On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  It always happened this way: tension rose and her willpower tanked.

  She pulled the glass away from her mouth. She was dizzy from the swift shock of bubbly booze and sugar, but ugly images kept flashing in her mind's eye. Zahara Bell's body, Lex's dress, the dozens of cameras zooming in on them as they descended the steps of the Met. Madison couldn't begin to understand how it had all happened, how a perfectly lovely evening had gone from magic to murder in the blink of an eye. And she certainly couldn't bring herself to imagine the wall of scandal tilting in their direction.

  A spasm hit her stomach. Unable to control herself, she refilled the glass, pouring in the champagne and milk and chocolate syrup in one messy swoop. Then she brought it to her lips and chugged.

  “Madison!”

  She started as a voice sliced through the blessed silence of the kitchen. Turning around, she saw Lex standing at the opposite end of the long counter, her jaw wide open.

  “Look at you!” Lex shouted. “Making a pig of yourself with that disgusting drink. And you didn't even have the decency to change out of your gown!”

  For the first time since they had arrived home, Madison glanced down at herself. She was still clothed in the black Chanel, and now it was stained with tiny white dots from the champagne's bubbly spray and the drops of milk that had dribbled down from her chin. Slowly, she placed the glass on the counter. She brought a hand to her mouth, where a thick brown mustache glowed just beneath her nose. Shame washed over her in waves.

  “What is wrong with you?” Lex snapped, stomping toward her. “You know exactly what happens when you guzzle too much champagne.”

  “I can't help it. I'm too nervous,” Madison told her. “I held on to my cool for as long as I could … but once we got home …I…I…” Her voice died down, and she felt a rumble in her stomach. She hunched over slightly. She grabbed the edges of the counter for support. And then it happened—what always happened when she drank too much champagne: she burped like a runaway freight train. The sound boomed all the way into the living room.

  A moment later, Lupe came into the kitchen. “Dios mío,” she whispered. She crossed herself, then went to Madison's side and rested a hand on her back.

  “Ugh.” Lex shook her head. “It serves you right!”

  Madison looked down, embarrassed. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Lex stormed to the other side of the counter and grabbed the glass, which was still half full.

  “No!” Madison screamed. “Leave it! I'm not finished drinking!”

  “Not finished?” Lex's eyes nearly popped from her head. “One more burp and you're gonna blow us out of here!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Stop it, Lex. Let her drink what she wants to drink.” Park's even voice cut through the bickering. She had just walked into the kitchen.

  With a nod, Madison slowly reached out her right hand and wrenched the glass from Lex's fingers. She downed another gulp, then stared at Park, who was holding a snifter in one hand and two cigars in the other.

  “There's no time for arguing,” Park told them. “We have a lot of work to do, so let's get started.”

  The very thought of discussing Zahara Bell's murder made Madison's anxiety spike a notch. She drained what was left in the glass and slowly refilled it.

  “That's your last one, Madison. I mean it.” With that, Park set her snifter down on the countertop, giving it a little swirl as she did so; it was filled halfway with cognac. She dipped the back ends of the cigars into the smooth brown liquor and held them under for exactly eight seconds. Then she handed one to Lex and they both lit up.

  Lupe waved her hands at the stream of smoke.

  She hurried out of the kitchen, giving Park one of those if-your-father-only-knew stares.

  “Come on,” Madison said quietly, finally relenting. “Let's head into the library.”

  It was the room of the penthouse reserved for family meetings. The oak-paneled walls, rich red carpeting, and plush leather couches created a warm atmosphere. But the air was charged tonight, the tension palpable. Madison began pacing the floor almost immediately. Park and Lex took their seats beneath the ornately framed Picasso sketches that were only a small part of Trevor Hamilton's extensive art collection. They puffed slowly on their cigars, exhaling thin swirls of smoke and sharing sips of the cognac.

  “So what do we have here?” Park spoke up first. “Zahara Bell is found murdered in one of Lex's Triple Threat sample designs, and the Avenue diamond is missing. Either way you look at it, the whole damn mess revolves around us.”

  “Totally,” Lex said. “How much more obvious can it be? First the diamond, and then my dress. And don't forget: I created the Triple Threat line with all three of us in mind, and people know that. My designs reflect our unique and different personalities.” She tossed her head back dramatically, but the expression on her face remained serious, as if she were sitting across from a journalist, being interviewed for a cover story in Vogue. “Only the best designers can accomplish something like that, you know. It's such a trying job. But my inspiration comes from the fashion greats: Galliano, Armani, Westwood—”

  “Please!” Madison cut in sharply. “Can you keep your mind focused for just a few minutes? We have to figure out who stole the dress from your closet, and how he got in here. As it stands, we've been totally set up.” She paused and chugged another mouthful of her drink. This time, when she burped—like the flat crack of a gunshot—she wasn't embarrassed.

  Park and Lex didn't flinch; they had obviously been expecting it.

  “Lex,” Madison went on, “who could have stolen that dress? Are you even sure it was in your closet? Did you maybe leave it somewhere? Think.”

  Lex shook her head vigorously. “That dress was in my closet. I know it was. I didn't leave it anywhere.”

  “So then we had an intruder and didn't even know it,” Madison whispered. “And he came specifically for that dress, because nothing is missing from my closet.”

  “Or mine,” Park said. “Which means that this little plan was put together a long time ago. The killer stole the dress knowing that he would kill Zahara Bell and shove her body into it.” She puffed hard on the cigar. “We have to solve this crime before the scandal gets huge—and before we're hauled in as suspects.”

  “We're already suspects,” Madison said. “You heard the way that detective spoke to us.”

  Park sighed. “I know, but I don't think he really believes we killed Zahara Bell. I mean, that whole theory doesn't make sense. What motive would we have?”

  “And how would we even have the time?” Lex added. “With our schedules? With our lives as busy as they are? Puh-lease.”

  “So who did have a motive to kill Zahara?” Madison set her drink down on the mahogany coffee table and clenched her hands together. “She was a revered woman, but also hated. Anyone at the gala could have wanted her dead. The list is endless.”

  “No, it isn't. The list is actually very short.” Park stood up. She walked across the room to one of the perfectly lined bookshelves. Scanning it quickly, she spotted a hardcover copy of Rebecca and pulled it back; behind it was the small ashtray she and Lex used when they smoked their father's cigars. Trevor Hamilton didn't know about this particular hiding place, and he wasn't likely to find out. Park grabbed the ashtray and flicked her ashes into the tarred bottom, then brought it over to Lex.

  “Could you explain your theory, please?” Madison snapped. “Every minute counts here.”

  Park took a long, slow puff on the cigar. “The two biggest items in this case—Lex's dress and the Avenue diamond—are both connected to us,” she began. “Whoever killed Zahara Bell planned this so that all the fingers would point to us. Or so that the scandal will be mostly about us. The killer could have chosen any young, beautiful celebutantes in this city to pin it to, but he chose us. That doesn't leave a very big list.”

  Lex cleared her throat, rolling the cigar in her fingers. “You think the killer
is someone we know?”

  “Maybe,” Park answered. “But not necessarily.”

  “So then, who are the suspects?” Madison asked, her voice rising. “You're not adding anything new here.”

  “I said the list was short,” Park answered. “I didn't say I knew who was on the list.”

  “Brilliant. Just brilliant.” Madison clenched her hands into fists and started pacing the floor again. “Your theory doesn't solve anything. Right now, the only real suspect is Jeremy Bleu. Did you even think of that? How much more obvious does it need to be?”

  Park frowned. “Of course I've thought about it. But does he really make sense as a suspect? He's a movie star, he has plenty of money—”

  “And he fled the crime scene!” Madison screeched. “How do we know that he didn't have a motive for killing Zahara Bell? You've known him for a total of twenty minutes, Park. He could be a total serial killer in the making.”

  “Serial killers usually are very intelligent and charming,” Lex chimed in. “That's why it takes years and years for them to get caught.” She popped the cigar back between her lips.

  “Who's to say he didn't have this whole thing all detailed and tagged?” Madison went on. “And that you weren't just another part of his master plan?”

  “You both sound ridiculous,” Park told them coldly. “I know Jeremy's innocent, and I know I wasn't only a quickie plaything for him. We have a connection. I felt it the second we set eyes on each other, and so did he. I'm not his little pawn. I'm smart enough to see through that kind of bullshit. And besides”—she lowered herself into one of the plush chairs—“how on earth would Jeremy Bleu have gotten ahold of one of Lex's dresses? We've never met him before tonight, remember?”

  “That's why it's a mystery!” Madison exclaimed. “Because we don't know. He could very easily have had a motive to kill Zahara Bell, and the Avenue diamond is worth a pretty penny. Maybe he's one of those people who believes the diamond has some sort of mystical power. Maybe he's not as wealthy as we think. Maybe he made bad investments, blew it all. Maybe he's sitting in his hotel room right now staring at it.”

  “While we're here preparing to walk through a major scandal,” Lex added. “I checked the news when we got home. We're all over the channels.”

  “I'm telling you,” Park said calmly. “You've both got it wrong. Jeremy Bleu is not a killer. He has a killer body and a killer smile, but he's not actually a killer.”

  Madison felt a wave of angry heat flush her face. She looked at Park. She looked at Lex. She looked around the room and then back at Park again. “I won't stand for it!” she shouted. “I won't wait around here and let this horrible scandal take root. Jeremy Bleu owes you—us—an explanation. And he's going to give it to us before midnight! Do you hear me? Do you?”

  “The streets of SoHo can hear you,” Park said quietly. “Just calm down.”

  “Don't tell me to calm down!” Madison whirled around and stomped out of the library. She flew down the hall and into her bedroom, pulling the Chanel gown over her shoulders and tossing it onto her bed. Without giving it much thought, she started ruffling through her closet for something else to wear.

  Park and Lex appeared on the threshold. “What are you doing?” Lex asked her worriedly. “You look like you're gonna explode.”

  “I'll tell you what I'm doing,” Madison replied sharply, disappearing into her closet. “I'm going right over to the Pierre, and I'm going to drag Jeremy Bleu kicking and screaming onto Fifth Avenue.”

  Park sighed again. “Madison, I won't let you go out there. Not with all those reporters on the prowl.

  Not with a killer on the loose. And not after that text message.”

  “Well, I won't let you ruin our name and our reputations just because you're under the spell of Jeremy Bleu's banana,” Madison snapped. She pulled two pairs of jeans off their hangers and, deeming them inappropriate for what she was about to do, hurled them across the room.

  “Wait a minute, Madison.” Lex walked into the room and held her hands up in protest. “How the hell are you gonna go outside without causing a stir? Reporters will follow you, and they'll have a field day with it. What if you can't get to Jeremy? How bad will that look for us?”

  “Not as bad as the newspapers, and definitely not as bad as pictures of us being hauled in for questioning in a murder we didn't commit.” Madison came out of the closet holding a tattered pair of black jeans and a bulky sweater she'd purchased in Aspen the year before.

  “What are you gonna do with that horrendous outfit?” Lex's hands flew to her throat in fear and shock.

  But Madison didn't answer. Quickly, almost effortlessly, she slid into the jeans and pulled the sweater over her head. Then she went to the bureau in the far corner of her room and opened the bottom drawer; from it she grabbed a Yankees baseball cap. She flipped her long hair up and yanked the cap down over her head. Running back into the closet, she dug out a pair of brown Timberlands and jumped into them. In under a minute, she had transformed herself into a hapless-looking, boyish figure. The jeans were baggy and loose, and the sweater was bulky and completely missed the outline of her bust.

  “Utterly tasteless, and just a little crude,” Park observed. “I don't even want to know what you're planning to do.”

  “I'm planning to solve a murder before it nails us,” Madison said. “If I disguise myself enough, maybe I can sneak out of here and slip into the Pierre unnoticed.”

  Lex's jaw dropped. “And then what? Jeremy Bleu will never agree to see you, and you won't get past security.”

  “Look,” Madison said, whirling around to face her sisters. “We have to figure out what's going on here, and that means we have to work together to solve this crime. No one's going to do it for us. And we have to do it fast—before Dad gets wind of it, and before Mom hops on the next plane to New York.”

  Park crossed her arms over her chest. A smug expression played on her face. “Even if Jeremy is guilty, you honestly think he's going to admit that he committed the crime? I mean, I totally agree with you that we should all be suspicious of his behavior tonight, but you're acting on impulse. And, most important of all, you're not thinking the way a good detective would.”

  Madison tensed. She had caught the unmistakable edge—the certainty—in Park's voice. That meant it was time to shut up and listen. Along with the ability to remain calm in the most trying of circumstances, Park had been blessed with the gift of insight: she could dissect a situation, turn the broken pieces around in her mind, and then link them back together again easily. Madison hated yielding to her younger sister, but given the confusion of the moment, she did just that.

  Park was visibly pleased. She began pacing the floor, her strides fluid and assured. “Now,” she began, “detectives usually operate by the forty-eight-hour rule. They try to solve homicides in two days, because the trail goes cold after that. The most important person in an investigation isn't the killer— it's the victim. Most people are killed by people they totally know, so if you find out enough info about the victim, you're more than likely to find your way to the killer.” She stared at Lex, then Madison. “Get it?”

  “But everybody knows the details of Zahara Bell's life,” Lex said. “She was a public figure.”

  Park shook her head. “That doesn't matter. There are always skeletons in the closet, secrets that aren't meant to go public.”

  “Or secrets that someone might kill for,” Madison chimed in. “Right?”

  “Exactly.” Park smiled. “When you think about it, how much do we really know about Zahara Bell? Someone hated her enough to kill her, and that someone is using us like Wal-Mart dish towels to clean up the mess. Maybe Jeremy Bleu did kill her, but how would we ever prove it without evidence? What if we uncover info that leads us to someone else? If we're leaving here, we're going to Zahara Bell's apartment, not the Pierre.”

  “She lived on West Fifty-sixth Street,” Madison said quietly. “Forty-one West Fifty-sixth Street.”<
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  “Yeah, and the building is probably already crawling with cops!” Lex shrieked. “Are you two crazy? That's the apartment Zahara Bell spent most of her time in, and everybody knows that.”

  “What do you mean?” Park asked, confused. “How many apartments did Zahara Bell have?”

  “She moved to the one on Fifty-sixth Street three years ago,” Lex said. “Right after her divorce. When she was married, she lived with her husband in a town house off Washington Square, on Waverly. She kept the town house as part of the divorce settlement, and that's where she held all her parties during Fashion Week. I mean, like, majorly exclusive parties. We weren't even invited.”

  “That's interesting,” Park said. “The apartment on Fifty-sixth was her main residence, probably because it's pretty close to the executive offices of Catwalk magazine. She lived there most of the time because it was convenient, but I'll bet she kept her personal life—the things that mattered most to her— in the town house.”

  “And if that's the case,” Madison said, “the apartment on Fifty-sixth is where the police will go first, because it's where she spent most of her time.”

  Lex blanched. “Are you two saying that we're gonna go and break into Zahara Bell's town house?”

  “Why not?” Park shrugged. “Someone broke into our house and stole a dress from your closet! This is no time to play fair. We have to at least try.”