"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.
The door to Dot's Café opened, and three men arguing about a new band spilled on to the street. Their voices faded as they passed down the block. A car door slammed in the distance. Joanna, surrounded by piles of silk and Italian wool, sat down and cried.
Paul did not return.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The receptionist at the Justice Center buzzed a dull-eyed Joanna through and pointed her toward a conference room along the back wall. Even though it was Saturday, people clicked at keyboards in the central pool of cubicles. Not surprising, she supposed. It wasn't as if crime kept office hours.
Four of the chairs in the conference room were already filled. Detective Sedillo heaved himself out of his chair and held out his hand. "Nice to see you, Joanna. Cup of coffee?"
She nodded. She'd barely slept. It had given her plenty of time to replay the scene with Paul in her head and wonder how she could have handled it differently. She'd had hours to tally her regrets, and it looked like she might have a lot longer. He hadn't returned her calls. She held her breath to hold back the tears that threatened to rise.
She took in the half-empty mugs around the conference room table, then blinked at the morning sun streaming over the Willamette River.
"Oh, I wouldn't serve you what they give us in the break room," Sedillo said, perhaps assuming her silence had to do with the quality of the coffee. "I've
got a thermos in my office. Private blend from a garage roaster in my neighborhood. Let me get you some."
"Thank you. I'd love a cup."
"I'll get it," said one of the other officers as he leapt up.
"Thanks, Lee." Sedillo's chair creaked in protest as he lowered himself. "Have a seat. This here's Tommy Lewis—" A small, tidy man with hooded eyes nodded. "—And that was Lee Macon getting you the coffee. We'll be the primary team for tonight's operation. At the end of the table is Martin Greenberg, FBI."
The FBI was involved with this? Greenberg rose and clenched Joanna's palm in a bruising grip. "Pleasure," he said just as Lee returned with her coffee and a glass canister of off-yellow powder.
"We only have instant creamer, I'm afraid."
"That's fine." She stirred the powder into her cup. Given her lack of appetite, non-dairy creamer might be the only solid food she had all day.
Sedillo tapped the table with his pen. "First on the agenda is the auction’s layout." He clicked the projector attached to his laptop. "Lee, close the blinds, will you?" A floor plan filled the screen. Sedillo waved a laser pointer at the largest room, on the far right. Tiny circles indicating tables filled it. A long rectangle extended from the inner wall. "The whole deal takes place in a warehouse. Right here is where the dinner and auction will be. Fifty tables give or take. This" —the laser pointer hovered over the long rectangle— "is the stage where the auctioneer will be. Her spotters will be on each side of the stage. Over here" —now the pointer moved to the smaller rooms on the left of the diagram— "is the green room, with a door to the main dining area, there next to the stage, and a sort of prep area just below the green room."
"The green room, where I'll be dressing the hostesses," Joanna said.
The policemen around the conference table fidgeted. Lee's head was pointed at the screen, but his eyes had a faraway cast. Tommy played with his phone and stifled a yawn. Only the guy from the FBI looked alert. First he watched Detective Sedillo, then Joanna. She might not be at the top of her game this morning, but that was no excuse for the others to be so lax.
"Correct. As you see, the loading dock goes straight into the prep area, and from there you enter the green room." He moved his pointer to the far right of the diagram. "There are three entrances to the dining room. The door to the green room I just showed you, the main entrance to Couch street, and the side door where the catering tents are set up."
Joanna looked around the table. Why wasn’t anyone paying attention?
"If there are any last minute instructions before dinner is served, I'll send Tommy or Lee to the green room. We'll keep it low key, though. They'll simply ask, 'Did you order the vegan meal?' and that will be your cue to follow them to somewhere you can talk."
"I see," Joanna said. "Where will you guys be?"
The policemen all looked up, but Sedillo spoke. "I was just getting to that. I'll be at your table as your guest." The laser pointer drifted to a table at the edge of the dining room. "Tommy and Lee will be outfitted as caterers. Some of the service staff will have earpieces and radios, so the boys won't look out of place."
"Hmm. You know what Ben looks like, right?"
Greenberg cut in. "Sedillo sent out photos. We've already searched the art for the auction. Didn't find anything. We'll keep one man on the auctioneer and another on the spotters. Sedillo will handle, uh, general surveillance."
Something was off. This was the big briefing before the auction, yet the police were clearly somewhere else mentally. She glanced at the now-empty coffee cups. "Did you guys already talk through this, without me?"
Sedillo and Greenberg exchanged glances. "We went over the schedule for the night, that's all. Stuff you already know. You know, time guests arrive, when dinner starts—all that."
"You did talk about it. You've already met. All this" —she waved her hands over the table— "is show. For me. Why?"
Detective Sedillo leaned forward, fanning the papers in front of him. The chart on top looked like a guest list, and a yellow streak highlighted one name she couldn't quite make out. "Listen. You have an important role. We'll need you to keep tabs on Poppy. Tommy will always know where she is, but as she moves around—the ladies room, green room—we'll need you to keep track. Don't do anything that will draw too much attention to yourself. Got it?"
If Tommy was already in charge of Poppy, why did they need her involved? It sounded like make-work. "There's something you're not telling me."
"I told you this was a mistake," the FBI agent said.
"There's one critical thing we need you to know," Sedillo added. "The auctioneer—Poppy—can't get wind of what's happening tonight. If she has any idea, the operation's kaput."
"But she's innocent. That's what this is all about," Joanna protested.
Greenberg ignored her outburst. "If Poppy knows, she could betray the operation just by looking at someone too long or second-guessing herself. Her performance tonight must be completely natural." He locked glances with Joanna. "Promise me you haven't told her about it already."
"No. I got Detective Sedillo's warning. I haven't said anything." Not to Poppy, anyway, she thought, remembering her discussion with Apple.
"What?" Sedillo said.
"Well, I did tell my friend about it."
A chorus of moans circled the table. "Your boyfriend, I bet?" Lee said.
Right in the heart, like all the songs say. Right now Paul was probably taking Gemma the Beast on her morning walk and reflecting on how he was sorry he’d ever known her. "No." She looked at her coffee cup. He knew there was some kind of sting, but he didn’t know the details. "My friend, Apple. She'll be at the auction, too. She's discreet."
Greenberg rose. "Get the friend's name and we'll run her through the database. We're done here." He grabbed his coffee mug and moved toward the door. "And you," he said, pointing at Joanna, "Keep your mouth shut, understand?"
CHAPTER TWENTY
"This one is perfect for Bekah. We’ll put it with the rhinestone chandelier earrings—she seems to like her bling." Apple pulled a flowered dress with a double-tiered skirt—one full, and the other, longer skirt designed to hug the legs—from the portable clothing rack in the green room. With a box of shoes and jewelry, the rack took up most of the green room. "Jo, did you even hear me? Hop to it. We need to get the greeters dressed."
For once, Joanna was grateful for Apple's bossiness. Armed with a list of measurements and coloring of the greeters, they'd spent most of the afternoon together assembling the clothes for the auction, along with matching accessories. She’d had little time to give in to the heartache that threatened to lay her out. Now, just before the NAP auction, most of the trucks had unloaded and left, and only the bustle of the catering staff in the adjoining dining room and occasional microphone checks disturbed their work.
"I don’t know where the detective is. He should have been here by now."
"Let him do his job, and you’ll do yours. Take this to Bekah,”Apple said.
Joanna obeyed, handing the dress through some sheets they’d jury-rigged as a dressing area. She lowered her voice when she returned to Apple. "If he doesn’t show up, the whole thing will be a bust." Not only would Poppy still be in a mess, but she would have iced things with Paul for nothing. The knot in her throat thickened. Maybe she should have listened to him. Too late now.
"Knock it off. Guests will be here any minute, and we don't even have everyone dressed. He’ll either be here or he won’t."
Footsteps approached the door. Detective Sedillo?
Poppy breezed into the green room. "Hello Joanna, Apple. Gawd. This place reminds me of when I did livestock auctions," she said, looking at the raw walls and exposed beams. A heater in the corner made little progress against the spring evening's chill.
"The committee wanted a creative" —Joanna made quote marks with her fingers— "venue for the auction this year, instead of the convention center. Somebody knew somebody who had an empty warehouse, and voilà."
Poppy barely paid attention to her words. She wore a scarlet Lili Ann dinner suit with an elaborate rhinestone necklace filling its open shawl collar. Her stilettos, modern, clicked across the concrete floor as she approached Joanna. "Are you ready for tonight?" Then, a second later, "You don't look so good."
"Oh, it's nothing. I didn't sleep very well. You know, stress about the event. How are you?" Joanna hardly needed to ask. From Poppy's focused, fueled expression, she was in top form.
"I feel great. Oh Jo, it's so good to be working again. You were right—this is the right thing to do."
Jeffrey, the events coordinator, popped his head behind the green room's curtain. "Poppy? Do you have a minute to go over the seating chart with me? We added two tables with real potential."
"Where did you put the Stilsons? They're usually big art buyers." Still discussing bidding strategy, she followed him out.
Joanna moved closer to Apple so the greeters wouldn't hear. "The two detectives I met are dressed like caterers. One of them was supposed to keep an eye on Poppy, but I haven't seen him, either. Sedillo's coming black tie."
"If they're around, they aren't likely to be obvious about it, are they?" Apple handed the last dress to a greeter and turned to Joanna. "We're finished here. Let's go to the dining room."
"I’ll meet you there. I want to look around a little, make sure I’m not missing them."
Instead of following Apple through the doorway connecting the green room with the dining room, she passed into the adjoining room where the art for the oral auction posed on easels and leaned against walls, waiting to be paraded through the dining room when Poppy called the auction. The detectives might be there, inspecting the art for hidden diamonds.
A volunteer, undoubtedly posted to guard the art, slumped on his stool, but otherwise the room was quiet. "Can I help you?" he said.
Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) Page 12
