After saying goodbye to the Book Bunnies, Joanna returned to Tallulah’s Closet. She locked herself in and kept the lights off. The streetlights through the front window stretched the mannequins’ shadows deep into the shop. Except for the muffled hum of conversation and music from Dot’s, it was quiet now. This might be the most peaceful she’d felt for weeks.
She allowed herself the luxury of a few breaths before returning home. Was Lucy right? Was she putting herself into trouble’s path? All she was doing now was looking at old newspaper articles and a screenplay. It was something any college student—or middle-school student, it turned out—might do.
Time to take it to a pro. She closed herself into the tiny storage room at the shop’s rear and flicked on the bright bulb overhead.
“Well, Aunt Vanderburgh, what do you think?”
Auntie V looked affronted to hang behind a sponge mop and a buttonless blouse.
Joanna leaned against the opposite wall, next to the shelf that held her coffee-making supplies, and folded her arms.
“It’s like this: In the early 1950s, a woman was killed. The official story was that she interrupted a robbery. Her brother was convinced she’d been murdered by her lover. To avenge the lover, who was a film producer, the brother wrote a screenplay that mirrored the murder as he saw it. The producer found out and shelved the movie before it was ever released to the public.
“This year, an assistant costume designer on the film decided to reveal the story in his memoir. Then, both he and his secretary were killed. Got it so far?”
Auntie V was listening but apparently chose not to respond.
“Okay. The assistant costume designer’s sister is afraid she might be killed, too, because the murderer will think she’s read the memoir. I promised to help her convince the murderer that the memoir would be destroyed if she did me a favor by telling the press that her dead brother had some stolen jewels Gene boosted a long time ago.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, Auntie V’s eyebrows raised a hair.
“You see, Gene simply wanted the jewels to go back to their owner, but he didn’t know how to do it without ending up in prison again. Anyway, that’s a side problem, but I thought I’d mention it.”
Auntie V appeared unimpressed.
“The murderer should be the person who’d stand to lose the most if the movie and its link to a real crime came to light, right? But the producer is already dead.” She shifted feet. “And the deal I made about Gene? It doesn’t even matter now. Gene’s girlfriend is going to make him confess, anyway. I feel so helpless.”
At last, Aunt Vanderburgh spoke. Then walk away. You’ve done all you can.
“I could. I could just say ‘who cares?’ and forget all about this. What do I have to lose now if Mary Pat tells the police the truth about Gene? Besides, she needs a bodyguard, not me.”
So, why are you here?
Why was she there? Why was she bothered enough to lock herself in a closet and blather on to a painting when she could be home with her husband—okay, with his uncle, too—eating dinner and joking around?
Joanna stared at the portrait, which now seemed more smug than indifferent.
Joanna knew why she was there. It was because she cared. She wanted to know the rest of the story at least as much as Mary Pat did, even if it put her own life at risk.
“There you are,” Paul said as soon as Joanna opened the door.
The smell of garlic wafted from the kitchen. “Italian bread salad,” Gene said, “mostly tomatoes, not bread. I wonder why they call it bread salad?”
“Sounds good,” Joanna said. Then, to Paul, “I went to Dot’s with some middle-schoolers after the store closed today. You got my message, right? Sorry I’m late.”
“I got it. The Book Bunnies?”
She slipped off her 1940s wedge sandals—generally comfortable, but nothing is a walk in the clouds when you’re on your feet all day—and rubbed her calves. Gemma loped over to nose at her. “Exactly. Remember the script I was reading in bed? They did some research on members of the cast and crew. I wondered if someone involved with the film had to do with the murders. The first step was finding out who’s still alive and where they are.” Had she already told him this? “It was just the logical extension of reading the script,” she added quickly.
“You won’t have to worry about that much longer.” Paul pulled out a seat for her at the dining room table. “Want a martini?”
“No, thanks. I had one at Dot’s. What do you mean about it not mattering?”
“Mary Pat Stroden has been calling all evening. She wants you to call her back. Says she found the memoir.”
Joanna leapt from her chair. “Can the bread salad wait a few minutes?”
“Definitely.”
Joanna dialed Mary Pat’s phone number, fidgeting with the phone cord as the dial seemed to take ages to return after each digit. The phone rang once, then twice, then three times.
She was just about ready to hang up when Mary Pat answered. “Joanna. I’m so glad you called.”
Joanna still forgot that most people had caller ID and didn’t go through the charade of “hello?” as if they didn’t know who was calling. “I got your message about the memoir.”
“Yes! It’s such good news.” Mary Pat sounded almost giddy.
“What happened?”
“I came back this afternoon from running errands—you know Bradley’s memorial service is at the house tomorrow—and I found a trash bag on my stoop with a note attached. The note said ‘All is forgiven.’”
“Are you sure it was the memoir?” As she spoke, her mind reeled. Why would the murderer return the memoir at all? Why would he care that Mary Pat knew she was forgiven? It didn’t make sense.
“Sure. I was terrified at first. Didn’t want to touch it. But the title page of Bradley’s memoir was sitting right on top of a bag of shredded paper.” She laughed. “I’m so relieved. I can’t even tell you. Tonight I might actually sleep.”
“I bet you are.” Joanna was beginning to wish she hadn’t turned down Paul’s offer of a martini after all.
“I had thought I might even cancel the memorial service, even though people are coming from out of town. I was so worried. It just didn’t feel safe, but now we can go ahead.”
“You’re sure it’s the memoir?” Joanna repeated. “I don’t understand why it would be returned like that.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? That title page was genuine, I’m certain of that. I recognized the purple stain from one of Bradley’s pastilles.” When Joanna was silent, still taking it all in, Mary Pat added, “You really did help me, and I appreciate it. I just wanted to call to tell you it’s over.”
“But what about finding out who killed your brother? Aren’t you worried about that?”
“The police are handling it.” Bradley’s demise barely seemed important to her now. “The murderer isn’t feeling threatened anymore. He’s moved on. I’m safe. I told the police, of course. They took the bag away. Anyway, everything’s fine now.”
Joanna held the phone to her cheek and turned toward the dining room, where Paul and his uncle stared at her. “Speaking of the police, I suppose Detective Roscoe told you about your brother’s memoir? Apparently Luke never gave it to them. He said he was going to follow up with you.”
“Oh, yes. He was here. Brought a few gentlemen with him, too. They left empty-handed.”
When Joanna replaced the receiver, it was with disappointment. She should have been relieved. Mary Pat was safe. Something didn’t sit right with her, though.
“Is everything okay?” Paul had come up behind her and slid an arm through hers. “Are you worried about Uncle Gene because of the memoir?”
She paused. “That’s part of it.”
An unusually robust sigh came from the kitchen, where Gene had returned and was plucking basil leaves from their stems. “Don’t worry about me,” Gene said. “I have a plan.”
Paul looked at Joanna before releasing her to set the table. “What kind of plan?”
“Are you going to make the apology?” Joanna said.
“I’ll make the apology all right.” The chef’s knife thwacked against the cutting board, and basil fell in slivers.
“Somehow, I’m not relieved,” Joanna told Paul.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gene said.
So. That was it. “Does your offer of a martini still stand?”