OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
A Fatal Feast
Nashville Noir
The Queen’s Jewels
Skating on Thin Ice
The Fine Art of Murder
Trouble at High Tide
Domestic Malice
Prescription for Murder
Close-up on Murder
Aloha Betrayed
Death of a Blue Blood
Killer in the Kitchen
The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © 2016 Murder, She Wrote © Universal Network Television LLC. Licensed by Universal Studios Licensing LLC 2016
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Names: Fletcher, Jessica, author. | Bain, Donald, 1935– author. | Paley-Bain, Renée, author. Title: Murder, she wrote: design for murder/Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain & Renée Paley-Bain. Other titles: Design for murder Description: New York: New American Library, 2016. | “An Obsidian mystery.” Identifiers: LCCN 2015043886 (print) | LCCN 2015048277 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451477811 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698411685 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Fletcher, Jessica—Fiction. | Women novelists—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | FICTION / Media Tie-In. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. Classification: LCC PS3552.A376 D46 2016 (print) | LCC PS3552.A376 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015043886
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To all the fans of Murder, She Wrote, both on TV and in print. Thank you for making this series such a success.
Contents
Other Books in the Murder, She Wrote Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
About the Authors
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Internet provides a wealth of information, but there is nothing like learning the ropes from the folks who walk the walk. Thanks to Jessica Corr, assistant professor of design at Parsons New School for Design, for her expertise on marketing luxury goods. Thanks also to Fran Miano of Creative Cosmetic Labs, Inc., for her tutorial on manufacturing lipstick. Sorry we couldn’t use it all. We’re eternally grateful to Bruce Bertram, former detective in the Danbury Police Department, for generously answering all questions regarding law enforcement, not just for us but for fellow authors as well.
We consulted numerous fashion sites and clipped every article on the topic from the New York Times. It hasn’t changed how we dress, but it’s certainly given us a new appreciation for the fashion industry.
Thanks as always to our editor, Laura Fazio, and agent, Bob Diforio, for unfailing encouragement and support.
Chapter One
Xandr Ebon, in a white T-shirt and jeans, kneeled next to a tall, beautiful woman, a line of straight pins sticking out of his mouth, which made him look like my neighbor’s boxer when the poor dog had an unfortunate encounter with a porcupine. “Grrumnph,” he said, nodding at me.
“Good morning to you,” I replied.
He pulled out one pin at a time and slid them into the side seam of the amethyst-colored gown the model wore, the purple color a beautiful complement to the model’s café au lait complexion. “Like that,” he said to his dressmaker, who was searching her spools of thread for a match. “It should be a smooth taper. The overskirt will give it the flare.”
“If you’re going to sew me into the dress, how will I be able to change after the finale?”
“It has to look right for the runway, Dolores,” the dressmaker said to the model. “We’ll rip it off if we have to.” She winked at me.
“You’re not ripping anything, Addie. That silk soutache is over six hundred dollars a yard,” Xandr said.
“I’ll just baste the seam loosely so she can slide out of it,” the dressmaker said, grinning. “Don’t be so nervous, Mr. Ebon. It’ll be fine.”
Xandr turned to me with his arms open. “Thank goodness you’re here,” he said, giving me a quick hug. “Just seeing you buoys my spirits. My assistant sent over the wrong dress, so I have to make last-second adjustments. My patron saint must be Murphy—you know, that law that says that if something can go wrong, it will. Do you know where my mother is?” The words spilled out of his mouth in a rush.
“I left her two minutes ago,” I said, trying not to match the speed of his speech. “She’s out front talking to an editor from a L
ong Island fashion magazine.”
“Good! We need all the press we can get.”
“And Grady is here. So is Donna.”
“Your nephew has been an absolute lifesaver, Mrs. Fletcher. He found me the production company that’s putting all this together. I don’t know how I’d ever have gotten this show off the ground without him. And his wife brought those two huge baskets of flowers that mark the runway entrance.”
“They’re tickled to have the opportunity to help you,” I said. “But now that you’re a big-time fashion designer, don’t you think it’s time you called me Jessica?”
“I don’t know about ‘big-time,’ but I’d be honored to use your first name, Jessica.”
“And is it okay if I still call you Sandy?”
“Sure, only not if you’re talking to a reporter, okay? To them I’m Xandr.”
Xandr Ebon—formerly known as Sandy Black in his Cabot Cove days, when the high school girls swooned over how handsome he was—was readying his collection for his debut as an evening-wear designer during New York’s Fashion Week. One of many designers left off the invitation list to participate in the main events at the uptown venue, Sandy and two compatriots had to scramble to find a location to present their work to the public and the press while the city’s attention was riveted on fashion design. My nephew, Grady, had arranged for one of his clients—a television commercial company—to create a show setting, complete with a “backstage” curtained off from the runway, rows of white folding chairs for the hoped-for audience, and video and still cameras recording the extravaganza to be uploaded to the Internet the way shows of more famous designers were.
Sandy checked the time on his cell phone, which hung around his neck from a lanyard. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Let’s go, everyone. We can’t run late. We have to be out of here by one o’clock, with everything taken down.” He looked at me. “Can you believe it? They’re hosting a wedding here tonight. That’s the problem with using a catering hall for the show.”
He grabbed the arm of a man walking by. “Jack, can you get the music started in ten minutes? We need to hurry things up here.”
“Sure thing, Xandr.”
“How long does the show take?” I asked.
“Each model has about thirty seconds or less to get down to the end of the runway, turn, and walk back. I have six models, leaving at set intervals. The other designers have about the same time to strut their stuff. Three designers. Twelve minutes, give or take a minute. Then we all come out together. Take our bows. And that’s it—we’re done.”
“So quick?”
“The shows of the big designers rarely last longer and they have even more models, but that’s not counting all the schmoozing that takes place in the audience before and after, assuming they’re not making a beeline for the door, hoping to get a good seat at the next designer’s event.”
“It’s an awful lot of work for such a short time,” I said.
“And a lot of money, but I can’t think about that right now. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like and take in the backstage drama, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to make sure everything is ready. I’m a nervous wreck. Can you tell? Please say you can’t.”
“You’ll be wonderful,” I said. “Go do what you need to do. I won’t stay long, but I’m looking forward to getting a glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes. I’ll try to keep out of everyone’s way.”
As it turned out, that wasn’t an easy task. The backstage area was simply one large space with rolling metal racks of clothing used to cordon off each designer’s area. Open trunks littered the floor. Chairs were scattered everywhere, but no one sat in them. Instead they were draped with scarves or held piles of clothes, shoes, or handbags. Dressers helped models into gowns, and models checked themselves in mirrors after strapping on shoes with heels so high I marveled that they could stand, let alone walk.
In the center of this chaos was what appeared to me to be pandemonium of its own, the hair and makeup station consisting of two tall director’s chairs and a folding table to hold myriad cases of cosmetics. One chair was occupied by a blonde wrapped in a white robe, her foot tapping impatiently while an attractive woman in a pink smock arranged the model’s hair into an elaborate updo. In the girl’s lap was a box of lipsticks with clear tops that allowed their colors to show. They had been lined up neatly in three rows. The blonde opened each lipstick and tossed it back in the carton, making a jumble of their order. She chose one, slathered it on her lips, and held up a mirror to see the result.
“The gorgeous Mr. Ebon wants dark red for me, Miss Milburn,” the blonde said. “I like this one. Do you think he will?”
“Don’t you worry, Rowena. I have just the one he wants in my smock,” Miss Milburn replied. The makeup artist, whom I judged to be in her early forties, patted her pocket.
Another handsome man in a tuxedo lounged nearby.
“Peter, what do you think of my lipstick?” Rowena asked, pursing her lips at him.
“A very kissable color,” he replied, leaning toward her.
“Get out of here, Sanderson,” Miss Milburn said. “This one’s jailbait, way too young for you.”
Rowena pouted. “I am not.”
Peter plucked a lipstick from the carton and held it out to her. “I think this would suit you better,” he said. “Besides, I’m in love with this lady here.” He nuzzled the makeup artist’s neck. “You’re old enough for me, aren’t you, Ann?”
“In your dreams,” she said, laughing.
“Baby pink! Ugh!” Rowena said. “Why would I think a male model would know anything about lipstick? The lipstick I make is nicer than this.” Her tone reflected her disdain.
“I’m crushed,” Peter said, feigning hurt feelings. “Am I not always nice to you? I even brought you a cup of my favorite tea this morning.”
“It’s not my favorite.”
“But you drank it anyway.”
“I was thirsty. Here’s what I think of your lipstick choice.” She held out an arm and dropped the tube on the floor.
“And how old are you?” Ann Milburn asked, picking it up.
Rowena scowled. “My aunt thinks I’m old enough to be here, and that should be good enough for you.”
“Your aunt cut a nice deal for you, but it doesn’t make you a professional model. You could learn a thing or two from your roommates if you ever stopped admiring yourself long enough to listen.”
Rowena set aside the box of lipsticks and slipped off the chair. “I know more than those two losers already, and they’ll be begging for my advice when I’m famous. I’ll be right back,” she called out.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ann Milburn snapped. “I’m not waiting for you.”
Rowena was not the only teenage model in the room. Most of the young women appeared to be about her age, perhaps a year or two older. I knew that the state of New York had passed a law designating models under the age of eighteen as child performers. The idea behind the legislation was to encourage designers to use older models by burdening them with paperwork and making it more restrictive to hire younger ones. However, there were still holdouts who preferred the less curvy bodies of young teenagers to display their designs. I hoped Sandy was not among them.
I spotted another model teetering on platform heels, the back of her silvery lace dress hanging open. She was trying unsuccessfully to get someone to zip her up, but everyone else was preoccupied.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Oh, would you? I can’t reach around to get the darn thing up.” She held out her hands, close to tears. “And I have lipstick on my fingers.”
“Don’t cry or you’ll ruin your makeup,” I said sternly.
“I was trying to make sure I didn’t have lipstick on my teeth. But there’s nowhere to wash my hands. And even if there was,
if I leave a mark on the fabric, I’ll never work again.”
“My hands are clean,” I said, showing them to her. “Just turn around and we’ll get you all zipped up.”
She turned her back to me and said over her shoulder, “You have to be very careful. It’s a hidden zipper and those things catch the cloth.”
“I see that,” I said, setting my shoulder bag on the floor. “Just hold still—”
“I’m Babs, by the way. Babs Sipos,” she said, looping an arm behind her neck to lift her dark hair out of the way.
“Okay, Babs, here we go.” I took the tab of the zipper and slowly raised it, making certain to keep the fabric out of the path of the zipper’s teeth. “There! All done.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.” She turned to face me; her blue eyes were outlined in silver to match the dress.
“How do you know my name?”
“I heard you talking with Xandr. Isn’t he the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen? All the models are in love with him.”
“He’s very good-looking,” I said.
“Good-looking and smart. He’s been bragging about having a famous writer coming to his show. We’re all excited to meet you.”
“That’s very flattering,” I said, “but I write mysteries, nothing to do with fashion design.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I know that,” she said. “Most people think models don’t know anything besides clothes, but we do—some of us anyway. We have normal lives. I love to read mysteries. My parents will be so proud that I’ve met you. May I shake your hand?”
“We’d better get rid of the lipstick on your fingers before we do that.”
“Oh, gee, I almost forgot.”
I picked up my bag. “I think I know where we can get you some help.”
I walked over to the makeup station, Babs trailing behind, where Ann Milburn was now applying her makeup artistry to a beautiful barefoot redhead who obviously wasn’t pleased about something.
“Why would I use some stupid homemade lipstick?” the redhead said.
“She thought it was a perfect complement for your complexion, Isla,” Ann said. “It doesn’t happen often; I think she was trying to be nice.”
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