Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

He returned a few minutes later. He'd shaved for the sisters, and his smooth face showed a strong jaw. How did she get so lucky to find him? Warmth washed over her.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Can we stop at your house?"
 

He smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth. "You have something you need to do?"

"Yes." She touched his shoulder and whispered, "Green light."

He broke into a broad grin, and he took the dresses from her arms. "Let's go."

"I dread it. I know I have to do it, but I don't want to. I wish I’d never signed that contract." Poppy turned from the window in her office and plopped into the chair behind her desk. A pile of mail slid sideways from her inbox, and she absently re-stacked it. The ordeal of being in jail had taken its toll. Her cheeks were thin, and shadows smudged her eyes.

"It's the best way to show you're innocent. All you have to do is get up there and do your job. The job you’ve won awards for. The job you love," Joanna said. From Poppy's office, she saw Ben lead a photographer to a wall of paintings in the warehouse. Probably getting ready for the next auction.

"Everyone will be looking at me," Poppy said.

"And seeing how sure and confident you are. You'll show them you're the same person, not a criminal. Sure, they'll be curious, but after a few drinks they'll forget all about it."

"Some of the people in that room had their jewelry stolen. You really think they'll be happy to see me?"

 
"And they all have fat insurance checks to show for it. Besides, you didn't do it. Plus, you know how much you love auctioneering."

Poppy didn't reply at first. She fidgeted with a pen, then looked out toward the warehouse. "I know. Thank you for your encouragement. I just—I have a bad feeling about it, that's all."

Joanna chose her words carefully. Detective Sedillo had warned her not to tell Poppy about the sting. Poppy had to respond naturally to whatever came up. Still, if Joanna could comfort her just the tiniest bit..."I've been thinking about the charges. The police must have good evidence—"

"I didn't do it!"

"—Not against you, but against the auction house. You're not the only person who works here. There are the guys in the warehouse, the spotters, and even Ben." She ached to tell Poppy about the chance that she'd have her named cleared, but Sedillo's warning had been stern.

Like faraway lightning, the photographer's flash pulsed twice in the dim warehouse.
 

"The police talked to everyone, I'm sure," Poppy said.

"But if one of them were involved, he might want to cast the blame on you."

Poppy leaned forward. "What are you getting at?"

"Assume the police are right." How close could she get to hinting at the sting operation?

"But they're not."

"I know you're innocent, but Poppy, hear me out. Let's assume someone really is using the auction house to sell stolen diamonds. That person would get the jewels somewhere, then hide them in things auctioned off, then ship them out. Or, the items are arriving with the diamonds already hidden, and someone here knows that."

"My lawyer told me about what the police found when they compared the inventories and manifests."
 

Since Joanna's visit to the police, officers had taken a year's worth of inventories from Poppy's office. "Exactly. Someone changed the manifests after the shipments came in. Who has access to your computer besides you?"

"Ben," Poppy said. They looked at each other. "You don't think—?" Poppy began. The flash pulsed again, a rat-a-tat of light through the office windows.

Joanna lowered her voice. "Who else could it be? Plus, he's the only other one with a key to your office. And, he was the one who fired Travis. I think Travis has a crush on you, by the way."

"You talked to Travis?"

"I had to. I had to make sure there was some evidence to move forward before I talked to the police and—"

"You talked to the police, too?" Poppy pushed her chair back from the desk and looked at Joanna in shock. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She'd gone too far. "I haven't had the chance until now." Joanna kept her voice low in an attempt to calm Poppy. "It's just that I know you're innocent." She drew a breath. "Remember, you asked me to help."
 

"I know." Poppy shook her head and gazed out the office window. "If you're right, why would he use the auction house at all? If Ben—or someone else—were selling stolen diamonds, why not just deliver them?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe he's only the middle man and isn't supposed to know the identity of the people doing the selling." Joanna drew back. "There's one other thing I can't figure out, either."

"What?"

"How all this ties in with Vivienne's murder. If it does."

The animation left Poppy's face. If they could just make it through the NAP auction, people would see she was the same person they knew and trusted.
 

Flash, flash went the photographer's light. Joanna turned so her back was to the window. "Oh Poppy. Don't worry. First things first—let's get through the auction."
 

The phone rang, a trilling old-fashioned ring. "Someone else can get it," Poppy said.

"It's going to turn out all right. I know it." Joanna turned to the sound of a sharp rapping on the window of Poppy's office.
 

It was Ben. Joanna looked away. "Phone for you," he said to Poppy. "The police. They're releasing the North estate."

***

Paul slid one of the trunks from the bed of his pickup. "Do you have the end?"

"Yes," Joanna said. Her voice strained from effort of holding the clothes-laden trunk, but her body thrummed with excitement.

"Here, push it back in. I'll go get the dolly."

She was impatient to get at the clothes again, touch their fabric and see if they were as impressive as she'd remembered, but Paul was right. The trunk was too heavy. A moment later he emerged from Tallulah's Closet rolling a hand truck. With two pulls, he eased the trunk onto the hand truck and wheeled it into the store.

Joanna took a rag from the bathroom and mopped off the trunk's damp surface. The trunk stood on its end like a compact wardrobe. She fidgeted with the latch, then opened it, and the fragrance of cedar and faint perfume reached her nose. Fracas. It must have been Vivienne’s signature scent. Satisfaction—and relief—nearly stole her breath. Paul left to get the other two trunks.

She pulled an afternoon dress from the first trunk. "Oh Paul. Look at this," she said when he returned. The dress was light gray wool with satin piping at the sleeves, waist, and neck.
 

"It looks kind of plain, really."

"Deceptively simple." She flipped the dress around and put a hand under the skirt. "Check out the shaping. Six darts on the back alone. And see the sleeves? These tucks mold them so they're perfectly smooth when your arm is at its most natural position, which isn't straight like you'd think, but slightly bent." She looked up at Paul. "Mainbocher. One of the Duchess of Windsor's favorites. And the tailoring is immaculate. You can be sure this dress fit Vivienne in a way it would fit no one else. Its matching jacket," she said as she reached into the trunk. She ran her fingers over barely perceptible pinholes where Vivienne must have habitually worn a brooch. "Just gorgeous."

"I love seeing you like this. It’s like you can see the lives lived in the clothing. Amazing."

"Sometimes it feels that way." She looked at him and smiled, but returned at once to the wardrobe. "Look! A Scaasi evening dress. It's so heavy." She unfolded a blanket over the bench in the middle of the store and slid the dress onto it. The thick, peacock-blue fabric was folded with dove-gray silk into a sleeveless, floor-length gown with a small tie at the chest. "Here's its coat. These lines are practically Japanese." The back of the coat dropped straight from folds at the top of the shoulder into a short train. "So, so beautiful. From the Meier and Frank Crest Room, the tag says. She bought it here in town."

 
"There's a note on the hanger. Worn at the opening of the Hilton Hotel, January 1960," he read.

"Scaasi's 1959 collection. I might even have a picture of this dress in a book. Amazing." Joanna sighed with happiness. A truly beautiful article of clothing squeezed her heart. If she were lucky, the sensation came along once a month. Now the heart-squeezing dizzied her. Sipping a Martini while sitting in a nineteenth-century apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower wouldn't produce as satisfying a high. "I almost don't believe I really have them. I think somehow I thought these clothes were gone for good, that I'd never get them."
 

The store was dark but for the standing lamp she'd clicked on, illuminating the trunk and bathing the room in sepia tones. Paul examined the trunk the clothes were in. "This isn't bad, either. It's tricked out as a wardrobe. Even has its own little drawers."

"You can have it when I’m done. I don’t care," she said, distracted by the clothing.

Vivienne's life hung in the trunk, from her days as a Dior house model to the dresses she must have bought on trips to Europe or New York in the 1950s to the designer ready-to-wear she was able to get in Portland. She probably had a favorite sales woman at the Crest Room who called her when especially beautiful dresses arrived. Vivienne would have been a good customer. Joanna remembered Meier & Frank's lattice-roofed dining room at the top of the store, now gone. Maybe Vivienne had lunch there from time to time. She would have tucked her gloves in her purse, shopping bags at her feet, while a waiter presented her a scoop of chicken salad in a silver cup of crushed ice.

"Maybe you should go home," Joanna said. "I could be here for hours. I just want to look at everything, see what I really bought."

"Will the clothes be safe here?"

"I'll put them in the basement storage in the morning—it'll take a while to get everything downstairs. They should be all right overnight." Gazing at the trunks, an almost tearful joy surfaced. "I hate to sell them, but I'll need to unload a few pieces right away so I can start paying back the loan." She ran a hand over the trunk. "The Dior suit really should go to a museum."

Paul nodded. "Money. It always seems to come back to that, doesn't it? I know once summer starts there will be plenty of work, but until then at least I have one good job, and you know I'll help you out."

Joanna looked up just as Paul turned toward the front window. His face reflected off the plate glass. "What job is that?" she asked, suspecting the answer. Her jaw tensed.

Paul turned squarely toward her. "Eve's showroom. You remember."

The bliss over Vivienne's wardrobe melted. A cold anxiety took its place. "Do you have to?" She shouldn't have asked. She was too emotional already. God knew what would come out of her mouth.

"I do, Jo. I need the money. This is a good job. We already talked about it. Besides, I'm not sure exactly what you're worrying about."

"I see." She pulled open one of the trunk's drawers and withdrew a satin evening bag. She unclipped it. Inside were a torn ticket stub and a handkerchief. A mixture of disappointment and apprehension surged. "You didn't have to take that job. Once these dresses start selling I'll have plenty of money for both of us. Really. I’ll have so much more time after the auction, when Poppy—" She stopped short.

"When Poppy what?" Paul’s knuckles whitened where he clutched the edge of the trunk. It wasn't often he was so serious. "I thought she was in jail."

"She’s out on bail." Joanna turned toward the trunk and kept her hands busy.

"You mentioned the auction and Poppy. What’s going on that you haven’t told me?"

"I just don't trust Eve," Joanna said. "You know how she's tried to stab me in the back every chance she's had."
 

"Stop changing the subject. This isn’t about Eve. Joanna" —he put a finger under her chin— "look at me."

She pulled her head away and slid onto the bench. "Stop it. What do you expect me to do—let Poppy rot in prison for something she never did?"

Paul stood. "I don’t believe it. You promised me you’d leave this alone."

"You don’t understand. I—"

"What’s happening at the auction, anyway?" A look of comprehension crossed his face. "No. A sting operation. You did it, didn’t you? You took up the idea of a sting operation—"

"The police are involved. It’s not me—"

"Joanna." The force of his words took her breath away. "I’m giving you a choice. Right now. Leave Poppy to the police, or that’s it."

An ultimatum. The words hung in the air. The room was unnaturally quiet.

"You’re joking." He had to be. They’d come so far since the summer before. They’d built up so much. He’d never put her in this kind of position.

"No. I’m not."

"Paul. You can’t do this to me. You can’t force me to make this choice." Didn’t he get it? Her friend was in trouble, and she was in a position to help.
 

"You just made it." He felt his pocket for his keys.
 

"Poppy’s in trouble. She could go to jail for years for a crime she didn’t do. What am I supposed to do? Let it be? That’s not right."

He shook his head. "Risking your own life for hers is pure stupidity. You don’t know what could happen. Trust me."

"Who says I’m risking my life?" He didn’t even know about the phone call, the nightgown in the dressing room. Maybe he had a point. But she’d come this far, and there was no turning back. Not now. "Don’t go."

"I can’t be with you if you’re going to take these kind of risks. And break promises." He stopped, looked at the ground, then turned to the door. "I’m leaving." The door shut firmly behind him.

She knew that determined tone. Joanna shoved her hand under her thigh to stop its trembling. He wouldn't change his mind. Or would he? Sure, he was stubborn, but this concern seemed out of line. Uncharacteristic. Maybe he’d come back and say it was all a mistake. She'd apologize then, they’d talk it out. He’d understand why she did what she did.