The Halston Hit Read online

  “Make them go away. I’m going back in the dressing room, and I’m not coming out until they’re gone.” She ducked behind the curtain and yanked it shut hard enough that a ring popped off the panel.

  What a mess. First, she had to get Paul out of here. Maybe the customer would calm down. She slipped her arm through Paul’s. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “You’re sure—”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  He glanced at Lorenzo on his way out. “Double time? Really?”

  Lorenzo set down his toolbox and marched to the dressing room. “Honey,” he said.

  “Go away,” the woman said and sniffed loudly.

  Joanna bit her lip. Should she send Lorenzo away? She wanted to talk to him about VC, but it was impossible with this customer. The customer’s sobbing made up her mind. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay you for your time, but you’d better leave.”

  “What’s she doing in there?” he asked.

  “Trying on a dress for her sister’s wedding.” Why did he care?

  Lorenzo waved Joanna away. He seemed less tired now, a little more alert. “Honey,” he said again to the customer. “You still have that dress on?”

  “Yes,” came the reply through sniffles.

  “Come out and show me.”

  “No.”

  Joanna leaned forward. “Really. You’d better leave.”

  Lorenzo ignored her. “I just want to check the fit on the back. I think you can use a little more drape.”

  Slowly, the woman emerged from behind the curtain. Tears stained her cheeks. Lorenzo handed her a fresh handkerchief. She turned her back, as he’d asked.

  “That’s what I thought.” He pulled an inch of fabric from the back. “See? This style needs drape up top to balance the tight bottom.”

  The customer turned to face him. Her eyes were red, and mascara rimmed their edges. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Okay,” she almost whispered.

  Lorenzo pulled up the stool Joanna kept for trying on shoes. “Now what’s a pretty girl like you doing wearing that skanky thing to a wedding?”

  “I wouldn’t call it skanky, exactly—” Joanna started.

  The customer sniffed but didn’t respond.

  “So, it’s like that, is it?” he said. “She went and got engaged to your man, am I right?”

  “We were dating first. He said he loved me. Then she started seeing him behind my back….” Sobbing, the woman fell into his arms.

  He patted her back. “Darling, congratulations. You’ve now officially got rid of that jerk. Dodged a bullet, I say.”

  “But it hurts so bad.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about pain. I know about pain,” he said. “I know about wanting to hurt someone because he hurt you. But we’re going to fix that.”

  The woman leaned away. “How?”

  “Revenge, honey.”

  Joanna sat up straighter. The Herb Alpert record had ended, but she didn’t want to move away to change it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He needs to be real sorry for what he did.”

  A chill prickled the back of Joanna’s arms.

  “We’re going to make you look so good that you feel like a superstar,” Lorenzo said. “Not a tramp. You’re going to parade into that wedding with a ‘la-di-da, screw you.’”

  Paul appeared with his toolbox. Joanna reluctantly left Lorenzo and the customer to meet him by the door. “You came back. You, my friend, are stubborn.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. I can fix the rack. There’s no need to pay anyone.”

  Lorenzo was deep in discussion with the customer at the store’s rear.

  “That’s Caramella, the queen who had it out for VC,” she whispered. “I wanted to talk to her, see if I could dig up something for Crisp.”

  “Well, he’s here now. How about if I fix the rack in the meantime?”

  Paul couldn’t help himself, Joanna knew. She glanced warily at the customer. “All right.”

  “Let’s have some music,” Lorenzo shouted. “Something upbeat. Girlfriend here needs a dress.”

  Joanna looked at Paul. He shrugged. “I have a disco favorites album. How about that?” she shouted back.

  “Maybe some Gloria Gaynor?” he said. “A little, you know, ‘I Will Survive’?”

  “I’ll play that first.”

  An hour later, the customer had left with a smile and two items—a red dress that hugged her curves without an R rating, and a pale pink dressing gown “for your alone time, your special time,” as Lorenzo had put it. The clothing rack was fixed, and Paul had returned to the stairwell job.

  Lorenzo stayed. He helped Joanna return the dresses to the rack and seemed in better spirits than he had when he’d come in. “You didn’t ask me here to fix anything. Not with that man around.”

  “He wasn’t here when you arrived,” she said.

  “This rack was just an excuse.”

  Joanna moved a blue dress so it was grouped with the other blue items in a spectrum from the cornflower blue of china plates to rich navy. She would simply come out with it. “It’s about VC.”

  “Ah.” Lorenzo handed her the last item, a red cotton shirtwaist dress.

  “Do you have any idea why someone would have killed VC?”

  Lorenzo examined Joanna. “We had a feud, and you wonder if I killed her. That’s why I’m here.” He stepped back. “That’s why you called.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “You called me here, and you knew I’d bring a box of tools.” His expression hardened to disgust. “I’ve got things in there that could kill you in seconds.”

  “What are you saying?” She wished Paul were still there. Or anyone else.

  “I’m stronger than you. We’re alone. It would be easy.”

  Joanna’s breath quickened. It was all talk. Had to be. There was a jar of hatpins on the jewelry counter, but that was at least ten feet away.

  “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” Lorenzo gazed out the window, a faraway look in his eyes. “Well, I got nothing to say, either.”

  He picked up his toolbox and left.

  “Apple?” Joanna picked up the phone and carried it to the store’s bench. “Feeling any better?”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “Have you found a wedding dress yet?”

  “I will. I’m not worried.” That was a lie. “Good news on the catering, though. The guy who owns Imago Mundi is going to do it. The food’s not bad, either.”

  It was toward the end of the day, and judging from the crowd wandering past Tallulah’s Closet, business at Dot’s, the bar next door, was picking up. Sometimes a group of women would come in the store while their boyfriends drank beer next door, so Joanna stayed open through happy hour.

  At last, Apple sounded more encouraged. “He can do a whole lunch for twenty-five people?”

  “Said it was no problem. I’m meeting with him tomorrow.”

  “That’s great news. I’m relieved.”

  “You and me both.” Aside from the wedding gown, she was back on track. “Someone else called from the ad. They’re going to drop a wedding dress by. This one sounds good. Mid-sixties, long, not as formal as the last one.”

  “There’s barely time for alterations. I hope it fits.”

  Joanna hoped it fit, too, especially now that she didn’t even have the Priscilla of Boston to fall back on. “You sound tired.”

  She sighed. “I am.”

  “Apple, what’s wrong? You’ve been out of sorts for the past couple of weeks. You’re not telling me something.”

  She laughed, a hollow laugh. “I’m fine. Just off my game. You know.”

  This was not like Apple. Normally she was the upbeat one, encouraging Joanna to get out more or drink some sort of tincture or herbal smoothie to boost her chi.

  “You want me to bring you something? I suppose Gavin is taking care of that,
though.”

  The phone was silent. The faint bass of a Roxy Music song vibrated through the wall Tallulah’s Closet shared with Dot’s Cafe.

  “Apple?” Joanna prompted.

  A vaguely familiar young woman in a navy business suit entered the store. It was rare to see women in suits these days, especially a blue one. The color gave her the unfortunate air of being in the Salvation Army. But instead of a tuba, she carried a leather attaché, which meant she wasn’t the person who’d called with a wedding dress. Where did she know this woman from? Seeing Joanna on the phone, she half-heartedly examined a dropped-waist gold velvet flapper-style dress.

  “You need your gown,” Apple said. “The wedding is less than a week away. This is ridiculous. A woman who owns a dress shop ought to have something to wear to her own wedding.”

  “I’ll find something.” She willed this to be true. “Maybe this next dress will be the perfect one.”

  “You’d better hope so.” Joanna opened her mouth to tell Apple she had a customer and would call her back, when Apple said, “Are you going to VC’s service?”

  “Definitely.” Today’s attempts to learn more about Caramella failed, but she was hoping the memorial service would offer opportunities. “I’m meeting with the caterer just before it. Do you think you’ll be up to working, or should I close early?”

  A long sigh reached Joanna’s ears. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure?” Why was Apple being so secretive?

  “I’m just a little under the weather, that’s all.”

  “Let’s touch base tomorrow. A customer just came in.”

  Hearing this, the suited woman approached the tiki bar. “Joanna Hayworth?”

  Joanna replaced the receiver. “Yes. Are you looking for something special?” She’d already mentally selected a dark red wool suit from the 1950s with a nipped waist for the woman to try. With brown heels—luggage brown was terrific with a mid-century cranberry red—she’d rock the suited look. It was much better than that cheap blue thing she wore.

  “I’m from the Morning Glory bed and breakfast. You rented it for your wedding.”

  Joanna smiled, but her intuition sounded warning bells. This woman wasn’t here for a suit. “I thought I recognized you. How are things? I was planning to call tomorrow morning. We’re changing caterers.”

  The woman toyed with business cards Joanna had set in a shell-shaped porcelain dish. “I wanted to come in person.”

  Joanna’s heart sank. “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” From the woman’s pleading eyes, the news was as hard on her as she anticipated it would be on Joanna. “A pipe upstairs broke and flooded the first floor. It’ll be at least a week before the house is back to normal.”

  “The house doesn’t have to be perfect. As long as there’s room to eat and have the ceremony—”

  “It’s worse than dampness, I’m afraid. We pulled up the carpets, and there’s dry rot all along the joists. The plumber thinks it’s been leaking for years.”

  Joanna felt for a seat behind her. There had to be something they could do about the venue. “So, it’s hopeless? You’re sure?”

  The woman clenched her hands. “I’m afraid so. I brought you back your deposit.”

  Five days until the ceremony. What was she going to do? “My wedding.” The words came out in a tiny voice.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  8

  The next afternoon, Joanna parked down the block from Marquise’s. A handwritten sign posted on the door said that Marquise’s would be closed that night for a “private event.” People passing by might have thought it was a bachelorette or birthday party. Few would have suspected it was for a dead man.

  She carried a long sheaf of star magnolia branches for the memorial service. She’d visited a florist, but the tulips and gladioli in plastic sleeves were soulless. She wanted something with VC’s drama and charming imperfections, so she raided her own garden. The flowers would barely last the evening, but that was somehow fitting, too.

  Joanna passed Marquise’s and walked around the corner to Imago Mundi. Happy hour had just begun, and only a few people sat at the bar. Just two booths were taken. Maybe she’d be able to get in a word with the bartender, see if he had any ideas about Caramella and VC’s fights.

  Instead, Lewis Custard met her right away. “Joanna. Martini, nice and dry, with a twist. Did I remember right?” He slid his bulk onto the stool and patted the one next to his in an invitation to join him. He seemed to have taken pains to smooth his beard, and, like her, he wore black.

  “If it’s not too much trouble.” She placed her clutch and flowers on the bar and took a stool.

  “I take it you’re going to VC’s service, too,” Lewis said.

  “Yes.” Joanna wore a simple 1940s crepe dress with three-quarter length sleeves and just a hint of shoulders. She’d chosen a matching cameo bracelet and necklace to go with it. VC would have liked them. “It seems odd to talk about a wedding right before a memorial service.”

  “Passages of life,” Lewis said. “In some African tribes, when the head of a family dies, at his funeral ceremony a chosen brother attempts to impregnate the wife.” At Joanna’s startled twitch, he dipped his head. “I’m sorry. It’s easier to spout anthropological trivia than deal with death.”

  “Did you know VC well?”

  “No. Other than seeing her here, not at all, really. But I’m close to Marquise’s community. I feel it.” Lewis raised his hand, and the bartender, a thin man with bleached hair carefully combed to hide a receding hairline, stood at attention. “Joanna here would like a martini.”

  “Vodka or gin?” the bartender asked.

  “Gin, if you please,” he said sternly. Then, to Joanna, “I’ve told them to serve gin when someone orders a martini, but there are simply too many people who drink vodka. Infidels.”

  “I’m with you. There’s no such thing as a vodka martini. Only vodka cocktails.”

  “I’m more of a Scotch man, but I respect that.”

  The martini appeared on the oak bar, and the bartender, without asking, set a low tumbler of brown liquid and ice in front of Lewis. “Cheers,” Lewis said. “I only wish it could be a more joyous occasion.”

  “Maybe someone will try to knock up one of the queens tonight.” Joanna raised the glass to her lips and sampled the gin’s bite.

  “Touché.” Lewis slid from his seat. “Shall we take these upstairs? We can discuss the menu there, where it’s more quiet.”

  “You live upstairs?”

  “Just like a shopkeeper. Yes, I own the whole building. Bought it when I sold my medical practice.”

  Gingerly holding her cocktail, Joanna followed Lewis to the restaurant’s rear, into the hall with the bathrooms. Lewis unlocked a door that could have been a utility closet, but which opened into a staircase.

  “Alexis says a lot of the girls from Marquise’s come to Imago Mundi.”

  “I give them the service industry discount. Local color. Patrons love it when they come in drag.”

  She calculated her next words. “The customers don’t mind the attitude? I know the performers can get loud sometimes, especially if they’re amped up after a show. I’ve heard VC and Caramella, for instance, used to get into it.”

  Lewis raised an eyebrow. “They did, at that.”

  He motioned for Joanna to climb the stairs ahead of him. The door at the top opened into a kitchen. “Come this way.” He led her to the front of the building, where a living room ran the width of the apartment. A low seating area of white leather couches with a large, square coffee table filled the room’s center. One wall was windows, showing the street’s rain-blackened tree branches breaking into bud.

  Joanna saw all this as normal for the apartment of a well-to-do bachelor. What was unusual were the framed maps covering the walls from floor to ceiling. The map across from her showed dragons rising from the sea.

  The setting sun reflected in L
ewis’s glasses. “You notice my maps.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “Mapmaking is an art, but a science, too. Sometimes you know the point of origin and the destination, but the rest is unknown. Filled by imagination. Like the real Imago Mundi.”

  “What you named your restaurant after. It means ‘image of the world,’ or something like that, doesn’t it?”

  “It was a stone tablet found in Babylonia. They guess it to be from five hundred years before the birth of Christ. It shows seven tiny islands with names like ‘beyond the flight of the birds.’ The in-between is blank.”

  “Like the facts of VC’s death,” Joanna couldn’t help noting.

  “Indeed. Horrible.”

  She took in another sweeping glance of the walls, colorful with wavy coastlines and imaginary oceans. “How did you get so interested in maps?”

  “I have a lung condition and can’t fly. A shame. I’ve always been fascinated by the rest of the world, ever since I was a child, forced to stay home from school. The maps have become a bit of an obsession, a way to see the world.”

  “Maybe that explains your interest in medicine. Your lung condition, that is.”

  He smiled. “Very observant.” He picked up an auction catalog on the table and opened it to a marked page. “This is the next map I have my eye on.”

  Joanna choked a bit on her martini when she saw the expected value. The restaurant business must be more lucrative than she’d thought.

  “It’s a medieval French map of Africa. Stunning detail. Mapmaking is only now getting the attention it deserves as an art. It’s about so much more than finding your way.”

  They were surrounded by a king’s ransom in old maps. “Will the sunlight damage them?”

  “Oh, no. Those are replicas. I keep the real maps under archival conditions in a special room, back there.”

  A thought occurred to Joanna. She leaned forward. “Could VC’s death have to do with this? Maybe someone was trying to break in through Marquise’s to get to the maps.”

  “It’s happened before. An attempted robbery, that is. But coming through an adjacent building seems foolhardy, not to mention unnecessary.”

  Joanna relaxed into the couch again. “I suppose so. I just don’t understand why VC was killed.”