Design for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Verne shook my hand. “I don’t believe I had the pleasure,” he said.

  “Jordan and I go back to my L.A. days,” Sandy said.

  “Do you live in Los Angeles now?” I asked Verne.

  “Most of the time.”

  Verne was a wiry man in his fifties who exhibited a nervous energy even when standing perfectly still. In contrast to Sandy, who wore ragged jeans with a pea green T-shirt with an indecipherable design on the front, Verne was dressed in a black leather blazer over narrow black trousers. His gray shirt had a high collar, against which sparkled a black tie with silver metallic threads.

  “I’ve always enjoyed my trips to Los Angeles,” I said.

  “It has its benefits,” he said. “At least it doesn’t snow.”

  “Jordan is really high on my designs,” Sandy said.

  “For good reason,” I said. “They’re lovely.”

  “Lovely designs don’t necessarily translate into sales,” Verne said. “Marketing does. And you can’t get by on your good looks alone.”

  Sandy’s face reflected his reaction to his financial backer’s negativism.

  “The fashion world is one that I know very little about,” I said.

  “What do you do for a living?” Verne asked.

  “I write novels.”

  “What kind of novels?”

  “Jessica is a famous mystery writer,” Sandy said. “Always on the bestseller list.”

  “Really? Good for you. I’m afraid I don’t read much. Just the financial papers. That’s mystery enough for me.”

  Verne told Sandy that he was leaving for another appointment. “Just remember what I said, Ebon. This isn’t a game. Big bucks are at stake. You need to step it up.” He nodded at me—“Nice meeting you”—and left.

  I took the chair opposite Sandy, in front of a heavy glass bowl filled with pins that was perched on his desk. “So, have you heard anything new about Rowena Roth?” I asked.

  “No. Nothing in the Times, but there was a small bit in the Post this morning.”

  “Yes, I saw it.”

  “They mentioned me.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “I actually got a couple of calls from manufacturers thanks to that mention,” Sandy said.

  “I suppose there’s always something good to come out of the bad,” I said.

  “I just hope that Polly gets over this quickly and gets back to work promoting the line. This is such a critical time when the designs are online and people are weighing what to buy.”

  It was tempting to scold Sandy about his callous remark, but I didn’t want to embarrass him. At that moment, a woman interrupted us to show Sandy a selection of sketches. He gave the boards a cursory look and said, “Are those possibilities for the charity ball?”

  She nodded.

  He flung them on the desk with such force that they slid off the side, nearly toppling the glass bowl, which I reached out to steady before it followed the boards to the floor.

  “I’m sorry. I . . . I . . . didn’t mean to do that,” he said, leaning down to help gather the boards. He handed them back to the woman and said, “Not now.”

  She hurried out of the room.

  Sandy pulled at his hair. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m a little tense today, Jessica. Nothing is going right. We were supposed to lend one of the gowns to a fund-raising event the Council on Fashion Design is holding to benefit a scholarship program. It was an honor to be asked and they specifically requested the gold one, which, as you know, I no longer have.” He spread out his hands in a gesture of defeat.

  “Won’t they accept another gown? I thought the purple one was especially lovely.”

  “I don’t know, and if they don’t, I’ve lost a golden chance to get in front of the most important eyes in the business.” He snorted. “‘Golden chance.’ Some irony, huh?”

  “I bet it will work out,” I said to break the tension. “How about showing me around? I came to see the studio of a man your mother swears is a soon-to-be-famous designer. You can’t disappoint me.”

  We walked into the main space I’d seen before and Sandy opened his arms wide. “What’s to see, Jessica? This is it.” He pointed to one rack of dresses. “Those are the gowns from the show, except, of course, the gold one. I’d like to know when I will get that one back, but no one seems to be able to tell me.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I had one of my guys do it.” He looked around and shook his head sadly. “You know, you’re only as good as your last success, Jessica. I’m sure it’s true for writers as well. And I have to make the sales right away or the buyers forget.” He wandered over to the rack and ran his fingers over the dress Babs had worn in the show. “I had three orders for this platinum one this morning and I’m sure I could have sold the gold to the same people if it was here—but it’s not.” He sighed again.

  Sandy’s self-pity was getting me down, and his staff seemed to be tiptoeing around him, not a pleasant atmosphere in which to work—or to visit. I was now eager to leave but wasn’t sure how to finesse it. Sandy saved me when he returned to my side and said, “Sorry. This is a bad morning. Let’s take a walk. I need some fresh air.”

  “Yes, some fresh air would be welcome,” I agreed.

  We rode the elevator down, crossed the lobby, and emerged on bustling West Thirty-fifth Street.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Any place to get away from the studio. I swear, Jessica, I’m ready to explode.”

  I fell silent as I followed him to the corner of Eighth Avenue, where he crossed against the traffic and continued to the east side of Seventh Avenue. He paused at the corner. “This is it!” he proclaimed.

  “What’s ‘it’?” I asked.

  “The hall of fame for fashion designers. Seventh Avenue. Fashion Avenue.” He pointed to a sign that confirmed that the avenue bore both names. “Look,” he said, pointing to a bronze plaque embedded in the sidewalk. “This is the Fashion Walk of Fame. This is my inspiration.”

  I looked down to see what he was referring to. When I lived and worked in Manhattan, I’d not had much reason to visit the Garment District, nor was I aware of the plaques, a succession of them with the names and brief bios of leading fashion designers.

  “Twenty-eight designers in this Fashion Walk of Fame,” Sandy said. A smile lit up his face, and I noticed several women on the street turning to admire him. He seemed unaware of them. “Look, Jessica! Calvin Klein, Halston, Perry Ellis, Beene, Donna Karan, Oscar de la Renta. The greatest. One of these days, Jessica, if everything goes right, I’ll be the twenty-ninth to have a plaque here.”

  I had to smile at his youthful exuberance.

  “I don’t doubt for a minute that you will,” I said.

  His upbeat tone turned somber. “But it’ll never happen if fate keeps conspiring against me,” he said.

  “Where’s your mother today?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

  “I don’t know. She said she had something to do and would see me later.”

  “Let’s grab some coffee. My treat. What’s your favorite place?”

  “Well, there’s Culture Espresso. Best coffee and pastries in the city.”

  “Terrific! Is it nearby?”

  “It’s not far.”

  I realized as we walked to the coffee shop that until that morning I hadn’t known Sandy Black very well, and I knew his new persona as Xandr Ebon even less. My knowledge of his early years in Cabot Cove was scant; I’d met Maggie through the Friends of the Cabot Cove Library—we’d worked on several projects together—and she was a frequent customer at Loretta’s Beauty Shop. I knew Sandy had been a popular if lackadaisical student, who through force of personal magnetism—and generous help from friends—had managed to pursue his goals on the West Coast with great fanfar
e, only to come back East a few years later. Since his mother’s glowing accounts were my only source of information about the designer, his demeanor that morning had taken me aback. I had expected an ambitious professional, but he was more like the spoiled young man he’d been during his teenage years, when every disappointment was caused by someone else and every failure was excused by a mother who praised his talent.

  It wasn’t that I was unfamiliar with artistic people. I’d gotten to know plenty of them and respected the strain they were under to succeed in their chosen and difficult professions. A number of years ago, I’d been involved in a Broadway play that had been adapted from one of my novels, and seen firsthand the fragile egos and competitive nature of their lives. But Sandy demonstrated a selfish side that made me uncomfortable. I would have preferred to see him strive for success than whine when it didn’t come right away. I know I’ve been accused of being a “glass half-full” sort of person, but I can never see the advantage of wallowing in pessimism when there’s always an opportunity to make things better.

  At the coffee shop Sandy was greeted by name as two of the young women behind the coffee bar vied to serve him. He turned to me. “Best cookies in the city,” he said, smiling. He fished in his pocket for money and waved off my objection. “They’re even better than my mother’s, but don’t tell her I said so.”

  Buoyed by his sudden return to positive, I seconded his order of cappuccino and we managed to find an empty table along the wall where we drank our coffee and nibbled on delicious chocolate chip cookies.

  Given his better mood, I was surprised when he brought up the topic of the dead model again. “You asked me if I’d heard anything new about Rowena. I haven’t. Have you?”

  I shook my head. “An autopsy is being performed,” I said, “and I imagine that the family will be notified of its results. Whether we’ll learn them is another question.”

  He shook his head. “She was all wrong for my designs.”

  “Was she?”

  “She sure was. That’s the problem with doing people a favor. It comes back to bite you. I let her model in the show as a favor to Polly Roth and Philip Gould. Never again!”

  His mood changed as rapidly and often as the city’s traffic lights, and I was tired of his self-centered complaints.

  “I really should be going,” I said. “I have—I have a lunch appointment.” It wasn’t true, of course, but was an acceptable white lie.

  “Just as well,” he said. “I’d better get back and see what I can salvage from the ruins.”

  We stood to leave but were stopped by a young man who approached Sandy. “Xandr,” he said. “Congratulations on your show, man.”

  “Thanks. I think it went well for the most part.”

  “Did you hear about Latavia Moore?”

  Sandy shook his head.

  “The famous model?” I said.

  “Yeah,” the man said.

  Although I knew practically nothing about the world of high fashion, the name Latavia Moore was familiar. She was a favorite of the paparazzi, a supermodel whose face looked out from the cover of dozens of high fashion magazines. A well-publicized society marriage and an equally well-covered divorce landed her a role on a reality television show, and made her gorgeous face and figure familiar to a whole new audience.

  “What about her?” Sandy asked.

  “She’s dead, man. They found her in her apartment.”

  Sandy’s eyebrows flew up. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “How old was she?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” the man replied. “Twenty-five, twenty-six maybe.”

  Sandy grabbed his shoulder. “How did she die?”

  “All I know is that she’s dead. Say, weren’t you and her—?”

  “Old news,” Sandy said, brushing aside the man’s question and striding to the door.

  “I’m so sorry. Was Miss Moore a friend of yours?” I asked when we got outside.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, thanks for showing me your studio.”

  “It’ll be bigger and better someday,” he said. “I’ll tell my mother you stopped by. Maybe we’ll catch up again while you’re in town.”

  “Count on it,” I said.

  I watched him walk up Thirty-eighth Street and disappear into a crowd of people.

  Since I had canceled our plans for the evening, I called Grady and was pleased that he was free for lunch. I settled in the back of a cab and thought about Rowena. The death of a healthy-seeming teenager was puzzling. And now another sudden death, that of supermodel Latavia Moore. My visit to New York was supposed to deliver me from my computer and the murder that drove the plot of my latest novel. I’d welcomed the chance to spend time relaxing with my nephew and his family, to experience New York’s famed Fashion Week, and to catch up with old friends like my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, and my agent, Matt Miller.

  A pleasant holiday.

  Yet two models were dead.

  It must be a coincidence.

  Then why was I so ill at ease?

  Chapter Seven

  My nephew and I met up for lunch in a coffee shop a few doors from the building in which he had his accounting office. Spending time with him has always been a joy. Enthusiastic, hardworking, and kind, Grady has a ready smile and an inquisitive mind, more interested in what you have to say than what he’s thinking, a trait too rare in today’s society.

  “How was your visit to the design studio this morning?” he asked after we’d been seated at a table near the window.

  My response was prefaced with a grimace. “The world of fashion is unlike any other, it seems to me, except maybe for filmmaking. The artistic temperament looms large.”

  He laughed. “I know what you mean,” he said. “Our clients in the production business can be difficult at times, egos getting in the way, emotions on the surface, but nothing like the fashion folks. The head of the production company I recommended to Sandy told me about some tense moments with the demanding Xandr Ebon. He’s the masculine version of a diva. What would that be called? A divo?”

  “That sounds right,” I said, laughing. “He is high-strung.”

  “You knew him back in Cabot Cove?”

  “Barely. His mother, Maggie Black, and I were acquainted, but I never had much interaction with Sandy.”

  “Didn’t you tell me he used to design costumes in Hollywood?”

  “Yes, but I know nothing about that period in his life, other than it seems not to have worked out the way he’d expected.” I thought back to the comment Maggie had made at the reception about wanting to forget about her son’s Hollywood years.

  “Did he ever work on a blockbuster movie, something I might have seen?” Grady asked between bites of his tuna on rye.

  “I have no idea,” I said, “but you’ve got my curiosity up, Grady. I’ll go online and see what film credits he has.”

  “You heard about the other model that was found dead?” he asked.

  “I did. She was quite a famous name. How did you find out about her?”

  “I saw it on television this morning.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking that the report I’d missed when the hotel’s room service arrived was probably about Latavia Moore rather than Rowena Roth.

  “Do you think . . .” Grady started.

  “Think what?”

  “That there might be a connection between two models dying?”

  I laughed. “You’re starting to think like a mystery writer. Is my vocation rubbing off on you?”

  He looked smug. “Well, I was at least partially responsible for your becoming a famous author, wasn’t I?”

  “You were, indeed!”

  Unbeknownst to me at the time, my nephew, Grady, had given my very first attempt at writing a whodunit to a New York City publishing house, a
nd by some miracle the book was accepted. No one was more surprised than I when The Corpse Danced at Midnight became an overnight bestseller. Not only did it take this widowed Maine schoolteacher out of her quiet small-town existence, but it launched me into a whole new career writing murder mysteries—and on occasion helping to solve real ones.

  “I figured I’d ask,” Grady continued, “because you link up seemingly unrelated murders in some of your books.”

  “That’s just my novelist’s mind at work,” I said. “Besides, no one is using the term ‘murder’ with these two cases.” I didn’t mention Detective Kopecky’s “funny feeling” about Rowena’s death.

  Grady’s eyes lit up and he pointed at me. “But you’re already referring to them as ‘cases.’ They wouldn’t be cases if there wasn’t something funny going on, would they? I remember you saying once that fiction is often based upon real events.”

  “True, but so far these deaths are unrelated. Besides, we wouldn’t even know about the famous model dying if she hadn’t been a celebrity.” I paused, then said, “I would suggest that you finish your tuna salad sandwich before it gets cold, but the tuna was served cold.”

  He took his last bite and looked at his watch. “I’d better get back,” he said. “Glad you were free for lunch. Donna was disappointed when you canceled dinner tonight, but now she can attend her book club, so it worked out okay. Are we set for dinner tomorrow night at our place? Frank wants to read you his latest story. He got an A on it.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I said as I paid the bill and we stepped outside. As we did my cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” I said, and answered it. It was Detective Kopecky. “Go back to work,” I said to Grady. “I’ll call later.”

  “Sorry, Detective,” I said. “I was just saying good-bye to my nephew.”

  “I can call another time,” he said.

  “No, this is fine. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How did you get my number?”

  “Oh, the NYPD has its ways.”

  “I see.”

  “I just figured that since we already talked about that model’s death, and now there’s this other one, I—”