“Forty years?” Joanna tightened her grip on the phone. “Did I hear you right?”
“Forty-four years, to be precise. It was a big deal,” Foster Crisp said. “The crime was never solved. I had a photo of the stolen jewelry hanging over my desk until I left for Homicide. We used to joke that whoever solved the case would get two weeks of vacation and a spiral-cut ham.”
The early 1970s. Gene might have been involved in the original job. Then why didn’t he sell them? Or maybe he had stolen them from the jewelry’s original thief?
“Tell me more about the case.”
“June and I had just gotten married and were taking off for our honeymoon when the call came in.” He cleared his throat. “We never did get that honeymoon.”
“It was that important a case?”
“The jewelry—like I said, a full set—was originally from an old French count’s family. They were so famous they had a name, the Greffulhe jewels. They belonged to a woman associated with the Canadian ambassador.”
Joanna’s thoughts shot back to her home, secured only by an elderly mutt and a single bolt deadlock. “No kidding.”
“It gets worse. They were stolen from Senator Woodstock’s house. The Canadian ambassador was visiting, and Woodstock had put him up. He was here on some sort of trade deal with lumber and salmon. That part wasn’t important. The big deal was the pressure the governor put on the mayor and the mayor passed down to the chief to solve the case.”
“No wonder you remember it.”
“Oh, yes. After a beer, we old-timers still chat about it.”
“You say the theft happened here in Portland?
“Woodstock had a guest suite in the coach house behind his house in the West Hills. That’s where the ambassador stayed. It was a pretty slick crime. Not only did Woodstock have the U.S. Protective Service on duty, the ambassador had his own security. All the evidence pointed to one particular crew.”
Joanna knew what was coming next. “You mean Gene, of course.”
“Always at the top of our list at the time. Thing is, he couldn’t have made the heist. He was in Idaho.”
“Idaho?” It hardly seemed like the first place Gene would vacation.
“Near Coeur d’Alene. Said he was fishing, if I remember right. His alibi checked out. The chief lost his job the next year, and rumor had it it was because of Woodstock.”
“So the jewels belonged to the ambassador’s wife?”
“Nope. His mistress. That made the case doubly difficult. Word couldn’t get out that there was a case at all.” Crisp had a new energy in his voice. Joanna imagined him sitting straighter now with a hint of a smile on his lips.
She sat in silence, letting Crisp’s story sink in. “Wow.”
“Now if you have those jewels…”
“I’m not sure,” Joanna said. “I might be mistaken. It was probably just a piece of costume junk that got lost in the laundry.”
A long moment passed before Crisp replied. “I know you want to protect Gene, but don’t make any fatal mistakes, Joanna. It’s not just Gene’s future you’re talking about.”
Now it was her turn to pause. “I’ll be in touch. I just—I just need a bit of time. That’s all.”
“Then I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
The next morning, Joanna cut her engine in the cul-de-sac below the Stroden mansion. Memories of the same place, same time a few days earlier washed over her. She hesitated before opening the car door.
After her call last night, Stroden’s secretary, Luke, had been willing—even eager—to see her. She had started to roll out her excuse for wanting to drop by again, but he’d cut in, saying, “Does ten o’clock work?” It had been easy. Maybe too easy.
Today was Apple’s day at Tallulah’s Closet, so ten o’clock was perfect, but that’s about all that was going right. She still hadn’t figured out how to tell Paul about the Greffulhe jewels, because it would mean letting on that she’d spilled the whole story to Crisp without talking it over first. It had felt so natural to pick up the phone to call Crisp. She had only been trying to help. Coloring her indignation at having to report every move—okay, maybe not every move—was the knowledge that her actions affected both of them. The better part of her urged her to tell Paul, and she would. Later.
As a result, breakfast had been uncomfortably silent. Gene had still not returned.
Now at the Stroden home, she leaned against her car and looked around. The last time she’d come, she was so excited to get into the butter-yellow mansion she’d wondered about for so long that she’d leapt up the steps. Today, she took a moment to look around.
At some point over the years, the house’s grounds had been sold off. Rundown apartment complexes boxed it in. Here, the stream of ant-like traffic just over the embankment that had looked so charming from the morning room’s windows was an exhaust-heavy roar of commuters. The mansion was a prim lady with thugs squatting around her.
Joanna started up the long flight of cement stairs. As happened the last time, the neighbor’s curtains ruffled. Joanna smiled and waved. Take that.
Luke answered the door. The entry hall still shone with wood polish, but instead of violets, a Chinese urn full of dinner plate dahlias splashed pink and purple from the table just inside the door. Above them hung a gilded portrait of a meaty woman in a cloche scowling and clutching a lap dog. She made Auntie V look like Glinda the Good Witch.
“Like it?” Luke said, nodding at the portrait.
“The dog’s cute,” Joanna replied.
“That’s Heidi, a toy fox terrier. According to Bradley, she was a real princess. But, yeah, she’s pretty cute. The other one’s Stroden mère. She doesn’t come off very flattering in the memoir.” He turned his back to the painting. “Take a right this time. We’ll go to the parlor.”
Luke led her to a room on the opposite side of the hall from her first visit. They were in a formal salon with a mix of Victorian and brightly colored Memphis furniture, as if the Queen Mother had wandered into Studio 54. Through an arch, she made out yet another room, this one lined in bookcases.
“I’m glad you’re still interested in Mr. Stroden’s clothing. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to come this way again.”
“It was horrible, I admit. Murder.” She shook her head. “But it was worse for you and Mr. Stroden’s sister.” She met Luke’s eyes to confirm that the woman she’d met was, in fact, Stroden’s sister.
“Mary Pat,” he said. “She’s not taking it well. She’s at the doctor’s office right now, in fact. I hope he gives her something to relax her. But enough of that. You’re here for the clothes.”
Truth was, she barely remembered the racks of clothing from that morning. She wanted to lead conversation to Stroden’s memoir. Stroden had dictated it to Luke. If anyone knew if there was something incriminating in it, including about Starlit Wonder, it would be his secretary. And, of course, the possibility of getting her hands on the Edith Head wardrobe hadn’t escaped her, either.
“We could go through the clothing, mark what you’re interested in, then I’ll let Mary Pat know. She inherits all this, of course.”
“Sounds good.” She took in the furniture, the rugs, the 19th-century landscape over the fireplace. “At least she won’t have to worry about finances.”
He shrugged. “She’ll have to sell, which is why I’m sure she’ll be glad to see Mr. Stroden’s collection go to a good home.”
“Have to sell?”
“Sure. The place is mortgaged to here.” He chopped a hand to his neck. “Let’s look at the clothes again.”
Debt was a strong motivation for blackmail. Then again, a blackmailer—unless he was bad at his business—wouldn’t be broke. They climbed the stairs to the landing with its row of Dali lithographs, walked by the room Joanna had entered with Stroden, and arrived at Stroden’s bedroom.
Luke pulled back curtains on a bank of windows. This bedroom must have been Stroden’s grandfather’s at one time. It was large enough for an armchair, a desk, a fireplace, and a four-poster mahogany bed neatly made with three rows of pillows. A converted gas light fixture with frosted globes hung from the ceiling. Behind Joanna was the door to the dressing room where Stroden had died.
“Do you live here, too?”
“Down the hall. Although I don’t know how much longer that will be.”
“I’m sorry. This has to be rough on you.”
“I’ll get by.” Luke pointed toward the clothing rack. “Anyway, there it is.”
Joanna set her purse in the nearby armchair. “Should I just put to one side of the rack the things I’m interested in?” The key would be to get him talking about Stroden. See if anything in particular jumped out in the memoir. See if anything was worth killing for.
“Sure. Just hang them on this side of the rack.”
Joanna flipped through the garments. If she were at an estate sale, a bare five minutes would be enough for her to assess them and make a decision. She wanted more than five minutes, so she slowed her hand. “I suppose the police must have questioned you?”
“Definitely. It’s not over yet, either.”
“That’s too bad.” She pulled an Italian wool jersey jacket from the rack. They were good between-weather wear in Portland, and the boxy cut suited every woman except the bustiest. “Detective Roscoe paid me a visit, too.”
Luke sat at the edge of the desk. “Really? What did he want to know?”
“Probably the same things he asked you. Where I was, what happened. To tell the truth, I was surprised to see the police. I’d thought Mr. Stroden had a heart attack or something.” She glanced at Luke from the corner of her eyes. His jaw muscles tightened.
“You saw the paper this morning?” he asked. “They’re saying it was murder.”
“I got that idea from Roscoe. He was especially interested in the violet pastilles.” Luke didn’t need to know she’d given the police that lead. “What else did they ask?”
“They wanted to know if anyone had threatened him, of course. I open his mail and screen his email—he never really took to his computer—but as far as I know, he didn’t have any enemies.”
“I imagine they wanted to talk about his memoir,” Joanna said. She added two late 1950s silk blouses to the pile. As gorgeously tailored as they were, they weren’t big sellers. Not many of her customers wore suits.
“Not much. No one really knew he was writing a memoir, anyway. So, who would threaten him?”
Joanna turned toward Luke. “You mentioned that the house is mortgaged. Did it ever cross your mind he might have blackmailed someone? You know, threatened to write about them in his memoir unless they paid up?”
She hadn’t known how Luke would take this statement. Maybe he’d fly into a rage and throw her out. Maybe he’d be unmoved. Surely the police had gone down this path.
Luke’s face reddened. “Blackmail?” he stammered. “I don’t think so. That’s not like him at all.”
“He needed the money. You said so, yourself.”
He took a moment uncrossing his arms and stretching his shoulders. When he faced Joanna again, it was with more composure. “Remember, I opened all his mail.” He began to shake his head, then stopped, as if remembering something.
“You know what’s in his memoir. You would know if Mr. Stroden was planning to tell stories that certain people wouldn’t want revealed.”
“He wasn’t cruel, you know. Or stupid. I’m sure he would have gotten in touch with anyone he planned to write about.”
“You would have written those letters, right? So, you’d know.”
“Look. I don’t know anything, all right? I didn’t keep track of everything he did. I just took dictation and cleaned up his grammar. Anyway, I don’t see why it matters to you.”
Joanna waited for more, but he didn’t go on. “I see.” She pulled a pair of white wrist gloves from a box and added them to the pile. Sadly, they weren’t big sellers, either, as much as she loved them. People now counted on chemical peels to de-freckle their hands, not a preventative layer of cotton. “I’d love to buy these things,” she said, pointing to the clothing she’d set aside. “If Mr. Stroden’s sister agrees.”
“I’ll talk to her about it. I don’t know why she wouldn’t be happy to make some money from this. Especially given…”
“Yes.”
The clock on the mantel above the fireplace seemed to tick especially loudly.
“There’s just one thing,” Joanna said. She turned toward the dressing room and stared at the closed door.
“Yes?” Luke was standing now, still crossing his arms.
“The wardrobe from Starlit Wonder.”
“The Edith Head wardrobe.”
“Do you think I could see it? I might be able to sell it for you.”
Luke dropped his arms. “Starlit Wonder.”
“That’s right.” She looked him in the eyes. “Mr. Stroden said there was quite a story around that film. He specifically mentioned it.”
“The memoir does discuss Starlit Wonder.”
“What was the film about, anyway?”
Luke’s smile faltered. “What does it matter now?” When she didn’t respond, he added, “It’s not up to me to talk about what he wrote. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.” Joanna counted one, two, then three breaths.
“I think I can find the key to those wardrobes,” he said at last.
He’d neatly avoided talking about the memoir, but the prospect of seeing Edith Head’s work—work that hadn’t received public recognition—made it easier for her to set that aside for the moment.
“I have contacts at a few major museums,” she said. “Maybe I could help arrange a sale. Head is such a legend. She’s overdue for an exhibition.” Even a modest commission would be helpful to Joanna’s bottom line. Plus, she’d get to examine the costumes inside and out.
Luke went to the mahogany desk with its green leather inlay that looked as if it had never been used. He drew keys from his pocket and opened a lower desk drawer, then took another key ring from that drawer.
“I think this is it. Let’s try.”
She fought to steady her breath as she followed him to the dressing room where she’d sat with Stroden only a few days ago. Violet perfume still clung to the air, but faintly enough that she might have imagined it. The table had been set upright, and the pastilles were long gone. But the rows of polished wardrobe doors remained, beckoning.
“This should be the key. Let’s see if it works.” Luke attempted to insert a brass skeleton key into a keyhole, but it didn’t fit. “Maybe this one.” He tried the key next to it, another skeleton key, this one polished to a golden sheen. It slid in on the first try. Before he could pull open the door, a voice yelled from the hall.
“Stop!” It was Stroden’s sister, Mary Pat. She stood trembling outside the dressing room door. Her cheeks burned red, and her mouth was taut. “You.” She seemed to have difficulty spitting out the words. “You killed him.”
“What? I tried to save his life.”
A drop of spittle stuck to her jaw. “He was alive until you came. Now they say he was poisoned.”
Joanna grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. “No. Not at all, I mean, yes, he was killed, but—”
“Get out. Get out of this house.”
“I don’t know what you think, but it’s not that. Please—”
“I said, get out. Now.”
The words rang in Joanna’s ears as she hurried down the stairs and into the street.