The Halston Hit Read online

Joanna folded her arms over her chest.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “The caterer bailed?”

  “Family emergency.”

  “I’m fine with a trip to the courthouse, remember. Or a wedding with no deluxe meal. It’s the marriage that counts, not the ceremony.”

  They agreed on that count. If she could have a marriage as solid as Apple and Gavin’s, she’d be happy. They always seemed to have each other’s back, be looking out for each other.

  “I know,” Joanna said. “Thank you. I want something we’ll remember.”

  He shook his head. “Have you found a dress yet?”

  “Apple found a gorgeous Eisenhower-era gown, in fact.” Gorgeous for someone else, that is.

  “Let me guess. It just wasn’t right.”

  “Too formal. We sold it a few hours later, though. Doubled our income for the day. Don’t worry, I’ll find the right one.”

  “I don’t care what you wear or what we eat, you know that.”

  Joanna slipped her foot out from under the dog and put an arm around Paul’s waist.

  “As long as you show up, that’s all I care,” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll be there.”

  Alexis—Austin, tonight—stood outside Imago Mundi smoking a cigarette. As Joanna approached, a couple walked past him, the wife ostentatiously waving the smoke away from her face. The cigarette was long and white between Austin’s dark, coral-tipped fingers.

  “Hi, honey,” he said and kissed Joanna on both cheeks. “Mind if we stay outside a minute while I finish this?”

  “That’s fine.” The spring night was mild, if damp, drawing the odor of urine from the alley. Old Town was a motley collection of nineteenth-century buildings, a few nightclubs, and most of the city’s homeless shelters, with a sprinkling of some of the more pioneering design and architecture offices. On weekends, the streets teemed with suburban partiers. On a Monday night, like tonight, it was mostly locals stopping for a beer after work and tossing coins into the boxes set out by transients settled into doorways for the night.

  Austin turned his face toward the streetlight just as it came on. His skin had an almost iridescent smoothness about it. He was about as tall as VC, but rounder, giving his face a look of innocence that his attitude more than made up for. He wore a black leather baseball cap studded with rhinestones.

  “Broadway, baby,” he said, nodding toward the streetlight. “The lights can’t help but shine on me.” He tossed the cigarette butt in the gutter. “Let’s get a drink.”

  A low murmur of conversation filled Imago Mundi. Austin waved at the bartender, and they settled into a high-backed booth against an exposed brick wall.

  “I’ve never been here,” Joanna said.

  “This place is all about maps. Imago Mundi. It’s some kind of map. Look.” He picked up a plastic-sheathed menu, its front a replica of a medieval map.

  A waiter, eyes on another couple hesitating at the door, took their order. Joanna requested her usual martini, and Austin took a vodka soda. “I’ll give you the service industry discount,” the waiter said as he collected their menus.

  “Bring us some stuffed mushrooms, too,” Austin added.

  “A discount? Not bad,” Joanna said.

  “When the owner was renovating, he made all sorts of trouble for Marquise. Broke a pipe and flooded the back of the basement. Even had to shore up the joists between the buildings. They share a back wall. That” —Austin pointed toward the restaurant’s rear— “is the other side of the stage at Marquise’s.”

  “So he’s giving you a discount for the trouble.”

  “Plus, we’re regulars.”

  The waiter set their drinks on napkins, also printed with maps. “Food will be up in a minute.”

  “I like the chicken fingers at C.C.’s better, but VC was a fan of the stuffed mushrooms here. It seems right to have them tonight.”

  They fell silent a moment. “It’s awful,” Joanna whispered. Just a day before, just yards away, VC was killed. “At least it was sudden. She couldn’t have felt anything.”

  Austin ran a finger down the condensation on his glass. “Marquise is hiring a guard to watch the basement entrance during show hours. I think he feels responsible.”

  “A good idea, even if it’s really not his fault.”

  “The police are questioning Roger pretty hard, too.”

  “Roger?”

  “The cook. Roger Bing. He probably feels as bad as Marquise does. Roger’s devoted to him. Marquise found him on the streets years ago and gave him a job cleaning up after the show. Now he’s in charge of food. Blames himself for letting the gunman through.”

  “This is no time for blame. Or guilt,” Joanna said. At last, she tasted the martini. Nice and dry. Not bad.

  “I’m going to miss her,” Austin said, his eyes bright with tears. He looked down at his drink.

  “Me, too. VC was a one-of-a-kind.” Her throat tightened. “I met her family this morning. I had one of VC’s silk flowers, so I dropped it by. Thought they’d want it. Have you met her mother?”

  “Adele? Yes.” Austin seemed glad for the distraction. “Talk about beautiful. She was a model for Ebony, you know.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Joanna said, remembering Adele’s almost Egyptian eyes. Model to funeral home director. Not your usual career path. “Has the funeral home been in the family for long?”

  “Adele picked it up after Bo’s dad left. She sank her earnings into it, got certified as a funeral director, and voilà. She runs it, with her sons’ help.”

  Joanna remembered Adele’s strangely calm reaction to her son’s death, and then her abrupt, almost frenzied searching of his room.

  “Bo played the organ at services, too. He was good,” Austin said, lapsing to VC’s birth name.

  “You two were friends, then.”

  “I’d call him a friend. Sure. We didn’t see each other much except after shows, though. Bo kept to himself. He was private.”

  Joanna returned her glass to the map-printed napkin. Time to get down to business. “I keep thinking about VC and Caramella’s fight. They must have had some reason for going at each other like that.”

  “Well, well,” a hearty voice interrupted them. The voice quieted. “I was so sorry to hear about the accident next door.”

  “Joanna, this is Lewis Custard,” Austin said. “He owns the place. Lewis, meet Joanna.”

  Lewis Custard. She couldn’t help but think of a board game and “in the billiards room with the lead pipe.” He looked the part, too, with his curly red beard trimmed to a point, generous figure, and wire-rimmed glasses.

  Joanna traded glances with Austin. “I’m afraid it was worse than an accident.”

  “I saw the police cars and the ambulance. It wasn’t Marquise, was it? Heart trouble?” Reacting to Joanna and Austin’s expressions, he straightened. “Sorry. I used to be a physician.”

  “No. No, I’m afraid it was VC. She was killed.”

  The man’s face blanched beneath his beard. “VC. She was so young. I can’t believe it.” The owner turned to a passing waiter. “This table’s check is on the house.” Then, back to Austin and Joanna. “What happened?”

  Austin recapped the pageant and its horrible ending. “We’re having a memorial service the day after tomorrow. Marquise will be by to invite you, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll bring food. Maybe a few platters of stuffed mushrooms. VC always liked them.” Lewis swallowed a few times, his head bobbing like an ostrich’s. “This neighborhood isn’t safe. I’ve got a good security system, but you can’t be too careful.”

  Joanna toyed with a stuffed mushroom. Its bread crumb topping was crisp without being greasy, and fresh parsley, chopped fine, topped it. A thought occurred to her. “You don’t cater, do you?” Asking about food for a wedding right after talking about a murder seemed insensitive. Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to change the subject, and she needed to pull conversation back to Caramella somehow.

  “Sm
all jobs. Planning something?”

  “I’m getting married on Sunday, and the caterer pulled out. A small event, only about twenty-five of us. We’ll need lunch. Nothing fancy. I know it’s last minute.”

  Lewis Custard slipped a business card from his pocket. “Give me a call tomorrow, and we can talk.” He stepped back. “Again, I’m so sorry to hear about VC. Maybe I’ll drop by and tell Marquise about my security outfit. Couldn’t hurt. VC.” He shook his head and moved off.

  Austin pulled the tiny straw from his glass. “I almost expect to see VC come in any moment. This afternoon, I found an old hairpiece I thought would look great on her, then I remembered.”

  “I know the feeling.” Joanna looked down the long bar and the row of booths facing it, to the pool of tables in the restaurant’s depths. “Austin, something was going on between her and Caramella. Someone killed VC, and I don’t think it was random.”

  “Caramella would never shoot her.”

  “She put pins in VC’s wigs.”

  “And she swapped out her shoes for smaller ones, and loosened her side seams so they’d give out while she was on stage. Just a little sabotage. And maybe the occasional insult.”

  “Do you know what all that was about?”

  Austin jingled the ice cubes in his nearly empty glass. “Nope. Like I told you, no one did.”

  “You don’t have any idea at all?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Or maybe there was some kind of romantic dispute? Maybe they both went after the same guy.”

  Austin shook his head. “That’s the strange thing. Neither one of them was big on dating. Caramella never talked about anyone since I’ve known her.”

  This was going nowhere fast. “Tell me about her.”

  He leaned back. “His name is Lorenzo Perez. He’s a contractor—his family has a construction business doing odd jobs. Perez’s Handy Helpers. I don’t think they’re keen on his other life. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  Frustrating. “Except that he had it in for VC.” Lorenzo Perez. She made a mental note.

  “Yeah.” Austin’s gaze took in the bar crowd. “They had a whopper of a fight here last week, in fact.”

  Joanna’s attention sharpened. “About what?”

  “Who knows? They yelled at each other, called each other names, and VC threw a vodka cranberry at Caramella. The bartender had to break them up.”

  “But no accusations?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just a lot of fighting.” He looked her in the eyes. “Look, Jo. I know you feel responsible somehow since you found her, but don’t let it get to you.” He nodded at the half-full martini glass. “Drink up.”

  7

  The next morning, Joanna rearranged the dresses at Tallulah’s Closet by color. She hadn’t expected to work this morning, but Apple had called in sick. It was for the best. Joanna needed to keep busy.

  She pondered her progress—or lack of it—figuring out the core of Caramella and VC’s dispute. The conflict with Caramella might well be at the center of VC’s death. What else could it be? VC was popular. Her family loved her. Here, Joanna paused, a red Thierry Mugler suit in hand. At least, her mother did. Perhaps VC’s brother wasn’t on board with her drag life, but disapproval was hardly a reason for murder. The other queens adored VC. She didn’t seem to have problems at work, either at the funeral home or Marquise’s. Caramella was the open question. Alexis wasn’t a help. Whom could she talk to next?

  She needed a plan. Maybe there would be more to learn at the memorial service, but she couldn’t count on it. If Alexis didn’t know what had sparked the animosity between VC and Caramella, Joanna didn’t know who else would.

  Joanna slipped the Mugler suit on the rack, and, with a crash, the rod ripped away from the wall, dumping six feet of dresses, suits, and coats on the carpet.

  She stifled a moan and stood, hands on hips, looking at the pile of fabric, while Herb Alpert cheerfully tootled “The Spanish Bull” from the stereo. That’s it. She’d have to call Paul and see if he could fix it. He was helping restore a Victorian staircase in an old timber baron’s mansion on the west side, but he might be able to get to it tonight, after the store closed.

  She began piling dresses on the red bench in the center of the store, then stopped. Paul wasn’t the only handy guy in town. She didn’t have to quiz the town’s drag queens to find out more about VC and Caramella. She could go straight to Caramella herself.

  From under the tiki bar, Joanna pulled a dog-eared phone book. It was getting harder to find them, thanks to everyone’s reliance on the internet. This directory was a few years old, but with any luck Caramella’s firm would be listed. What did Austin say it was called? Perez something. Bingo. There it was, Perez’s Handy Helpers.

  She dialed. A busy-sounding voice answered.

  “Your ad says you make emergency visits. I have an emergency,” she said.

  “What ad?”

  “Your ad in the phone book.”

  A pause. “That has to be years old. Don’t even try to use the coupon.”

  “I don’t care about the coupon. I need one of your handy helpers.”

  The door’s bell jangled as a customer entered, shaking an umbrella. She moved slowly, as if lifting her feet was an effort. The customer glanced at the pile of clothes on the bench on her way to the black cocktail dresses. Joanna waved and raised a finger to indicate she’d be with her in a moment.

  “It’s an emergency?”

  “I own a vintage clothing shop, and one of my clothing rods just fell down. Could you come fix it? I’m hoping you’ll send Lorenzo. I hear he’s great.”

  “Lorenzo’s not working today. Besides, our schedule’s full right now. I could get someone there tomorrow late morning at the earliest.”

  “I’d really like Lorenzo. Is there any way you could convince him to come? Maybe with double pay?” She crossed her fingers and wondered if Crisp would chip in.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Please,” she said. She knew she sounded mournful, and it didn’t come from the broken rack. “It would mean so much to me.”

  She heard a long exhale. “Double pay, you say? Let me look.” A moment passed before the voice came back on the line. “Ernesto might have the time at about three.”

  “Needs to be Lorenzo. He’s the only one I trust.”

  He sighed. “I’ll check. What’s your address?”

  Joanna replaced the receiver and smiled at the customer. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  The woman slumped toward a display of Lucite box purses. “I don’t know.”

  “A special event?” The customer wore mall clothes, and right now they were wrinkled and haphazardly matched. She probably didn’t wear vintage often. “Or maybe you just want to look around.”

  “I need something to wear to my sister’s wedding.”

  Joanna turned to a circular rack with patterned dresses. She had a few good candidates here that would save her from having to dig through the dresses heaped on the bench. The woman looked to be about an eight, and on the short side. The sprigged 1940s rayon dress would be lovely on her and perfect for a wedding.

  “How about this?” Joanna said. “The asymmetrical neckline and peplum are super flattering. Are you a bridesmaid?”

  “Nope.” The woman turned back to the black cocktail dresses. “I want one of these.”

  Black? For a wedding? The customer was always right. “An evening wedding, then.”

  “Nope.”

  Joanna forced a smile and flipped through the black dresses. “Let’s see. Do you have an idea on style?”

  “Lots of boob.”

  What kind of wedding was this? “You mean, like this?” Joanna pulled a disco-era dress from the rack. It was slit up the leg and wrapped at the chest in a low V neck. Long strings of polyester welt studded with rhinestones made its belt. It had never been one of Joanna’s favorites, but Apple had insisted they buy it. She’
d said some teenager would jump on it for the prom.

  But there was no way it was appropriate at a wedding. Joanna was returning it to the rack when the woman said, “Yeah. That one. Let me try that one.”

  “The dressing rooms are in the back. I’ll look for a few others while you’re in there.”

  In a trance, the woman moved toward the dressing rooms.

  The bell at the door jangled again. This time it was Paul. Joanna lit up. “I thought you were working on the staircase today.”

  “I had to come back to pick up a few things. Thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

  “Better now that you’re here.” It was true. Seeing him infused her with warmth.

  Paul picked up an astrakhan-trimmed suit from the pile of clothes on the bench. “What happened here?”

  “I don’t know. The rack came right off the wall.”

  “Let me fix it. I have some tools in the truck.”

  “No,” Joanna said. “I already called someone.”

  “Why? You know it would only take me a second to shore this up.”

  The doorbell rang yet again, and Lorenzo Perez entered carrying a toolbox. If Joanna hadn’t known he might be stopping by, she wouldn’t have recognized him. His dirty tee shirt and jeans were worlds away from Caramella’s flashy, but meticulous, outfits. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. “You need something fixed?” His eyes narrowed. “It’s you. VC’s friend.”

  “What a coincidence,” Joanna said with false cheer.

  “You’re paying double time, right?”

  Paul looked from Lorenzo to Joanna. “Double time? I told you I can fix this.”

  The dressing room curtains rustled from the rear of the store. The woman emerged, wrapped in curvaceous black polyester. She burst into wracking sobs.

  Good grief. Joanna turned to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why are there men here?”

  “One of them’s my boyfriend—”

  The woman’s sobs jumped a few decibels.

  “And the other’s here to fix the clothing rack.”

  “I can fix the rack,” Paul said again, looking at Lorenzo.