed to have ties to organized crime. Mary's Club was one of the few clubs to escape investigation by Robert Kennedy's 1957 vice probe.
 

After stepping down as a dancer, Evans lived quietly in northeast Portland. She leaves no known survivors.

So, Marnie had died of a heart attack. Joanna stared at the paper. She had always figured Marnie looked so frail from too many cigarettes and a lot of hard living. “Not the years, but the miles,” as Apple would say. Cancer explained the skeletal build, and maybe even her wig. She’d never said a word about it to Joanna, not once. Since Marnie had died of natural causes, the police probably weren't investigating her death, which must be why they hadn't returned to question Joanna. They must have decided Marnie had broken in for the coat then died. Interesting. Mob activity, too. She thought of Don.

The death notice should have eased her mind. After all, it left out that Marnie’s body was found at Tallulah’s Closet. She wouldn’t have to worry about people too freaked out about the death to come in—or worse, too curious to stay away. But it still left a lot of questions. Why was Marnie at the store to begin with? Did she really pull the coat over herself and die behind the counter? Or, as Nina had suggested, did someone “help” her?
 

 
Joanna took her empty coffee cup to the kitchen. She smoothed the Poor Richard's napkin with Ray's number written on it in Nina's girlish scrawl. Hopefully ten in the morning wasn't too early to call.
 

Unlike Nina and Don, Ray didn't seem to need much explanation for why she was calling. He invited Joanna to come over right away. She slipped out of her dressing gown—this one from the pre-code film era with a print of broad blue stripes and brightly colored anemones—and into a blue 1950s sundress fitted through the bodice and hanging in pleats mid-hip. She pulled her hair back and secured it with an elastic hair band, quickly spritzed vintage Je Reviens down her cleavage, then headed into the already warm morning.

***

“Damn it.” Joanna pulled the car to the curb. Every street in this neighborhood of southwest Portland seemed to end in a hilly cul de sac. And they were all named after flowers—Daffodil, Marigold, Primrose. Who laid out this neighborhood, anyway? Martha Stewart on acid?
 

She looked at the map again and shoved it back on the passenger seat. She shouldn’t be far now, at least as the bird flies.

Ten minutes later, she parked in the driveway of a small, yellow house that backed into a ravine. Pots of miniature roses crowded the steps to the porch. The Corolla shuddered as she shut off the ignition, and a man opened the house’s front door.

“Joanna?” he said, holding out a hand. “Ray. Come in.” Ray looked to be in his sixties with gray-streaked hair and skin craggy from sun. He wore a silver ring with a Chinook-style salmon engraved on it. The ring combined with his strong, solid build pointed to Native American. “You said you wanted to talk about Marnie.”

She hadn’t told him about Marnie’s death. It didn’t seem right for a perfect stranger to deliver that kind of news on the phone. She took the obituary from her purse. “I’m afraid Marnie died last week. I wanted you, and her friends, to know.”

Ray’s expression remained calm, his voice soft. “I saw the obit in the paper this morning. A pity.” He sounded sincere. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I was just going to pour myself some.”

She followed him into the kitchen where a coffee pot filled the air with its aroma. Through the adjoining hall she could see the living room filled with morning light. Twittering finches jumped perch to perch in two large cages set back from the windows. Ray walked ahead of her with a slight limp, as if one leg were slightly shorter than the other.
 

“Let's go to the back. We can talk there.”
 

They took their coffee through the dining room to a glassed-in porch overlooking a grassy yard with a vegetable garden on the edge of the ravine. Tomato cages strained to hold up fruit-heavy vines, and green beans grew up and over bamboo tripods. Ray opened the back door slightly to let in the morning air.

Joanna settled into a wicker chair with wide arms and a soft cotton blanket draped over it. The tension over finding the house melted away. She set her coffee cup on a low table in front of her. Next to a stack of typewritten papers stood a framed photo of a middle-aged woman in Native American ceremonial dress. She picked it up. “That’s a gorgeous cape she’s wearing.”

“My aunt. She was on the tribal council.”

Ray didn’t seem prepared to say anything more. The mug’s comfortable heft, the house's light and calm—Joanna recognized a kindred spirit. Even the coffee met her high standards. Maybe he wasn’t overly talkative, but Ray’s relative sanity was a nice change after her encounters with Don and Nina.
 

A large crow alit on a bird feeder, scattering the wrens who had been feeding. Its black beak pecked at seeds. Sun flashed blue on its feathers. Ray’s eyes narrowed for a moment.

She replaced the photo. “You like birds.”

“That’s a raven. He comes to visit from time to time.”

Joanna waited. She was beginning to see that Ray liked a stretch of quiet between observations.

“In my culture, the raven is a trickster.” Ray’s eyes stayed on the bird.

“He plays tricks on people?”

“Sometimes. But not like Coyote, another Indian symbol. The raven brings truth.”

The crow—raven—crouched and launched into the air, its feathers ruffling at the wing. Ray watched it fly off.

Joanna lifted her mug. “I talked to Nina yesterday. She gave me your phone number.”

“She still at the fish store? How's she doing?”

“She seems to be well. We’re planning a memorial service for Marnie and she asked me to get in touch with you. She said you and Marnie were close.”

Ray looked thoughtful. “No kidding? Nina wanted to do something for Marnie, huh?”

Joanna remembered Nina’s erratic behavior. “Yes. At first—well, she said she’d take care of the rest if I talked to you. I talked to Don, too.” There was no point in getting into Nina’s conversation at the restaurant.

At the mention of Don, the corners of his mouth turned down, but he nodded as if something had become clear. He didn’t speak.

“I'm surprised
The Oregonian
picked up on Marnie’s death.”

“Oh, not me. Forty, fifty years ago Marnie was pretty big news.” He sank back into his chair. “I know Nina and Marnie from when I cooked at the club. Now the club uses the kitchen mostly to reheat frozen pizzas. They used to put out quite a spread.”

“Really?” She figured a strip club would rely on something like beer nuts.

“Oh yes. When the ships came in at Rose Festival, the club was full of sailors eating pancakes and eggs. I cooked there for ten years. Started when I was sixteen.”

“Do you still cook?”

“Nah. The gig at Mary's was good because my shift was short. I hurt my leg in an accident when I was a kid, and I don't like to stand too long. My brother died a little while ago. I've been helping out at his business.”

“What was Marnie like, back then? The manager showed me a picture from her Goldilocks days.”

Ray looked out the window, and for a moment she wondered if he had heard her, if he would lapse into monosyllables again. Then he spoke. “Oh, Marnie, I never could figure her out. When she hostessed after her show, she hopped from lap to lap, laughing, talking, the life of the party, you know? When the next girl would go on, instead of going back to the dressing room, Marnie'd come to the kitchen and sit in a little wooden chair I kept for her. She didn't talk much, she'd just watch me cook and watch the waitresses come in and out with orders. Sometimes she'd soak her feet in an old dishpan. She was always dieting, but she did love my cinnamon rolls.”

“Mike, the manager, said she was really popular.”

“Biggest thing since Tempest Storm left town. She used to do a 'three bears' routine. She'd start out pretending to sit on a bed and say, 'This bed is too big,' and take off—well, you know—all the way to 'This bed is just right.’ Sounds pretty corny now, but the crowd loved it.” Ray shifted in his chair. “How about you? How do you know Marnie? It surprises me that she'd have a new friend these days.”

“I have a vintage clothing store on Clinton called Tallulah’s Closet. She used to sell me clothes.”
 

“You have the store?” He leaned forward.

“Yes, for almost three years now.” He shouldn’t sound so surprised. She smoothed her vintage dress. Maybe she didn’t exactly look like an executive, but she was perfectly capable of running a small business.

Perhaps realizing the effect of his reaction, he changed topics. “Clothes, huh? She loved her clothes. Hard to imagine her getting rid of them.”

“She sold me a few hostess dresses from the club. I had to scrub the glue from her pasties out of one of them.” She and Apple had spent a morning the spring before trying first soapy water, then dry cleaning fluid, to dissolve the dried glue from one particularly cantankerous silver cocktail dress. “But for the most part she sold me a lot of day wear. Just a few evening pieces. And a gorgeous old coat, a Lanvin.” Maybe she’d keep that coat after all. “You’ve known Marnie a long time.”

Ray shifted on his seat again and moved his left leg with both hands. “She grew up in Oysterville, too, you know. I'm a little younger, but we went to the same schools.”

“Oysterville. Beautiful country.” Joanna’s grandma grew up near there, on the ocean. They’d visited once or twice.

“Indeed. I don’t know if Marnie ever went back after she moved to Portland.”

“Had you seen her lately?”

“First time in years at my brother’s funeral. She didn't look so good, to tell the truth. At the time I chalked it up to the funeral.” The raven had returned and cawed from the edge of the garden shed.

“I didn't know about her cancer, either. I wonder if she told anyone at all.” Joanna took another sip. “I'm sorry about your brother.”

“He was in construction. Died in an accident.” They both sat for a few minutes in silence. Clouds moved over the sun, momentarily dimming the light through the sun porch's windows. Ray put his hand on the loosely bound sheaf of papers on the table. “My brother left me the tribal history he'd been working on for years. I was just looking through it again.”

“That must be fascinating.” She craned her head to see it more closely. Penciled figures—Native American symbols, maybe—inscribed the front. Apple might know what to make of them. Ray pushed the papers further back on the table, out of her view. An opened envelope slid from the sheaf, and Ray quickly tucked it aside.
 

She stood and placed her empty mug on the table. “Thank you for the coffee. The store’s due to open soon. I just wanted to tell you about Marnie and the memorial service. Tomorrow at Mary’s Club, before opening. I’ll see you then?”

Ray frowned. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and shook his head. “No, I can’t make it.” He stood up.

“Is the time not good? I could call Nina—”

“No.” The steely edge to his voice jolted Joanna. “Don’t bother. I won’t be there. I’ll see you to the door.”

As soon as Joanna unlocked the door to Tallulah’s Closet the next morning, she knew something was wrong. She held her breath a moment and listened. Nothing but the rumble of the bus on Clinton taking morning commuters downtown to start the work week. Inside, headless mannequins stood like actors on a darkened stage. She flicked on the light closest to the door, hesitated, then walked toward the back to click the switches that illuminated the rest of the store. Her unease persisted. What was it?

Breath quickening, she glanced behind the tiki bar. No, no body this time. She checked the cash drawer and saw the usual assortment of small bills, although the Bakelite box holding loose change was askew. The stereo and stack of LPs were in their places, too. She laughed nervously. Must be shock from finding Marnie’s body last week and the memorial service in just a few hours, she decided. Besides, she’d just had a new lock put in, a better one. Her perceptions were out of whack, that’s all.