Twice Joanna had been moments from seeing the Edith Head wardrobe—and twice been denied. Mary Pat drew a key from her dress and calmly unlocked the dressing room door. No hitch, no drama.
She cracked the door an inch. “I wish Bradley were here. He knew so much more about it,” Mary Pat said. Her hands sank to the pockets in her tunic.
Joanna made out only darkness in the sliver of clothing showing. “But now you’re here to carry on his legacy.”
“Yes.” This seemed to cheer her up enough to pull open the wardrobe doors the rest of the way. “I guess that’s true. Strange but true, especially since I’ll be destroying his memoir. How much do you know about Bradley’s job?”
“With Edith Head?” Joanna asked. “Nothing, really, except that he was her assistant.”
The wardrobe wafted the scent of cedar and lavender. A fluff of fabric—cotton batiste, a bit of brocade, and bronze silk chiffon caught her eye.
“His title was Costume Assistant. He didn’t do any actual designing for the big stars. But he did design for the supporting players, and he learned to mimic Edith’s style of sketching so he could do her drawings. She signed off on them, of course.”
“Of course.” Joanna clasped her hands behind her back to keep from yanking hangers from the closet.
“Bradley” —Mary Pat paused, looking confused— “What do you think the press will ask me? About the memoir?”
Joanna glanced at the potential glory of the wardrobe, then back to Mary Pat. “Nothing about its substance if you make it clear you haven’t read it. You simply talk about what you might have heard over breakfast—say, that your brother expected to have the manuscript done next month, or whatever, and that the publisher was waiting for it, but you’re canceling the contract. That’s all.”
“You really think the murderer will believe it if I burn the pages?”
Mary Pat’s tiny figure, anxious expression, and, compared to her brother, lack of guile would make her completely believable to the media. “I wouldn’t worry about it. If you say you don’t choose to move forward with the memoir, and you make that clear, the press will report it. The murderer will know you’re talking to him.”
Mary Pat’s gaze lost focus, and she stared past Joanna. “So strange…”
“I’d love to see the wardrobe,” Joanna nudged.
“Yes. Sorry.” Mary Pat turned again to the open wardrobe door. “When Starlit Wonder was cancelled, Edith Head was already on her next project. She told Bradley to put the wardrobe into storage so bits and pieces of it could be pulled, should they need it for other productions. So he did.”
“But—” Joanna started.
“But he kept the lead actress’s wardrobe for himself. Ms. Head gave him permission. It was a real honor. She said the costumes should be preserved as a whole, and she knew Bradley was the person to do it. At least, that’s what Bradley told me.”
“So, these were costumes Edith Head designed, not your brother.”
“Exactly.” Mary Pat seemed to be in the moment once again. “The movie was contemporary, so all the pieces are mid-1950s and geared toward a woman in the movie industry.”
“Amazing.”
At last, Mary Pat stepped aside. A clothing rod ran the wardrobe’s length, with a row of drawers along the floor and a shelf up high. “Bradley organized the wardrobe by the script, with the earliest costumes here” —she gestured toward her far left— “traveling along to there.” She tapped a finger toward the door. “He said the actress was a bit hippy and her legs weren’t great, but she had a sharp jaw and a good bust.”
She pulled out a day dress in cocoa-printed polished cotton with a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt.
Joanna stepped forward. “May I?”
Mary Pat shrugged. “Why not? Bradley might have told you not to touch, but I don’t see what the big deal is. Not anymore.”
Joanna lifted the dress’s skirt to see a stiff but thin crinoline. It would have swished around its wearer’s calves, giving a sense of motion to distract from thick ankles. She ran her fingers around the neck. Naturally, there wasn’t a maker’s tag. The craftsmanship was solid, though. The seams and buttonholes were hand finished and the fabric was of good quality. She touched the liquid texture of the fabric’s weave.
“This must have been meant for an afternoon scene. What do you know about Starlit Wonder’s story?” For the moment, she forced herself to focus on Mary Pat instead of the costumes.
“Not much, really. It took place in Hollywood, I know that. The lead—this is her wardrobe—played an actress.”
“But the film was never released. I wonder why?”
“No.” Mary Pat lifted a patent leather stiletto from the rack lining the wardrobe’s floor. “Good grief. I can’t believe we ever wore these.” She replaced the pump. “It happened from time to time that a movie’s production was cut short.”
“It must have been a big deal. Think of all the money spent on hiring the crew, paying the actors, building sets—”
“Sewing the costumes,” Mary Pat finished. “I know. It was Sip’s money to spend. He decided to pull the plug.” The older woman’s pale blue eyes were gentle.
Joanna turned again to the wardrobe. “What else is there?”
They sifted through the closet’s contents, from two suits—maybe the lead character had done secretarial work sometimes?—to two more afternoon dresses and two evening gowns. They were all shades of taupe, some with white collars and cuffs and some not, but all in hues of gray and brown. In taupe, the suit looked business-like, but the silk evening gown raised the color to a whole new level of glamour. With pearls, the dress would have had fashionistas in the audience gasping. She imagined the actress having dark hair and vivid blue eyes.
“So much taupe,” Joanna said.
“Not the first color I would have chosen, but it comes off as elegant here, don’t you think?”
In the row of taupe, one evening gown stood out. It was gold. This gown sent adrenaline coursing through Joanna’s bloodstream, a visceral reaction she felt in the face of intoxicating beauty, and a feeling that struck only once or twice a year.
“I have to see this gown out of the closet,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Fine.”
Joanna hung the strapless dress from the door and stood back. It was boned and fitted through the torso, then fell in pleated folds to the floor. A full crinoline fluffed from beneath it as if it had been waiting to be released from the closet and needed only elbow-length gloves and a chauffeured limousine for a nightclub outing.
“Amazing,” she repeated, aware that she was starting to sound like one of the Book Bunnies. She wondered what accessories Head would have paired with the dress. A gardenia corsage? Sapphire parure?
“That’s about all,” Mary Pat said. “Here’s the final outfit. Kind of dramatic, huh?”
She pulled from the closet a simple chiffon peignoir in pale gray with lace trim. Just outside of the taupe spectrum. Edith Head must have had a sure eye for color, because this peignoir would not suit just anyone. Joanna reached for the garment, then dropped her hand and gasped. The peignoir was stained with a palm’s-width streak of dried blood.
“What—?” she said.
Mary Pat laughed. “It’s nothing. Bradley said that in the movie, the lead dies, so they stained the outfit ahead of time. I had the same reaction the first time I saw it. Here’s its twin, no blood stains.”
“I see.” She forced a laugh. “They did a good job.” The chiffon was stiff and brick-brown with the fake blood. So, Starlit Wonder featured a death, and a bloody one at that.
Mary Pat closed the wardrobe doors before Joanna had had the chance to look at the slippers accompanying the peignoir. “Do you think they’ll really come? Today?”
“The press, you mean?” Joanna swallowed a sigh as Mary Pat locked the wardrobe doors. “Yes. If we make the calls, they’ll come. Are you ready, though?”
Mary Pat looked at her blankly. “What do you mean? Fix myself up?”
It’s not like she needed a fancy wardrobe or a makeup job. In fact, it was better that Mary Pat didn’t try to be anyone else. A meek, grief-stricken sister was perfect.
“You’re fine just as you are,” Joanna said. “All you’ll have to do is let them in—I’d think we’ll have ten people, maybe a dozen, tops—and read the statement.”
“Read it,” Mary Pat said.
“Yes, as we discussed. I’ll make notes for you. Bradley was writing a memoir, but you won’t release it.” She had a sudden thought. “You have the manuscript, right?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely.”
“Where is it?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have it ready.”
“Fine. Then you say that you have another announcement. Just as we talked about.” Joanna watched Mary Pat. Hopefully, she’d keep up this end of the bargain. She could practically taste the joy of having the house to herself and Paul alone again.
“Okay,” Mary Pat said.
“Then you’ll toss the manuscript into the fire. We’ll make a fire before they arrive. We’ll invite photographers.”
The wardrobe doors were now a flat wall of polished mahogany, locked.
“Okay,” Mary Pat said. “Three o’clock?”