Design for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Nice! That’s a laugh. It’s dreadful,” Isla snarled, handing a tube of lipstick back to the makeup artist. “Tell Rowena I don’t need her amateur advice.”

  Ann shoved the lipstick tube into her pocket. “You can tell her yourself, Isla Banning. I’m not your messenger girl.”

  “Am I finished now?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. You’re risking a career with those bags under your eyes.”

  “No one important is going to be here to see them.” The sullen-faced model slid off the chair, holding her high heels by the straps. She padded off toward the dressing area.

  Since both of the chairs were temporarily empty, I felt comfortable asking the makeup artist if she had any wipes we could use.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Milburn,” Babs said, holding up her hands and wiggling her stained fingers. “I was just checking my teeth.”

  “I told you not to chew on your lips,” Ann said, grabbing Babs’s hand and scrubbing it with a damp towel.

  “Hey, Sipos, you’re interrupting my makeup session,” Rowena snapped as she climbed back into her chair. “Go bother Janine. She’s already finished dressing. Oh, and, Miss Milburn,” she sang, snapping her fingers at the makeup artist, “I’m back. Let’s hurry it up here. I need to get my evening gown on.”

  “I’ll get to you when I’m ready,” Ann said, deliberately folding the towel she’d used on Babs and busying herself with her cosmetics.

  Babs stuck out her tongue at Rowena.

  “Better not do that or you’ll smear your lipstick again,” Rowena said with a smirk.

  Babs’s expression was distressed. “Am I okay?” she asked, showing me her teeth.

  “You’re fine,” I said. “You’d better go get ready.”

  She gave me a soft smile and wandered away.

  Ann reached into one of her pockets, withdrew a lipstick, and applied it to Rowena’s lips. She stood back, surveyed her work, and nodded. “I think Xandr will like it.”

  A short gentleman in a navy three-piece suit approached. He was immaculately groomed, from the gel that sparkled in his gray hair down to the clear polish on his fingernails. A heavy gold watch encircled his wrist, and he wore a gold signet ring on his right pinkie. “You have everything you need, Ann?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Gould. Caroline brought over all the cosmetics this morning.”

  He turned to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Philip Gould. Are you affiliated with one of the designers?”

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher, a friend of Xandr Ebon.”

  “Mr. Gould’s company, New Cosmetics, is sponsoring this show,” Rowena put in. “He’s a very important man, aren’t you, Philly? It’s not too late to pick me to be the face of New Cosmetics.” She blew a kiss in his direction.

  “Behave yourself, Rowena,” the makeup artist said. “Look up so I can finish putting on your mascara.”

  “It’s always a little crazy getting ready for a show, and these young girls are a handful,” Gould said, chuckling. He picked up the box of lipsticks Rowena had pawed through and replaced each one in its proper slot. “This isn’t one of ours,” he said, dropping a lipstick into a garbage can.

  “Hey,” Rowena called out. “Is that one of mine?”

  Gould ignored her. “Hopefully, our cosmetics will do the designers proud today.”

  “I’m sure they will,” I said, thinking I’d seen enough of what Sandy had called the backstage drama.

  A loud drum solo caught my attention, and rock music filled the room.

  “I’d better find a seat out front before they’re all gone,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the music.

  Philip Gould reached into his jacket pocket and stood on tiptoe to lean closer to my ear. “New Cosmetics is hosting a reception for the designers tonight. I hope you can make it,” he shouted, and handed me an invitation. “If you need any more, I’ll be here after the show.”

  I thanked him and walked around the side of the curtain blocking off the dressing area. A projector was splashing kaleidoscope images on the audience’s side of the black fabric, the lights changing in time to the music. I found Sandy’s mother sitting in the front row, her coat folded on the chair next to hers. When she caught sight of me, she waved me over.

  “I saved a seat for you,” Maggie said, gathering up her coat. “Did you see Sandy?”

  “I did, and I told him you were talking with a reporter. He was happy to hear it.”

  “I must have written every magazine editor in and out of the city trying to get them to send someone to the show. We do have a couple of fashion bloggers here, but they look like they’re thirteen. Hardly Sandy’s target customer, but when you’re competing with the A-listers, you have to take who you can get.”

  “Most of the seats are filled,” I said, waving at Grady and Donna sitting in the front row across the runway from us. “There certainly are a lot of young people here.”

  “Xandr’s publicist has been soliciting students at the Actor’s Studio and Parsons School of Design, selling the tickets at a steep discount to make sure we have a decent crowd. It has to look good on camera. Then we can send the YouTube link everywhere so the people who couldn’t make it still get a chance to see the designs.”

  Maggie handed me the program notes, a slim brochure with a flat-black cover, the names of the designers in glossy black ink. It was very elegant, but not easy to read. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of each designer and instead of a biography, a paragraph extolling their design philosophies.

  “All Sandy’s dresses are inspired by gems and jewelry,” his mother said. “He thought the jewel tones would show really well on the red carpet. He’s hoping he can get an actress to wear one of them to the upcoming Hollywood awards.”

  “Does he have anyone in mind?”

  “Not yet, but Sandy’s assistant told me there’s supposed to be a famous stylist here today,” she said, craning her neck to look around the room. “Not that I’d know who she was, but if she chose one of his dresses, it would be a major step in his career.”

  The music ended, and what had been a competing buzz in the room quieted as those still standing hurried to find seats before the show began. The lights dimmed and the drum solo started up again. An announcer’s voice intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the collections of Xandr Ebon, Nicolas Flemming, and Akiko Murakami.”

  Under the words “New Cosmetics Presents,” Sandy’s name was projected on one side of the black curtain, the other side of which was drawn up to allow the models to enter the runway.

  A harp joined the drums as Rowena stepped onto the runway. A hundred flashes of light greeted her from cameras and cell phones recording her every move, reflecting off the gold crystals scattered over the bodice of the gown, and revealing a sheen of perspiration on her brow. Rowena’s expression was impassive, the deep red color of her lipstick standing out against her pale complexion. One long leg showed through the slit of her gold gown, the sparkling material almost matching the color of her hair. The high collar came up to her chin, but the halter top left her arms and shoulders bare.

  “That’s Rowena Roth, Polly Roth’s niece,” Maggie murmured.

  “Who’s Polly Roth?” I asked.

  “Ever hear of Runway Public Relations?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, it’s one of the biggies. Polly Roth heads it up. She agreed to hype the show if Sandy would let her niece, Rowena, wear one of his gowns.” She reached into her bag and produced a glossy card with photographs of the model as well as her measurements, height, weight, clothing and shoe sizes, and contact information. “Here. Polly just had these run off. It’s Rowena’s model card. They all have one.”

  “I guess that makes her official,” I said, looking at her card and slipping it into my bag.

  Maggie snorted. “It’ll take more than tha
t. She’s only a kid, and frankly, a pain in the you-know-where.” She squinted. “Is there a spot on that dress?”

  “I don’t see anything,” I said.

  “Must’ve been the light.”

  Rowena had reached the end of the runway and turned back, careful not to trip on the train of her gown as Dolores stepped into the spotlight at the curtain’s opening and began her studied strut down the runway. Wearing the deep purple silk soutache gown to which Sandy had been making last-second repairs, Dolores sauntered with more confidence than Rowena had shown, hips swaying despite the narrowness of the sheath, which was accented by a tulle overskirt embellished with what looked like amethysts. After the two women passed each other, I saw Rowena stumble a bit as she prepared to make her exit, but Babs was there to catch her arm before stepping into the spotlight herself.

  “I hope she didn’t take anything to calm her nerves,” Maggie said into my ear.

  Three more models showed off Sandy’s lovely designs for evening gowns in emerald, sapphire, and ruby, before the name on the curtain changed to Nicolas Flemming and the harp and accompanying drums were replaced by steel drums and a marimba. The next designer’s Afro-Caribbean creations were elaborate floral patterns, with fabric flower petals flaring out from straight or mermaid shapes. His models wore bright turquoise and shocking pink eye shadow to echo the tropical theme.

  The marimba became a flute and the steel drums a Japanese taiko when the name of the last designer, Akiko Murakami, was projected. Her gowns were more severe than those of the other designers, with sharp pleats and geometric cutouts in contrast to her colleagues’. The models wore black lipstick, and what looked like black triangles were sprinkled above their eyes, down their temples, and across their cheekbones.

  “Her stuff is supereditorial,” Maggie whispered to me.

  “I’ve never heard that phrase,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “Those are the kinds of clothes no one will wear but that the fashion press loves. At least that’s my definition. Generally if a design makes it into Vogue, it’s ‘supereditorial.’”

  For the finale, the three designers accompanied their models onto the runway to the solo drums once again. I was happy to see that Sandy had taken off the lanyard that held his cell phone and had changed from his T-shirt and jeans into a long-sleeved black silk shirt and matching trousers. His blond hair was carefully coiffed so that only a single curl hung down on his forehead.

  “My son is even more beautiful than his models, isn’t he?” Maggie said, grinning.

  The audience rose to applaud as the runway filled with elegant models in gorgeous gowns alongside the beaming creators of the couture evening wear. Babs held Rowena’s arm as they paraded to their designated places. Rowena’s face was ashen. Was she about to get sick? That would be embarrassing for her.

  “I guess she found out it’s not as easy as it looks,” Maggie said to me as she clapped loudly. Sandy waved and bowed and held out a hand to acknowledge his models. He scowled when he caught sight of Rowena, who appeared to be swaying. Then her eyes rolled back and she sank gracefully to the floor.

  The audience had already begun filing out and I had to fight my way against the flow to get to her.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t kneel down in this gown,” Babs said. “I would help if I could. She must have fainted.”

  Sandy and I reached Rowena at the same time. He shook her shoulder while I lifted her hand, trying to find a pulse.

  “Do you think we should try CPR?” he asked.

  I pressed two fingers into the side of Rowena’s neck. “Yes,” I said, pressing down on her chest, “but I’m afraid we may already be too late.”

  Chapter Two

  Those who hadn’t left became aware of the situation and moved closer to get a better look. Among them was a young medical student from Columbia Presbyterian Hospital who had accompanied his girlfriend to the show. He immediately joined me and took over efforts to revive Rowena but failed to get a pulse.

  “Get back. Get back,” Sandy said in a loud voice to the onlookers. He turned to me. “This is a nightmare, Jessica. It can’t be happening.”

  “I’m afraid it is, Sandy,” I said. “You’d better call nine-one-one.”

  “Is there a defibrillator on the premises?” the medical student called out.

  “The caterer says it’s broken,” someone shouted back.

  The medical student conducted his own test of the fallen model. “Skin color, bluish gray. No pulse. Pupils are dilated and fixed,” he muttered as if reading from a list. His eyes met mine and he shook his head.

  Sandy seemed paralyzed. He held his cell phone in his hand and looked at it rather than touching the keypad, as though it would make the call on its own. I took it from him and dialed those infamous and fateful numbers. A woman answered.

  “I’m calling from—” I looked to Sandy. “What’s the name of this place?” I asked.

  “It’s, uh—it’s the Starlight Room at Flatiron Catering.”

  “I’m calling from the Starlight Room at Flatiron Catering. That’s right. No, it’s not the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.”

  “Wait!” Sandy grabbed the phone away from me. “Hello? Operator? It’s not the Starlight at the Waldorf. We’re at the one on West Twenty-sixth Street, eighteenth floor,” he yelled into the phone. “What do you mean what kind of emergency? She just dropped dead. Isn’t that enough of an emergency?”

  Sandy was overwrought; the lead-up to the day’s event combined with this unexpected outcome must have tripped his already frayed nerves. He was losing control. “I can’t believe it,” he groaned, his hand shaking as he held out the phone.

  I took it back from him and cocked my head at his mother. Maggie put her arm around Sandy and led him away from the dead model. “Come sit down, sweetheart.”

  “Mom, what am I going to do?”

  “Operator, are you still there?” I asked. “Oh, thank goodness. Yes, a young woman has died.”

  “You’re sure she’s dead?” the woman asked.

  “Yes. There’s a doctor here and he has confirmed it. She’s a runway model, very young. No, I don’t know her age. Someone said her name was Rowena Roth. She was in a fashion show of new designs and at first we thought she’d fainted from the excitement. Please send someone right away.”

  The young physician and I were joined by a tall man in an obvious state of agitation.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “We have a young woman who’s—” I said. “She’s—she’s dead.”

  “Oh, no! This is terrible,” he said in a husky voice tinged with a Southern accent.

  “It certainly is,” I said.

  “We have to start setting up for the wedding,” he said. “I told them. Everyone out and all cleaned up by one. They promised me they would be gone.”

  “I’m afraid that will have to wait until—”

  “I knew it,” he said. “I knew it was a mistake to have this, this stupid fashion show on the same day as a wedding. But Polly, she insisted.”

  The man, who I guessed was the catering facility’s manager, stood wringing his hands and cursing under his breath. I ignored him as I waited for the 911 dispatcher to complete her emergency response protocol, answering her questions as best I could.

  “We’ll have someone to you directly,” she told me. “Do you need me to stay on the line with you until they get there?”

  I assured her I didn’t need to take up more of her time and that I would remain with the body until the authorities arrived. I thanked her and ended the call.

  There was still a clot of curious bystanders lingering by the exit. I didn’t see my nephew and his wife. We had made plans to meet in the lobby downstairs after the show.

  Sandy, who’d managed to get his emotions in check, recovered enough to take charge once again
and began to give out orders. He instructed a security guard assigned to the show to keep everyone away from Rowena Roth’s lifeless body, directed the other designers and models who’d been milling about to go backstage and start packing up.

  “I’m sorry, Jessica. I think I’ll be all right now,” he said, wiping his brow. “I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t usually get hysterical in an emergency. Such a crazy thing. Who would ever think . . . ?” He trailed off.

  “Not your fault, Sandy. This is not what you expected to happen at your show, and especially not to someone so young. But please, see if you can find something to cover her. There are too many prying eyes here. We don’t want her picture on the cover of a tabloid tomorrow.”

  My suggestion was timely. A young man with a camera, a press pass dangling from his neck, approached and prepared to snap a picture of the fallen model. I quickly positioned myself between them to block his view. The photographer changed his vantage point but not before Sandy pulled a portion of the black curtain off the frame separating the runway from backstage and draped it over Rowena. The photographer growled something and contented himself with taking pictures of those of us surrounding the dead girl. The security guard sent him toward the door.

  “What happened to her?” another member of the press contingent yelled.

  We ignored him. A few seconds later a tall, stately woman wearing a spring green suit appeared from the other side of the large room.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Sandy.

  “I’m so sorry, Polly—it’s Rowena,” he said, indicating the sheet.

  “What do you mean, it’s Rowena?”

  She was joined by the arrival of two people in navy uniforms with the letters EMT in white on one shoulder and FDNY on the other. They pushed a gurney ahead of them. One carried a leather satchel, the other a portable CPR machine. We stepped away to allow them access to the body. As one pulled the sheet away, the woman who’d just joined us gasped and grabbed Sandy to keep from collapsing.

  “I know, I know, Polly,” Sandy said to her.