Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 03 - Paint Me a Murder by Darlene Franklin Page A

tapped the poster of the stately ballerina Tallchief in place with a hammer.
    I showed her my choices—a gorgeous seafoam green cotton with embroidered flowers around the scoop neck, a pink sheath with lace insets, and a cream-colored sweater dress. Who cared that the ultra-feminine fashions were all designed for women with perfect figures? My pregnancy-rounded shape couldn’t handle the form-fitting waistlines common to the era, but the trapeze-style dress in a muted blue linen I wore today captured the essence of the decade.
    “Ooh, lovely.” Jenna held up the seafoam dress and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “I might buy this one when you take down the display.”
    It would look lovely on her, I had to agree.
    After the coffee stopped gurgling in the backroom, I poured out two cups and added a muffin for us to share. “Okay. Enough chitchat. You came here with more on your mind than vintage dresses from the ’60s, no matter how beautiful they are. And—” I looked pointedly at the clock, which now read five minutes to nine. “You’d better talk fast, in case a customer expects to find me open on time.”
    Jenna took a bite of her half muffin. In behavior unusual for her, she struggled to put whatever was troubling her into words. I could guess, but I wanted her to say it out loud. She opened her mouth, took a sip of coffee instead, and then tried again. “I need your help. There, I’ve said it.”
    “Of course! We’re the Wilde sisters and we stick together.”
    She twisted her lips. “Wait until you know what I’m going to ask you to do before you agree so readily.”
    I raised my eyebrows at that. “What is it?” A sinking feeling in my stomach that didn’t come from Junior settling on my bladder told me Hurricane Jenna was about to descend on me with another storm.
    “I want you to look into Finella’s death. The police seem to think I’m a suspect. They won’t tell me anything.”
    You think they’ll tell me anything?
    She must have sensed my unspoken question. “You’re pretty chummy with Frances. And you’ve given her good tips in the past.”
    Yeah, during those other three murder investigations I had hoped never to repeat.
    “Reiner seems satisfied with the obvious. Girlfriend dead in boyfriend’s studio. Boyfriend missing. Ergo, boyfriend must be guilty. But in my heart of hearts, I can’t believe the man I—once loved—could commit murder.”
    “It’s been twenty-three years. People do change,” I spoke gently.
    ”Et tu, Brute?”
    “Hey, not fair! I expect Audie to throw Shakespeare at me—when he’s not quoting Oscar Wilde, that is—but not you!” I smiled to let her know I was joking. “If it means anything, Audie agrees with you.”
    “So you’ll help?” She added an extra incentive. “It’s not just for me. I don’t want Dina to believe her father is a murderer.”
    But what if he is? I kept my doubts to myself. I looked around my shop, my comfortable haven, the hopeful ’60s—at least, that’s how I thought of them, before Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. and Watergate. The sunny atmosphere faded to dark before the force of Jenna’s plea. How could I refuse?
    Jenna sensed she was winning the argument. “You have a talent for looking into things. Please?”
    I looked at my older sister, who in spite of numerous personal problems rarely asked for help. “The Wilde sisters stick together,” I repeated. “I’ll do what I can.”
    I turned the sign to Open. Dina bounded in as soon as I unlocked it. She took one look at Jenna and me and squealed. “You agreed to help!”
    I should have known that Jenna would have called for backup in case I didn’t agree immediately. Dina grabbed a muffin. At this rate, I might have to return to the bakery to buy some for my paying customers.
    Dina pushed her rainbow-streaked lock of hair behind her ear and took out a notebook. “The place to start is with Ham Gaynor.”
    “If you’ve already figured