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

 
    She responded to the regret in his voice. “I don't know what she was like when she was younger, but Marnie could be difficult to talk to.”
    “I suppose it's my own fault more than anything. I was a young man trying to build my business, and I didn't give her the attention she deserved. I left her alone too much.”
    “I'm sure she enjoyed going out on the town with you, though.” Don and Marnie would have turned heads back in the day.  
    “Marnie didn't like going out as much as other girls. She was real self-conscious, embarrassed about being a dancer. I told her that I didn't care—hell, I used to manage the place she danced, and it's not like we were dining with the queen when we went out, anyway.” He paused and then laughed. “Sometimes we went to the Desert Inn over on Stark. I don't suppose you've heard of that place? No? You're too young. This was back in, oh, '57 or '58. They had some gambling in the back room, and the entertainment might have, well, crossed the line from time to time.  
    “Anyway, they were raided one night when Marnie and I stopped by. While the uniforms were at the front door, Marnie took a little piece of paper from her purse and asked the bartender for the phone. She called the head of the vice squad. Got him out of bed. He was known for enjoying the sights at Mary's Club, see. I guess he didn't waste any time calling police headquarters and telling them to lay off the Desert Inn. A few minutes after the call, another police car pulled up, and the officer came running in like his pants were on fire. He rounded up the other policemen and shoveled them out the door before Mick even had time to freshen up my drink.”  
    Don's smile faded. “I don't know where she got the idea that anyone was looking down on her.” The waitress swapped Don’s empty glass for another drink, his third by Joanna’s count. Hopefully he wasn’t driving.  
    “I wish I could have known her then.” She imagined Marnie young, with soft curves instead of the thin, bony frame she knew.
    “Are the police following up on her death?” Don asked as pulled out the cocktail straw and laid it next to the others on the napkin. His voice quavered slightly at the word “death.” Whiskey or emotion?
    “I suppose so. The detective said the medical examiner decides if the death was suspicious, and if there should be an investigation.” She recalled the detective's questioning. The police hadn't called her. Yet.
    “You don't happen to remember the officer's name, do you?”
    Joanna pulled his card from a pocket on the side of her purse. Her fingers touched Marnie’s cash and the safe deposit box key that had fallen from the coat. “Detective Foster Crisp.”  
    Don nodded. “Yep, she was quite a gal. They don't make them like that anymore.”

CHAPTER NINE

    The Wet Spot was just off a busy stretch of Sandy Boulevard in a squat 1960s storefront. A bell jingled when Joanna pushed open its door. The humid room glowed eerily from row upon row of lit fish tanks. Scores of filtration systems hummed and burbled, muffling the noise of the traffic outside.
    “May I help you?” An Asian man stood behind the counter polishing the walls of an empty tank.
    “Yes, I'm looking for Nina.”
    “Nina? May I tell her who wants her?”
    “My name is Joanna Hayworth. I understand she knows—or knew, at least—Marnie Evans.”
    “Marnie? Old Goldilocks?” He cocked his head slightly and yelled toward the back. “Hey Nina. There's a friend of Goldilocks out here.”  
    A woman built along the lines of Jane Russell emerged from the back. She towered over the Asian man. She wore a wrap dress tied high on the waist that emphasized her bust, and her hair was dyed the color of charcoal briquettes. Only as the woman walked nearer did Joanna notice the crepey skin on her chest and lined face that told her age. “I'm Nina. How can I help you?” she asked in a low, silky voice. The scent of gardenias rose above the