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

cocktail dresses, maybe from the early- or mid-1960s? My husband drags me to all sorts of events, and I'm so tired of what's in my closet.”
    “You’re Laura Remmick, aren’t you? I admire your husband.” Silently, Joanna thanked the vintage clothing gods. No matter how boring the congressman's wife might find boutique cocktail dresses and designer suits, few women of her sort ended up on the working class side of the river at a vintage clothing boutique. Laura was spot-on about choosing 1960s dresses, made for women with her slender hips and a modest bust, rather than 1950s dresses which tend to suit curvier figures better.  
    “Why don't you check the rack behind you?” Joanna said. “Most of our best black cocktail dresses are hanging there. I'm just opening the store. I'll put out the sidewalk sign and be back in a second to see what I can find for you.”  
    When she returned, Laura was still standing where Joanna had left her.  
    “Where do you get most of your clothes?” the congressman's wife asked.
    “Oh, all over. I get some from thrift stores and estate sales. People come in and sell me clothes, too. Of course, I dry clean and steam everything before I put it out for sale.” She pulled from the rack a black lace cocktail dress threaded with a thick, sky blue ribbon around its empire waist. “You look like you're about a four. What do you think of this one? The vee in the back is really nice. And see how the ribbon makes a sash to the hem? It looks Audrey Hepburn in front, then you turn around and it's Sophia Loren.”
    “How cute,” she said without conviction. “I bet a lot of interesting people come in to sell clothes. Real characters, I mean.”
    “Definitely. Definitely characters.” Joanna pulled another black cocktail dress for Laura to try, this one a form-fitting sheath with a trapeze of silk chiffon over it, weighed down and given motion by a quadruple row of tight ruffles along its hem. She took a pole made from a broom handle from behind the counter and lifted a Pucci dress, the pride of store, from a hook on the wall. Finding a mint condition Pucci these days was akin to stumbling on a Picasso at a garage sale. It was more expensive than most of her customers could afford. Laura could definitely afford it, and its high-waisted cut and swirling pattern of pink, mauve, and celery green would accentuate her blue eyes.
    “Sweet dress,” a trim black man said as he came in the store.
    “Hi, Kevin,” Joanna said. “I put aside a few pieces for you.”
    “Thanks, doll.” Kevin was better known in some circles as the drag queen Poison Waters. In street clothes he looked like a junior architect. Only his carefully plucked eyebrows gave away his profession.
    Laura ignored Kevin and plowed ahead with her questioning. “Who brought in those dresses, for example?” She pointed at the cocktail dresses Joanna had put in the dressing room for her to try.
    “One came from an estate sale in Sellwood, and the other I found at a thrift store. I bought the Pucci at a church rummage sale, believe it or not.” Why was the congressman's wife so stuck on where Joanna got her clothes? Most women cruised the racks eagerly and methodically, intent on snagging the best of the one-of-a-kind gowns. This one seemed to want to stand around and talk. Finally Laura went in the dressing room and drew the leopard print curtains.
    “Laura Remmick?” Kevin mouthed and raised his eyebrows.
    “Can you believe it?” she mouthed back, then said to him in a normal voice, “I thought you might like these Vendôme pearls. Look, gumball-sized baroque, perfect for the big girl. I had to wrassle them off Barbara Bush.”
    “I bet that was easy,” Kevin said in Poison's voice.
    “And I found some size twelve lucite mules for you, too, although they might be a little narrow.”
    Laura emerged from the dressing room wearing the Pucci dress. Her shoulders and arms were perfectly sculpted, and she had the smooth,