The Halston Hit Read online

  “I’ve thought about it, too, and admit I’m stumped.” He lifted his glass to his lips, but the level of the Scotch remained constant. “You asked about Caramella earlier. You suspect her?”

  “I saw Caramella and VC argue just before VC was killed. You would have a better idea of their relationship, having seen them downstairs.”

  He set his tumbler on the coffee table. “I’d call their arguments mostly playful. I didn’t hear any real threat. If you asked me, I might even have thought it was a game. Could have been a mere publicity stunt.”

  “What sorts of things did they argue about?”

  Lewis appeared to think it over. “I can’t say it was about anything in particular, really. They simply insulted each other.” He started to laugh but cut it short. “In clever ways, actually. But, no, I never heard accusations. You found her—VC—didn’t you?”

  Joanna nodded. “Found her” seemed inadequate. Thinking of Marquise and of VC’s family at the funeral home, “turned worlds upside down” was more on target.

  He pulled back his cuff and looked at his watch. “We’d better get on with choosing a lunch menu for you. The service is in half an hour.”

  She rested her now empty glass on the table. “I’m so glad you can do this at the last minute. We won’t need anything fancy.” Goodbye, salmon and pea shoot soup.

  “What are the kitchen facilities like at your venue?”

  “I’m not sure. Yet.” She explained that they were looking for a new spot for the wedding. Her calls to other venues that morning had been unsuccessful, but a few months ago, Penny, the customer and friend who’d bought the Halston, had volunteered her riverside home for the ceremony. Joanna had left a message with her that morning. She crossed her fingers that it was still available. “Is a home kitchen a possibility?”

  “We can make it work.” Lewis examined her a moment. He pushed aside Imago Mundi’s menu. “Certainly, we can do better than the bar food downstairs—good as it is, if I might add.”

  With hope, Joanna said, “The spring Chinook run has started. I might have a connection to some fresh fish.”

  “Perhaps with an asparagus soup? Or pea shoot? I see chive blossoms sprinkling the fillet.”

  This was going to work after all. Together, Lewis and Joanna planned a menu at least as good as the one the first caterer had offered.

  If only gathering information for Crisp were as easily remedied as patching up her wedding. Well, Caramella would be at the service. Perhaps Joanna would have better luck tonight.

  9

  Marquise met Lewis and Joanna at the door. As Joanna’s eyes adjusted to the dark, she made out dozens of votive candles lighting the theater. Candles sat on the tiny tables between chairs. Candles lined the stage. Candles filled the nooks at the bar and at the window where orders came up from the kitchen. The room was a constellation fallen to earth.

  Grief thickened in Joanna’s throat and filled her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to Marquise. Not in drag, Marquise looked smaller, grayer. His eighty-plus years showed in his liver-spotted hands and loose skin beneath his eyes. Marquise’s partner of many years, Foxy, sat nearby, his cane at his knee.

  Lewis gave a shallow bow and walked toward the seats. Joanna lingered back.

  “I’m so glad you could come, dear,” Marquise said. “It’ll be just us girls and a few friends, but we had to have our own ceremony before the official funeral.”

  “There will be a funeral, then?” Joanna asked. “I mean—” She didn’t know what she meant. Of course there’d be a funeral. Bo grew up in a funeral home. He’d probably have a top-flight casket with a glitter blanket wrapping him.

  “I called the family and asked if they’d like to come. I didn’t expect them to say yes, and they didn’t. His mother—such a beautiful woman, have you met her?” —Marquise paused long enough for Joanna to nod— “said the medical examiner wasn’t ready to send her son home yet. The funeral is a few days away.”

  Joanna brushed his cheek with a kiss. “I’ll find a seat.”

  From the few times she’d been at Marquise’s with VC, she’d seen what a warm community it was. It took courage for a man to dress as a woman. Here, it was safe. No matter what the outside world said, here you could be yourself and as fabulous as you wanted. Marquise had spent more than fifty years fostering a multi-generational family of men, many of whom had been ostracized from their birth families. Joanna thought of Bo’s brother, Barry. No doubt Marquise’s had been a haven for VC.

  Joanna took a seat a few rows back from the stage. The theater was half full, and most of the occupants were queens of varying ages who, unlike Marquise, had come in drag. Mourning drag, that is. While the girls wore black, and many had veils pinned to their wigs, their dresses tended toward the sequined and décolleté, and, to a one, they wore heels.

  Summer Seasons, also in drag, slipped into the seat next to Joanna. “May I?” Summer favored lavender and the muted pinks of an English garden’s border. They complemented her honey-blonde hair and sweet—well, mostly—personality.

  “Please.” Joanna leaned toward Summer and raised a finger toward the stage. “Who are they?”

  “That’s VC’s drag family,” she replied in a low voice.

  “VC had talked about them, but I’ve never met them.”

  Summer touched a bejeweled fingernail to her chin. “The one at the right is the matriarch, Chianti Riserva. To the left of her is Sunset Blush—”

  “Sunset Blush?”

  “Kind of sweet and peachy. Not the fanciest wine, okay?”

  “I’m not judging.”

  “Next to her is Sparkling Zinfandel, then Hearty Burgundy.”

  Marquise’s aging sound system sprang to life with Dionne Warwick singing “Don’t Look Me Over.”

  “One of VC’s songs,” Summer said. “Marquise made a playlist.”

  A waiter in a white shirt and black vest passed plastic tumblers of white wine down their row. Chablis, no doubt. Joanna sipped. Perhaps along the lines of Sunset Blush.

  Summer pulled a pink flask from her purse and doctored the wine. “Vodka. My special spritzer. Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” Joanna squinted and examined the crowd. It was too dark to make out every face. “Where’s Caramella?”

  Summer swiveled in her seat. “Don’t know. I thought she’d be here by now.”

  Caramella was proving impossible to find. “What’s going to happen tonight?”

  “Testimonials. VC’s family will talk, then anyone who wants to take the stage can say something. You want to move over?”

  A queen with a massive sable-tinted wig had sat in front of Joanna. “If you don’t mind.”

  They shifted a seat. The queen turned around. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t see you back there. All this black, you know.”

  The second round of chablis was on its way. Joanna put up a hand to refuse it. The queen in front of her lifted her plastic glass so that Joanna’s was poured into her own.

  Chianti Riserva took the microphone. She was in sequined black spandex that strained over her ample belly. Her lipstick shone glossy fuchsia. She was the chicest butch grandma Joanna had ever seen. Chianti Riserva extracted a pair of reading glasses from her clutch.

  “It is with the deepest sadness that I preside over our celebration of VC’s life and our grief over her death,” she read. “Today I want to tell you how I witnessed the birth of Vintage Chablis from Bo Milton.”

  Sunset Blush pressed a tissue to her eyes. Joanna scanned the audience again. Marquise sat near the rear with his hand on Foxy’s knee. Still no Caramella. She’d have nothing to report to Crisp. A movement near the wall caught her eye. It was the cook, small and dark against the draperies, nearly featureless compared with the queens.

  “I met Bo three years ago. Only three, although I feel like I’ve known him forever. I’d first noticed him in the audience. He must have come a dozen times before he stopped me after the show. I was on
the sidewalk smoking a cigarette. It was hot as blazes out there.” Chianti Riserva looked up from her notes. “A warm evening, way warm for June. Now, young men approach me all the time. Usually they want some interesting entertainment—”

  A few audience members snickered.

  “—or they’re infatuated with the drag world. Only one in a hundred has what it takes to be a queen. Maybe fewer. I had a good feeling about this boy, though. It wasn’t just his looks—”

  Here, again, a rumble started in the audience. The waiter passed another round of glasses of chablis.

  “—although they were certainly good enough. It was his serenity. Like he knew this was his destiny. He wasn’t anxious or worried. He knew.”

  “Hallelujah,” Hearty Burgundy said.

  “And he was indeed expert at cosmetics,” Chianti Riserva said. “I didn’t know at the time it was from making up corpses. He showed me a few good tricks with lighting. And I, in turn, gave him permission to unleash his inner queen. And I gave him his name, due to his love of vintage clothing.” The queen put a hand over her eyes to look into the audience. “There she is. The gal who owns the vintage clothing shop.”

  A spotlight swung to Joanna. She blinked against it. As quickly as it had shone, it vanished.

  “We all loved the Halston,” Chianti Riserva said. “VC did, too. It is fitting that it was the last gown she wore.”

  A weighty pillow of sadness pressed on Joanna from the inside, and the emotion that filled the theater soaked through her pores from the outside, too. So much love, so much grief. At the core of her grief, a blue flame struck and lit. Someone must pay for doing this to VC. It wasn’t right. A murderer waylaid VC and shot her just like that. One floor below where Joanna now sat. Why? What had VC done to deserve it? It was so, so wrong.

  Joanna whispered an excuse to Summer and slid from her seat. Caramella had to be here somewhere. For a better view, Joanna positioned herself along the wall, near the cook. Only a few unadorned heads peppered the mishmash of flamboyant wigs in the audience. She couldn’t make out everyone, but Caramella didn’t stand out, either in drag or street clothes. Where was she?

  “And her strut,” Chianti Riserva said. “Unimpeachable.” The drag queen hustled across the stage in a close imitation of VC’s stride. The audience cheered, their plastic cups of wine catching the light as they toasted her.

  When the clamor died down, Chianti Riserva continued. “What VC had was charisma. Not every pretty queen has it. Maybe they look good, they have the walk, they can dance. But charisma is something that comes from the heart.” The drag queen clutched a fist to her chest. “When she was on stage, no one could look away.”

  Joanna leaned to the cook. “Have you seen Caramella?”

  The cook’s skin was nearly translucent, as if it rarely took nourishment from the sun. “Why?”

  “I thought she’d be here, that’s all.”

  The cook started to say something, but closed his mouth. Without a word, he turned his back and walked toward the basement stairs.

  Joanna stared after him. That certainly went well. Giving up for the moment on finding Caramella, she returned to her seat next to Summer.

  Marquise took the microphone next. “VC was a daughter to me,” he started. The next hour was filled with heartfelt odes to VC’s gentleness, sly sense of humor, and kindness. Several jugs of chablis were emptied, as well. Joanna had kept her drinking to a minimum, but the crowd around her had gone full-on bacchanalia.

  When the last speaker left the stage, Shirley Bassey’s “Get the Party Started” came over the speakers, then jumped a notch in volume.

  “One of VC’s favorites.” Summer had to raise her voice to say it. She tossed a wad of tissues to the floor. A smile spread over her glossy lips, and she extended a hand to Joanna. Hand in hand, they mounted the now-crowded stage. The mesmerizing refrain throbbed through the theater.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if VC herself showed up,” a man’s voice said next to her.

  Joanna jumped at the words. It was only Lewis.

  “They’re singing loud enough to raise the dead, anyway. Quite a lot of chablis has been consumed,” he added.

  “Yes.” She was still regaining her breath.

  The music roared around them. VC’s drag family lip synced the song, and the stage was crowded with drag queens waving their arms and singing. By some genius born through years of performing, they even managed a coordinated dance routine. The song started again.

  “Appetizers are set up at the rear.”

  All at once, Joanna was too full of emotion to think about eating. “VC. I can’t believe it,” she mouthed. This was their party now. She wanted to be home, with Paul. Her grieving needed to unfurl in its own, quieter way. “I’d better get going.”

  Nearly two hours had passed at Marquise’s. A spring drizzle had kicked up in the street outside, and despite the usual crowds of nightclubbers, the sidewalk felt empty, even bleak, after the emotional chaos inside.

  “It’s dark.” Lewis appeared beside her. “After what happened to VC, you shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  “If you don’t mind walking me to my car, I’d appreciate it. I’m parked just down the block,” Joanna said.

  They walked in silence. Old Town’s buildings were mostly iron-fronted and narrow, showing turn-of-the-century construction. The ornate trim had been ripped from some buildings years ago and stucco, now cracking, smoothed their facades. A few, like Imago Mundi, had been restored and were ready for an old western movie’s stage set.

  A knot of people stood in front of Hobo’s, the bar down the block from Marquise’s. They didn’t look dressed for clubbing in their tennis shoes and coats.

  “Waiting for the shanghai tunnels tour,” Lewis said.

  “You think they’re real, the tunnels?” Joanna asked.

  “There’s nothing in Imago Mundi’s basement but mold.” They passed an empty storefront, a man covered with an old sleeping bag filling the doorway. A pit bull snuggled against his owner. “Tourist trap, those so-called tunnels are,” Lewis said. “That’s all. Kind of a shame, though. It’s a good story.”

  They reached Joanna’s car, an ancient Corolla she’d named Old Blue.

  “I’ll see you this Sunday.”

  “Thank you for everything. Thanks especially for coming through for my wedding. It would have been take-out pizza without you.”

  “I’m happy to do it. In fact, I’ll be there personally to make sure it gets done right. Do get back to me with the location.”

  She opened her mouth for a final goodbye when she heard the voice, a clear tenor.

  “Joanna,” it said.

  A cold shiver vibrated through her gut. She knew that voice, but it was impossible. VC was dead.

  “Over here.”

  Both Joanna and Lewis looked toward the narrow alley between the abandoned building and the design studio next door.

  “VC.” Lewis staggered back.

  “Can’t be,” Joanna said.

  VC stepped into the light for a split second, then retreated. There was no mistaking her sharp cheekbones and full lips. She was dressed all in black, like the mourners at her memorial service. The veil from her close-fitting vintage hat dipped over her eyes.

  It couldn’t be VC. Couldn’t. Yet she knew Joanna’s name.

  With a yelp, Lewis snapped to life. He pulled away from Joanna and propelled his bulk down the street, running away from the alley. Joanna stared after him only a second before returning her gaze toward VC.

  She was gone.

  Joanna’s limbs finally loosened, and she ran across the street toward the alley, narrowly missing being hit by a taxi. But VC’s lithe figure, gracefully moving on four-inch leopard stilettos, had vanished around the corner.

  10

  Joanna looked again down the street. Lewis had disappeared. By the time she made it around the block, VC would be long gone.

  Who could it have been? VC’s elegant carriag
e was distinctive. Adele had told her she’d seen VC at their back door after she’d died. Unless—Joanna stood straighter—unless it was family. VC’s brother, Barry, was near enough VC in figure to impersonate her. Adele might have, too, for that matter. Marquise said he’d invited the family to the memorial service. They knew when and where it was.

  Joanna slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. What would inspire VC’s family to play such a macabre prank? No. Joanna didn’t believe it. And yet, who else could it be? She’d settle this in a few minutes.

  As she raced across town, impatient at stoplights, a thought grew. She had seen only VC’s body in Marquise’s basement. Not her face. By some miracle, could VC be alive?

  At last, Joanna was at the funeral home, guiding Old Blue into a dark spot on the street below the funeral home. For a moment, she had the sensation of standing in a 1950s horror movie, with the moon shining over a haunted mansion, century-old trees obscuring its face.

  Drawing a shaky breath, she crept around the edge of the parking area to the back of the funeral home where VC’s family might keep its cars. A minivan, weakly lit by a yellow mercury light, was parked by the garage. She laid a palm on its hood. Cold. No one had used this car recently.

  Catching her breath, Joanna faced the funeral home’s rear. Pale light showed through the basement-level kitchen windows. The rest of the home—the visitation rooms filling the mansion’s old bedrooms upstairs—was dark. The adrenaline in her system cooled and retreated. She leaned against the minivan a moment to catch her breath.

  There was no way she’d seen VC. Detective Crisp said VC had died. Joanna had seen her body with her own eyes. Her body. Not her face, she reminded herself. A shiver ran over her.

  Around the funeral home’s corner came a dark blue sedan. Joanna stood as the sedan slid into the spot next to the minivan. VC’s brother, Barry, was at the wheel. There was nowhere to hide.

  Barry stepped from the car. “What are you doing here?” He was cleanly shaven, but no trace of makeup. He wore jeans and a hoodie. “You’re VC’s friend, right? The one with the vintage clothing store?”