The Halston Hit Page 3

  “This one?” Joanna lifted a garment bag from the rack behind the counter and unzipped it.

  Apple took it from her hands and pulled out the dress, setting it on a rack for a better view. Alençon lace wound over an ivory chiffon skirt as thick and wide as Cinderella’s ball gown. From its wide, shoulder-baring neckline and heavy boning, Joanna judged it from the late 1950s.

  “Priscilla of Boston,” she read the label. “I love it. An Eisenhower-era debutante’s dream.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it. You don’t find this kind of quality every day. Look, it came with its own certificate from the dry cleaners.” Apple handed her a leatherette folder with a black-and-white photo of the dress and its description, engraved. June 15, 1957.

  Joanna touched the dress’s bodice again, then regretfully turned away. “But it’s not right for the wedding.”

  Apple’s arms dropped. “What do you mean? You just said it’s perfect.”

  “It is perfect. Perfect for a giant church wedding in the afternoon or evening. This dress is too formal for mine. It would look out of place at the B&B.”

  Apple shook her head. “You have six days to find a dress. Here’s a lovely option. What if we save it as a backup?”

  “It’s not the right one. Just because it’s a small wedding, there’s no reason every detail can’t be just right.”

  “Let me remind you, this is the fifth dress you’ve rejected.”

  Joanna knew she was being ridiculous. She’d made fun of picky brides who visited the store, and here she was doing the same thing. With vintage, you had to be open to serendipity and not insist on some vision of a dress you’d held since you were sixteen. The memory of VC’s suggestion that she wear the Halston stabbed her momentary calm. “I just want it to be perfect. After everything I’ve put Paul through—” First, stand-offishness, then jealousy, not to mention a few run-ins with the Homicide Bureau.

  “Yeah, you were no peach. But I hardly think that matters to him.”

  “He deserves it to be just right. We’ll have lunch, the Mother Superior marries us, and then afternoon champagne and cocktails.” She already had a case of Taittinger in the basement and a couple dozen vintage Bohemian cut crystal coupes awaiting duty. They’d rented a beautiful old bed and breakfast outside town with a wrap-around porch, shoulder-high fireplace, and a view of the mountains. Apple had made letter-pressed invitations. All that remained was the dress. Well, now the lunch, too.

  “What does Paul think?”

  “He says he’s fine with whatever we come up with, as long as I’m there.” A warm flush washed over Joanna at the thought of him.

  “See? Then this dress is fine.”

  “Nice, but not quite perfect.”

  Apple tossed up her hands. “Perfect. You’re using that word again. Nothing is perfect. No relationship is perfect.”

  Joanna shot her a glance. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Just a figure of speech. But it’s not smart to depend too much on one person.” She busied herself putting the chiffon dress into its garment bag. She returned the bag to the rack behind the counter with an ostentatious clunk, and in swiveling to face Joanna, she accidentally knocked Joanna’s bag to the floor.

  The black alligator bag—a large Lucile of Paris, she’d taken it to Marquise’s the night before—spilled open.

  “I’m sorry,” Apple said.

  “That’s fine.” The women knelt to pick up its contents: a gold-toned compact, a lipstick, two crumpled handkerchiefs sprigged with flowers, an orphaned Miriam Haskell earring—

  “What’s this?” Apple held up a pink silk flower.

  Joanna took it from her and stood. “It’s VC’s. It fell off her wig.”

  They stared at the flower. It was thickly petaled, like a fantasy take on a Hawaiian garden or something Dorothy Lamour would have worn to a disco in outer space.

  “Oh, VC.”

  “I’m sorry, Jo. It must have been awful.”

  Joanna pulled a pale green chiffon scarf from a display and gently wrapped the flower. Her wedding lunch and dress faded in importance. VC’s family would be drowning in grief right now.

  “Her family should have this.” Joanna tucked the bundle into her purse. “I’m going to take it to them.”

  4

  The morning was overcast but not wet, and trees were beginning to break into leaf. Joanna wanted to clear her head, so she walked the mile or so to Milton Funeral Directors, VC’s family business and, from what she’d told her, home. The funeral home was in a turn-of-the-century mansion on what was now an arterial boulevard, but walking up its horseshoe driveway set in a park of old chestnut trees, Joanna imagined how quiet it must have been when downtown was a long carriage ride away.

  She climbed the stairs to a broad porch and pushed open the wide oak door. For a moment, she took in the Oriental carpets, oil paintings, and antique furniture. No wonder VC had latched onto the “vintage” theme.

  Despite the front door’s creaking, no one greeted her. The mansion was still and smelled of old wood and furniture polish. She hesitated. Should she try to find an office?

  “Sorry,” said a man hurrying left from the hall, pulling on a suit jacket. “We’re a bit short-handed at the moment. We, um—” He stopped. “May I help you?”

  He was clearly VC’s brother. Besides his tall, slender build, he had VC’s full lips. He moved with less grace, though, and his handshake was firm enough to jar Joanna’s arm in its socket.

  “I’m Joanna Hayworth. I knew VC—I mean, Bo,” she said, referring to his birth name.

  “One of his drag friends?”

  “I helped him with his wardrobe.”

  The man’s face shut down. “Thank you for your condolences.” He stared, as if daring her to say more.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  A grandfather clock ticked in the hall.

  VC’s brother didn’t move. His expression was unreadable. “If that’s all, I should get back to work.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait. Don’t go. I have something of your brother’s. I thought you should have it.” She’d leave the silk flower and go back to Tallulah’s Closet. She didn’t know what to do in the face of what seemed to be a complete lack of emotion. Maybe when you’re in the funeral business, you don’t grieve the same way others do.

  “Honey?” a voice came from the hall.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m taking care of it.”

  Rounding the corner came one of the most beautiful women Joanna had ever seen. VC’s mother. Had to be. She was nearly as tall as her son, and her face could have been carved into cameos for its large oval eyes, high cheekbones, and delicate nose.

  Joanna shifted the chiffon-wrapped hibiscus to her left hand and repeated the handshake and introduction. She handed the bundle to VC’s mother. “I was at Marquise’s last night when your son passed away.”

  “Died. Or, more precisely, was killed.” His mother’s voice was matter of fact. “We know what it means.”

  “Yes.” Again, that uncomfortable silence. “I was there last night, and…well, he left this behind.”

  Bo’s mother untied the loose knot, and green chiffon wafted around her palm. She lifted the hibiscus as if it were a newborn kitten and touched it to her cheek. When she spoke, something had changed. Her voice was softer, warmer. “I’m Adele. Bo’s mother. This is my son, Barry.” She gestured toward VC’s brother. “You’re Joanna, you said?”

  Joanna nodded.

  “Come in and have a cup of coffee.” It was a command, but friendly and gentle all the same.

  “Mom, we’re busy,” Barry said.

  “I’ll be upstairs shortly. Delilah will be here any minute. She’ll get the phone.”

  The brother hesitated.

  “Go up,” she said. “I’ll be there soon enough. You need to get Mrs. Mizer ready for visitation at three.” Then, to Joanna, “This way.”

  Joanna followed Adele past a chapel—it looked as if it had
been the house’s living room at one time—to a service staircase at the house’s far east side. VC’s mother wore a long, pewter wool tunic over matching narrow trousers. The tunic rippled as she walked, wafting a hint of vetiver. The women descended one level into an English basement kitchen with a round wooden table and gingham-sprigged curtains. It was as if they’d passed from a stuffy mansion to an entirely different world, a homey cottage.

  “Have a seat.” Adele pointed to a chair at the table. “Buffy, you get down from there.”

  A fluffy dog—a toy poodle, maybe?—leapt from the chair next to Joanna’s and curled up in a dog bed in the corner.

  “It’s fine. I love animals,” Joanna said.

  “He’s not supposed to be on the furniture, and he knows it.” Instead of fussing at the counter for coffee, Adele sat down in the chair the dog had left. “Tell me what you know. They have Bo at the medical examiner’s office. All they say is that he was murdered.”

  Joanna drew a deep breath. “The police haven’t been to see you?”

  Adele waved her hand dismissively. “They called. They’re supposed to come back today. But” —she leaned forward and clenched her jaw— “he’s my son.”

  Bo’s mother’s beauty was unimpeachable, but now Joanna saw the strain in her skin and eyes. She couldn’t have slept much, if at all. “I have a vintage clothing store. Tallulah’s Closet. As Vintage Chablis, he—” Joanna didn’t know how comfortable Adele was with her son’s drag queen lifestyle and wasn’t sure what pronoun to use. Bo’s brother evidently wasn’t on board.

  “She,” Adele said.

  “She wore vintage gowns as often as she could. Last night was La Fille Fantastique pageant. I lent her a Halston for the talent number.”

  Adele nodded. “Bo told me about that. Loved that dress.” Her gaze wandered to the windowed back door, then to Joanna again.

  “I went down after her talent performance, and I found her.”

  Adele seemed to force the words. “Found her how?”

  “She’d been shot.” She would not give Adele more detail than that. No mother deserved to picture what Joanna had seen.

  Bo’s mother sucked in her breath and sat up straight. “They only told me she was killed. They didn’t say more.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joanna whispered.

  “Thank you, child.” Adele’s face was frozen into indifference, but the blood vessel next to her eye ticked.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sorry. We deal with death a lot here. Don’t expect to read grief on me the same way you would another.” She met Joanna’s eyes. “I know it’s odd. He was my baby boy.” The blood vessel pulsed more quickly, and her lips tightened. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I swear I saw him last night.”

  “Before the pageant.”

  “No. After. Before the police called.”

  Joanna lowered her voice, as well. “You’re under a lot of strain.”

  “Looking in the back door, right there.” Adele turned to the kitchen door with its gingham curtain. “In drag, no less. A long gold dress. Isn’t that funny? But he was dead the whole time.”

  The Halston. A shiver rippled down Joanna’s arms.

  “The police called not five minutes later.” Her voice was flat, as if she were talking about seeing a neighbor pick up the paper, not about her own son. Her features, ropy with tension, belied her voice.

  What was VC’s brother’s name? “Barry is here, of course, but do you have anyone else to stay with you for a few days?”

  “You mean a husband? No husband. I kicked the boys’ father out a long time ago.” The pulse at her temple began to slow. “No. I’ve got lots of work to keep me busy. We’ll be fine.” She picked up the silk hibiscus and caressed its petals.

  Sure, Adele had seen a lot of death, but not her own son’s. Her world was going to be a blender of emotion for quite a while. “Bo was a special guy. I’m going to miss him.”

  Adele looked at her, eager for her words. “Yes.”

  “He was beautiful, of course.” No doubt about where he got his looks. “But sensitive, too. I’m getting married on Sunday, and he always asked me how it was going. If I looked the slightest bit tired, he wanted to know what was wrong. He was kind.”

  Not two weeks after having met Bo, he’d brought a box of light bulbs to Tallulah’s Closet. “These are soft light bulbs,” he’d said. “We order them by the case for the funeral home—they give skin a lifelike glow, you know what I mean? I’ll help you swap them out.”

  “Very kind,” Bo’s mother said. “He convinced us to adopt Buffy, here.” The dog raised his head. “I didn’t want to, didn’t think we needed a dog to take care of on top of everything else. Buffy had belonged to an older woman who’d died. Her son brought him in when he made arrangements for his mother’s care. Said Buffy was going to the pound.” The dog rolled over, and she scratched him between the ears. “As always, Bo was right.”

  A bit of sun edged in the kitchen window. Concentrated by steely clouds, it left bright patches on the toaster and stainless steel refrigerator.

  “Maybe I’d better go, leave you to get back to business.” Joanna buttoned her jacket.

  Adele pushed herself away from the table. “Not everyone likes a black man who dresses like a girl.”

  Joanna couldn’t argue with that. But VC wasn’t the only African-American performer at Marquise’s. “You think his death might have been racially motivated?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it was more personal.” Adele strode out of the kitchen and into the hall running the length of the house’s basement. “Come on.”

  Curious, Joanna followed her down the carpeted hall dimly lit by bronze sconces. “Where are we going?”

  Adele opened a door. “My son’s room.”

  “Bo’s room.” What was this about?

  “Yes. That’s what I said.”

  The room held a double bed, neatly made, a dresser, nightstand, and that was it. It wasn’t austere, but neither were its gray duvet and framed landscape brimming with character. Given Bo’s personality, Joanna was surprised not to see some touch of flamboyance.

  Adele moved to Bo’s bedside table and pulled out its top drawer.

  Joanna hung back. “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Anything that’s none of the police’s business.”

  Joanna watched her rummage through its contents. Apparently nothing there interested her, because she opened the cupboard door below it and crouched to look inside. What was this with going through his things? Joanna had wanted to pass along the silk flower, offer her condolences. She hadn’t expected to rifle through his bedroom.

  “Come on,” Adele said as if she’d read Joanna’s mind. “Get busy. We’ve got to look through his stuff before the police get here.”

  “Why?” Despite her words, she’d already opened VC’s closet. She’d always been nosy. Around a clothes closet, she was helpless.

  “It’s not what they’ll find. It’s what they’ll find and not tell us. Besides, my son’s personal life is none of their business.” She stopped and fastened Joanna with her stare. “No one will pass judgement on my boy. You cared about him, too. Help me.”

  If Detective Crisp found out that she and a homicide victim’s mother were rifling through the victim’s belongings before the police had a chance to investigate, he’d have her scalp. Although it served him right for the hash he’d made of the investigation last night. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “I’m going to do it whether you’re here to help or not.” She pulled a box of tissues from a dresser drawer.

  You couldn’t really call VC’s things evidence, Joanna reasoned. VC was the victim, not the murderer. Besides, curiosity was burning her up. She turned to the closet.

  The closet, like the rest of the room, was meticulously ordered. Pressed trousers hung at regular intervals from wooden hangers. Next to them was a row of starched shirts with French cuffs. She’d sold VC cuff
links, she remembered, including a Depression-era opal set he’d loved. These must be what he wore to work in the funeral home. On the other side of the rack were his casual clothes: folded jeans, tee shirts, light sweaters in stacked crates. Other than a pearl white leather women’s jacket that might pass as a man’s, the closet held no drag costumes.

  “Where did he keep his gowns?”

  “Down the hall.” Adele moved to VC’s desk. “We’ll look there next.”

  A few minutes later, apparently satisfied that Bo’s room would stand up to police scrutiny, she led Joanna two doors down the hall. Adele pushed open the door. Ah, now this was more like it. A dinner mint-green love seat with a gold-framed mirror above it made a seating area in front of the closet, to the right of the door. On the wall between was a Lucite vanity with a mirror with etched flowers. Rose pink throw rugs covered the wood floor.

  “Gorgeous,” Joanna said. “It’s like a set for a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie.”

  “He would have appreciated that,” Adele said. “You take the racks, and I’ll search the dresser. We’re looking for personal notes, a diary, anything like that.” She swung to Joanna. “If you find anything, hand it here. You understand.”

  “Got it.” In other words, no peeking.

  VC didn’t have many gowns, but those she had were pure vintage goodness. Given her narrow physique, she’d wisely stuck to the mod shapes of the mid-1960s, the stretchy fit of the disco era, and the body-conscious 1980s. Joanna touched the pouf skirt of what looked to be a Christian Lacroix cocktail dress. She peeled open its bodice to look at the label. Yes, a genuine Lacroix. Amazing.

  The black wool jersey dress next to it hung limply. Joanna knew that some of the best-fitting dresses look the worst on the hanger. She took a moment to spread it between her hands. Its sleeves were loose at the upper arm, then tightened through the forearm, and the neckline, modest in the front, plummeted in the back. If Joanna was right, this was an Alaïa with his signature butterfly sleeves. The label confirmed it. No wonder Bo went wild for the Halston. He had an unerring eye for quality.