The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries)

by Angela M. Sanders

  Joanna stabbed her fork into a lardon. Already getting in her digs.

  Laura set down her wine glass and smiled. “Joanna really does have some lovely dresses.” Joanna looked at her gratefully. “I bought a Pucci, too.”

  The clutch of men surrounding the congressman's seat were in deep discussion. Andrew put a few bites in his mouth when he wasn't talking. He didn't seem to taste the food at all. Of course, he was working tonight, but even when they were dating he seemed only vaguely aware of the time and thought she'd put into their dinners.

  As the servers cleared salad plates and prepared to bring in the main course, the host stood. “I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight, especially Chick and Laura. In the timber industry, we've supported the congressman for many years. Some people might be surprised at this, might think, 'How can a bunch of lumber fellers get behind an environmentalist?' But in the end, we all want the same thing—an economically strong region with healthy, productive natural resources. After all, without trees, we wouldn't be in business, would we?”

  Shouts of “hear, hear” went around the table.

  The host took a sip of his wine. “And yet with stricter environmental laws, we've had to cut back on harvest in some areas. But there are other ways to use the beautiful land Bowman owns. You've probably all read about it in the paper, but tonight I'd like to formally announce our plans for the Willapa Greens Golf Resort. Darling, would you bring those over to me?”

  “Joanna.” Eve’s whisper floated to her. “Did you get the Lanvin coat back yet?”

  Joanna kept her gaze fastened on the host but shook her head.

  Marlene handed her husband a stack of glossy brochures, and he passed them around the table. Its cover showed a view of the ocean with a golf club and raven drawn in the corner. The brochure opened to a map of the Long Beach peninsula. A black border delineated the resort.

  “Congressman Remmick,” the host gestured to his right, “Grew up nearby. We'd like to name the course Remmick Greens in his honor.”

  The guests clapped.

  “Marty, I can’t tell you how pleased I am,” the congressman said. “Is this what the resort will look like?” He pointed toward the architect's drawing of a structure made to look rustic, but undeniably expensive.

  “I know you hear me,” Eve hissed below the presentation. “Do you have the coat or not?”

  Joanna continued to focus on the host. “…Modeling the lodge after a traditional Native American longhouse as a mark of respect for, well, for the same tribe you helped when you were first getting started as a lawyer.”

  Something small and wet hit her back. A blackberry garnish from dinner. She peeled its pulp off the fabric near her shoulder. Unbelievable. Eve actually threw a blackberry at her. “We can talk later,” Joanna said through gritted teeth.

  She wiped her hands on the linen napkin and pointedly turned her back to Eve. Damn her. That blackberry would probably stain. It had to be her Ceil Chapman dress, too. The congressman seemed contrite about something, but in the melee with Eve she’d missed it.

  A few heads around the table tilted. Marlene said, “Chick, you’ve been a big supporter of the tribes as long as you’ve been in office.”

  “I did my best. But when it came down to it, they just weren't able to meet the burden of proof for continued governance.”

  “What’s continued governance?” a man across the table asked.

  “A little jargon, I'm afraid. I keep forgetting I'm not in Washington. The tribe had to prove that they stuck together, with some sort of self-government, continuously.”

  After a dazzling smile from Eve, the man sitting next to Joanna switched places with her. She leaned her head toward Joanna. “It’s just a yes or no. Yes or no.”

  For God’s sake. They were supposed to be paying attention.

  “—That means no government money and no reservation,” the congressman finished.

  “Well?” Eve was relentless.

  That was it. Joanna swiped her wine glass with her right hand, sending Pinot Gris across the linen tablecloth and down Eve’s lap. Eve bolted to her feet. “Oh!” Joanna said in mock surprise. “I’m sorry. Your comments were so fascinating, congressman, I must have forgotten my glass was there.” One of the servers rushed up with a napkin to mop Eve’s lap. Marlene took Eve’s shoulder, probably leading her toward the bathroom. Too bad it wasn’t the Pinot Noir. Red wine is the devil to get out of silk charmeuse.

  “Did you know the contractor who died a few weeks ago? The paper said he was Native American and grew up in Oysterville,” the man across from Joanna asked Remmick.

  “I did know him, although I hadn't seen him in years. We went to grade school together. His family fished for the cannery that my father worked at. His accident was a real tragedy.”

  The woman to Joanna's left whispered to her husband, seated on her other side, “He fell off a wall at the new condo complex they're building in northwest. Into a dumpster, impaled by scrap metal. Horrible.”

  Joanna looked up in surprise. She realized they must be talking about Franklin, Marnie's lover when she first moved to Portland, and Ray's brother. Ray had been so calm about his death. He’d never hinted at anything so grisly.

  She flipped the brochure upside down, hiding the raven from view.

  ***

  After the salmon course, the catering staff began to clear dinner plates. Eve returned but thankfully seemed distracted by the man who had sat between them at dinner. It was completely dark out now, and the lights of the city sparkled like loose rhinestones through the plate glass windows. She still had somehow to pull Remmick aside and feel him out about the key. How would she get him alone? Guests were hanging all over him.

  “I thought we'd have dessert in here and then go outside for coffee and pear brandy,” Marlene said.

  After a dessert of berry crisp, Marlene opened the doors to the patio, where the staff had set up coffee service. The air had cooled a little, but the patio's flagstones were still warm underfoot. Two women, now more friendly than before dinner, asked Joanna for her business card. A few other guests, small crystal snifters in hand, wandered through the paths in the gardens that tiered down from the patio.

  Remmick walked toward the edge of the patio and around the corner of the house, just out of view. Joanna might not get another chance to talk to him alone. Nervous, she paused, then followed him. He pulled a pair of glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket and put them on to read an index card he'd taken from the opposite breast pocket. He saw Joanna and smiled.

  “Just reviewing my appointments for tomorrow. Did you enjoy dinner?”

  “Yes, I did.” Joanna extended her hand. “I'm Joanna Hayworth. We met earlier.”

  “Yes, of course.” The congressman shook her hand. “You sold my wife that lovely dress.”

  “Ms. Remmick could make anything look lovely.” Up close, the lines around the congressman's eyes belied his body, lean and strong from years of running. His hair was precisely cut and dyed a gentle brown. She thought he might be examining her, too.

  It was time. Joanna drew a deep breath. “I understand that you grew up in Oysterville. I think we may know someone in common. Marnie Evans.”

  Remmick thought for a moment. “Oh yes, Marnie. Yes, I went to school with her. She was a few years behind me, as I recall. How is she doing?”

  No way. Marnie's death couldn’t be news to him. After all, his wife had known. It was even in the newspaper. “You know she died, don't you?”

  “Did she? That's a shame,” he said mildly.

  Great, Joanna thought. He wouldn't even own up to knowing about her death. Of course, if he'd fathered a child he didn't want to recognize, he'd want to distance himself as much as he could. “I thought maybe you had known her better than that.”

  “No. Wasn't she in the entertainment business?”

  Was he implying that just because Marnie was a dancer he couldn't possibly know her? Joanna’s blood pressure beg
an to rise. Maybe Marnie wasn't a saint or loaded with money, but she was a fine person. Certainly better than some of the guests at tonight’s dinner. “I had thought you knew her intimately, even. Or maybe that's something you'd rather not have people know?”

  The mood changed abruptly. The congressman put his glasses back in his jacket and looked straight at Joanna. “What are you getting at?” His voice was pure ice.

  “You had an affair with her, didn't you?”

  “Yes, I did. A long time ago. It's nothing I need to, or care to, hide.” He hadn't missed a beat.

  Her jaw dropped momentarily. She snapped her mouth closed. “But if you had a child with Marnie, you'd want to hide that, wouldn't you? A baby with an ex-stripper? That wouldn't reflect very well on someone of your stature, now would it? With such a close election?” Her voice hit a high pitch. If she could just give him the key and get it over with.

  Laura Remmick came around the corner. “Chick, there you are darling.” She squeezed his hand. “And Joanna. How are you? Everyone loves the dress.”

  Remmick hadn't taken his eyes from Joanna, but he spoke to Laura. “Joanna was just telling me about the baby I had with a childhood friend. Supposedly I want to hide this child so he won't sully my reputation. Did I get that right?”

  Laura’s eyebrows pulled together. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, darling, that a long time ago, long before I met you, I spent some time with a girl I knew from Oysterville.”

  “Of course, you told me about that before we married,” Laura said calmly. Was it Joanna's imagination, or did she pause just a second before she responded? Remmick broke his gaze with Joanna and smiled at his wife, then returned to Joanna.

  “Perhaps you haven't noticed that Laura and I don't have children. It's not because we don't want them or because Laura has any physical problem. The fault, I'm afraid, is all mine. This is more explanation than you deserve. I don't know what you want from me, but I'd appreciate it if you took your accusations and left.” Remmick draped his arm around Laura and led her back to the patio.

  Joanna froze. Her face stung. She had just accused Remmick of fathering a child he couldn't possibly have had. Maybe he even thought she planned to blackmail him. What an idiot she was. Why couldn't she have kept her mouth shut?

  She couldn't go back to the patio and face him. She walked away from the guests and up the side yard to the front of the house. The valet was leaning against the wall of the garage and smoking a cigarette. He stood up expectantly.

  “No, that's all right, I'm not looking for a car. Are the caterers still here?”

  He gestured with his cigarette toward the kitchen. “Try the side door.”

  She continued around the house and entered the kitchen. Colette was loading a bus tub with serving platters. The fluorescent light shone bright after the night outside.

  “Colette? Are you leaving soon?”

  “I just need to load the van. Why?”

  “Do you mind if I catch a ride home with you? I'm done with this party, and I don't want to wait around for Andrew.”

  “Sure, it won't be but a few minutes.”

  Joanna stood outside the kitchen for a moment. The faraway sounds of conversation pierced by loud laughter mixed with the chirp of crickets. A moth hit the driveway light, struggled, and fell, dead, on the pavement.

  She gathered her courage and crept through the dining room to the deck. She stood back until she saw Andrew, fortunately on the opposite side of the patio from the congressman. Eve was with him, her hand resting on his arm. He seemed to have forgotten all about the campaign donors he was supposed to be schmoozing with. Joanna tapped his shoulder. “I have a horrible headache, so I'm going to get a ride home with one of the catering staff. Thanks for bringing me tonight.”

  “Too bad about the headache,” Eve said. Anyone who didn’t know better would have thought she was sincere. “I saw you talking to Chick over there behind the house. Anything interesting?”

  “Just telling him what a great rally it was this morning.” Joanna knew her face flushed. “Andrew, I’ve got to go.”

  “I thought maybe we could get a drink on the way home. You know, catch up.”

  Remmick turned to face her direction. Although he was far enough away to be out of earshot, she backed toward the house. “I know you're busy. I need to leave now. See you later.”

  Her elbow hit something slick, and a vase of lilies shattered on the stone patio. All eyes were on her. “Clumsy,” someone to her right said.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” she muttered and hurried for the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Although she hadn't had much to drink, Joanna woke the next morning feeling hung over. She groaned remembering the look on Chick Remmick's face when she accused him of fathering Marnie's child. What made her think she could march up to Remmick, say a few words, and hand over the key? He was supposed to be grateful. She was supposed to go home feeling safe and satisfied. Instead she felt like a first class heel.

  As long as she had the key, and as long as someone wanted it, she was still at risk. Or was she? Sunlight filtered through the blinds in her bedroom. Maybe she was overreacting. Then her thoughts turned to Marnie’s eyes, open in death, and the razor-clean slit in the Lanvin coat's silk lining. She shivered.

  She pushed off her sheets and felt next to the bed with her feet for slippers. She'd talk to Troy and see if Marnie had dropped any hints as to who his father was. Troy's father had to be the connection to the key.

  Cup of coffee in hand, Joanna called Troy. “Remember me from Marnie's memorial service?” A trace of vintage L'Aimant, a perfume that had always comforted her, rose from her dressing gown. “Could we meet? I'd like to talk to you about Marnie.” She wrote “Velveteria, 10 a.m.” on the back of an invitation to an art opening and hung up the phone.

  She still felt roundly humiliated from talking to Remmick. Aunt Vanderburgh stared disapprovingly from the wall above the couch.

  “I know, I know,” Joanna said to the portrait. “You don’t think I should be giving away the key anyway, especially to someone who would break into the store—and God knows what else—to get it. You’re right. That was dumb. I was desperate.”

  The portrait’s lips remained pursed.

  “All I want now is to know the enemy. Maybe once I figure out who wants the key, I’ll know what to do. Maybe Troy can shed some light on that.”

  Joanna set down her coffee mug and stretched. The key still sat in her evening clutch, tossed on the dining room table the night before. She slid out the key and looked at it, as if it could tell her something. Apple said the spirits said things had to do with a “baby.” If Remmick wasn’t Troy’s father, who was? She put the key in her hands and closed her eyes as she'd seen Apple do when she wanted to feel an object's energy. Nothing.

  She shrugged and went to the bedroom to get dressed.

  ***

  A few minutes before ten o'clock, Joanna pulled up in front of a storefront on East Burnside. Her destination, a museum of paintings on velvet, was wedged between a store selling raw pet food and another with a window display of western shirts. Through the open door, she glimpsed Troy on a stepladder adjusting track lights. He bit his lip in childlike concentration on his task.

  When he saw Joanna, Troy stepped down and smiled. “Thanks for meeting me here. I've been so busy lately that I haven't had much time even to grab a beer with friends.”

  He was so damned charming. She couldn't resist returning his smile as she set her purse on a 1970s gold velvet side chair with heavy wood trim she thought of as the “Spanish Galleon” style. “I bet it's been hard to keep up with studying, too. Law school is such a time suck.”

  “Yeah. But it's summer break now.”

  “That's right. No internship for you this year—you must be starting your second year.”

  Troy shifted on his feet. “Yeah. Second year.”

  Something about Troy's response gave her
pause. “Who did you have for torts?”

  He fidgeted with a pair of pliers. “I can't remember. His name sounded kind of, uh, Scandinavian.”

  Whoa. There's no way a student would forget a first year professor before the second year even started. “Rasmussen, maybe?”

  “Right—that’s it. Rasmussen. He was a tough professor.”

  “I can imagine he would be.” If he existed. This was rich. “Does he still wear a toupee?”

  “Yeah, a really bad toupee.” Troy laughed nervously. He slipped the pliers into his rear pocket and stepped back up on the ladder. “Can we talk while I work? Got to get the show up by noon.”

  Aside from his dark hair and sharp cheekbones, he resembled Marnie. He was slight and moved gracefully. He squinted as he focused on measuring the placement for the next painting, then looked down and smiled again when he caught Joanna watching him. Troy would have no problem collecting girlfriends with the urge to mother. Although he might be stretching the truth about law school, it didn't mean he wasn't Marnie's son. But it didn't mean he was, either.

  “Do you hang all the shows here?” she asked as she looked around. Behind her was a series of Michael Jackson portraits ranging from the Jackson Five days to his last bleached skin and sculpted nose look. Below those were several velvet Elvises.

  “No, this is the first I've done here. Mostly I put up shows in cafes and places like that.”

  “This month it's all about clowns, it looks like.” Joanna gestured toward the canvases, stacked two and three deep along the partition, waiting to be hung. In the painting closest to her, a clown in a top hat, its curves slashed with white paint, cocked his head at an unnatural angle.

  “Yep, clowns. Creepy, aren't they?”