The morning dawned clear and promised another day of batting a hand fan and bemoaning Old Blue’s lack of A/C. While it was still cool, Paul had left for work, and Joanna had used the morning rush as an excuse to delay telling him about Foster Crisp. She would have more to share later, anyway.
Joanna had an hour until her next appointment, so she stopped by Tallulah’s Closet to check in. If things were quiet, she’d nip into the back room to talk with Auntie V. She had a lot to work out.
Apple must have brought in her own records to the store today, because Joanna arrived to French cancan music. At least half a dozen women—a crowd for Tallulah’s Closet—wandered the store touching dresses and closing their eyes. It was Helen Keller at the cabaret times six.
“What’s going on?”
Apple gestured for her to come closer to the tiki bar, where she sat quietly amid the rollicking music and wandering women.
“Friends. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. What are they doing?”
One of the women held a red and gold brocade sheath dress to her torso. Her eyes snapped open, and a smile broke over her face.
Without saying a word, Apple pointed toward the dressing room. “They’re buying dresses for a ritual. We thought wearing vintage would be a good way to get in touch with our ancestors.”
Joanna accepted Apple’s paganism without asking a lot of questions, but a ritual that demanded sixty-year-old cocktail dresses deserved further investigation. “I thought the ancestors you were interested in wore, oh, medieval capes or something.”
“And rode brooms?” Apple’s low voice could hardly be heard over the frantic music. “Ancestors can be anyone who’s died.” She tilted her head. “Think of your grandmother. You still hear her voice, don’t you?”
Joanna did. Her grandmother’s aphorisms flitted through her consciousness daily. Just this morning when trying to decide when to tell Paul about her conversation with Crisp, she’d heard, “Trouble, like fresh bread, only gets harder when you wait to cut it.”
“I’m giving them the friends and family discount. I hope you don’t mind,” Apple said. “How are things?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seemed distracted the past few days.”
“The Stroden murder has been on my mind. I went to his house to check about the clothes again—”
“And see if anything new had turned up, I bet.”
“Busted.” Joanna gave a weak smile. “Stroden’s sister ran me out, saying I’d killed her brother. Plus, Paul’s uncle is still hanging out in our basement, raising a whole bunch of complications I’d rather not get into right now.”
Joanna’s reply was interrupted as Apple’s friend emerged from the dressing room in the brocade sheath and bare feet. Her wavy, prematurely gray hair wafted in a halo. She looked ready for a photo shoot in an avant-garde magazine.
“Fabulous,” Joanna said. “The dress fits like it was made for her, too.”
Another of Apple’s friends went into a dressing room with a 1940s rayon day dress in a back-to-school print of books and apples.
“I sense it’s more than that,” Apple said. Sometimes when Apple looked at her, Joanna felt like her skull had grown a television screen with one channel: her feelings. Apple was looking at her this way now. “Are things okay with Paul?”
“Of course,” Joanna replied before Apple had finished speaking.
“I know marriage can be tough. Paul seems easygoing, but, if you don’t mind my saying so, you can be tightly wound. I wonder if you’ve had trouble talking with him?”
“About what?” Joanna asked. About calling out his uncle’s grand larceny to an ex-cop, for instance?
“I don’t know. You used to be super-focused on the shop. These days, you’re more interested in running down murder suspects. Just yesterday I showed you a Josef of Hollywood bib necklace a customer dropped off, and you barely registered it.”
Apple was right. It was a glorious necklace and deserved a closer look. “Where is it, anyway?”
“Never mind.” Apple rested her fists on her hips. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I will. Just not this second.” She watched one of Apple’s friends smile and clip on an earring, then yank it off with a grimace.
Casting around for something to change the subject, Joanna asked, “What’s this music about? I’d have thought you’d be listening to some kind of witchy New Age thing.” She picked up the album cover with Zsa Zsa Gabor cavorting in a gay nineties dress. “It’s the soundtrack to Moulin Rouge.”
“Colette writes spells with Moulin Rouge—the new version—playing on the TV in the background. I couldn’t find that one on vinyl. You’re avoiding my question, by the way. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Joanna set the album cover back on top of the stereo. “You’re right. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I still love the shop, I do. But the Stroden murder won’t leave me alone. And Gene. Like I said, I can’t talk about it right now.”
“Can’t talk about it with me, maybe, but don’t forget Paul.”
“Oh, we’ve discussed Gene. Just this morning, in fact.”
“What about the murder? Have you talked about that with Paul? I don’t mean just about the facts, but about your fascination with it. In a marriage, that’s part of your job—and a big part of the benefits.”
“Kind of. A bit.” Trouble, like fresh bread…
Apple stared at her, then apparently deciding she wouldn’t get more of a response, picked up the bag from Stamp Gurlz. “What’s with all the rubber stamps? They’re great. We should stamp the price tags with them.”
An older woman wearing a Princess Diana style fascinator—Joanna had hesitated when she picked it up at an estate sale, but seeing it on she was glad she’d made the purchase— seemed to materialize at the tiki bar.
“You’re Joanna, yes?” Her voice was delicate but somehow cut cleanly through the music. “Apple talks about you.”
“That’s me. I hope you’re enjoying the shop. Anything I can help you with?”
“You’re at a crossroads. Aren’t you?”
The woman’s gaze seemed both faraway, yet focused on Joanna. The white feather on her fascinator bobbed as she spoke.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
She squinted, as if looking beyond her. “You’d better watch out, honey.” Her eyes narrowed further, and she pulled back her head. “The garden.”
“Garden? You mean, flowers and grass?”
The woman shrugged. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Feet and a garden.”
The record came to an abrupt ending, the turntable’s needle making a rhythmic rasp. Joanna went to lift the arm, and when she turned again, the woman was on the other side of the boutique, examining a pair of pink patent leather slides.
“That was Marta,” Apple said. “She’s an herbalist, and she doesn’t get many intuitive flashes. But when she does, you’d better listen.”