by Molly Greene
It was early, eight o’clock in San Francisco, and Gen was walking in Russian Hill. She paused on the sidewalk halfway up one of the neighborhood’s steep streets and filled her lungs before she answered.
“Genevieve Delacourt.”
“Miss Delacourt, this is Edith Jelicot. I’m returning your call.” She sounded formal, professional, and distant.
Her tone was fitting. Gen assumed she had to disillusion hundreds of eager young girls, given her line of work. It would be tough to trash a kid’s dream of being a model. You’d have to grow a thick skin, and detachment was the only way.
“Yes, thanks for getting back to me,” Gen replied. “I wanted to talk with you about Shannon Keene. Do you remember her, Mrs. Jelicot?”
“Yes, I remember Shannon well.”
“I’m curious about how she became a model, who she hung out with, what she was like.”
“What is this about? Shannon committed suicide. That’s what the police said when they posed those questions twenty years ago.”
“Shannon’s sister Sophie asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding her disappearance.”
“Better late than never, I suppose.”
“Do you remember how you and Shannon met?”
“Of course. I have scouts, like any other agent. They’re always on the lookout for the next Heidi Klum.”
“Scouts?”
“People who are trained regarding what to look for and paid to keep their eyes open. Models have been discovered in malls, airports, the subway. Tyra Banks was scouted while she was on the beach in Los Angeles. A photographer saw Christy Turlington on horseback in Miami. Shannon Keene was a waitress in a restaurant near Columbia. One of my people gave her our business card and she came in.”
“Did she do well?”
“She did, for her age. She was eighteen at the time, older than most girls. They usually start on this career path about thirteen or fourteen, especially now.”
“Was she responsible?”
“She was professional and had a good work ethic. Some of the girls let it go to their heads, show up late for shoots, act the diva. Shannon didn’t pull any of those stunts.”
“Before she went missing, did anything in her demeanor suggest she was troubled, or that she might be considering suicide?”
“No.”
Gen gave her time to add more but got nothing.
“Mrs. Jelicot?”
“Call me Edith.” Edith’s voice gentled, then stopped. “I never believed it. But it’s too late to help Shannon.” She exhaled in a rush, as though the words had been locked inside forever.
“You never believed that Shannon killed herself, or that she was involved in a murder?”
“I don’t think she was capable of any of it.”
“How well did you know her?”
“I took her under my wing and nurtured her career. She was like a daughter for nearly a year. She was born to be a photographer’s model, but in the end she threw it away. I was heartbroken when she turned her back on me and went out on her own. She could have risen to the top. She could have been among the best.”
Silence for two beats, then she added a zinger. “I learned my lesson after that and kept my girls at arm’s length.”
“Why do you think she left?”
“Shannon wasn’t hungry for the spotlight. I tried to talk sense into her, but a thousand girls were eager to take her place, so in the end I had to let her go. To become whatever it was she wanted to be.”
“What did she do?”
“She had a handful of steady accounts from a group of multi-media artists who used her for sittings. They contracted privately. After a while she stopped calling.”
“She was like a daughter to you, but you lost touch?”
Edith Jelicot’s voice hardened. “Look, Miss Delacourt. Even parents must let loose of their children, let them sink or swim under their own power. If you try to bend them to your will, you lose them anyway.”
“I apologize if I overstepped.”
“Don’t think I didn’t miss her. I worried. I wrung my hands over the fact that she’d thrown the opportunity I’d handed her away. I’m sure that’s why she broke off contact. She didn’t want to hear it. We spoke for the last time just before she–”
“Before she what?”
“Disappeared.”
“What didn’t she want to hear?”
“I just told you.” Jelicot’s voice rose. “What I could do for her. That girls all over the world would die to have what she had. She threw it away.”
Sour grapes. Amazing that someone could hold on to that kind of resentment for twenty years.
Gen kept quiet and let the tension dissipate.
After five beats, Jelicot controlled herself and continued. This time she’d regained her detachment. “She was enamored of the art world, smitten with artists. She liked to be around them.”
“It sounds like Shannon didn’t want the supermodel’s life.”
“Pfft.” Jelicot contemptuous exhale summed up her feelings; that thought was out of the question. “Or perhaps she was influenced by the fantasy world they occupied.”
As if Photoshopped magazine images of models wasn’t a fantasy world. Okay, whatever.
“Was there someone special?”
“I suspected there was toward the end, but at the time I didn’t know his name.”
“Did you tell the police about the guy?”
“I mentioned I thought there’d been a man. They didn’t seem interested.”
“How did you know about him?”
“Shannon was not accomplished at hiding her emotions. She wore it on her sleeve. She didn’t gush about anyone in particular, but I could tell she was in love. The last time we talked, she sounded like she was planning to live happily ever after.”
“She didn’t tell Sophie that.”
“I believe Shannon was avoiding her sister because of the drinking, and I believe Sophie’s feelings were hurt because of it. Shannon said her sister was like a ship without a rudder. She had no self-esteem. She glommed onto any man who wandered by and wouldn’t let go.”
“Sophie implied it was Shannon who played musical beds.”
“I can’t speak to that, but it doesn’t ring true. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sleeping with someone at the time. She sounded like she was on cloud nine.”
“But you didn’t know his name?”
“Not then, but I do now. Apparently he’d hired Shannon through my company and asked for her several times. That may have been how they met, but I have no proof. I didn’t realize the connection until months later. I was going over the books with my accountant at the end of the year. I saw the dates and figures and put two and two together.”
“Did you tell the detectives working the case?”
“I tried. They’d long before come to the conclusion that Shannon killed the girl and died by her own hand, and they didn’t have the time or energy to re-open the case.”
“Tough break for Shannon.”
“It didn’t have to be,” Edith replied. “This may be harsh, but she would be with us now if she’d listened to me and let me guide her career.”
Gen was glad Edith Jelicot couldn’t see her. Harsh was too kind; some people just needed to be right. When she knew she could speak without disapproval coloring her voice, she asked, “So who was this painter?”
“His name was Patrick Noonan.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gen was surprised when she heard that Damian Fleur had called. She’d figured him for a player in name only, a Lothario who flirted like a cat in heat but rarely followed through.
Wrong again.
She felt like an airplane on autopilot these days: off course half the time and always making corrections. Her answering service operator summed him up better than she could.
“Guy called for you. Come-and-get-me voice. Very sexy.”
“Oh?” Gen smiled into the receiver. “Did
you get a name?”
“Yeah, but just so you know, he was real busy trying to seduce me over the phone and I had to keep asking him to repeat it.”
That made Gen chuckle. “And who was it?”
“Damian Fleur. Sounds made-up, doesn’t it? A serious skirt-chaser, though, I’m not kidding. I’d be on alert if I was you, Miss Delacourt.”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t want to have my skirt chased?”
“I figure if you met this guy and wanted to hook up, he’d be calling your cell and not your office phone.”
Gen laughed. “Maybe you should be the detective instead of me.”
“I’m just saying. Some men can’t keep it in their pants. Women need to tell each other what’s what.”
“Glad to know you have my back.”
“Aw, it’s nothing. The number he left is 555-1290. Dial it at your own risk.”
“Thank you. I’ll be careful.”
“You have a lovely day now, Miss Delacourt. You know how much we appreciate your business.”
Gen was still smiling when she punched in Fleur’s number. Five rings later, she was preparing to leave a voice mail when the line was picked up.
“You promised me dinner.” No small talk, just a voice dripping with implications, all of them involving a bed.
“Did I?” Gen thought back to that night at the gallery. At first the only visual she got was Mack in his dinner jacket with the adorable blonde on his arm. She forced her mind to switch off that picture, and her chat with Fleur about the painting bubbled up in its place.
“I guess I did. Payback for you looking at my etchings, right?”
“That is correct. I called to collect payment on services rendered.”
Gen grimaced. She wasn’t in the mood for his googly-eyed fawning, but there was always the possibility she could learn something that might help her in the case.
You never know.
“Fair’s fair,” she said. “What did you have in mind?” As soon as the words were out she regretted them. Talk about leaving yourself wide open.
“On second thought,” she added. “I’d love to see your work. May I stop by your studio and take a tour?”
Flattery might distract him, he was the type. And if she had her own car she wouldn’t be at his mercy for an entire evening. She could insist they drive separately once she got there.
She crossed her fingers it would work and was rewarded. His reply was borderline preening.
“It just so happens I am teaching a class tomorrow. You’re welcome to drop by toward the end, and we can continue on to an early dinner from there. Be at my studio before five o’clock.”
“Perfect,” she said.
He gave her the address and they said goodbye.
* * *
Damian’s atelier was like an intimate dance studio, with mirrored walls and a wood floor and understated but effective lighting that made everything and everyone look real good.
Especially Damian Fleur.
Ten or so students were strung out around the room, all intent on their work. Their hind sides were to the door, and their workstations faced front. Damian strolled among them with his hands clasped behind his back.
Gen was pleased with herself; her eyes only widened for a moment when she discovered the class was drawing the nude model reclining seductively on a dais before them. From her position at the door, it looked as though the girl was covered by nothing more than a filmy sheet across her lap.
Her hair rippled halfway down her front, wavy and sultry and perfect. Her entire body was tanned and the muscles in her arms were well defined. She had abs like a set of shutters and her breasts were …
She nipped that thought in the bud.
But the glimpse she got shrieked va-va-voom.
Gen wavered between jealous and appalled. She’d never sit naked in front of a bunch of people, even if it was for art’s sake. But then again, if she looked like this gal she just might want to show it off.
She was working towards blasé and trying not to stare gape-mouthed at the flawless vision, so it took her at least three minutes to realize the subject was Mack’s date from Fleur’s gallery show.
It was Caroline. Oh, good gosh. Awkward.
But Caroline obviously did not feel the same. She hadn’t moved an inch, but her eyes were following Gen’s progress toward Damian. Her face was puckered, as if she was trying to recall where she’d seen Gen. When she made the association, you could almost see the bulb go on. It was followed by an enormous smile and a little hand wave.
So maybe the girl wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box and her situation was, well, a little mortifying, to say the least. That was Mack’s business, not hers. And maybe Mack didn’t find it at all embarrassing. Maybe Mack thought that Caroline exposing her body was cool.
Screw Mack.
Gen tugged on Damian’s sleeve. When he swung to face her, she gave him an animated smile, then stuck out her palm so he’d shake instead of doing the kiss-kiss thing he was clearly going for.
He narrowed his eyes and shot her a look that said he knew what she was doing. He pecked the back of her hand instead. She grinned. He chuckled. He knew his act wasn’t going to fly with her, and he knew she knew it, too.
Fleur checked his watch and gestured for her to follow him to an unoccupied easel. It was his canvas, she assumed, and she was right. He lifted a brush and made a series of straight, bold lines and Caroline’s curvy torso appeared like magic.
Another set of strokes defined her face. He switched to gray and added shadow, then another brush and a few dabs of ocher brought her billowing hair to life.
Damn.
She was so intent on his technique she failed to realize that the rest of the class had drifted over to watch.
Gen glanced around. They were mesmerized, observing Fleur as he worked. Chins-on-floor, admiring mouths agape. She guessed they’d been slaving away diligently for hours, and in minutes The Master had shown them all how it was done.
“Questions?” Fleur asked. He knew they were all there. Gen backed away so as not to impede their view of his Caroline.
“How are you so sure of your strokes?” one student asked. The hushed timbre of her voice was suitable for church.
“Practice,” Damian replied.
“You defined her so impeccably, but with so little effort,” another remarked. Similar tone, this time the library.
“Less is better. Adding a bad stroke atop a misplaced stroke tells the world you’re not seeing your subject.”
There was a smattering of quiet applause from the peanut gallery, and Fleur gave them a proper little bow. They dispersed. Caroline slipped from her perch and wrapped the filmy gauze around her, tucking it like a towel after a shower. Somebody needed to tell her the material did nothing to impede the view.
Scratch that, she must already know.
Gen nodded an acknowledgement, then averted her eyes as the girl approached. Caroline walked straight to the painting and gave it what must have been her most studious appraisal.
“Damian, you are amazing,” she announced.
Not exactly an art critic, but Gen figured she was looking for any little fault in Caroline’s seemingly impeccable facade. When Mack’s girlfriend turned to her, Gen offered a toothy grin.
“You were at Damian’s show,” Caroline said.
“Yeah, I was.” Gen turned up the wattage. “And so were you.”
The girl nodded, then shifted her gauze as if it was a ball gown. “Mackenzie brought me.”
Mackenzie? Ha ha ha. He must be whipped. He didn’t let anyone call him that.
Gen went fishing. “I didn’t realize you knew Damian before that show.”
“I didn’t,” Caroline replied. “We met there.”
“Oh,” Gen replied, not knowing what else to say. Fleur had gotten her out of her clothes pretty fast.
“I’ve always wanted to pose. He asked me, and here I am.”
Mack must be so proud
.
Caroline gave her a little moue and leaned close, as if they were co-conspirators. “Mackenzie told me he knew you professionally,” Caroline whispered. “So if you see him, please don’t mention you ran into me here.” She batted her lashes innocently. “I want to tell him myself.”
“Our secret.” Gen etched two lines across her heart with her index finger. “I promise.”
“Thanks,” Caroline replied. “Because I think he might be too much of a prude to approve of what I’m doing. I need to explain the circumstances.”
“Gotcha.”
Gen needed to put distance between her and the gauze. She moved to the other side of Fleur, who’d been busy ignoring their conversation and making final touches to his Caroline. “Damian, are you ready?”
Fleur looked up from his easel. His eyes slid to his model. Gen recognized the look that passed across his face: a predator checking the status of his future prey. He wasn’t hungry enough to go after her yet, although she looked like she was ready to be devoured. Sooner or later it was going to happen.
Fleur’s eyes cut back to Gen as he directed his attention to the quarry at hand.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I’m famished.”
* * *
As planned, Gen begged off from driving with him, citing an urgent last-minute errand she needed to complete before heading home. Fleur didn’t press her, merely smiled and nodded and suggested a place nearby, then swung into his Carrera and drove off.
The restaurant’s hostess knew Fleur, and they were seated as soon as they walked through the door. Although the eatery qualified, it was early for the chic dinner crowd. Only a few scattered tables were occupied.
Fleur settled in and ordered wine and crudités while Gen checked out the menu. Once he had a goblet of something blanc in front of him, he focused on her.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he asked.
Gen put the menu aside. “What do you mean? I promised you dinner. I’m here to make good.” She sipped her wine. “And to talk with a new friend, of course.”
Fleur’s expression was pleasant enough, but her spiel didn’t convince him. “You’re immune to my many charms, Genevieve. You could easily have made excuses and put me off. Yet here we are.”