The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries) by Angela M. Sanders Page A

old Coasters song droned from speakers hung in the awnings outside the downtown address Don Cayle gave Joanna. She’d have to break her rule about never patronizing restaurants that piped music to the sidewalk. Television sets dotted throughout the restaurant silently showed sports. Toward the back, a waitress rolled silverware into napkins. Other than shoppers, the restaurant was empty but for an elderly man sitting at a booth near the bar.  
    “Mr. Cayle?” Joanna approached the booth.
    Don Cayle stood up and took her hand in both of his. His hands were large and soft, and his nails freshly manicured. A thick gold ring studded with rubies gleamed on his pinkie. He was handsome in a rough sort of way, despite the expensive suit. In his youth a lot of handkerchiefs must have been dropped at his feet.
    “You must be Joanna. Please, call me Don. What'll you have?” His voice was gruff but friendly.
    She slid into the booth across from him. “Coffee would be great.”
    “Cream?” He asked and Joanna nodded. “Glenda, some coffee for the lady, with cream.” His hands clutched a tumbler of brown liquid and ice. Johnny Walker on the rocks was Joanna’s guess.
    “You must come here often.” The restaurant didn't look like the sort of place where a person would get to know the servers on a first-name basis.  
    “I own it. Folks seem to like it. The burgers are good, anyway.” The waitress poured coffee and set a few plastic containers of half and half on the table. “The club manager called this morning and said that you wanted to talk to me about Marnie. Is that right?” He looked intently at Joanna.
    “Yes, she, well—I’m afraid Marnie isn’t with us anymore. I wanted to tell some of her friends in person.” She realized how stupid that sounded. There just wasn't any gentle euphemism for death.  
    Don’s hand trembled as he lifted his glass and drained it. He raised a finger and nodded at the waitress across the room. “Was it her lungs?”
    “No. Or at least I don’t know for sure.” She wasn't sure how to say what she needed to say. “I found her.” She looked up at Don. “I'm sorry.”
    “There's nothing to be sorry about, honey. That must have been tough on you. Tell me about it.”
    Joanna winced at the memory of lifting the Lanvin coat. “She was in my store. I have a vintage clothing store on the east side. She’d somehow got in overnight, and I found her there the next morning. I can’t figure it out.”
    The waitress put a fresh drink in front of Don. He removed the tiny red straw and set it on the paper cocktail napkin before lifting the glass. His hands were steady now. “Marnie. What a shame.”
    “I don't—didn't—know her very well, and I don't know if she has friends or family around here. But I'd like her friends to know. I think she should have some sort of goodbye. I hoped you might know some of the people close to her.”
    “That's real nice of you.” He leaned back in the booth. “I don't know who she was spending time with lately, but when she was at the club and I was the manager, she was good friends with the cook, Ray. And she used to room with another one of the dancers, Nina. I'm not sure what Ray's doing these days, but Nina comes to the club's picnics every summer. You can find her at the Wet Spot tropical fish shop. She and her husband own it.”
    “You were a friend of Marnie's, right?” She didn’t want to stop talking about Marnie just yet.  
    “Sure. At one time we were close. A long time ago.” Don looked into the distance. From the side he resembled Kirk Douglas, including the cleft chin. “She was something else, that Marnie. A real pistol on stage. Off stage, though, a different person. Private. She and I went together a few years, but half the time I never really knew what she was thinking. One day she called me and told me it was over. That's it. No explanation. I haven't seen her in probably twenty years.” He pulled his gaze back to Joanna.