Dior or Die: Vintage Clothing Series, #2

1

Joanna Hayworth fidgeted with her pearl ring, twisting it around and around her finger. The lot she wanted was up next. With any luck, everyone would be bidding on the sterling flatware or oriental rugs and not care about the three trunks of vintage haute couture.

Once again she scanned the warehouse floor, lined with bidders in folding chairs. No, no other vintage clothing dealers she knew. Still, the lot was important enough to draw bidders from Seattle or even San Francisco to the Portland auction house, and she wouldn't recognize their faces. Plus, proxy bidders stood next to the phones at the counter.

Her gaze rested on a tall woman with short, egret-white hair. Something about this woman—the graceful way she'd taken her seat, her removed but clear interest in the auction—put Joanna on alert. The elderly woman was dressed simply, all in gray, without the alligator handbag or Bakelite bangles that were the usual trappings of a vintage clothing hound, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The woman's eyes, intensely blue, met hers. Joanna looked away and twisted her ring again.

Attention, please. Poppy, the auctioneer, banged her gavel on the podium.

Joanna's heartbeat quickened. Here it comes. Two men wheeled a trunk onto the stage and set it upright. One of the men unclipped its door, revealing dress skirts of stiff satin and organza. Another two trunks were wheeled onto the stage and opened. Poppy stood close to her podium, surrounded by tufts of chiffon and smooth gabardine suits. Joanna held her breath.

Now we have lot two-thirteen, containing vintage couture clothing. Condition ranges from good to very good, Poppy said. Do I have twenty-five hundred dollars?

Joanna's hand shot up. The recorder made a note. A proxy bidder nodded, and the recorder once more bent over her pad. Joanna searched the room again to gauge her competition. The white-haired woman sat calmly, her hands in her lap.

When Poppy, a good friend, had asked her to come down to the auction house a month earlier to see if the clothes were worth having appraised, Joanna had never expected to find crisp Mainbocher suits, Jacques Fath evening dresses, and even a wasp-waisted Dior Bar suit from his New Look collection. Ah, the Dior. Yards and yards of wool had gone into the skirt alone, an incredible extravagance in post-war Paris. Joanna had let its jet-black jersey pour over her gloved hands as she searched for frays on the hem or loose threads along its hand-basted seams. The clothes were from the collection of Vivienne North, a Parisian model who married a G.I. from Oregon.

What do you think, Poppy had asked in her New Jersey accent. With her tiny frame and delicate features, she looked like a Southern belle. But she talked like a mobster. They look valuable to me, but I have no idea where to start the bidding.

Joanna had still been in a daze. I’ve never seen such an amazing wardrobe. In real life, at least. If you advertised, you’d have museums calling about it.

The second she left the auction house, she’d called the bank to have her credit line extended. She had to buy this collection.

The bidding was now up to five thousand dollars. Joanna bit her lip. Her credit line was twenty thousand dollars. If she cleaned out her savings she might be able to pull together twenty-three. Still, the wardrobe would be a bargain at that price, and with careful marketing she could make back the money many times over. In fact, she'd have to, and fast, since the bills at her vintage clothing boutique, Tallulah’s Closet, were stacked high. Sales had been slow, and a pipe had burst the week before. Besides the plumber's steep bill, she'd had to shell out for a new carpet. Plus, her plans to upgrade the store would have to be put on hold—unless she won this lot.

Still, every one of these dresses would be hard to let go.

The door creaked, letting in a gust of wet spring air. Eve Lancer burst into the room in a blur of gold hair and clattering heels. Ten thousand dollars, she shouted as she grabbed a bidder number.

No, not her. Joanna groaned. She waved her bidder number when Poppy asked for twelve thousand dollars. Eve didn't need these clothes. She didn't even care about them, she was just going through a phase of playing the vintage clothing dealer.

Thirteen thousand, Poppy said. Eve nodded. Eve spotted Joanna and smiled confidently, making a production of laying her Burberry trench coat over a folding chair.

Do I hear fifteen? All bidding had dropped away except Joanna and Eve. The proxies had moved from the phones.

Joanna lifted her card.

Eve smiled again, revealing Hollywood-perfect teeth. She raised a hand, a diamond ring sparkling even in the dim light. Twenty-five thousand dollars. She leaned back in her chair without even looking up.

Poppy turned to Joanna, giving her a moment longer than she would another bidder. Joanna's heart sank. There's no way she could come up with that much money. Besides, Eve would run the bidding as high as she needed to get these clothes. Thanks to her daddy, twenty-five thousand dollars was small change. With regret, Joanna shook her head at Poppy and glanced at Eve, whose fingers flew over her phone’s keyboard, seemingly already having forgotten the auction. So strange that a face angelic enough to rival Gene Tierney's could hide such a foul interior.

Sold to bidder number three-eight-seven for twenty-five thousand dollars. Poppy banged her gavel. The assistants closed the trunks and wheeled them off the stage to clear the floor for the next lot.

Joanna watched them roll away. Goodbye, lilac organza Fath. So long, Dior Arsène Lupin theatre dress. The afterglow of Vivienne's post-war afternoons at the Café de Flore and evenings dancing at the Hôtel Meurice disappeared with them. Damn. She gave her ring one more twist, this time in frustration, then dropped her hands to her side.

When Joanna turned to get her coat, Eve was standing at the counter next to the coat check. She was tempted to leave her coat at the auction house and return for it another day, but decided she wasn't going to be humiliated—or at least let it show.

So sorry you didn't win the clothes. Eve examined her fingernails. I'm sure Tallulah's Closet could have used them.

Congratulations. Joanna forced a smile. Where the hell was the coat check person? In the background, Poppy's voice started again, calling the next lot.

At last, a lanky man in horn-rimmed glasses came to the counter holding a sheet of paper. Ben, Poppy's house manager. I'm sorry, he said to Eve, The credit card you used for your bid number was declined. Do you have another one?

White-faced, Eve dug through her purse. She pulled out a thin Hermès envelope with her driver's license and nothing more in it. No, my main wallet is at home. I forgot and brought that card with me on vacation—just got back from Aspen—and haven't paid the bill yet. She leaned forward and smiled. But I can bring a credit card later, right? Maybe with a little more money—say, a hundred dollars—for your trouble?

Joanna's gaze shot to the clerk.

He shook his head, unfazed by Eve's pleading smile. You'll need to pay now, or we'll put the lot back out to bid.

I'm good for the money, Eve said, her voice taking a shrill edge. Who's your boss? Let me talk to him.

Poppy's the boss. Ben nodded toward the podium. She's busy right now.

Is there a problem here? asked a voice with a slight French accent. Joanna turned to find the white-haired woman she'd seen earlier standing behind her. Up close Joanna saw that her jacket, while plain, was expertly tailored to mold to the woman's thin frame. A gold crucifix pendant caught the light as she turned.

Oh, Ms. North, there's nothing to worry about. The winning bidder's credit card was declined, so we'll put the clothes up again after this lot. It happens from time to time, not a big deal.

Joanna's eyes widened. This was Vivienne North, the estate’s owner.

Do you work here? Eve raised her voice. I won those clothes fair and square. All I'm asking is for an hour to get my other credit card. I don't need some minimum-wage flunky telling me—

She was the next highest bidder, for fifteen thousand dollars. Correct? Vivienne turned her head toward Joanna. Their eyes met again. Ben nodded. Vivienne's glance passed over Joanna's 1940s suit, stopping for a moment at the peacock-shaped brooch on her lapel. The glimmer of a smile played on Vivienne's lips. Then give her the clothes. Without waiting for a response she returned into the main auction room, a wisp of tuberose perfume in her wake.

Joanna realized she was holding her breath when it escaped with a whoosh. She had secured her bid with a certified check. She thought of the Diors, the Balenciagas, the Mainbocher suits, and a surge of happiness shot through her, reminding her of one of the paintings that had sold earlier, the one with parted heavens and putti swimming in sunlight.

Eve turned for the front door. It slammed behind her. The auctioneer's voice steadily rattled bids in the background.

Here's my bidder number, Joanna said, her coat forgotten. She almost laughed.

2

Dot's Café was a cave , especially compared to the warm light and frothy fabric at Tallulah's Closet next door. Joanna and Apple, her best friend and part-time sales assistant, found seats between a pool table and a painting of a toreador on black velvet.

The bartender wiped her hands on a dishtowel. Martini? she asked Joanna. And a tall mint tea for you, Apple?

Champagne, Joanna said. We're celebrating. You have champagne, right? Dot's was known more for beer and burgers than fine wine.

The bartender dusted off a bottle of Veuve Cliquot before finding an empty margarine tub to use as an ice bucket. She carried them to the table. I knew we'd sell this thing eventually. Always have a bottle of champagne around, I told the manager. No coupes, though. I'll grab wine glasses.

When are you going to pick up the clothes? Apple asked. Her style couldn't be more different than Joanna's. Today she wore a 1970s Indian caftan, and sometimes she'd even work the store barefoot. Despite her Haight-Ashbury look, Apple could knock out a fully accessorized 1950s cocktail ensemble that would make a customer seem to have stepped from a George Cukor movie.

Tonight, after the auction house closes, Joanna said. Poppy arranged for her trucking company to help. I can't wait.

Tell me about the celebration, the bartender said. The hollow pop of the champagne cork drew the attention of the two skinny men drinking at the end of the bar.

I just bought some vintage couture. I'm talking the real thing, too—clothes the owner had to buy in Paris or New York.

Anything in a womanly size? She put a hand on her ample hip.

Small. Fours and sixes, mostly. But she had some fabulous accessories. In fact, I saw a cocktail hat I think you'd love. It's a molded cap of blue-black feathers. The veil’s studded with rhinestones.

The bartender eyed the chair next to Apple, but one of the men at the bar tapped his empty glass against the counter. I'll be with you in a second, she shouted across the room, then turned back to their table. Food?

How about the hummus plate? Apple said.

Forget about being healthy. Let's do cheese fries, Joanna said. If they were going to celebrate, they might as well do it right. I can't wait until you see the dresses. A real Dior Bar suit, can you imagine? The jacket is amazingly constructed. The hips and shoulders are so padded they could almost stand on their own.

Nice.

Joanna twirled the stem of her glass in her fingers. You should have seen Vivienne North at the auction. Wide cheekbones and long fingers. She could still model, if she wanted. Joanna imagined Vivienne and Apple shaking hands. Vivienne, elegant and spare, and Apple's Indian bracelets dangling. Apple would undoubtedly have a lengthy commentary on Vivienne's aura or a few psychic hits to share afterward.

Apple poured champagne into the wine glasses. She nudged the bottle back into the margarine tub. Cheers.

Cheers. The cool wine fizzed against her tongue. With Tallulah's Closet's new website, the remodel—well, at least a new paint job—and now these clothes, the store would be reborn.

As usual, Apple seemed to read her mind. Maybe we should paint the rear wall near the dressing rooms dove gray, like Dior's salon.

Once we sell a few pieces. Joanna took a long sip of champagne and let her focus relax.

We could even get a laptop for the store to track inventory. I know, we could stream music off the web. No more changing records.

Joanna’s attention snapped back. What? She referred to her ledger books and record-keeping as hand-crafted, and they’d have to pry her turntable out of her cold, dead hands. When she’d bought it at a yard sale, the seller had lovingly patted its side and said, "I listened to Abbey Road for the first time on that hi-fi."

Just making sure you’re awake, Apple said. In any case, we should expect a boost in business. I didn't want to say anything earlier, but the landlord stopped by again.

He usually gives me until the tenth, at least—

I know. But he might be looking for the chance to break the lease. Rents have gone up around here. She leaned back into the red Naugahyde. Not that we have to worry. Not now. Maybe you can sell a few of the dresses to the NAP auction crowd.

Oh yes, the Northwest AIDS Project auction. Joanna had promised to dress the event's hostesses in vintage evening gowns. Lots of potential for new business.

The bartender drifted to the window behind them. It’s raining again. Just in time for Rose Festival.

The old saying went that, despite taking place in June, it always rains during Rose Festival. They could look forward to two weeks of parades, concerts, and sailors on shore leave. Maybe we’ll sell some vintage evening wear to the Rose Princesses, too Joanna said.

Apple raised her glass. Another toast. To the new Tallulah's Closet.

Joanna touched her glass to Apple's. Bubbles rose in giddy ribbons.

That evening in the auction house’s parking lot, Joanna hummed La Vie en Rose under her breath as she shut her decrepit Corolla's door. Even the rain couldn't dampen her happiness that evening.

"Il m'a dit des mots d'amour," she sang and pulled open the warehouse's front door.

She stopped in her tracks. Poppy?

The loading docks were open, and men hauled crated goods into trucks marked with police badges. Toward the rear of the warehouse, three cops, their breath hanging in the cool night air, worked under portable lights.

What's going on here? Joanna asked.

Poppy took a drag from a cup of coffee. A take-out container of Thai food sat on the counter next to her. Oh Joanna. Her voice was more raspy than usual. Didn't you get my phone messages? I'm afraid you're not going to get the clothes after all, at least not any time soon. She rubbed her eyes.

What happened?

The police are here. They're taking everything. Vivienne, that lovely woman—I can't believe it.

Joanna set her purse on the counter. Poppy, slow down. Tell me. What happened?

She died. Vivienne did, tonight. They think she was murdered.

3

Joanna stood , frozen. I can’t believe it. Vivienne—?

Poppy pushed away her coffee. It happened sometime tonight. The police showed up a couple of hours ago, and it’s been like this ever since. She glanced back toward the loading dock.

Here? She died here?

Oh, no, Poppy said. At home. At least, that’s what the police told me.

Joanna slumped onto the counter in disbelief. Vivienne North, dead. She’d seemed so vital, so full of life only that morning. What happened?

Poppy shook her head. I think— She picked up a paper clip already twisted into a knot and bent its ends together until it snapped. She tossed the pieces on the counter. Never mind what I think. Bottom line, I don’t know. The police told me they suspected homicide, they closed off the warehouse, and that’s it.

Poppy, something else is wrong, isn’t it? Sure, Vivienne North’s death was a shock, and who knew what the police were up to, but it wasn’t like Poppy to worry so intensely. She always seemed so capable, so able to see the bright side. Once, at an auction Joanna attended, from her podium Poppy had seen a bidder suffer a stroke. She’d managed to summon an ambulance, keep the crowd calm, and finish the auction without batting an eye.

Tonight, Poppy’s eyes were bloodshot, and she avoided looking at Joanna directly. I’m fine. I just have to get in touch with the people who bought things at the auction. Not looking forward to it.

Joanna leaned forward. Is that all? You’d tell me if something else were wrong, wouldn’t you?

Everything’s fine.

Joanna picked up a hint of defiance in Poppy’s voice. If she didn’t want to talk about it, there wasn’t much Joanna could do. What about the police? Did they say when they might be finished?

Not sure. They might—

Miss, a deep voice rang behind Joanna. What are you doing here?

Joanna turned to see a uniformed policeman. I bought the trunks of clothing in today’s auction. I came to pick them up.

Name, please. The policeman consulted a clipboard.

Joanna Hayworth.

His finger ran down a list and stopped. How long have you known Ms. Madewell?

Poppy? Nearly four years, I guess. She glanced at Poppy, who nodded briefly. I met her just before I opened Tallulah’s Closet, my vintage clothing boutique.

She’d been on the verge of tears that night trying to secure one clothing rack that just wouldn’t stay put. The store was due to open that weekend, but all around her heaped bags of unpressed clothing. The store’s fixtures were pushed to the center of the room while paint dried on the walls.

Well, Poppy had said from the door. This place has come a long way from the bike mechanic’s shop that was here before.

Joanna set the screwdriver aside and wiped her hands. Can I help you? She recognized Poppy from excursions to the auction house, but they’d never talked. She looked so small off the stage.

Poppy Madewell. She extended a hand. You bought the oak counter display case, right? Yep, there it is. God —the word came out Gawd in her Jersey accent— that thing’s a monster. Anyway, it came with tassels for the knobs. Must not have been in the cabinet when you picked it up. Thought I’d slide them through your mail slot, but you’re here.

Oh, Joanna said. Tassels hardly seemed important with the disaster around her. Although, as Poppy had pulled one from its envelope and dropped it in her hand, she saw that the tassels were lovely, woven of gold silk. They’d add a luxurious touch to the cabinet.

Let me give you a hand with that clothing rod, Poppy had said. That’s a job for two. They’d been friends ever since.

Not that the policeman tonight would care about all that.

This is a crime investigation. You’ll need to leave, he said.

But I’ll be able to take the clothes, right? Beyond Poppy, the police crew methodically sorted through boxes.

No, miss, the policeman said. They’re evidence. We’re writing up a receipt now. We’ll let Ms. Madewell know when they’re ready to be released. She’ll be responsible for contacting her clients.

I'm sure Vivienne North hasn't worn those clothes for years. You think she's been swanning around in fifty-year-old Fath evening dresses?

Look, these guys aren't fashion mavens, Poppy said. I don't know what they want with the clothes. I'm sorry. Hopefully it won't be too long.

Poppy almost seemed to side with the policeman. Joanna raised an eyebrow at her, but Poppy’s expression remained impossible to read. Joanna turned to the policeman. When you test the clothes, you don't cut them up, do you? Or pull fibers from the fabric?

Ms. Madewell will be in contact when we’re finished with the items, the policeman said.

Lost in thought, Joanna pulled her bag onto her shoulder. What are you looking for, anyway? Vivienne North didn’t die here. She glanced toward Poppy again, who shook her head helplessly.

The policeman ignored her. I’ll see you to the door.

4

The slant of the light confused her. And she was on the wrong side of the bed. As Joanna opened her eyes, she stretched out a hand and felt fur. Gemma the Beast. She was at Paul's. The German shepherd mix thumped her tail against the bed and G.I. Joe'd a few feet closer. She laid her head on Joanna's chest. The fragrance of coffee mingled with wood dust rose from the shop floor to the small sleeping loft.

Hey, sleepyhead. Paul's head popped above the banister. Here's coffee. His smile revealed the tiny gap between his front teeth. Warmth shot through Joanna.

She pulled the sheet up and leaned forward to take the mug. Thanks. I'll be down in a second. Gemma jumped off the bed to follow Paul.

Joanna set down her coffee and yawned, then pulled back her arms mid-stretch. The auction, Vivienne North’s death. The image of Vivienne's faint smile appeared. How could she be dead? Joanna's chest tightened. And Poppy. Something was up with Poppy, she was sure. Something more than the admittedly huge stress of having the police gum up the auction.

Joanna let out a long breath. All those gorgeous clothes, lost now. She imagined ham-handed policemen rifling through the dresses, smearing everything with fingerprint dust. With a groan she tossed back the blankets and found the old robe of Paul's she'd been using. Its scratchy wool slid over her skin.

In the kitchen, Paul slid one arm around her waist and kissed her cheek while the other hand held a pancake turner. How'd you sleep? You didn't worry too much about the auction, did you?

Not too much. A little, I guess. The dresses were going to save Tallulah’s Closet. Maybe they still could.

She took her coffee to a worn armchair. On the nearby worktable lay two pieces of birds'-eye maple delicately joined to form a corner of dovetails. Last night he had shown her how he worked them by hand, patiently fitting each slat into the other and shaping their edges to a finish so smooth that if she'd felt the join with closed eyes she wouldn't know they were two pieces.

For most of his youth, Paul had spent his after-school hours at his uncle's wood shop. The shop turned out to be cover for a jewel-theft operation that rivaled the Pink Panther's. When his uncle went to prison, Paul ended up with the shop and a career in woodworking.

Here you go. Paul slid a plate onto the kitchen table.

Joanna laughed. Paul had made her a pancake shaped roughly like a dress, complete with blueberry buttons. Not bad, she said. With the prim collar and all, it could be an early Chanel. If you get tired of woodworking, you could go into fashion design.

I figured you needed a special dress to tide you over until you get the clothes you bought yesterday. He put another plate of pancakes, these round, across the table and sat down. Seriously, though, it's good to see you laugh about it. The paper has a story about Vivienne North's death. I guess her family's a big deal around here. They're saying she was poisoned.

Joanna cupped the coffee mug in her hands. "Poisoned? It's so hard to believe. I had just seen her, too. She must have been in her eighties, but she looked strong to me. Really elegant. Full of personality.