Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) Read Free Page A

 
    Poppy almost seemed to side with the policeman. Joanna raised an eyebrow at her, but Poppy’s expression remained impossible to read. Joanna turned to the policeman. "When you test the clothes, you don't cut them up, do you? Or pull fibers from the fabric?"
    "Ms. Madewell will be in contact when we’re finished with the items," the policeman said.
    Lost in thought, Joanna pulled her bag onto her shoulder. "What are you looking for, anyway? Vivienne North didn’t die here." She glanced toward Poppy again, who shook her head helplessly.
    The policeman ignored her. "I’ll see you to the door."

CHAPTER FOUR

    The slant of the light confused her. And she was on the wrong side of the bed. As Joanna opened her eyes, she stretched out a hand and felt fur. Gemma the Beast. She was at Paul's. The German shepherd mix thumped her tail against the bed and G.I. Joe'd a few feet closer. She laid her head on Joanna's chest. The fragrance of coffee mingled with wood dust rose from the shop floor to the small sleeping loft.
    "Hey, sleepyhead." Paul's head popped above the banister. "Here's coffee." His smile revealed the tiny gap between his front teeth. Warmth shot through Joanna.
    She pulled the sheet up and leaned forward to take the mug. "Thanks. I'll be down in a second." Gemma jumped off the bed to follow Paul.  
    Joanna set down her coffee and yawned, then pulled back her arms mid-stretch. The auction, Vivienne North’s death. The image of Vivienne's faint smile appeared. How could she be dead? Joanna's chest tightened. And Poppy. Something was up with Poppy, she was sure. Something more than the admittedly huge stress of having the police gum up the auction.
    Joanna let out a long breath. All those gorgeous clothes, lost now. She imagined ham-handed policemen rifling through the dresses, smearing everything with fingerprint dust. With a groan she tossed back the blankets and found the old robe of Paul's she'd been using. Its scratchy wool slid over her skin.  
    In the kitchen, Paul slid one arm around her waist and kissed her cheek while the other hand held a pancake turner. "How'd you sleep? You didn't worry too much about the auction, did you?"
    "Not too much. A little, I guess." The dresses were going to save Tallulah’s Closet. Maybe they still could.
    She took her coffee to a worn armchair. On the nearby worktable lay two pieces of birds'-eye maple delicately joined to form a corner of dovetails. Last night he had shown her how he worked them by hand, patiently fitting each slat into the other and shaping their edges to a finish so smooth that if she'd felt the join with closed eyes she wouldn't know they were two pieces.
    For most of his youth, Paul had spent his after-school hours at his uncle's wood shop. The shop turned out to be cover for a jewel-theft operation that rivaled the Pink Panther's. When his uncle went to prison, Paul ended up with the shop and a career in woodworking.
    "Here you go." Paul slid a plate onto the kitchen table.  
    Joanna laughed. Paul had made her a pancake shaped roughly like a dress, complete with blueberry buttons. "Not bad," she said. "With the prim collar and all, it could be an early Chanel. If you get tired of woodworking, you could go into fashion design."
    "I figured you needed a special dress to tide you over until you get the clothes you bought yesterday." He put another plate of pancakes, these round, across the table and sat down. "Seriously, though, it's good to see you laugh about it. The paper has a story about Vivienne North's death. I guess her family's a big deal around here. They're saying she was poisoned."
    Joanna cupped the coffee mug in her hands. "Poisoned? It's so hard to believe. I had just seen her, too. She must have been in her eighties, but she looked strong to me. Really elegant. Full of personality. You know what I mean?"  
    She pulled the newspaper toward her. Below a story about a recent flurry of jewel thefts was Vivienne’s photo, taken at a gala