Design for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “What’s a frou?”

  “That’s designer talk for a party dress. And I hear Rogét is quite the party girl. Who knows what that dress will look like by the time he gets it back? She’ll probably drip champagne on it. That’s if she gives it back at all.”

  “Would she keep it without paying for it?”

  “Depends on what you think is payment. If she likes what her stylist picks out for her, she promised that Xandr could be in the running to design the costumes for her next movie. He’s stoked. He’s been telling everyone.”

  “In the running, you say? But nothing definite.”

  “Yeah. Nothing is ever guaranteed in this business or, I guess, any business. Promises are broken every day.”

  “That’s quite a cynical point of view for one so young,” I said.

  “I know. I’m not very trusting. You learn fast or get pushed to the side.”

  “Do you think that’s why Rowena didn’t make any friends? She didn’t trust anyone?”

  Babs shrugged. “I was nice to her—most of the time—but she didn’t like me anyway. I think she was annoyed that I refused to try her homemade concoctions.”

  “You mean her makeup?”

  “Yeah. I have very sensitive skin. I’m not putting her goop on my face.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “To you, maybe, but not to her. She was very independent. I think she saw herself as a future entrepreneur in the business. She just wasn’t sure which part of the industry she wanted to bestow her many talents on.”

  “Now, Babs,” I started to say.

  “Hey, Babs, you didn’t tell me you knew Jessica Fletcher.” Peter Sanderson, the male model I’d seen at the show, slid an arm around Babs’s waist and pulled her back against him. He glanced at the phone in his other hand before flashing a smile. “Isn’t this little one a beauty?” he said to me.

  “Hardly little,” Babs said, pushing away from him. “I’m five-ten.”

  “You’re still a little girl to me,” he said. “So cute.”

  I remembered that at the show Ann Milburn had warned him away from Rowena, calling the first-time model “jailbait.” Apparently Sanderson liked to tease the younger women.

  “Nice to see you again, Jessica. I was disappointed that you didn’t call me. Still have my card?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “I’ve got some great ideas for film projects we could work on together.”

  “I’m really busy with book projects right now,” I said, “but thanks for thinking of me.”

  His phone must have vibrated, because he frowned down into the screen and turned his back to Babs and me for the moment. She looked around to ascertain that we weren’t being overheard before asking, “Is there anything new about how Rowena died?”

  “Nothing as far as I know,” I said, remembering my promise to Kopecky not to share what he’d told me with others. “But I was hoping to have a few minutes to talk with you about her.”

  “Sure. Anytime.” Babs looked around the room. “I heard that she might have been murdered,” she said, leaning toward me to be heard over the recorded music emanating from the DJ’s booth.

  Maggie had returned to my side in time to hear Babs’s announcement. “That’s ridiculous,” she said.

  Babs shrugged. “I’m just repeating what other people are saying.”

  “Well, don’t go around spreading those kinds of rumors. Poor Polly Roth. She would die if she heard you talking that way.”

  “I don’t think Rowena’s aunt is here,” Babs said, pouting.

  “It’s an open investigation,” I said, hoping to shift the conversational emphasis.

  Sanderson turned around and wrapped his arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “Hey, Babs!” he said. “I want you to meet someone.” He winked at me. “See you later, Jessica Fletcher. Don’t forget me, now.”

  Babs excused herself and the pair went off.

  Maggie gave me a knowing look. “What about this rumor that Rowena was murdered?” she asked.

  I gave her my best confused expression.

  “That call you got when we were together in the rooftop bar. I couldn’t help overhearing that it was the detective who is investigating Rowena Roth’s death, and you mentioned the medical examiner during your conversation with him. You obviously know more than you let on, Jessica.”

  “I’ve heard a few things,” I said, wishing that someone would approach and get me off the hook.

  Now it was Maggie’s turn to glance left and right before speaking. “Level with me, Jessica. If the police suspect that Rowena was murdered—and I stress if—do they consider Sandy a suspect?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I answered honestly, not adding that if Rowena had been murdered, no one was excluded as a suspect until proven innocent, and that would include Sandy Black, aka Xandr Ebon, the man she worked for at the time of her death, and possibly his mother. Even me, for that matter. I’d been there when she died.

  “I just don’t trust the police,” Maggie said. “They’re lazy. They focus in on the easiest mark. That’s what they did in L.A. I don’t have any reason to think it would be different in New York.”

  The arrival of the writer Claude de Molissimo captured our attention as he descended the spiral staircase, stopped, and took in the gathering. Immediately behind him was the redheaded model who’d lived with Rowena, the one who’d “borrowed” Rowena’s fur coat. Her name, I remembered, was Isla.

  “That’s one of Rowena’s roommates,” Maggie said.

  “Yes. I met her at Rowena’s apartment when I was there with you.”

  “Do you know the man who’s with her?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “You’re amazing, Jessica. How did you meet so many people so quickly?” she asked.

  “It’s just a knack I have.”

  De Molissimo took Isla’s arm and escorted her to where Sandy stood with Jordan Verne and a knot of partygoers, which included the makeup artist Ann Milburn.

  “Is he in the fashion business?” Maggie asked, referring to de Molissimo.

  “He’s a writer. He wrote a controversial book about the design business.”

  “So he’s the one? Sandy mentioned that book. He said it was an unfair criticism of the fashion industry and the people in it.”

  “I haven’t read it yet,” I said, “but I did get to meet him.”

  “Can’t believe you’re in New York less than a week and you already know more people in the fashion business than I do.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” I didn’t know from the way she’d said it whether she was impressed or being snide. I didn’t get to find out, because she broke away when she saw another editor she needed to buttonhole.

  Babs, who’d been gyrating to the music in a corner of the room with Sanderson and several others, left her dance partners and rejoined me.

  “You wanted to talk to me, Mrs. Fletcher?” she asked. “Is now a good time? I figured you didn’t want to chat in front of Xandr’s mother.”

  “That’s true. Thanks. But the music here is a bit loud for conversation,” I said.

  She laughed. “Listen, I hope I didn’t say anything out of line before when I mentioned the rumor that Rowena—”

  “Not at all, Babs. But let me ask you a question.”

  She nodded.

  “You were with Rowena right before she died, right next to her on the catwalk.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it,” she said.

  “You said she had to run to the bathroom. Had she complained of not feeling well?”

  Babs screwed up her face in thought. “Not really. I mean, I told her it was okay to be nervous and she said she wasn’t. But she was sweating a lot. And—oh, yeah, she was afraid that it was going to ruin her makeup. That�
��s right. She said she felt all sweaty.”

  “Not good for a model about to go on the runway,” I said.

  “It’s weird how you remember things later. She also complained about her lips. Her tongue, too.”

  “Really? What did she say was wrong with them?”

  “Nothing that I can recall. She’d had her lips done over.”

  “I know,” I said, “by Dr. Sproles.”

  “Oh? You know him?”

  “We’ve met. You can’t remember precisely what she complained about?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe something about her lips and tongue tingling. But, you know, people who have work done sometimes have side effects like that. Does that make sense?”

  “I suppose it does,” I said.

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “Killed her.”

  “I’m not sure that anyone ‘killed her,’ Babs. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  She seemed disappointed. “Anything else, then?”

  “Well, yes. Did you know any of the men Rowena might have dated?”

  She laughed. “No one really dates anymore, Mrs. Fletcher. Rowena might have hooked up with a guy every now and then, but I don’t think she was attached to anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Was Peter Sanderson one of the men?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. He flits from one girl to another all the time.”

  “Could he have pursued her, sent her gifts?”

  She laughed again. “Peter expects to get gifts, not the other way around—or at least he expects the older women who chase after him to keep him well supplied.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what “supplies” Sanderson received from his admirers, but at least I thought I could discount him as the lover who had sent Rowena a fur coat.

  Babs moved on to other people, and I gravitated toward Claude de Molissimo, who was engaged in what appeared to be a spirited conversation with Sandy Black, Jordan Verne, and Ann Milburn while the model Isla stood by. Sandy saw me approaching and broke off what he was saying to the others to welcome me into the conversation.

  “Have you met Claude de Molissimo?” Sandy asked.

  “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure,” I said.

  “The pleasure was mine,” de Molissimo said in a loud voice. He seemed even bigger than the first time we’d met, a whale of a man dressed this day like a big game hunter in Africa. All he lacked was a pith helmet.

  “You were saying, Ann?” Sandy said to the makeup artist.

  “I was saying that today’s crop of models leaves a lot to be desired.”

  I glanced at Isla to see whether she was offended, although it was hard to tell. She was scanning the crowd, striking poses as if cameras were focused on her, and for all I knew some might have been. Almost every young person in the room was checking a cell phone, taking selfies or using a stick to extend the phone’s reach to capture a group of people on their cell phone cameras.

  “What was better about previous models?” de Molissimo asked.

  “To begin with,” Ann replied, “their beauty was more natural, required less makeup.”

  “But that’s your business,” Verne said. “You mustn’t be very good if you complain about having to use more makeup.”

  “I’m one of the best makeup artists in the industry,” she said angrily. “I can make anyone look good, even the half-sober, sleep-deprived whiners who call themselves models these days.”

  “You’ve been doing it long enough, considering how old you are,” Isla said through what passed as a thin smile.

  For a moment I thought that Ann was going to strike her. Her fists curled into balls at her sides, and her dark brown eyes shot daggers at the model.

  “Let’s act like ladies,” de Molissimo said.

  “She’s no lady,” Isla said as she pirouetted and sauntered away.

  Ann heard her and I thought she might go in pursuit, but Verne stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  I looked at de Molissimo, who had a bemused smile on his broad face. To my surprise he then placed his hand on my back and steered me away from the group to an area of the bar that had just opened up.

  “The claws are out tonight,” he said through a hearty laugh. “Two proseccos,” he called to the bartender.

  “It certainly was an unpleasant exchange,” I said.

  “Ann Milburn is a tough cookie,” he said.

  “Is she well-known as a makeup artist?”

  “Oh, yes, and she’s equally well-known for having a heck of a temper. She’s been charged with assault at least twice.”

  “Assault? My goodness. Who did she assault?”

  “A former husband, for one,” he said. “And I remember a time she smacked a model who gave her a hard time.”

  “I see what you mean about being tough. Yet she’s also a very attractive woman.”

  “Sexy, you mean. She has that sort of sexual allure that certain special actresses have, you know, not especially beautiful women, but ones who exude sensuality. Colleen Dewhurst and Lauren Bacall come to mind.” He took two glasses from the bartender and handed me one.

  “You say that she attacked a former husband. How many times has she been married?”

  “Twice, at least officially. There’s a rumor that there was a third husband back when she was the same age as the models she works on.”

  “She’s currently unattached?”

  He tipped his glass to clink with mine, took a big gulp of the sparkling wine, and set the glass down on the bar with a tap. “Maybe. Maybe not. Current gossip—and this business thrives on gossip—has it that she’s the sometime paramour of several titans of industry, including the CEO of New Cosmetics.”

  “Philip Gould?”

  “The very same. Of course that’s just a rumor. Just talk to someone and you end up the object of speculation on Page Six. By tomorrow they’ll have you and me in bed together.” He waggled his eyebrows up and down, and it took everything I had to keep from rolling my eyes. I would have taken a step back away from him, but the crowd around the bar prevented it.

  “Her relationship with Gould is a professional one,” I said. “She can’t help being in his company when she works for him.” I don’t know why I was defending Ann Milburn. It’s just that rumor mills have always been distasteful to me. So many people are hurt through insinuation and innuendo, including in my beloved Cabot Cove, Maine, where a casually dropped comment soon makes its rounds via the town’s usual gathering spots and pretty soon a rumor is no longer considered a rumor. It becomes a “fact” thanks to the reasoning that if enough people say it, it must be true. Having been a victim of that kind of scandal-mongering in the past, I’m highly suspect of hearsay. At the same time, being human, I’m as susceptible as the next person to interesting “news,” and there have been times when a rumor actually did turn out to be factual.

  Ann Milburn and Philip Gould? Well, I would withhold judgment for now.

  Gould was a married man, albeit to a wife who didn’t seem to be enjoying marital bliss. I thought back to when I briefly interviewed Gould and noticed that Ann Milburn waited impatiently for him to join her. Was this volatile, attractive makeup artist Gould’s mistress? One of many? It was none of my business unless . . . unless it had something to do with the death of Rowena Roth. But if it did, how?

  “I saw you come in with Isla tonight. How did you happen to bring her?” I asked de Molissimo.

  “Didn’t bring her at all. Bumped into her outside the hotel,” he said. “She’s not my type. These skinny babies turn me off.”

  I started to respond, but he added, “Somebody like you is more my style. You have a brain, writing all your books, and you’re not bad-looking.”

  My guffaw came out involuntarily. “Thank you, I think,” I
said, at a rare loss for words.

  “Speaking of that,” he said, “how about you and I get together tomorrow night for dinner at my place? I make a mean tuna casserole.”

  “You’re having a party?” I asked, having regained my composure.

  “Yes. You and me. I bet we both have great stories to swap.”

  I noticed Maggie at the far end of the room talking with the Post reporter.

  “Thanks, but I’m busy tomorrow night,” I said to de Molissimo.

  “Another time, then. Promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That if you end up finding out who killed Rowena Roth, I’ll be the first to know. The rumor that somebody did her in is all over town.”

  I didn’t promise anything as I disengaged from him and returned to where Sandy stood just as Maggie rejoined her son.

  Should I be flattered that both Detective Aaron Kopecky and now fashion industry gadfly Claude de Molissimo had indicated an interest in me as a woman, even if de Molissimo’s compliment was certainly a backhanded one?

  The answer I gave to myself was that I fervently wished that George Sutherland was there.

  I announced to Maggie and Sandy that I was leaving and thanked them for inviting me to the party. It was wearing having to talk over the incessantly loud music, and I was feeling hunger pangs. While there was finger food at the party, it was scarce; it seemed that whatever was offered disappeared into the hands and mouths of those closest to the kitchen the moment a waitress appeared with it.

  “Mind if I stay?” Maggie asked.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’m so happy for you, Sandy—or should I say Xandr?”

  “I’ll answer to anything, Jessica,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “Thanks for helping me celebrate.”

  I sought out others to say good night to on my way out, including Babs Sipos and Jordan Verne, who’d hosted the party for Sandy. I avoided Claude de Molissimo and was making my way toward the exit when Ann Milburn stopped me with a hand on the shoulder.

  “Leaving so soon?” she said. “The party’s just getting started.”

  “I’m sure it is for these young people. But it’s getting late for this lady,” I said.