Had she had left footprints in the sawdust? No, the path from the front door to the kitchen had been swept clean. A faint clattering pierced the silence, and Joanna jumped before realizing it must have come from the cleaning crew in the kitchen of the restaurant next door.
"Bye, Gemma," Joanna said, bending to give her a last stroke between the ears, when a small piece of ivory bond paper on the floor caught her attention. She leaned forward. Eve's name and phone number were written in a woman's loose script. Her heart tightened. Of course he'd need Eve's phone number, she thought. He was doing work for her. He had to be able to get in touch with her to work.
Or something else.
She struggled to slow her breath. Turn and walk away, she told herself, but stopped short. Cradled in tissue paper next to some small-tipped hand tools on the workbench was a box no bigger than her palm. She crept closer to examine it. Dozens of dovetails fastened its edges. Finely honed strips of wood—pink, pale yellow, the honey tones of pine—were sanded to a satin finish. An ornate letter "J" was inlaid across its lid. This box was—had been—for her. She knew it would have taken Paul countless evenings to make it, to hone its edges seamless. She lifted its lid. Empty.
Ashamed, she turned toward the door. Her stupid reluctance to talk had ruined everything. It couldn't be too late, though, could it? If she could just see Paul again and explain how she’d had to try to help Poppy. They could make it work. She'd tell him so—if he ever talked to her again, that is.
She took a last glance around the shop and strode the few steps to the door.
The rumble of an engine cutting out disturbed the silence. Gemma raised her head. Paul? Joanna stood motionless, holding her breath. A car door slammed shut, jarring her. Her purse tumbled off her arm to the floor, spilling its contents. A second later she heard two voices—neither of them Paul's—cross the alley. She let out her breath.
Before Joanna could stop her, the dog had ripped through the bakery bag and made short work of one of the muffins. A shrunken blueberry stuck to her lip.
Joanna knelt to pick up lipsticks and crumpled receipts and stuff them back in her purse. God, she was exhausted. This was ridiculous. She had to forget about Paul for the moment, leave him alone. But what next? She couldn't just go home. She'd climb the walls. She had to do something.
The Mother Superior. Yes, that's what she'd do. She'd go tell the Mother Superior about the auction as she'd promised. Plus she needed to talk to Mary Alberta about Tallulah’s Closet's website. First she'd stop by the store, then go to the convent. Maybe by then she'd have the energy to inventory and tag some of Vivienne's clothing.
The light filtering through the windows on the garage door dimmed as the sun moved behind clouds. Time to get out of here now, before anything else happened. The dog jumped into an armchair licking her lips then her paw. Standing at the door looking back at the shop, Joanna couldn't see any trace she'd been there.
She closed the door. It locked behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"I'd wondered if you'd come in today." Apple set down the pen she was using to write price tags.
Joanna tossed her purse behind the tiki bar and absently picked up a price tag. "You'll be spotted in this lovely leopard cardigan," she read. "That line never gets old. Did you get to bed once you got home?"
"Surprisingly, yes. Gavin's the one who suffered. He stayed up waiting for me, then couldn't get to sleep. I hope he went back to bed after I left. What about you?"
"I conked out on the couch. I kept thinking about Poppy, though."
They were both quiet a moment, Joanna staring at her hands, and Apple looking out the window.
"She's passed over," Apple said. "She's in a better place now."
It could have sounded trite, but Apple's words comforted Joanna. She reached out and touched Apple's shoulder in thanks. Apple grabbed her hand and squeezed it.
"I thought about Paul, too. All this with Poppy drives home, well..." Joanna started. "I went to see him this morning, but he wasn't home." She leaned on the tiki bar. "I messed it up for good with him." She looked up, hopeful Apple might have another take on the situation. "Or maybe not?"
Apple averted her eyes and busied herself with a display of scarves. "I don't know. You can give it a try."
Joanna sat on the red velvet bench at the center of the store. "Poppy, Paul—it's too much. I feel like I'm losing it. I want to do something, but I can't. And—" She bit her lip. "I'm turning into a crazy stalker. I've got to pull it together."
Apple hurried to the bench and took Joanna by the shoulders. "Jo, honey, it's all right."
She leaned her head against Apple's sturdy shoulder. "Thanks for being my friend." Her eyes started to tear up.
"As your friend," Apple said, "I suggest you hustle to the bathroom. Here comes the Baronet up the street, and it looks like he's headed to the store."
Clary? Head bent, Joanna rushed to the tiny bathroom at the rear of the store, just beyond the tiki bar. She closed the flimsy door and ran water on a paper towel.
"...Joanna?" She heard Clary say.
"She's running errands now. I can tell her you stopped by," Apple said. "How did the auction do, I mean, given everything—"
"Fine, fine. I don't know." Clary sounded a little confused.
"And Poppy. I can't believe it. We were at the police station nearly all night."
"A tragedy. We're donating a portion of the auction's proceeds to the Cat Adoption Team, one of Poppy's charities. Feeble, I know, but it's the least we can do."
There was a pause. "Was there something in particular you wanted from Joanna? Maybe something I can help you with?"
Joanna willed her breathing to calm and leaned against the bathroom door to hear more clearly.
"I wanted to buy a gift, for a woman." Confidence returned to Clary's voice.
Joanna raised an eyebrow.
"Great, tell me about her. We have an amazing selection of costume jewelry right now."
"She's a woman with very fine taste, you know what I mean? I'd like to buy her something rare, not ostentatious, but something other people wouldn't have. That's why I was thinking vintage."
Who was Clary buying for? He wasn't at the auction with a date. Of course, as the committee chair he was working that night.
"How about a minaudière? We have a 1980s Judith Leiber shaped like a peony."
A pause. Joanna leaned closer to the door. "Nice, but too flashy. Do you have something more subtle, something high quality but that doesn't draw attention to itself? The kind of thing Joanna would like."
Clary's voice faded. Apple must be leading him to another part of the store. Joanna dabbed her eyes with the paper towel again and examined her face in the mirror. The bathroom window let in the scant light from the alley. The skin under her eyes had darkened.
"That would be perfect," she heard Clary say. "It's not priced, though."
"We just got it in. It's Hermès, a classic pattern. These are almost impossible to find, especially in such great condition. Look how the hem is rolled and hand stitched, not even crushed after all these years." God, Apple was good. "We're pricing it at three hundred dollars." Joanna gasped. She would have put the scarf at one twenty-five and been open to bargaining.
"Sold. Do you have a box?" Clary asked.
Apple deserved a raise.
"Uh, Joanna...is she still seeing that construction worker?"
"You mean Paul?" Apple asked.
Joanna wrinkled her nose. Construction worker, right. Artisan was more like it, the snob. But why did Clary care about her personal life? It couldn't be that—no. No, he wouldn't be interested in her, would he? If so, he certainly wouldn't be buying gifts for her at her own shop. That Joanna had ever even found him attractive mystified her. He probably didn't know a drill press from a band saw. What's the use of having a boyfriend if you're the one who always has to fix the toilet?
"Yeah, whatever his name is. I didn't see him at the auction."
/>
"He had something to take care of," Apple said. "Here's the scarf. I'm sure she'll love it. Thanks again."
After a minute, Apple opened the bathroom door. "The coast is clear."
"Nice work with the scarf. I wonder who it's for?"
Apple put away Clary's credit card receipt. "Maybe Helena. I saw them at the auction. They looked—intimate."
"Ha. That was Vivienne's scarf." The scarf would suit Helena. Clary had good taste. "They can’t be having an affair, though. She’s wild about her husband."
"I got the sense there was something between them."
"I don’t believe it," Joanna said.
Apple shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Joanna pulled Old Blue up the horseshoe-shaped driveway at the side of the convent near the kitchen door. The Toyota's engine shuddered off with a wheeze. Drizzle misted the air, but the garden trellis, choked with clematis, kept Joanna dry as she popped the trunk and began to unload the dresses she had borrowed for the auction.
Curiously, no one came out to help. Light shone from the kitchen, but none of the sisters appeared at the window. Joanna laid the dresses back in the trunk and walked around the side of the house. So that's where everyone was. A ladder leaned against the siding, and standing near its top was Paul, putty knife in hand. Her heart seized. Of course. He'd promised to come back and repair the dry rot this weekend. Clustered at the bottom of the ladder were a handful of Marys watching with various levels of adoration. Mary Alberta, hand on hip, stood at the edge.
Paul glanced down and nodded at Joanna but continued working. Her face burned. She cleared her throat. "Mary Alberta, I brought back Vivienne’s dresses. They're in my trunk. And I was hoping to talk to you about maybe doing some design work for my website."
Mary Alberta, who seemed more interested in the spectacle than in watching Paul sand a window frame, followed Joanna to the car. "Praise the Lord, we just got a check for what we earned from Vivienne’s estate. Mary Frances is doing all the figuring, but we're getting a new roof, a furnace, and maybe even a flat screen TV. Mary Carmen hates to go to the bars to watch her hockey matches."
Joanna's glance stole back to Paul.
"You'd think they'd have something better to do than stand around and gape at someone working. Honestly." Mary Alberta nudged Joanna back to the car. "Although he's your boyfriend and all."
"Uh huh," Joanna said and unlocked the trunk again.
"Trouble?"
"Let's not talk about that." She looked at Mary Alberta. "Please."
"As you like. I'll help you with those." Mary Alberta slung the dresses over a beefy arm and led the way into kitchen. "Let's put them in Mary Estelle's old room, upstairs."
They mounted the stairs and entered a small bedroom at the front of the convent. Even on the opposite side of the house from where Paul worked Joanna was acutely aware of his presence.
Faded wallpaper festooned with roses lined the bedroom’s walls. Two rolling wardrobe racks sat to one side, and a desk with Mary Alberta's laptop filled the niche between the painted chimney of the fireplace and the outside wall.
"It's nice to be able to use this room since Mary Estelle died." Mary Alberta hung up the dresses in their wardrobe bags. She paused a moment and looked out the window. "I miss her. But I feel like she's helping me as I work. And I've kept up her subscription to Vogue." She pushed open the closet to reveal stacks of fashion magazines, including some from the early 1950s, squashed on the bottom.
Joanna recognized a little of the heartache she herself felt. "You're doing good work. The website you made was brilliant. I’m hoping you’re willing to work on mine. Now that I have Vivienne's dresses, I really need to ramp it up." Yes, and sell at least two of them before the end of the month so she could make her loan payment. "The web designer I hired just didn't get it."
Mary Alberta's thoughtful look disappeared. "Come downstairs and let's talk about concept. I'm thinking we could go with a hyper-sophisticated, stark layout similar to Irving Penn's late 1940s, early 1950s fashion work. If you know anyone skinny enough to model for it, that is." She unplugged the laptop and started down the hall. "Alternatively, I see an elegant, slightly Dada interface with visual references to Luis Buñuel."
Luis Buñuel? The TV would be showing more than hockey games, Joanna noted.
Downstairs, white streaked the edges of the a few of living room's windowpanes. Mary Alberta, seeing her glance, said, "Paul replaced the bottom pane and fixed some dry rot." She put her hands on her hips. "Did he cheat on you?"
Joanna's jaw dropped. "No, nothing like that."
"I didn't think so. Doesn't seem the type, but you never know."
Mary Alberta plugged the laptop in an outlet near the coffee table. Images of Vivienne's dresses sprang to life.
"Such lovely dresses," Joanna said. "Did Vivienne know the Mother Superior a long time?"
"A while. I think they went back some years but hadn't seen each other until recently. They ran into each other at the hospital, of all places. Mother doesn't leave the convent much, and usually the doctor'll come here, but that time he wanted her for X-rays."
Joanna shifted to avoid a spring in the sofa that poked at her rump. "When was that?"
"About a year ago, give or take, I'd guess. So, maybe you were cheating on Paul? Looking around a little?"
"Mary Alberta. Absolutely not. I told you I didn't want to talk about it."
"Well, you're asking a lot of questions, and we're supposed to be talking business," she pointed out. Something interrupted Mary Alberta's line of sight. She bolted to her feet. "I'm going upstairs for a minute."
Joanna turned to see what had distracted her. Paul came into the room, almost brushing shoulders with the sister as she hurried down the hall.
"How are you? I heard about Poppy. I'm sorry." He kept his distance.
Breath quickening, she stood. "I'm fine." What a stupid thing to say. She was not fine. "I mean—" Her voice broke. "Did you get my phone messages?"
He nodded. "Yes. Sorry I didn't get back to you right away." He glanced out the window. "I needed to take some time to think."
This did not sound good.
"I’m too worried about you. You promised me you’d stay out of Poppy’s business, but you didn’t."
"But I—" She faltered.
He shook his head and looked away from Joanna. "You broke your promise. And look what happened."
A lump hardened in Joanna's throat. "I know. But what choice did I have?"
He took a deep breath. "I’m sorry about Poppy. You two were friends. I know how awful you must feel. But there’s nothing more to say. I’m afraid this would be just the beginning for you."
"Look, I made a mistake in not telling you, okay? You can trust me."
He shook his head and looked away. "I care about you. I do. But we need to take a break. Take some time apart and think about things."
The corny old songs were right, the pain really does burn in the heart. In this case the pain seemed to occupy her whole chest cavity. She sank to the couch and leaned back. Of course, "a break" is what he said. Just a break. Maybe he'd realize he missed her and they could work things out. Or—her heart twisted again—he'd be happier without her.
"Do you understand?" he asked.
She pulled her cardigan tighter. "No," she said in a small voice. "But I’m not sure that matters." So that was it. They locked eyes for a moment before he turned away.
***
The hall door opened and the Mother's wheelchair ground across the floor. With a push, the Mother heaved her chair over the molding dividing the living room's worn carpet from the wood in the hall. "That Paul is a lovely man. Thank you, Joanna, for bringing him to us. Truly a blessing."
Mary Alberta appeared behind her. She drew a finger across her neck and shook her head. "She doesn't want to talk about it, Mother. They're taking a break. And she's asking a lot of questions. Probably thinks we might
have killed the auctioneer who handled Vivienne's things."
The Mother smiled benignly. "Of course she does. Hysterical, probably, from romantic problems."
"It's not like that. You were listening, weren't you?" Joanna shot a glowering look at Mary Alberta.
"Child," the Mother said, "I know you told me you wouldn’t follow up on Vivienne’s death—"
"That doesn’t matter anymore," Joanna said, her voice dull. "The person who killed Vivienne might have killed Poppy, too. I’m convinced it wasn’t suicide. I want to find the murderer." She had nothing to lose now.
Without turning her head, the Mother shouted, "Mary Frances, make some tea. The good tea. Enough for two." She rolled her wheelchair further into the room. "Then sit down and put that romantic nonsense out of your head for a minute. We have a lot to talk about."
Joanna obeyed, lowering herself onto the sofa.
"I've been getting a very bad feeling about Vivienne's situation," the Mother Superior said. She cranked her wheelchair a few inches closer. "Our money's been released, and I should be relieved. Something is wrong." She leaned back. "I'm overdue for a report. Talk to me. I need some insight."
Joanna remembered Apple's observation that the Mother "was psychic, too." Apple was pagan, and Joanna'd spent hours hearing her chat about spells or ponder the meaning of a dream. But a nun? It was hard to imagine the Pope being keen on clairvoyance. "What do you mean about a 'very bad feeling'?"
"Your friend, the one named after a fruit. She gets it."
"Apple." Joanna sat, hands in lap, and waited for an explanation. Warm tea would feel good. The waning adrenaline from her talk with Paul added to her exhaustion left her hands cold and shaky.
"Maybe you think it's strange I get these feelings. It's not. I'm an old woman, Joanna, and I grew up in New Orleans. We learned to pay attention to these things."
Mary Frances returned with a tray—its silver worn in patches—a teapot, and cups. "I brought out the good teapot since you're using the good tea. I hope that's all right."
Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) Page 15
