Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) (30 page)

He led her to a bench along the lobby’s wall. “Crisp gave me a call before he came up the mountain. What’s going on? I knew you were snowed in. I saw the weather report. But the police—” He pushed her back a few inches to look at her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you want to get married?” Joanna asked.

“Those are your first words? Not ‘hi’ or ‘how has your weekend been’?”

She clutched a handful of his shirt around his neck and drew him forward. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said.

She relaxed against him. “Good. There’s something else. My mother wrote to me.”

“You haven’t said much about her.”

“I know. I’ll tell you everything, but, first, did she happen to show up this weekend?”

Paul wove his fingers in her hair, pulling apart some stuck curls with his fingers. “No, but there was something strange on Saturday.”

Her stomach clenched. “Strange?”

“I went out to get the paper and found a beat-up old stuffed animal on the stoop. With a note. All it said was ‘to Joanna’.”

“That’s it?” She felt Paul nod. “Was it blue? Shaped like a Scotty dog?” He nodded again. Her Scotty dog. Her mother had kept him, brought him to her. What it meant, she couldn’t know. She’d figure out later whether she wanted to know.

They stood that way a few minutes while fleece-bedecked tourists milled around them. A tour guide stood near the fireplace pointing out the stonework.

“Joanna,” Paul said.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen this caftan before. And why aren’t you wearing boots? Those slippers hardly seem like a good idea in this snow.”

“My clothes are infested with black widow spiders.”

“I see.” Another moment passed. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me? About why Crisp is here? Or maybe a good celebrity story about Wilson Jack?”

She shook her head against his chest. “He’s dead. Clam dip.”

“Oh.” The tour guide had moved on to describing the curtains, hand-loomed by out-of-work women in Portland as part of the Depression’s WPA jobs program.

“There was another death, too. French guy. Froze to death while smoking.”

Paul was smart enough not to press the point. “Joanna?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to take a bath?” Her head shot up. A bath—lots of hot water, soap, a thick towel. This man knew her. “Crisp said he wanted us on hand for questioning and had the lodge set aside a couple of rooms. Maybe you can fill me in while you relax.”

He took her hand and they went upstairs.

***

A few days later, Joanna drew a deep breath, lifted the phone’s receiver, and dialed the long string of numbers to London. The line buzzed its curious double ring. She swallowed hard.
 

“Costume department, Phillippa here.”

“Hello, this is Joanna Hayworth. Remember me? I borrowed the Schiaparelli Tears dress for the Wilson Jack wedding.”

“Oh my God.” Papers rustled and a chair creaked on the other side of the world. “He was murdered. You were there, weren’t you?”

“Yes, although I can’t talk about it until after the trial. I will say I’m glad it’s over.” She nervously twisted her engagement ring on her finger. Paul had had his aunt’s ring sized for her, and it had been resting in his dresser drawer for more than a month before she blurted her proposal.
 

Daniel had been right—the press was at her day and night for her story at the lodge. She stuck to the contract and didn’t say a word, but Tallulah’s Closet definitely benefited. All Joanna had to say was, “I wish I could tell you more…” and customers snapped up wiggle dresses and 1940s suits as they waited for stories that never came.
 

Penny had stopped by a few times, and Joanna even accompanied her to yoga, although she took a pass on the après-class birch water. Reverend Tony had returned to Chicago to do the rest of his time on parole, but Penny was planning a visit. She’d said she could “do him some good” and “give him a reason to keep on” until he was free of his legal obligations. From Chicago, Penny planned to fly to London and take a train to visit Sylvia and Marianne—and Daniel, who’d followed them, undoubtedly with the intention of encouraging them to return to the States.
 

Penny mentioned she’d been in touch with Portia, too. While Bette was under house arrest awaiting her trial date, Portia kept her company and reluctantly agreed to care for Bubbles when Bette’s inevitable prison sentence was handed down. Clarke wasn’t so lucky. Not only was he held without bail, other clients who’d caught wind of his stealing were having their own books audited, and it wasn’t looking good.

As for Joanna’s mother, she’d never surfaced. She had left the battered Scotty dog on her stoop, and that was all. Joanna knew she’d return and dreaded it. But at least Paul knew the story now.

Joanna pulled the phone closer. “I wanted to tell you about the dress.”

“Yes, the Schiap. Well, don’t worry about shipping it back right away. By the end of the month is fine.”

Phillippa wouldn’t be interested in what was left of the Tears gown. Joanna hadn’t recovered a single square, except the one the ski patroller had found and that Detective Crisp had taken as evidence. She still had the veil, but water had damaged it beyond repair.

“I’m afraid the dress is destroyed.” She stuttered a bit as she said it.

“A little wear, maybe some makeup marks, we can restore it. No problem.”

Her stomach burned. She had to close her eyes to say the words. “No, I mean really destroyed. Cut up in little pieces. I’m so sorry.” She braced herself for an outpouring of anger.

“Well. You must have quite a story.” Phillippa’s voice was surprisingly calm.
 

Joanna opened her eyes wide. She wasn’t going to yell? Threaten legal action? “I can’t tell you the details, but it was necessary, I’m afraid.” A pause. “You’re not angry?”

“Oh Joanna.” The chair creaked again. It must have swiveled. “Bette Lavange sent a stupendous check to borrow that dress, but you didn’t think we’d ship the original, did you? There are only three in the world, after all. I didn’t want to tell you, but—”

“But what?”

“The Tears dress we sent was a copy. The original is in the vault. You won’t tell Bette, will you? She put up a real fuss to borrow it. We couldn’t say no.”

Joanna laughed until she cried. It was a joke even Dali would have appreciated.

Afterword

A huge thank you to Debbie Guyol for her immensely helpful editorial comments, and thanks, too, to Allison Norman for her sharp eye for typos and grammatical errors. As always, my writing group—Christine Finlayson, Doug Levin, Dave Lewis, Ann Littlewood, and Marilyn McFarlane—have been invaluable in helping me to shape the story. Laleña Dolby drew the lodge’s floor plans—I love them!—and Dane at ebooklaunch designed the fabulous cover.

Note to Readers

Thank you for reading
Slain in Schiaparelli
! I hope you enjoyed it. It’s the third book in the Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing mystery series.
 
Book One is
The Lanvin Murders
, and Book Two is
Dior or Die
.

Would you like to know when my next book is available and catch up on fashion tips and living the vintage life, Tallulah’s Closet-style? You can sign up for my monthly newsletter at
www.angelamsanders.com
. Don’t hesitate to get in touch at [email protected]