The Mother Superior leaned back on her pillows, a spring breeze rustling the nodding orchid on her night stand. She breathed in and relaxed into a what was surely a rare smile. Joanna moved to the window. Paul, on a ladder outside, stuck a penknife into a first floor window frame.
"What is he doing now?" the Mother Superior asked.
"Checking for dry rot is my guess."
"Thank you, dear, for arranging for your gentleman friend to take stock of the convent." Her smiled dimmed a watt. "He's not standing in the flower beds, is he?"
Joanna laughed. "No. He's careful about things like that." She turned again to the window. Paul moved the ladder near the kitchen door. He scaled it confidently, one hand on the ladder, the other reaching into his back pocket for a screwdriver. He saw her in the upper window and waved. Joanna waved back, then looked at the Mother Superior. "Do you ever go into the garden?"
"Not often. It's easier if I'm carried, and the sisters can't do it." She paused. "Well, Mary Alberta probably could. I can walk a little with a cane."
"Would you like to sit in the garden now? Between Paul and me, we could carry you downstairs easily, I'd think. It's a little cool, but it looks like there's a spot in the sun back there."
"Oh, I couldn't impose," the Mother Superior said, but she was already sitting a little straighter. "However, the south veranda is quite warm."
"I'll go find one of the sisters to get you a coat and see if Paul can come up."
A few minutes later Joanna returned with Paul. She noticed the Mother Superior had combed her hair and sat with her hands crossed coyly in front of her, her crucifix dangling above them.
"Mary Frances is gathering some blankets," Joanna said.
Paul approached the bed, and the Mother Superior lifted back the blankets and held up her arms. Was that a flirtatious smile? "I'll just pick you up, if that's all right," he said.
"Yes. Mind the orchid, please."
The Mother's body was thin as a child's. "Where to?" he asked.
"South veranda."
The Mother directed them toward the back door. To the side of the house a cement patio lay under a portico of wooden beams with a wisteria vine beginning to unfurl its blossoms on the peeling paint. Three chairs, freshly cleaned and painted the sky blue of the sisters' habits, surrounded a glass-topped table.
"Right there, please." The Mother Superior gestured to the chair with the best view of the garden and the sloping lawn to the street. Paul set her on her feet, while still holding her at the waist. She felt for the chair's arms and sat down. "Thank you, sister," she said to Mary Carmen who had appeared with a folded plaid blanket. She tucked it around the Mother's shoulders and arms. "Tell Mary Edwina we're ready for lunch. Out here, like we discussed earlier."
Joanna and Paul traded glances. The Mother had obviously planned this in advance. A neighbor pushing a stroller with a pug tied to its frame passed on the sidewalk and looked up as if this were the first time she'd seen anyone outside the convent.
"You will stay for lunch, won't you?" The Mother said this more as a statement than a question. "Mary Edwina is an exceptional cook, if you like Hungarian food, that is. Goulash is her specialty. It's not fancy," she said to Paul and placed her withered hand on his, "But we old women do the best we can. And Mary Edwina has made some pots de crème for us, as well. I do know men enjoy sweets."
"Pot de crème—I'm not sure exactly what that is," Paul said.
"It's a very nice chocolate pudding," the Mother said.
"Sounds good." He smiled.
Joanna had never known Paul to be much for dessert, but she might need to dig out Julia Child for a good chocolate mousse recipe. A small woman, her habit covered by a stained apron and her hands in bright oven mitts, hoisted an enameled stock pot to the table and set it on a trivet.
"Not there," the Mother said sharply. "In the center. That's better."
Coming behind the cook, Mary Carmen brought plates and silverware wrapped in large cotton napkins. Joanna unrolled one in her lap. The butter-soft napkins clearly had been washed and tumbled dry hundreds of times.
"Thank you, sisters," the Mother said as they left. "Just a moment while we thank the Lord." She held her crucifix between her hands, closed her eyes, and said, "Bless this my Lord, and these thy guests, who are about to receive thy bounty—"
Paul reached under the table, put his hand on Joanna's knee, and squeezed. She smiled and grasped his wrist.
"From Christ, our Lord. Amen. Please, everyone, eat. Paul, I do appreciate your coming out to look at the house. How does it look?" Her tone sweetened remarkably when she talked to him.
"I haven't had the chance to check out the inside yet, but you're right, you need a new roof. You're on your third layer, too, so it will need to be completely torn off and rebuilt." He tore a piece of bread off the baguette delivered with the salad.
Steam escaped from the goulash as Joanna dipped the serving spoon and scooped some onto the Mother's plate.
"Thank you, that's plenty." Then to Paul, "How much do you think it would cost to replace the roof?"
"I specialize in finish work, things like trim and cabinets, so I can't say for sure, but I'd guess at least ten thousand dollars, probably more."
The Mother crossed herself and muttered a few words.
"There's something else, too." He glanced at Joanna before returning his gaze to the mother. "The convent isn't very secure. It would take less than five minutes to break in and make off with anything you have that's valuable."
"We're just a bunch of old women here. We don't have anything anyone would want. Well, maybe Mary Alberta's computer, but that's it."
"You never know."
After lunch, Paul went to inspect the inside of the house. "Thank you again, son, for all your work. God bless." Once he turned the corner, the Mother's smile faded and her voice snapped to all business. "Joanna. You remember our deal? You have something to report about Vivienne?"
"Yes. I've been doing some following up, but—"
"I understand the auctioneer is in jail for possessing stolen diamonds. Is that true?"
Joanna remembered Poppy in the bleak visitor's room. "She's not a criminal. I've known her a long time." This morning she'd followed up on her meeting with the police to square arrangements for the NAP auction, but she couldn't tell that to the Mother—not until it was over.
"Of course you'd think so. Have they linked the thefts to Vivienne's death?"
"The police are handling them as separate cases." It was a turn of events for which she was grateful. Having Poppy accused of fencing diamonds was bad enough. Joanna briefly relayed her theory that someone in Poppy's auction house was responsible. "But there’s something I need to tell you."
The Mother sat, hands in lap, with an eyebrow raised.
"This will have to be my last report about Vivienne." Paul might rather she were finished with both cases, but at least she could walk away from Vivienne’s.
"It’s not over yet, child. I’m expecting more from you."
Joanna pushed her plate away. "The police are following up on her murder, and it’s not safe—and may be counterproductive—for me to get involved."
The Mother’s expression hardened. She probably wasn’t used to being disobeyed. "What risk can it be? You ask a few questions here and there."
"Two nights ago I was at my store alone, and I got a threatening call." She described the mangled nightdress. "And that was simply because I’m trying to help Poppy. Imagine if a murderer knew I was getting involved."
The Mother took a moment to digest this. "So, you’re still helping your friend, but you won’t ask around about Vivienne," she said finally.
"I’m sorry. But that’s how it needs to be. I’ll give you the homicide detective’s phone number, and you can call him yourself." Crisp would love that.
The Mother stared at her, and Joanna looked away. When she ventured a glance across the table again, the Mother wore a faint smile. "Of course, you
’ll report back to me. If you’re investigating for your friend, you’ll also be investigating for Vivienne. They may be linked after all. We don’t know for sure."
"The police don’t think so. I need to help Poppy. She might end up in prison otherwise. But Vivienne—" She was going to say that "it was too late now" but bit off the words. "I’m sorry, Mother, but I can’t. I told you."
"We’ll see." The Mother nodded, the smile still playing on her lips. "I haven't forgotten, dear, that you need our dresses."
A momentary panic settled over Joanna. She wouldn’t withhold them, would she?
The Mother tilted back her head. "Mary Frances," she yelled. "Vivienne's dresses."
Joanna let out her breath.
The Mother shook her head. "Poor Vivienne. She was blessed in so many ways, but the things she wanted, really, were simple. Grandchildren, for example. Of course, there'd be no question of a bequest if she'd had grandchildren, but it would have made her happy."
"Too bad Helena doesn't want children."
The Mother looked up. "You mean Helena isn't able to have children. She loves them."
Mary Frances appeared with five garment bags. She draped them over a chair. "Thank you, sister," Mother said.
Helena had been adamant she didn't want kids, but it wasn't worth arguing with a nun about. "I'm sorry Vivienne was disappointed."
"We’ll be hearing from you again, child," the Mother said with finality. "Vivienne’s business has not yet been settled."
Both heads turned as Paul strode across the veranda. He placed a hand on Joanna's shoulder. "The inside of the house needs cosmetic work, but the plumbing and electrical systems are solid. Did you have the convent rewired?"
"Mary Alberta did a little work last Christmas when a lamp shorted."
"It was good work. Up to code, even."
Mary Alberta again. Was there anything she couldn't do? The Mother shivered. "Are you cold?" Joanna asked. "I could fetch another blanket."
"No, child. I'm just thinking about the ten thousand dollars. It doesn't seem like much money, yet it might as well be a million. We don't have a lot of hope unless we're paid for the auction of Vivienne's things." She looked to the garden bordering the street, where the retaining wall crumbled. A condensed version of the stations of the cross ran through its small space.
"I can't help with the roof, but I'd be happy to fix the dry rot on the east side of the house. Maybe this weekend?" Paul offered.
The Mother raised her eyes to the heavens. "Blessed Father." Then, to Paul, "That would be wonderful."
Joanna rose. "Lunch was delicious. Thank you. I'll return the dresses within a week."
"And you'll come back and tell me about the auction?"
"Of course. About the auction." But not about Vivienne, she added silently as she heaped the garment bags over her arms.
The Mother Superior fussed with her blanket. Paul scooped her out of her chair and carried her inside. "I feel like we're in a scene in one of Joanna's old movies." He pulled at the edge of the Mother's habit—something Joanna would never dare—and the Mother giggled.
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."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"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."
Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) Page 11
