“He died?” Joanna said.
“He fell into a coma but died soon after reaching the hospital. Yes, Bradley Stroden is dead.”
A few months earlier, it might have been Detective Foster Crisp who’d have come to question Joanna, but he’d retired. This new guy, Roscoe, spoke quickly where Crisp would have considered his words. She caught a hint of an East Coast accent. She missed Crisp’s cowboy boots, laconic manner, and quick, sharp thinking. Roscoe was middle-aged and short with high-water pants that had likely fit him better before his belly’s thrust had yanked them up further. He had a marvelous head of steely curls, though.
“I want to confirm that you were at the Stroden residence when Mr. Stroden collapsed.”
“Yes, I was there. I had an appointment at ten o’clock.”
“An appointment for what?”
“To buy clothing. I own a vintage clothing boutique.” She waved at the racks of dresses. “Do you know what killed him?”
“What makes you so sure it wasn’t a natural death?” the detective asked.
A gray-haired woman with a garment bag over her arm entered the store. Apple met her near the door. The woman was likely looking to sell an old wedding dress or her mother’s prized evening gown. Apple could handle it.
“You’re here, aren’t you? A homicide detective?” Joanna said. This guy was beginning to get irritating.
“I asked you a question,” Roscoe said.
“Look.” The word came out cushioned in air. “Just before he fell, I saw him eat a pastille de Flavigny. Maybe it’s silly, but it crossed my mind that it might have been poisoned.”
“A what?”
“The violet candies in the tin on the table in Mr. Stroden’s dressing room. I saw him take one just before he died.”
“Come again?”
Joanna glanced toward the woman with the garment bag. “We don’t have much privacy here. I live close by—just a few blocks away. Could we talk there?”
The detective followed her glance to the customer. “I see. Sure, I guess that’s fine. Come with me.”
They took Roscoe’s Crown Victoria to her house and parked in front. As Joanna unlocked the front door, she heard the back door shut. Gene had a second sense for police vehicles, and he clearly didn’t plan to stick around.
“Nice place you got.” Roscoe glanced at the chaise longue by the front window before choosing the club chair in front of the fireplace. Pepper, Joanna’s cat, stuck his black head out from under the chair to sniff at the man’s loafers. “Now, suppose you tell me, step by step, what happened this morning.”
She closed her eyes and recounted the morning as completely as she remembered it. “Stroden kept hinting at his memoir, how people would be knocked out by its revelations.” She opened her eyes. “Could be a motive for murder.”
“You’re talking murder again.”
“Like I said, why else would you be here? If you’d decided his death was natural, that is.”
Roscoe nodded as he spoke. “You’re right. Stroden’s secretary gave us a flash drive with a draft of the memoir on it. And these, um, what did you call them?”
“Pastilles de Flavigny. Violet candies.” She couldn’t help feeling slightly smug. She’d known something was up.
“You think they were poisoned?”
“They might have been. They’d be worth testing. Mr. Stroden died in his dressing room, upstairs,” Joanna said.
“Yes.”
She pictured the hall’s green and purple Persian carpet and the Dali lithographs lining the wall. “Inside the door, to the left, is a Biedermeier table. Remember it?”
“I saw a table with a black top and a regular wood-colored pillar holding it up. Two chairs.”
“That’s it. On the table was an oval tin with violets printed on it. About this big.” She drew an oval on her palm.
“Nope,” the detective said.
“No?” That couldn’t be. She was sure the tin had been right there.
“Couple of cups and saucers, a fancy coffeepot, little spoons. That’s it. No candy.”
“But it was there. A new tin of them.” She remembered Stroden’s long fingers easing the container open and extracting the dusky pastille. “Wait—were the coffee dishes still out?”
“On the table. One of the coffee cups was, anyway. The other one fell to the floor.”
“Mr. Stroden had offered me a pastille, but I didn’t want it. He set it on my saucer. Check the floor. It’s about the size of a navy bean.” Someone had taken the tin. Her breathing quickened.
Roscoe took out his phone. Whoever he was calling answered immediately. “Are you still at the scene? Good. Check the dressing room carpet for a small candy. The witness says the victim ate one before he died.”
Pepper emerged fully from under the chair and jumped into the detective’s lap. Roscoe absently stroked him. Must have cats at home. “Says he doesn’t see it.”
“Keep looking,” Joanna said. “If you decide his death was” –she fidgeted with the hem of her skirt— “murder, it had to be the pastille.”
That night, when Joanna arrived home after closing Tallulah’s Closet, her husband Paul was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, his German shepherd mix Gemma at his feet. Summer days were long, and warm light splashed over the counter. An old blues record was on the turntable—Robert Johnson, if Joanna wasn’t mistaken. Living with Paul, she’d learned a lot about blues and jazz. In turn, Paul was developing a good touch for silk versus rayon versus cotton velvet, and once he’d even surprised her by bringing home the original and new versions of Sabrina to compare.
After the police interview, Joanna had returned to Tallulah’s Closet. The customer with the garment bag had brought in seven delicate silk nightgowns, each cut on the bias and each a different pale pastel. They’d belonged to her mother, who’d worn a different nightgown every day of the week. The daughter had been unable to give them up until now, when she was moving into a condo and trimming her possessions.
Joanna had assured her that as hard as they were to give up, the nightgowns would create a lot of joy in the world. She’d carefully tied the sash of a watered daffodil-yellow gown. Chances were fifty-fifty it would be purchased as an evening gown rather than worn to bed. Either way, it was a beauty. The rest of the day was filled with the tasks of running a vintage clothing boutique: chatting with customers, emptying dressing rooms, sewing on buttons, dusting display cases.
Paul set down the knife and kissed her hello. “I put a cocktail glass in the freezer. Before he went out, Uncle Gene said you’d had a rough day.”
“Did he give you details?”
“No. Said you’d better tell me. What happened?”
Joanna filled a cocktail shaker with ice and splashed gin over it before adding a touch of vermouth. Before she met Paul, she’d lived alone enough years to become used to dealing with her feelings on her own. It had taken months before she didn’t assume Paul asked about her day simply out of courtesy. He really cared. Still, old habits died hard.
“Remember how I had an appointment to buy clothes this morning? You would have loved the trim in the entry hall, by the way. Walnut, I think.” She wished the martini were already in her hand. “Anyway, the man who owned the house died while we were talking. At first, I thought it was a heart attack. Now, it looks like murder.”
She wrapped the shaker in a dishtowel and shook it until ice slicked the shaker’s wall. Gemma sat up. Paul raised an eyebrow and waited until the noise subsided before speaking.
“Murder? Jo!”
She pulled an etched cocktail glass from the freezer and poured the martini into it. “Lemon, please.”
He held up a lemon. “Not until you tell me more.”
As she recounted the events of the day, he handed her the lemon and a paring knife to make a twist. “So, the police are looking for the violet candy now. I bet you anything it’s poisoned.” She sipped the martini. Cold and citrusy. Delicious. “Plus, why would the whole tin disappear like that?” She set the glass on the counter and began to pace. “The question is, why? Why kill him, and why now?”
“You mentioned his memoir.”
Joanna stabbed the air with a finger. “Exactly my first thought. Was he planning to spill the beans about something big?”
“People don’t usually murder when you tell their secrets. They sue.”
“Plus there’s the question of how the murderer could have discovered that the story would be in the memoir to begin with. Stroden wouldn’t tell me much about it.”
Paul scraped diced vegetables and chicken into a bowl. He tossed a cube of roasted chicken to Gemma, who snapped it from the air. “You think someone’s after his money?”
“He has a nice house. His furniture and art are probably worth a bundle, too. But, if so, why kill him now? Why not be patient and let time take care of it?” Joanna pulled plates from the cupboard and silverware from a drawer. “He did mention a movie that was filmed but never released. I asked him about it, but he implied it was too hot to get into, and that I’d have to wait until his memoir came out.”
“An unreleased movie? Why kill for that?”
She set her unfinished martini next to her plate and poured a glass of water for Paul. He didn’t drink. “I don’t know. I don’t get it. I almost saw some of its costumes. Edith Head designed them. He was two steps from opening the closet when he collapsed.”
“Double tragedy this morning, then.”
She bit off a laugh. “I knew you’d understand.”
Paul set the chopped salad between them and sat. His voice was sober. “I haven’t heard you this excited about something in months. Something tells me it’s not just the movie costumes, either.”
“Oh, you know.” She avoided meeting his gaze and busied herself loading their plates. He’d hit on something. The murder investigation did fascinate her. “Bradley Stroden was no stranger to Gene—and his silver. Did I tell you that?”
“Uh oh.”
“Sounds like he lifted some nice pieces of sterling. Probably paid for a few weeks of betting on the horses.” She picked up her fork and set it down again without eating. “What are we going to do about him?”
Now neither of them was eating. Paul leaned back. “I don’t know. Is he really bothering you?”
She looked at him—his jaw that always seemed to need shaving, the calluses on his hands, the strong arms. She loved him. Gene was his family. “No. It’s just such a small house, that’s all.”
“You’re right. I probably should talk to him about his plans. At least he’s out most evenings.”
The subject had safely switched from Stroden’s murder to Gene. The tension in Joanna’s shoulders released. “Have you ever wondered about that? About what he’s doing?”
Paul pushed around some salad on his plate. “So, you’ve wondered, too? He swears he’s not back in the business.”
“Then who’s he hanging out with? Something is going on. I wish I knew what. It wouldn’t be good for any of us if he’s tossed in prison again.”
“He’d never get out, at his age.” Paul sighed. Gemma echoed his sigh from beneath the table. “He’s a good man, Jo. He truly is. After my dad died, he was it. I owe a lot to him.”
“Sort of,” she added. Gene had pressed Paul into lookout services once in a while and had given him a few lessons in the intricacies of alarm systems.
“True. He never got me into a situation where I was at risk, though.”
“Because you were never caught,” she reminded him.
“And when Kristin died” —Kristin, Paul’s sister— “he was there for me, too.”
“I know.” She pulled his hand between hers and laced their fingers together. “I really do understand. He can stay as long as you want him here.”
She released Paul’s hand, and at last he dug into his dinner. Joanna ate, too, but her mind had drifted to Bradley Stroden again. What, exactly, had Stroden known that was so dangerous—if that’s why he was killed? She saw him again on the floor, his mouth twisted and eyes screwed shut. Beyond him stretched the row of polished wardrobe doors.
“Don’t worry about Uncle Gene. We’ll figure it out,” Paul said.
She leaned over and kissed his stubbly cheek. “I’m sure we will.” But she was really thinking of how to get her hands on Starlit Wonder.