Vintage Read online

  “You needed me for something?” Lane stood in front of Violet, breathless.

  “Doesn’t that kill your knees?” Violet asked.

  “Nah, I spend my days chasing after three little boys. They keep me pretty limber. What’s going on?”

  “The tech guy isn’t here. I know, I know. I should have hired the professional that the theater manager recommended but I was a cheapskate and now I’m screwed because the student I hired hasn’t shown up and he isn’t answering his phone. Do you know anyone from your theater contacts who can run the lights and sound board?”

  “It’s been so long. I honestly don’t remember any names.” Lane crossed her arms and appeared to think about it. “I used to know how to do the tech stuff, but it’s been years—I mean, decades.”

  Violet perked up. “What?”

  “When I was in the drama club in high school, I dated our stage manager. We used to, uh, hang out in the sound booth.” Lane blushed. “Anyway, I got him to show me how to work the sound and lights. I was curious.”

  “That is so badass,” Violet said. “I’ve never seen a woman manning—or, sorry, operating a sound board.”

  “I wanted to know everything there was to know about theater.”

  “Do you think you can still do it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure a lot has changed, technology-wise, since back then. I don’t know if I’d be able to figure it out.”

  “Okay.” Violet went into director mode. “Lane, you go find the theater manager and ask him to show you the sound and light equipment. Take a look at it and see if you’re comfortable with it. Also ask him if he knows anyone else he can call at the last minute.”

  “Okay.”

  As Lane ran off in her shiny shoes, Violet’s phone rang. She answered right away, hoping it was the tech guy calling her back. “Hello?”

  “Is this Violet Turner?” asked a man’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Violet, this is Officer O’Malley. We met at your store a couple of days ago.”

  “Yes?” Violet gripped the phone with an unsteady hand. “Did you find Jed?”

  “We received word from police in northern Wisconsin that they located the suspect and he’s being held on probable cause to arrest.”

  “Really? Where did they find him?”

  “He was picked up at a gas station twenty miles from Bent Creek. Must have been making his way back home.”

  “So what happens now?” she asked.

  “He’s at the police station up there. The DA’s office here in Madison will need to get him transported back here before we can pursue a criminal complaint locally. So we need to know if you want to press charges.”

  “What happens if I don’t?” she asked.

  “Well, without testimony or a statement from you, as the property owner, it would be pretty hard for the DA to make a winnable case, so he’d probably drop it.”

  As Violet listened to the officer explain the process, conflicting concerns battled in her brain. She was glad Jed had been caught. She wanted him to be held accountable for what he’d done, but she also didn’t want him anywhere near Madison ever again.

  “Would he have to go to jail?” Violet asked.

  “Possibly. Vandalism convictions range from just a misdemeanor and a fine to a felony conviction with a prison sentence. It all depends on what the DA’s office charges him with and what they’re able to prove. And you can bet your insurance company or your landlord’s insurance will go after him with a subrogation lawsuit, too, to recover any money they’ll be paying out in claims to get the property repaired.”

  “Do you need an answer from me right this minute? I’m kind of in the middle of something I can’t get away from.”

  “You can think about it for a few hours or so, but don’t wait too long. Without any direction from the DA, the police in Bent Creek won’t be able to justify holding the suspect much longer than overnight.” He gave her the number of one of the assistant district attorneys so she could call when she’d made up her mind.

  Violet thanked him and hung up. Before she could think about what the officer had said, Lane returned. Violet didn’t have time to explain what was going on with the police, so she tried to look as nonchalant as was possible with less than an hour left before the show.

  “I have good news and bad news,” Lane said. “The bad news is that the theater manager called a couple of people and no one can do the tech stuff on such short notice. The good news, though, is that he showed me the sound board and it’s pretty old. It actually looks similar to what I used in high school. There are a few differences, of course, but I think I can figure out the basics.”

  Violet looked at her watch—she’d chosen to wear her leather-strapped, 1950s Wyler because it looked so serious and official with its large gold numerals. It was quarter to eight. Apparently tonight was a night for quick decisions.

  “Okay, Lane, barring any last-minute appearance from our tech guy, I think you’re it,” she said. “Get in there and run some tests. We don’t need anything fancy. We just need the microphones on and the spotlights functioning so the audience can see our models and, more importantly, their clothes.”

  “I think I can do that.”

  “I’m gonna need a better answer than that.”

  “Okay, I know I can do it. If there’s anything I’ve learned from theater and motherhood, it’s that I can improvise.”

  As Lane headed toward the sound booth, Violet climbed the stairs to the stage and poked her head through the curtain. A flurry of models and clothes swirled around backstage, and a pungent cloud of hairspray lingered in the air.

  “Less than forty-five minutes ’til curtain,” she said. “How are we doing back here?”

  Amithi looked up from sewing a button onto a blouse.

  “Everything under control?” Violet asked.

  Amithi took a safety pin out of the corner of her mouth. “Yes. Just a few final adjustments.”

  A thin, panicked model wandered over to Amithi. “Do you think you can fix my dress?” she asked. A broken spaghetti strap dangled from the bodice of the black, 1930s trumpet gown the girl was wearing. She had to hold the dress with crisscrossed arms to keep it from falling down.

  “Sure,” Amithi said. “Hold still, please.”

  Violet saw Jayana sitting in a nearby chair, looking like an outsider amidst the hustle of activity around her. When she noticed Violet looking at her, Jayana said, “I wish I could sew. Or do hair or something so I could be helpful.”

  “I tried to teach you, all those years ago,” Amithi said. “But you swore you’d never need to know how.”

  “Yeah, when I was a kid, sewing seemed so antifeminist, so retro.” Jayana made a face.

  “Who’s calling who antifeminist?” A black-haired model with nose and lip piercings, wearing nothing but frilly underwear and a pointy bra, turned to Jayana with her hands on her hips. “You say ‘retro’ like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Yeah, what’s wrong with retro?” Violet asked, realizing that she should be insulted. This show—really, her entire career—was all about retro.

  Jayana turned pink as she tried to recover from her blunder. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “No,” Amithi said. “We don’t.”

  “Well, it’s just—well, when I was kid, sewing seemed to be such women’s work. Now it’s getting cool again.”

  “Maybe it always was cool, and you just didn’t realize it.” Amithi snipped the thread she was working with and tied it off.

  Chapter 20

  INVENTORY ITEM: cocktail dress

  APPROXIMATE DATE: 1960s

  CONDITION: excellent

  ITEM DESCRIPTION: Gold micromini dress with long sleeves.

  SOURCE: estate sale

  April

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN AND everyone in between, welcome to the Hourglass Revue.”

  April stood behind one of the auction tables in the back of the theater and watched th
e busty and big-haired Ivanna Martini take to the microphone, gripping it with a white-gloved hand.

  “We have a lovely show for you this evening featuring rare and beautiful clothing and accessories from Hourglass Vintage. All of the items you’ll see onstage tonight are for sale—well, except me, of course, but if you happen to be a millionaire, then maybe we can talk later.” Ivanna batted her fake eyelashes and shimmied her hips in her blue sequined gown. “Any millionaires out there?”

  The audience laughed.

  “You’ll do.” Ivanna pointed at Betsy Barrett, who was sitting in the front row. “I’m not opposed to a sugar mama, you know. I’m a modern girl.”

  April panicked for a moment, hoping Betsy wasn’t embarrassed. Though she knew Betsy often spoke her mind and even swore, she was also a well-respected philanthropist in the community and might not appreciate being hit on by a drag queen.

  To April’s great relief, Betsy blew a kiss to Ivanna Martini, who pretended to catch it and hold it to her heart. “Other than yours truly, everything you’ll see on the runway tonight is listed in your catalog along with the starting bidding price, in order of appearance,” said Ivanna. “If you see something you like, you can bid on it during the silent-auction part of the evening immediately following the show. There will also be a raffle for a very special item. My friend Amanda is going to come out here to show it to you.”

  A long-legged queen in a gold minidress traipsed onto the stage with the boutique’s prized Hermès bag slung over her arm. The purse’s buckles gleamed under the stage lights.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ivanna said, “give a big warm welcome to Amanda Reckenwith.”

  The audience clapped and murmured to one another.

  “Remember,” said Ivanna, “the more tickets you buy, the more chances you have of winning this fabulous handbag. But let’s get on with the runway show, shall we? Please sit back and open your minds, open your hearts, and, most importantly, open your wallets. Enjoy the show!”

  The music started—Lena Horne sampled with a hip-hop beat—and a woman pranced across the stage in a coral-colored 1940s suit by Elsa Schiaparelli. The jacket had a nipped-in waist that flattered the model’s hourglass shape. She unbuttoned the military-style buttons and took off the jacket to reveal a matching silk shell and arms inked with colorful tattoos. April happened to know that the suit was quite rare and valuable. She’d written a little bit about its history in the program: A customer had found it in her Italian grandmother’s basement. The grandmother had bought it on a trip to New York during the war years. It had been a splurge, but she’d been so thrilled to see an Italian designer making it big in New York that she just had to own something made by Schiaparelli. She’d offered to give the outfit to her granddaughter, but the tiny suit didn’t fit the girl’s figure without the bondage of heavy-duty undergarments. Instead, grandmother and granddaughter had come into the store together and sold it. With the money, they’d driven down to Chicago to view Italian paintings at the Art Institute and have a fancy lunch together at the Drake Hotel.

  Before starting her internship, April didn’t even know who Elsa Schiaparelli was. In the short time she’d been working at Hourglass Vintage, April had learned so much from Violet—how to tell if a designer garment was authentic or fake, how to tie a silk scarf, how to remove stains from vintage fabric with a Q-tip and dish soap. Most of all, she’d learned that just because something wasn’t perfect didn’t mean it wasn’t valuable.

  A new model appeared onstage, this one wearing a pink 1950s dress with a frilly skirt that stood nearly straight out from her hips, supported by layers upon layers of crinoline. She wore a white mink stole over her shoulders and smiled at the audience with painted red lips.

  As the show continued, every ensemble was more elaborate, more breathtaking than the last. When the final model on the program—a dark-skinned drag queen wearing a silver one-piece pantsuit with a halter neck—strutted onto the stage, the audience cheered. Amithi, looking demure in her silk sari, stood up and yelled. Even Sam, who looked a little out of place among the dressed-up crowd in his plaid shirt and jeans, got out of his seat and whistled.

  April straightened out the bid forms and made sure there were plenty of pens, preparing herself for the rush of people she hoped would make their way to the silent-auction tables as soon as the curtain closed. Just when she was about to sit down, she heard an announcement from the stage.

  “In just a few moments, ladies and gentlemen, the bidding will start for all the wonderful auction items you’ve seen in your catalog and onstage. But please sit tight. We have one more special guest for you this evening.” Ivanna left the stage to blaring disco music.

  A blond drag queen appeared on the runway dressed in a nurse’s outfit, complete with thigh-high white patent boots and a hat with a sparkly red cross. She grabbed the microphone from its stand. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am here tonight as the assistant and humble servant to a very important doctor. His name is Doctor Love. Let’s give him a warm welcome so he’ll come out and show us his bedside manner.” The nurse held her thin, muscular arms in the air and the audience cheered.

  April looked toward the stage wings to see if she could catch a glimpse of Violet’s expression. Was this planned? It wasn’t in the program. Then again, April had missed the dress rehearsal, so they could have gone over it then. With the bright lights, she couldn’t see Violet’s face clearly.

  “Would you all like the good Doctor Love to pay us a house call?” the nurse yelled.

  April didn’t know what to do. Had the queens gotten out of control? Taken the show in a different direction? For all she knew, Doctor Love might be a stripper.

  As the audience grew louder, April closed her eyes, afraid to see what might come next. She heard the nurse say, “Well, hello, handsome doctor. Will you be performing any examinations today?”

  The audience laughed and April opened her eyes.

  Onstage, in a white lab coat trimmed with silver sequins, stood Charlie.

  April felt light-headed and dropped into one of the chairs behind the auction tables. How did Charlie get onstage?

  “Sorry, nurse,” he said. “I won’t be performing any examinations today. But I do have an important operation to do.”

  “Oh?” The nurse batted her fake, glitter-crusted eyelashes.

  “I botched something up and I need to fix it.”

  April felt the baby moving around in her belly like an acrobat.

  “What, did you sew a scalpel inside someone’s chest? Amputate the wrong . . . appendage?” The nurse grabbed the air right in front of Charlie’s crotch.

  Charlie blushed as red as the cross on the nurse’s hat. “No,” he said. “All appendages that are supposed to be intact are intact.”

  The nurse wiped her hand across her forehead in mock relief. “Whew. Because that would be a shame, doctor. A real shame.” She shifted her weight from one platform boot to the other and put a long-nailed hand on her hip. “So what is it, Doctor Love? What did you come here to do?”

  “I came here to let my girlfriend know—well, my ex-girlfriend—that I’m sorry for what I did. I’ve been a real jerk. And a coward.”

  The nurse wagged a finger. “Oh, Doctor Love, here at the Hourglass Revue we don’t tolerate that sort of thing, do we?”

  The audience booed at Charlie, who held up his hands. “I know I deserve it,” he said. “I made a mistake. And now I need to make it right.”

  April couldn’t believe that Charlie Cabot, who’d practically been raised at his parents’ country club, was standing onstage with a drag queen. For her.

  “Is your ex out there in the audience today?” The nurse put her hand over her eyes like she was giving a sailor’s salute and looked from side to side.

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to embarrass her. She knows who she is.”

  The audience groaned. They’d clearly been hoping for some onstage drama.

  April felt relieved. She wasn’t yet sur
e how she felt about this routine.

  “So what do you need to tell her, Doctor Love?” the nurse asked.

  Charlie stood with his shoulders square to the crowd and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we fought and even sorrier that I canceled the wedding without talking to you about it. I will never, ever hurt you like that again.”

  People in the audience murmured to one another, and April bit her lip to keep from crying. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. And anyway, she still couldn’t decide if she was flattered or pissed off.

  “Doctor, you’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you? I think you need a spanking,” the nurse shouted. “Does everyone else think he needs a spanking?”

  The crowd cheered. The nurse stood behind Charlie and whacked his butt several times. The audience laughed, and Charlie’s face flamed.

  April smiled in spite of her shock. Just as she’d done penance for Violet by dropping off a plastic goose at her door, Charlie was doing penance for her in a very public way. And she had to admit it was funny, though painful to watch.

  “That’s fair,” Charlie said when the spanking stopped. “I absolutely deserved that.”

  “Oh, I’m not done with you yet,” the nurse said. She leaned in again and pinched his behind. “A pinch to grow an inch. Or eight or ten, if your girl is lucky.” She flung back her head, showing her Adam’s apple, and let out a throaty laugh. The audience joined in. “So is there anything else you want to say to your ex?”

  “Just one more thing.” Charlie stuck his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “I got in off the wait list at UW.”

  April gasped. A few people in the back row turned around to look at her, and they nudged one another at the realization that she was the girl Doctor Love was talking about.

  From onstage, Charlie continued. “I’m staying here in Madison with the hopes that someday, maybe not today—and that’s understandable—but someday maybe you’ll take me back and we can be together.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and held up a tiny object that shone under the spotlights. “I got a ring this time. It’s yours if you want it.”