Joanna watched from the street as the ambulance backed out of the driveway and sped up the boulevard, switching on its siren as it merged into traffic. The siren’s wail was a welcome note of hope.
She and Luke had alternated pressing Stroden’s chest until the paramedics had arrived and taken over. At that point, she’d become an intrusion and let herself out of the Victorian house—down the curving staircase, through the wide entry hall with its central table and pot of violets, and out the double doors.
A motion from a window next door drew her attention. The neighbor’s curtains flickered, and a woman’s face appeared briefly in the window before the curtain dropped. She’d have lots to gossip about at the grocery store this afternoon. Old Blue’s engine grumbled as usual as Joanna started the aging Corolla. She drove the few miles home in a daze. Underlying the daze stirred a vague excitement.
It was testament to her distraction that she didn’t even wince when she heard the soundtrack of a made-for-TV movie coming from the basement. Her husband’s uncle Gene had been living with them since their honeymoon, when he’d housesat for them. He’d asked if they minded if he stayed “a few days” after they returned home while he “looked for a permanent situation.” Unless this permanent situation appeared on TV or in the mysterious places he disappeared to at night, Uncle Gene would be living with them forever. In a rambling mansion like Bradley Stroden’s, that might have been okay. In Joanna’s modest two-bedroom bungalow, the bathroom practically needed its own full-time scheduler.
What she really wanted to do was discuss the morning with the portrait of a tight-lipped matron she’d long ago dubbed Aunt Vanderburgh. She’d found Auntie V at Goodwill, the angle of the portrait’s brows over horn-rimmed glasses making it clear Auntie V didn’t approve of the amateur seascapes and faded Jesus prints stacked around her. Auntie V had been her confidante for years. Marriage, and now Uncle Gene, had uprooted Joanna’s usual survival techniques.
“Joanna, is that you? Want help bringing in clothes?”
She tossed her purse on the chaise longue by the front window and rubbed the back of her hands. They still ached from giving CPR, and the back of one wrist was beginning to bruise. “No clothes to bring in today, but thanks.”
The television’s laugh track disappeared, and footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Nothing worth buying, huh?” Gene asked.
Uncle Gene was an unexpected combination of Portland’s plaid-wearing working class and a dinner club dancer’s elegance. He’d mentored Paul in becoming a woodworker specializing in preservation techniques, but at night he’d robbed houses. That was in the past, though. Or so he said. He swore he’d been clean since his recent stint in prison.
“No. No dresses this time,” Joanna said, still dazed. “What have you been up to today?”
“Checked in with my parole officer this morning. Later, I thought I might help Paul with the cabinets he’s working on.”
This was a sore spot with Paul. He couldn’t take his uncle with him to job sites—most clients didn’t look favorably on having a felon on site, no matter how keen his ability to turn a lathe. Yet the alternative was hours in front of the television, unless Paul had projects in his shop. As a result, he’d started bringing work home just to keep Gene busy, even though it cost more time than it saved.
“No leads on jobs?” Joanna couldn’t help adding.
“Jo, what’s wrong?”
She slumped into a dining room chair. “I saw someone collapse this morning. Maybe die.”
Gene took the chair nearest hers. “You what?”
“The whole situation was surreal.” She forced herself to breathe deeply. “We called the paramedics and did CPR. I hope he’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, honey. This was the house sale you visited this morning?”
“Uh huh. Did you ever know a fashion illustrator named Bradley Stroden?” They were both longtime Portlanders. It wasn’t impossible they’d crossed paths.
Recognition flickered over his face, but disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced. “Stroden, you say?”
“You know him, don’t you? Maybe professionally?”
He examined a fingernail before replying. “He lives in the yellow Victorian overlooking the Ross Island Bridge, right? The one with the tower?”
“That’s him.”
“I plead the fifth. But rumor has it he kept a Deco sterling Tiffany tea set that wasn’t getting the love it deserved. Stroden collapsed, did he?”
“Right in front of me. One moment we’re having coffee and he’s getting ready to show me some costumes Edith Head designed, and the next he’s convulsing on the floor.”
“Heart attack, sounds like.”
She remembered the violet pastilles and how Stroden had clutched his chest. “Maybe.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She placed her hand on his. “No, but thank you.” It might test her patience sometimes to have such a full house, but Gene was a sweet guy. “I think I’ll head over to Tallulah’s Closet. Could you help me take down the portrait hanging in my office?”
If home wasn’t the respite it had been for Joanna, Tallulah’s Closet still set her mind right. These days, it was the one space she could control, and over the years she’d transformed it into her fantasy of a starlet’s dressing room, complete with flowers, animal print furnishings, and gilded mirrors.
She lugged the portrait of Auntie V through the shop’s door. Beyond the mannequins, dressed today in summery pastels, Joanna’s best friend and coworker, Apple, was seated at the tiki bar that served as the shop’s cashier counter, rubbing with unusual vigor at the scuffs on a pair of alligator stiletto pumps. Today, Apple wore her favorite Zandra Rhodes caftan and looked more than usual like a Rolling Stones groupie in Marrakech.
“How are things here?” Joanna asked.
“Gavin called again.” Apple was going through a contentious separation with her husband. “But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“You’re sure?”
She glanced at the portrait of Auntie V. “Definitely. Not even to her. How was the haunted house? Anything good?”
“Haunted house.” Embracing the comfort of the familiar, Joanna leaned the painting on the tiki bar. She lifted her porcelain mug from behind the counter, just as she always did, and unscrewed the lid of her thermos to smell the rich coffee. Anything but violets. Her shoulders relaxed. “If it wasn’t haunted before, it is now.” She told Apple about the morning, from greeting the secretary to almost seeing the Edith Head designs to Bradley Stroden’s collapse.
Apple froze as she listened, a pump hovering in the air. “Heart attack?”
“I guess so,” Joanna said.
Apple set down the shoe and leaned on her elbow. “But you’re not convinced.”
“He was getting up there in years. A heart attack isn’t out of the question. But just before he died, he’d eaten a violet candy—you should have been there, the whole place smelled like violets—and mentioned that it was different packaging.”
“So he could have been poisoned?”
“Poison?” a woman asked.
Joanna and Apple snapped their attention to the customer at the door.
“No poison here. Come in. May I help you?” Joanna said.
“I’m looking for something to wear to a company dinner.” The woman, probably in her late twenties, had adopted the L.A. look of yoga pants, T-shirt, and straight, highlighted hair topped with a baseball cap. She was fit but had a boyish figure, and Joanna would have guessed she’d shop for a special occasion at a boutique at the mall that specialized in Lycra and low-cut necklines. A shop with a name like “Slinky’s” or “Glamour Babe.”
Joanna and Apple exchanged glances. Clearly, they’d come to the same conclusion. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”
The customer lifted the sleeve of a 1950s houndstooth suit and dropped it. “There’s this guy in my office. He really likes Marilyn Monroe. I don’t have the figure for that.”
Now it was coming together. “Two things,” Joanna said. “First, let’s talk shape. Not many of us have Marilyn’s curves. It looks like you work out. You’re strong.”
The woman stood straighter. “I do Pilates three times a week.”
“But your bra is shot,” Apple said. “A Marilyn-style dress requires undergarments that make the most of what you have.”
Apple seemed to be going for the tough-love approach. You wouldn’t expect it given the caftans and Indian dresses she wore, but she could be a tyrant about foundation wear.
The woman’s hands flew to her chest. “This bra was expensive.”
“I’m sure it was.” Apple smiled reassuringly. “But how old is it? Have you been fitted lately?”
Four out of five women wore old bras that had probably never fit them to begin with. All they wanted was something comfortable. They didn’t know that a bra could be both comfortable and fit well. Joanna’s clothing was vintage, but her bras were Belgian and brand new. Her underwear, on the other hand, tended to be cotton and came in a multi-pack. Apple didn’t have to know about that.
“A good bra costs money, but it will make everything you wear look better,” Apple said.
“Absolutely,” Joanna said. “We can give you the addresses of a couple of good places to go for a fitting. But I want to get to the second point, the part about Marilyn Monroe.”
The woman pulled off her cap. Her hair was thin but silky. “Yeah?”
“What do you think of her style?”
She shifted feet and looked at her hands. “She’s sexy, I guess.”
“What’s your favorite dress of hers?” Apple asked.
Joanna flashed her a smile. Clever approach.
“I don’t know. I guess the one where she’s standing over the subway grate.”
She probably couldn’t remember another dress Monroe wore. Which proved she didn’t really crave Monroe’s look. And, frankly, her figure and the hint of style she showed nudged Joanna in another direction.
“What do you think of Ali McGraw?” Joanna asked.
“Or Lauren Hutton?” Apple added.
The woman’s face lit up. “They’re so natural, but strong. Remember the girl in the old ads for Charlie perfume? I loved that pantsuit with the wide legs.”
“You’d look good in that,” Joanna said. Pair a pantsuit with a saddle leather bag and gold hoops, and the customer would look fresh and vibrant enough for a guest appearance on Charlie’s Angels.
“I always wanted a Gucci purse with the big flap and a horse bit.”
Even better. Joanna nodded her approval. “Maybe platform sandals with a tall heel?”
“But mostly flats to run around in,” the woman said. Her mind was clearly racing, stocking her closet with tunics and pants in the styles she loved. All at once, she looked up, serious. “But that’s not very sexy. I mean, you’d never see Marilyn in a pantsuit.”
“What’s sexy is embracing your own style, whatever that is. You need to be you.” Joanna reached to the rack beyond the customer and pulled out a black and white silk jersey wrap dress. “This is sexy.”
“Especially once you get that new bra,” Apple added.
“Vintage Diane von Furstenberg. One of her first wrap dresses. The style that made her famous.”
The customer took the satin padded hanger from Joanna and touched the dress’s collar. In her mind, she might be walking into the restaurant for the dinner she’d talked about. Her body seemed charged with a special energy. She looked more confident already.
“Can I try it?”
“Definitely. The dressing rooms are back there. Just pull down the curtain. What size shoe do you wear?” Joanna said.
“Nine.”
“Here’s a pair of 1970s Celine sandals that would go great with it. That way, you’ll get the whole effect.”
A few minutes later, the woman emerged from the dressing room. She swung her hair over her shoulders and swiveled in front of the mirror. Heels weren’t new to her, and she navigated the four-inch sandals with grace. This was one of Joanna’s favorite moments—when a customer caught sight of herself in a new way truer to her style—and in the hundreds of times she’d seen it, it never failed to rouse a surge of joy.
“What do you think?” Joanna said.
The customer smoothed her hands over her torso. “I’ll take it. Shoes, too. Do you have any more?”
“Those dresses aren’t easy to find these days,” Apple said. “But I bet we have a few other things you’d like.”
“Try a pedicure in copper brown,” Joanna added.
An hour later, the customer left with a confident step and two full bags full of clothing wrapped in pink tissue. As for the dinner and the guy who admired Marilyn Monroe, who knew? One thing was for sure. The customer was more likely than ever to go for what she wanted.
“She did look a bit like Ali McGraw,” Apple said.
“I wish people would stop wearing exercise clothes in public,” Joanna said. “We need more glamour on the streets.”
“I hear you. Not that life has to be a movie set, but you have to get dressed. Why not make the most of it?”
They’d had this conversation countless times, but the mention of a “movie set” brought back the morning’s scene. Joanna’s satisfied glow dimmed.
“You’re thinking of the man you saw this morning, aren’t you?” Apple asked. Her gaze was long, thoughtful.
“I can’t help it. There’s one thing in particular that stands out.”
“What?” Apple came around the counter.
“Like I said, before he collapsed, he’d eaten a pastille de Flavigny. Violet flavored. Have you ever seen them?”
“The little sugar candies with the anise seed inside, right?”
“Right. What if it was the pastille that killed him and not natural causes?”
“Did you tell the police about the pastille?”
“No. Luke, Stroden’s secretary, called an ambulance. As soon as it came, I left. I don’t know if the police even showed up. Why would they?”
Apple returned to the alligator pump. “I guess it will depend on what happens at the hospital.”
“He was alive when the ambulance left. At least, I think he was—they turned on the siren. Stroden had to be in his eighties. If he doesn’t make it…” He’d been so alive, so full of style and stories about old Hollywood. How could he die?
“Yes?”
“If he doesn’t make it, maybe they’ll simply chalk up his collapse to natural causes and not investigate.”
Apple set the pump aside. “So, that’s what’s worrying you. Just call the hospital—or the police—and tell them about the candy. Let them take it from there.”
Yes. It was just a phone call. “I’ll do it. After lunch. I need a minute for everything to sink in.” She carried Auntie V’s portrait to the closet behind the counter and clicked on the light. As she fumbled through a jar of buttons and orphaned earrings for a nail, apprehension stirred in her gut. Something was beginning. Some bottle was uncorked, and she didn’t know what would pour out of it.
Outside, the front door’s bell chimed. “May I help you?” Apple said in a tone of voice she didn’t normally use for customers. Joanna leaned the portrait against the closet’s wall and went to the door to listen.
“I’m Lieutenant Roscoe from the Portland Police Bureau. I’d like to speak with Joanna Hayworth.”
Joanna stepped out of the closet and couldn’t help drawing in her breath. “That’s me.”
“I understand you saw Bradley Stroden shortly before he died.”