Joanna dawdled at her bath, but she couldn’t stay in the tub forever. By unspoken agreement, she, Paul, and Gene hadn’t talked about Crisp or the jewels at dinner, but Joanna had the feeling it was never far from any of their minds. Gene had made an excuse and left the house not long after dishes were cleared, and Paul had escaped to the garage to finish a piece of molding. He’d gone to bed early. Finally, fingers like bleached prunes, she toweled herself off, donned a kimono, and padded through the quiet house to the bedroom.
Paul was sitting up in bed, blankets puddled over his lap. He patted the sheets next to him, the silver scar on his hand catching the light.
She slid under the covers, and he turned off the bedside light. She was glad. It was easier to talk in the dark.
He waited for her to speak first.
“I saw Foster Crisp without talking to you about it,” she said.
“I heard.” In the dark, his voice wasn’t angry or accusatory. Simply matter of fact.
Why had she visited Crisp without mentioning it to Paul? Whatever came of it would affect not just her, but Paul and Gene. Yet, without a second thought, she’d picked up the phone and dialed Crisp’s number. She could tell Paul it had been habit. She’d lived alone so long that she’d forgotten that her decisions could affect others. Only a few seconds of reflection unveiled this as a lie. Who was she kidding? She remembered Paul all day, every day.
No, she’d wanted to talk to Crisp not just about Gene’s problem, but about Bradley Stroden, and she’d been afraid Paul didn’t want her to deepen her involvement in the murder. The fact was, she couldn’t help but speculate about Stroden’s death. But neither could she bear the possibility that Paul would try to stop her, and she didn’t know what she’d do if he tried.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He reached over, his hand warm on her hip. “Thank you. That means a lot.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t pretend to be an expert, but married people should confide in each other. One person’s problem is the other person’s, too. I want you to know that whatever happens, we can handle it together.”
She let this sink in. Marriage was new to her, and she wasn’t very good at it. Not yet, anyway. She steeled herself. This must be how Olympic divers felt before the plunge. “There’s something else you should know. When I went to see Crisp, it was about more than Gene’s situation. I wanted to talk to him about the Stroden murder.”
His hand stiffened, but his breath remained even. “Yes?”
“I love running Tallulah’s Closet, but I’ve come to understand something about myself. It’s not just the beautiful old dresses that draw me, it’s their stories. I like imagining each dress’s life. The best part of having a vintage clothing shop is going to estate sales and wondering about the people who lived in each house. I love seeing the tea cups they chose for everyday, the half-used bottles of perfume, the souvenirs from trips—everything.” She smoothed the quilt. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like the puzzle. I like figuring out how lives go together and what motivates them.” She lifted her gaze to his, but night shadowed his expression.
“And Bradley Stroden’s murder is part of that.”
“I can’t help but wonder. In a way, it fuels me, and I’m good at it. But don’t worry. The police have this one. I’m just a curious bystander.”
From Gemma’s dog bed came the quiet whimpers of her dreaming.
“Sometimes I wonder if you like being married, Jo. You still keep so much to yourself. We’re a team now. You and me.”
She sank lower in the bed. “I know. Maybe I haven’t gotten used to having someone else on my team.” She turned and clasped his arm. “Are you really on board? Even with my nosing around about Bradley Stroden?”
“You know I am,” he said softly. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.”
What if she relied on him and he let her down? A familiar ache sparked in her chest, but it was faint. Just a hum. Maybe soon it would go away altogether.
“You can count on me,” he said. “Especially when the decision involves both of us.”
The words stung. He was right. “Then I will.”
He bent and kissed her. “Partner.”
The next day at Tallulah’s Closet, Joanna dumped out a bag of hundred-year-old French nightgowns fresh from the laundry and turned on the steamer. She plotted how she was going to talk to Luke, Stroden’s secretary. The last time she’d gone to Stroden’s house had turned out a disaster, with Mary Pat wailing and accusing her of murder. Remembering, she clenched her jaw.
Yes, she’d told Paul she was merely a bystander to the murder case. But Crisp had pointed out that someone else with access to Stroden’s memoir could have been a blackmailer, and Luke was at the top of the list. Pretending he was Stroden, Luke might have sent out a threatening letter or two and demanded payment. One of the recipients might have preferred to kill rather than risk having his secret revealed.
It would be worth a few questions with Luke to see exactly what he knew. She could call him again and suggest he try once more to sell Stroden’s clothing to her, only offsite. At the shop, for instance. That surely wouldn’t qualify as doing something “stupid.”
But why would Luke agree? What would he get out of it? She might hint at a cut for him if he could arrange the sale. The dresses Stroden had set aside to sell were okay and in good shape, but normally she wouldn’t go to so much trouble for them. The Edith Head costumes, on the other hand…well, they were something special. Joanna would love to examine even one dress and see what tricks Head had used to make the most of the actress’s figure. She still dreamed of the gold lamé gown that flowed like gilded water over Dorothy Lamour’s curves in My Favorite Brunette.
The French nightgowns steamed out beautifully. A friend of a friend in Burgundy was a die-hard thrifter who visited the local vide grenier sales for relaxation. She’d amassed a huge collection of old cotton and linen nightgowns, many with their original mother-of-pearl buttons and hand embroidery, and Joanna had jumped at the chance to buy them. So many vintage dresses had tiny waists. These nightgowns were comfortably ample and would make chic chemises paired with leggings and a cardigan.
As she slipped the next nightgown on a hanger, she considered how she’d approach Luke. Could she call the house and hope Mary Pat didn’t answer?
The phone rang. “Tallulah’s Closet,” Joanna answered, one hand still holding the steamer’s wand.
“Joanna? This is Luke, Bradley Stroden’s secretary. I’d hoped you’d be there.”
She clicked off the steamer with a toe and spun to the phone to give it her full attention. “Yes, I’m here. I’m glad you called.” Talk about kismet. No Moulin Rouge soundtrack necessary, either.
“Yeah, well, I wondered if you still wanted those clothes?”
“I do, but—”
“Don’t worry about Mary Pat. She’s out all afternoon. Could you come now?”
Business at the shop was slow. All she’d sold that morning was a striped Jantzen one-piece swimsuit to a collector from Japan. And that had been over the phone.
“I’ll be right over,” she said.
In the car, she realized that she should have left Paul a message telling him where she was—for both her safety and his peace of mind. Oh, well. She’d tell him all about it when she got home. That’s what married people did.