I came across a pleasant little trattoria on my way back to the apartment. The pasta primavera was magnificent and loaded with fresh vegetables, so I was eating healthy. I dredged pieces of thick aromatic bread through bright green acidic olive oil and drank a carafe of the house wine all by myself.
I felt more alive than I had in years. Nic was right in a manner of speaking. I am very good at getting what other people need. I was so good at managing Dad and Mom that Vince and Vance were able to waltz in and take over, take credit, and quickly divide the estate into equal thirds. Play my cards right and I would be able to live frugally on my inheritance for the rest of my solitary, unexciting, uninspiring, back-of-the-family-home life.
Vanilla and chocolate espresso gelato helped ease my mood. I licked my spoon and watched the tourists wander through the square, then suddenly rush for cover as a flock of pigeons swooped down. I just covered my gelato and continued eating.
The local pigeons fear me. You don’t want to know.
Paula and her husband dashed out to the center of the square, snapped a couple photos of the church, then ducked back under the covered walk to avoid the flapping pigeons. Weren’t they scheduled to board a cruise ship? If Von Meiter’s people were finished blocking the docks. I glanced up at the sun overhead. It was a nice day for a boat party.
The wine was good. The gelato was excellent. My credit card was scheduled to arrive this afternoon. All in all, a perfect get away. Except for the nagging feeling that my friend had not died of natural causes. But what then, was the cause? Killed for an artifact? That made no sense at all.
Death, at our age, was natural. Death because of Miranda’s (and mine for a while) lifestyle was wholly anticipated as if early death was the only possible outcome for a life of enjoyment and fun.
I paid my bill with cash. The lock smith was scheduled for this afternoon, and I would need to sign for my credit card delivery. I would pick up around the apartment. I would say I would wait for Nic, but I learned a long time ago not to EVER wait for Nic. If did my own thing, he would show up when he was ready.
I walked by a suitcase storage store front, Keep Calm and Don’t Carry On. Storage was a premium feature on an island. Miranda just crammed everything into the space she had, Max outsourced. It was odd thing to do, why not just get rid of your stuff? Max was great at jettisoning people and items he no longer loved, but perversely, he held onto the oddest things, people as well. Max could name every fabric he worked with. He could reminisce on the Pantone Colors in every swatch. He remembered the color of the year, by year, in order. He collected and saved the remnants of his career and insisted they all be boxed and labeled. He kept all his swatch books, hundreds of them, crowding the shelves in his work room. He gloated over colors and patterns, comparing them to the files in his computer, then one morning, he asked me to move them all.
“Throw them out?”
Max put a hand on his heart. “Oh never, never discard them, they are history. Someday someone will want to re-create a fabric or a moment. These are the only reference.”
I pointed to the computer, but he shook his head. “You should know better.”
I did. There was still no substitute for the real thing.
The fabric swatch books were large, almost ten by twelve inches and thick, thicker than a dictionary if a dictionary was made of fabric. I hefted one of them and eyed Max.
He considered me and my expression. He was sick, sicker than he admitted. Pale under what used to be a perpetual Southern tan. Thinner than was fashionable. His skin was bruised and sallow. I could hear him at night, catching his breath.
“They don’t need to be in the apartment. But they are important. Put them somewhere safe, don’t even tell me.”
I shook my head. He was increasingly paranoid, I attributed it to both old age and his illness. But my job was to accommodate him. I spent a great deal of time searching for a space, but finally had a breakthrough—Rachael, who was just opening her gallery. She suggested a company off the island. Use my name, she told me.
Enabled, I loaded up the Mini and drove to Porto Marghera. Most of the business and shipping and industry, blah, blah, blah, is off the island. Like so many tourist towns, the practical is built far away from the charming. As promised, the proprietor at the storage facility knew Rachael and was happy to accommodate me, offering a tiny storage area at a steep discount. It would not last; by the time I was finished moving all Max’s stuff, furniture, paintings, an extra chandelier, I had graduated to the largest space the company had. I had the password and the only key. Max insisted I keep the key always, just in case he needed the samples again for reference.
But his designing days were over, he simply didn’t have the strength. It was so sad. I felt like I was burying his dream, placing his work in a closed tomb, projects for his after- life. I managed to hold it together dropping off the dozens of books—I made three trips—but I sobbed all the way back to the island.
With a start, I realized I still had the key on my key ring. I had forgotten about it. I paid the bills for the facility, but Max didn’t keep the receipts. I supposed he had a point, why would he need them? I made a note on my phone to return to find out who all that stuff now belonged to. Maybe contact Max’s lawyers. I hadn’t thought about them in, well, three years.
I shook my head. The likely suspects, pretty boys, former models, former lovers, would find the storage unit eventually.
After Dad passed, I dragooned Chris and Matt into helping clear out the garage. They were great workers, especially when I let Matt practice backing up the moving truck (my version of dangerous living). We unearthed lamps with frayed chords, an enormous air compressor with no cord at all. A flip of a sheet revealed boxes packed with yellow National Geographic issues from 1960 forward. Not even Friends of the Library accepts National Geographic collections. We unpacked wedding gifts saved for so long that the china patterns were back in style.
I thought of that garage as I worked through Miranda’s extra bedroom/storage room She saved the most remarkable things: sparklers (for a US party), a collection of Spanish fans (I’m sure it was for a flamenco party), candles, extra dishes, a dozen mis-matched wine glasses.
If she hadn’t been grateful for each item that brought her joy, I could be grateful on her behalf. Clutching a red fan decorated with black dots, I stood in Miranda’s living room. “Thank you for all your help just when I needed it.” I said out loud.
“Just when I thought it would kill me to leave Nic, you were there.”
“Just when it tore my heart out when Max fell ill and could no longer travel, you supported my move into Max’s apartment.”
“Just when you needed me, I failed.”
Finally, I cried.
Chapter 12
The phone jumped and vibrated as if the caller was already angry. I reached to automatically shut it off, except it could be the embassy announcing a record breaking two hours turn around. I answered it without looking. I should always look.
“You must come home right now!” Tina was past glass shattering and moving in hysteria. I hadn’t heard that tone since Chris stuffed three Jelly Bellies up his nose. All licorice, by the way. He had later explained he didn’t like licorice and didn’t know where else to put them.
“Why do I need to come home right now?” I sniffed and wiped my eyes.
“Matt’s been arrested!” I had to pull my phone from my ear.
I sat down on the couch very carefully and glanced at my watch and did the math. First thing in the morning for Tina. Had Matt been hauled off in the early dawn? What on earth does a teen do at dawn to get arrested? Anything. Everything.
“Did he say why he was calling from jail?”
“Something about the whole car being picked up and everyone flung in jail, I can’t believe these people.”
A text rose to the top of the phone. I hit speaker to listen to Tina’s rant on the Sacramento police and their obvious animal proclivities and read the t
ext.
It was Chris, of course it was Chris, he was probably in his room, hiding from his mother, furiously texting his aunt.
Matt riding with friends. Open Containers. I found Nile, need more facts.
Will you be okay? I texted, meaning living for twelve hours without his brother.
I’m a big boy, He texted back.
“And that’s why you need come home, I have to go to work this morning, I don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. And the cruise is next week. You promised to be back in two days Vic, it’s been much longer than that.”
“Matthew is sixteen, he can drive Chris to school.” I said.
“He will never drive again.” Tina’s voice was grim. But I’ve heard it before. She’d recover by this afternoon. Older parents don’t have the energy for sustained follow-through, no matter how righteous.
“He will be fine, he’s a minor, it won’t go on his permanent record.”
“Chris is beside himself.” She used the cheapest shot she knew. And before today, it always worked. I took a breath and re-read the text from Chris. I’m a big boy.
“I am confident Chris will be fine as well. Do you want to leave Matt in jail for a while? You know, teach him a lesson?”
“Those are terrible places.” Tina started in. “Who knows what will happen to my baby in there! Do you know what happens in those jails?”
“Just the Turkish ones.” But she was no longer listening.
“Do you have your passport yet?”
“No.” What a relief that I did not.
“I’ll just have to bail him out myself.” Tina huffed but with considerably less rancor.
“You are the mother.” I pointed out, somewhat unnecessarily.
She hung up.
I texted Chris, Thanks for the intel.
Am working. And that was that. A focused Chris is a happy Chris. I returned a host of calls to get ready for this evening. My entrance to the most exclusive party in town was either going to be magnificent or a complete embarrassing bust. Go big or go home. And since I couldn’t go home, I had to go big.
Nic dropped by as I was preparing for the evening. He called before walking through the unlocked door.
“Make yourself at home, No, I have not found the hippo.”
“Love you too.”
Ideally, I’d have a team—the makeup artist, the stylist, wardrobe. But I had called in enough favors all ready. I did not need to shoot my whole wad of influence on one evening. I could manage on my own.
“The last party I attended alone was Vince’s retirement party.”
“He’s old enough to retire?” Nic called through the bedroom door which was locked since he didn’t need to witness how the sausage was made.
I struggled into a couple of Spanx and wiggled into the dress—off shoulder, the décolletage revealing my considerable breasts. It was fabulous, I only hoped I would do it and the designer justice. I slid on low-heeled shoes, the better to avoid pitching into the canal with and emerged just as Nic set down an open bottle of Dolcetto.
“Oh, sweet Aten. You are worthy of the sun god himself.” He paused and swallowed.
I tugged at the back strap of the shoe.
He finally found his voice. “Just ask, you’ll be fabulous. Who had ever said no to you?”
That gave me pause. Had that been true? “It seems so long ago.”
He threw out his hand. “Are you kidding? You used to sweet talk thieves into giving you their stolen statutes and papyrus. You were magnificent!”
“Max said no.”
“He was sick, and he loved you.” Nic softened his voice and beckoned. I took one step; I was about to be very busy. My phone buzzed vibrating against my breast. I ignored it.
“All we need to do is ask. Where did Miranda buy her statue, what else is out there, and what else does he know?”
“That’s more than one question.”
“Get him drunk.”
I smiled, the answer for every problem. I accepted a glass of wine.
Lining up the photographers was fun. I quickly scoured Instagram to find who was currently in the neighborhood and found five old friends—delighted to hear from you—yes, I’ll watch for you. They were a lovely bunch, I loved working as a photographer’s assistant, the bright lights, big city, cheap hotels, chased by cops—get off the grass. An indisputably glamorous job.
I needed a good dress, a designer dress. Again, I flipped through my contact list. The old Rolodex that belonged to Max was still in my possession. There wasn’t much to do the last few years stuck at home after a 6:00 dinner with the news blaring my parents to sleep. I copied all of Max’s contacts into my database. It was a way to connect with my past, to remember what I used to be.
I never thought I would need his list. I never thought I’d use it. I shook my head, scrolling.
“What are you doing?” Nic asked before he showered, changed and disappeared for the rest of the day.
“I need a dress.”
“You have a dress.” Nic nodded to the bedroom behind me.
I looked up at him. Rumpled, bed hair that revealed how his hair had thinned at the very top of his head. No one over thirty looks good in the morning.
“I need THE dress.” I corrected patiently. “You put me in charge of this assignment, let me do my job.” Just saying it out loud was a bit of a thrill.
By the time Nic had showered and dressed, I was deep into my phone.
“Text me when you get back from the party.”
I nodded, not looking up from my search—what was her name, ah, there she is, and hopefully in.
Nic kissed my cheek and sauntered out.
I watched him leave, knowing that he knew I’d let him back in tonight. No matter the hour. I could get anyone to say yes. My problem was I also couldn’t say no.
But, but, but. Where had Miranda picked up stolen blue statures? Did we need to know where? Couldn’t I just dump them into a bag, leave it at the Cairo Museum door, ring the bell and run?
It was an appealing idea. Of course, without a passport I couldn’t go to Cairo just yet.
Mina Stanos was once great as everyone in the business was once great. Sustainability is the real art behind the artifice. Nothing protects you, not fame, not even fortune. Kate’s suicide rocked the industry for at least ten minutes; people wondered if Kate Spade, fabulous, successful, beautiful didn’t believe she had it all, what were they all doing? The questioning didn’t last. To linger on existential questions of life, matter and meaning in a business that thrived on competition and constant change was to invite crisis.
I shook my head at my own cynicism. I flicked through the Google posts. Mina had fallen on hard times. She had been reduced to churning out facsimiles of designer originals for the ready to wear world. According to one fashion blog, Mina was one runway step away from designing for H &M.
She was here in town, that was the most important detail. I carefully locked the apartment door behind me, as if that stopped anyone, but it might annoy Nic. It would be nice if he had to wait on the chilly damp stairs for me to arrive home.
A valparetto ride and a short walk brought me into the center of a section of town well off the tourist maps. I walked past faded posters announcing the last month’s blockage (read, party) to stop the cruise ships from sailing. Rave parties, roof parties, local happenings.
Mina greeted me at the door of an inauspicious warehouse. “As I live and breathe, Victoria Gardner. How is your former boss?”
We kissed three times. “Deb is as famous and fabulous as ever.”
“And you, you are going to the Von Meiter party, you are doing well?” She regarded the clothes, the hair, and the makeup with professional interest.
“Just this once, so I want to make it count.”
Mina was a tall, gaunt woman in her mid-fifties. Too many Sicilian summers had ravaged her looks. There is a saying – you can’t be too thin. She was too thin.
Her atelier was a former
warehouse, turned home, gutted again for use as a warehouse. White lines on the brick walls were all that was left of the rooms. The ceiling faded into the shadows. It was cold, the same temperature as outside. This must be brutal in the winters. But maybe she decamped to the south.
Mina leaned against her desk and watched me flip thorough a rack of long gowns. All different, all exquisite. “Whose are these?”
She dismissed the rack. “Mine, but who cares? I haven’t been attached to a real label in a thousand years.”
I nodded and pulled out a black number, long, with an elegant back kick pleat of sheer organza. I held it against my substantial curves. “Can you let this out?”
She glanced at the dress. “Of course.”
“And if you were your own label, what would you call it?”
“Mina. I would have one of those one-word names. Mina. 'Who are you wearing?'" she said with a high mocking voice. “Oh, tonight for the Oscars I’m wearing Mina.” She slumped against her worktable and flicked her ash in the general direction of an enormous glass Murano dish in the shape of a clown face.
“It will never happen. Did you say there was an opening at H & M?”
“I was mocking you, don’t jump from the window just yet.”
We measured. She asked me what the hell had I been doing. Did I know Miranda passed away from a heart attack?
“All that coke, all that booze, all those men.” She listed Miranda’s transgressions in admiration.
“All that life.” I lifted my arms, she pinned and pulled until it all fit my, ahem, substantial form.
“You need jewels, black isn’t your color.”
“For no one older than thirty.” I agreed. “Is George still at Bulgari?”
“Is he?” She rolled her eyes and lit up another cigarette. “Remember that boy he was with? Beautiful, irresponsible, almost got arrested one too many times, with poor George in tow.” She blew out a puff of smoke. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“I just posted bail.”
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