The Halston Hit Read online

  “Where did Bo get these dresses? I sold him a few, but nothing as spectacular as these.”

  Adele knelt next to a pile of stockings and slips. “He was enterprising, my Bo. We tend to get higher end clients here. When he saw someone well turned out at a service, they talked.”

  Joanna reverently returned the Alaïa to the rack. “They’re gorgeous.”

  “You should have them.”

  “What?”

  Adele rose and touched Joanna’s shoulder. “Once everything is settled, you should have Bo’s gowns. He would have wanted it that way. You appreciate them. You’ll make sure they find good homes.”

  “Oh, Adele. I couldn’t….” Oh, yes, she could.

  “Please.”

  When Joanna could speak, she whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Now, keep looking. I think that cape has pockets.”

  A man’s voice jolted Joanna from her search. “What are you doing?” said VC’s brother.

  From where Joanna stood next to the door, she couldn’t see to the hall. Barry moved to just inside the door. Joanna expected Adele, with her usual cool, to tell him to get lost—in sweeter words, of course.

  But Adele froze. All at once she appeared pleasant, indifferent, like when Joanna first met her upstairs. Someone must be with Barry. A stranger.

  “Mom….”

  “Joanna,” Adele said, uncertainty in her voice. She slowly rose to standing and slipped the dressing table drawer closed behind her.

  Joanna joined Adele to better see out the door. She cursed under her breath.

  Barry stepped aside. “Mom, this is Detective Crisp.”

  5

  Later that day, Joanna was straightening the dressing room at Tallulah’s Closet when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” Joanna’s heart dropped. It was the Police Bureau. She hadn’t wanted to install caller ID, but after some threatening calls the year before, Paul had convinced her it would be wise. She’d compromised by keeping her old rotary phone and finding a caller ID box at Goodwill. Two, in fact, so she’d have a backup.

  “I need to see you,” Detective Crisp said. “Right away.”

  Joanna swallowed. At the funeral home, he’d let her go with only a warning glance. She should have known she wouldn’t get off that easily. “Now isn’t the best time, I—”

  “I said right away.”

  She bit her lip. “Okay. When will you be here?”

  “I need to see you here, at the station. Within the next hour.” He hung up without waiting for her reply.

  Joanna slowly replaced the phone’s receiver. Apple was helping a customer. She shot a glance back to Joanna before lifting the Priscilla of Boston gown Joanna had rejected that morning. “I knew from the second I saw this dress that it would be perfect for a wedding,” she said, her back purposefully to Joanna.

  “Oh, look.” The customer lifted the dress’s skirt, and the taffeta rustled softly. “It’s like a princess’s gown. Do you think it will fit?”

  It would fit perfectly, Joanna thought. After years of running a vintage clothing shop, she could tell at a glance whether a dress needed half an inch more in the back or was made for a shorter-waisted woman.

  “The only way to tell is to try it on,” Apple replied. Apple was as good a judge of fit as she, but she was also a good saleswoman. Getting a customer to see a dress on her body was half the sale.

  The customer took it to the dressing room.

  Apple lifted an eyebrow to Joanna in a “satisfied?” motion. One less wedding dress option.

  “I have to go downtown.” Joanna lowered her voice. “To see Crisp.”

  “About this morning.”

  Joanna nodded. “I know you’re supposed to leave at three, but can Gavin—” Apple’s husband “—get dinner on his own?”

  Apple turned away. “He’ll be fine.”

  This again, Joanna thought. Something was going on. But whatever it was, it would have to wait. She shrugged on a green and red Pendleton 49ers jacket to go with her tartan skirt—she’d recently discovered she loved mixing plaids—and grabbed her purse, today a lipstick red 1960s Cashin Carry tote.

  Crisp met her at the Police Bureau’s reception area.

  “Let’s go to my desk,” he said, not bothering with a greeting.

  Joanna followed. Could she be charged with interfering in a homicide investigation? It’s not as if she and Adele had found anything. She wished she’d paid more attention to criminal law in law school, but she’d dropped out partway through and pretty much cleansed her mind of anything having to do with torts and statutes.

  They arrived at a cubicle festooned with crepe paper and balloons. The cubicle was surprisingly impersonal, except for a framed photograph facing Crisp. Probably his wife. Joanna wished she could see it.

  “Your birthday?” she asked. Maybe he’d be easier-going with cake in his system.

  “Nope. I’m retiring,” Crisp said. “They’re throwing me a little party this week.”

  “Hey, Crisp,” a uniformed policewoman said as she passed by. Crisp saluted in return.

  Detective Foster Crisp was older, Joanna knew that, but she hadn’t considered that he was nearing retirement. “Right away?”

  “I’ll be around a few weeks,” he said. “Hopefully long enough to see this case put to bed. The judge will call me back if it goes to trial.” He waved toward an office chair across his desk. “Have a seat.”

  She continued to stand. A stalling technique. “Any plans after retirement?”

  “Sit,” he repeated.

  Reluctantly, she took the chair. The words tumbled out of her mouth. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

  “What?”

  “At the funeral home. It wasn’t what it looked like. VC’s mother and I weren’t disturbing evidence—”

  “Then what were you doing?” His chair protested as Crisp leaned back.

  “We were looking for things. Adele was afraid VC had a diary or something, and she wanted to find it—”

  “Before we did?”

  “She thought it might have, well, personal things in it.”

  “Doesn’t matter. There was no diary—at least, nothing we found.” He flipped through papers in his inbox while he talked.

  “So, you didn’t call me in here to bawl me out?”

  “I should. You know better than that. Want a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” If he wasn’t going to get on her case about searching VC’s bedroom, what did he want? He’d offered her coffee. That was a good sign.

  He tossed the papers back into the inbox. “That is, I won’t make trouble for you if you give me some help.”

  “My help.” This ought to be good. He’d gone out of his way to reject her help in the past.

  “How well do you know those female impersonators?”

  She half-smiled. “You can call them drag queens. It’s fine. I knew VC because I helped her find clothes, and a few of the other girls stop by Tallulah’s Closet sometimes. You know Marquise, right?”

  He nodded. “Marquise’s been around for fifty years. He and the department go way back.”

  “Why? They’re not doing anything illegal, are they?”

  “No. That’s not why I asked you here.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  Crisp crossed his cowboy boot-clad feet on the desk. “First let’s start with the female impers—I mean drag queens. Can you tell me a little about how they work?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, Crisp. They dress up like women and entertain.”

  “No, I mean, the pronouns and all that. You call Vintage Chablis a ‘she,’ but Marquise is a ‘he.’”

  “In general, when someone is in drag as a woman, you refer to her as a ‘she.’ Marquise is so famous for his alter ego that most people call him Marquise, even in his street clothes. But when he’s in drag, you say ‘she.’”

  “What about the names? Some of them have the same last name, but they’re not re
lated.”

  “When some men learn drag, they take on the family name of the person who inducted them into the life. Sometimes that means the same last name. Sometimes the family is named after a theme.”

  “A family, huh? What about Vintage Chablis?”

  “Her family is named after jug wine. Their matriarch is Chianti Riserva.” Joanna had been appalled the first time she’d heard “vintage” and “chablis” together. You don’t want to drink most old chablis.

  Crisp pulled his feet from his desk and sat up. “Here’s the thing. They won’t talk to us. No matter what we asked last night, they couldn’t remember or didn’t notice a thing.”

  “I’m not surprised, not with how you questioned them. You weren’t respectful.”

  “I understood from what you said that Vintage Chablis—”

  “We called her VC for short. Or, if you’re uncomfortable, you can just say Bo.”

  “Let’s just use the name on the birth certificate. You told me that Bo and another of the performers, Caramella, had some kind of dispute.”

  “Yes. I don’t know any more about it than that, though.”

  “And no one will tell us any more, either,” Crisp said.

  “They said you guys have been picking on them. Did you check into the police cars Marquise told me were hanging around?”

  “I did. It was part of another investigation. They were acting on a tip. Nothing came of it.”

  “What kind of tip required you to hassle the performers?”

  “It’s complicated, but the gist is that Portland is getting a reputation for being somewhere big operators come, then disappear. We were following one suspect, and he went into Marquise’s.”

  “That could simply have been chance. Maybe he wanted to see a show.”

  “He’s one of the West Coast’s biggest heroin distributors. He’s known more for nightclubs and thousand-dollar champagne than ratty drag clubs. Look, I can’t tell you more, and it doesn’t matter since we’ve moved on.”

  Joanna folded her arms in front of her chest. “What have you got against drag queens, Crisp? You were unusually rude last night, and there you go calling Marquise’s ‘ratty.’ What gives?”

  The detective met her stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, that’s not why you’re here. I want you to talk to some of the drag queens and see if you can find out anything about Bo Milton’s fight with the other performer.”

  “Caramella, you mean?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you going to deputize me? Give me a badge?”

  Crisp cracked a smile. “Don’t you think we make a team already, with your plaid and my western wear?”

  Joanna had to admit he was right. All she needed was a pony. “Seriously, though. I’m not a detective.”

  “You’re not going to gather evidence. You’ll be an informer. If you learn anything concrete, leave it alone. We’ll follow up.”

  “I suppose I could ask Alexis. I’d feel a little uncomfortable about lying about it, though.”

  Crisp tossed his pen into the inbox. “Come on, Joanna. I found you snooping around this morning in Bo’s bedroom. Don’t tell me you’re not dying to get more involved.”

  He was right, of course. “Fine. I guess I can ask a few questions. There’s no guarantee she’ll tell me anything.”

  “I’m sure you can be persuasive if you put your mind to it. Gossip. You know, ‘girl talk.’”

  “Smirking doesn’t suit you, Crisp.”

  “Just do a little speculating together. Someone must know why they were fighting.”

  Joanna settled back. It wouldn’t be too hard to take Alexis out for a drink. The subject of VC’s murder would come up naturally. Alexis had said she didn’t know anything, but maybe with some gentle probing she’d remember something useful. “It might help if I knew what direction the case was taking. You know, have something to start the conversation.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you what we know, but it isn’t much. Between the medical examiner and the crime scene team, we know Bo was shot point-blank, likely with a larger caliber handgun. Nothing else would do that kind of damage. Ballistics is working on the details now.”

  A wave of nausea washed over Joanna. She breathed shallowly until it passed. Of course VC’s face was gone. It had been blown away.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Go on.” Crisp wasn’t telling her everything. She could tell by how he looked to the side as he spoke. “What else?”

  “There is one more curious aspect, but it doesn’t have to do with what I’ve asked you to do.”

  “Tell me. You can’t ask me to collect information, then keep things from me.”

  Crisp met her gaze. “All right. You won’t pass out on me?”

  “I’m fine now. Tell me.”

  “It’s the angle we found the body. Bo was face down, feet toward the wall before you turned him over.”

  Now she remembered. The gun must have been pointed toward the basement’s interior and not toward the wall. “He could have stumbled a few steps and fallen, right?”

  “It’s more likely that the force of the gunshot pushed him in that direction, but it’s unusual.”

  Two uniformed cops, probably rookies, waved as they passed. “Should we get some arthritis meds to go with that cake, Crisp?”

  “Real funny,” Crisp said.

  Cake. Shoot. She’d have to get someone to make a cake for the wedding now that the caterer had dropped out. Later.

  Crisp straightened. “Anyway, that’s all we know. We got nothing out of the performers. The basement is closed off right now.”

  “So, no show tonight.”

  “Marquise said they wouldn’t have held one, anyway.”

  “Yes.” In a way, he was a combination of a large family’s mother and a small community’s mayor. He set the tone. They would mourn and support each other.

  “Things are moving quickly.” Crisp stood, indicating that their meeting was over. “The sooner you can get back to me, the better.”

  6

  Joanna would be happy never to live another day like the past twenty-four hours. The Fille Fantastique pageant, VC’s death, meeting her family, searching VC’s room and getting caught, then having Crisp actually ask her to help with the case. Then, having the wedding caterer back out. And she still had to find a dress. It was too much.

  Thank goodness she was coming home.

  “Hi, Jo,” Paul said as she shut the front door behind her. The aroma of something onion-like—leeks?—reached her. Better yet, Paul was there. Home had always been her hideout, her safe place. Letting Paul in had been one of her better decisions.

  “What are you making?” Joanna stopped at the kitchen table. A deadbolt lock set sat on a piece of newspaper next to a vase of peonies. “And what’s this?”

  “Dinner is risotto with spinach and leeks from the garden. Should be ready soon.” He set down the wooden spoon and pulled her in, his chin resting on her head. “I picked up an old deadbolt at the job site today. That’s your next lock picking lesson. It’s time to move up from padlocks.”

  She wrapped her arms around his back. Gemma, Paul’s German shepherd mix, nosed over to say hi.

  “How was Crisp?” Paul asked.

  She’d filled him in earlier on her visit to the funeral home and had left a message that she was headed to the Police Bureau. Reluctantly, she pulled away. “He wants me to see what I can find out about the fight between VC and Caramella. He blew it last night. None of the queens will talk to him.”

  “What does he want you to do?” A year ago, Paul would have pulled out all the stops to keep her from having anything to do with a murder investigation. Since then, he’d learned that one condition of being with her was to give her space. He’d even relaxed about his own past breaking into houses for his uncle to the point that he was willing to teach her how to pick locks. “For fun, that’s it,” he’d warned her.

  “Talk to Alexis C
ampbell Starr, see if she has any insight. You’re not worried, are you?”

  “No. Crisp wouldn’t put you on anything dangerous. At least, he’d better not.” He tipped up her chin. “You have that look.”

  “Whatever it is, it isn’t as good as your look.” She pointed at his apron, one of hers in a mid-century print of poodles playing bridge. “Don’t forget about the risotto.”

  “Keep talking.” He picked up the spoon.

  “I have to go out tonight, if Alexis will see me.”

  They looked at each other, Joanna waiting for Paul’s reaction. “Better make your call,” he said at last.

  She went to the living room and set the phone on her lap. Hopefully, Alexis would pick up. So many people texted these days that getting anyone by voice was rare. Still, she didn’t see a cell phone in her future. The sound quality wasn’t as good, for one thing. And it didn’t have that satisfying heft.

  Alexis did answer, and she jumped at the chance to get a drink. With that night’s show at Marquise’s cancelled, she was at loose ends. They arranged to meet at the bar directly behind Marquise’s, where most of the performers went after shows.

  “It’s on,” she told Paul. “I won’t be out late.” Pepper, her black cat, leapt to the couch next to her and dipped his head under her hand.

  “You need to eat, though. Aunt Vanderburgh says so,” came Paul’s voice from the kitchen.

  She glanced at the thrift store portrait she’d named Aunt Vanderburgh. She’d used Auntie V as a sounding board many times, but less often now that Paul lived with her. As far as she knew, Paul didn’t talk to the portrait, but the portrait apparently used him to relay messages from time to time.

  She returned to the kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator. “We have an hour and a half before I have to be there.” Gemma moved to lie over her feet. “You’re getting to be a fabulous cook.”

  “I like it.” He dropped a handful of chopped parsley into the risotto.

  “How would you feel about catering the wedding?”

  Paul turned off the heat and put a lid on the risotto. “That doesn’t mean what I think, does it?”