“He was never on mine,” Werner said.
Nick shrugged. “Mine, either.”
“So glad you two agree on something. But it seems to me that if a cook wanted to kill someone, he wouldn’t do it with food he cooked himself. He could have killed her some other way.”
Nick raised his bottle of beer. “Mad one, Nick and Werner zero!”
Werner tapped Nick’s bottle with his and they both drank to me.
“Are you mocking me?” I asked.
“Great beer,” Nick said.
Okay, so they agreed on two things. But were they ganging up on me and when had I gone paranoid? When I kissed one and was procrastinating about telling the other?
I shook away the ridiculous thought. “Nick, since the medical report has come in, what did you find out when you called the police and FBI this afternoon?”
Did Nick cringe? “They’re doing a sound analysis on your threatening phone call. I hope you got another phone.”
“I’ve got Dad’s for now, thanks. Anything else? Any new suspects?”
“Our suspects pretty much clammed up on the phone,” Nick said. “I’m more charming in person.”
Werner’s bottle hit the table. “Not always.”
“Stop it,” I said, cutting them off at the pass. “Did either of you notice Ian DeLong’s crooked baby finger?”
Werner chuckled and Nick shook his head.
“Okay. I get it. You don’t look at other men. Well, I do, and here’s the scoop. Ursula Uxbridge has the same crooked baby finger, same hand, same shape as Ian DeLong. Galina Lockhart is her mother. My guess is that Ian cheated on Dominique with Galina and that Ursula Uxbridge, Dom’s understudy, is their love child.”
“Your point?” Nick asked. “This isn’t a soap opera.”
“Her point,” Werner said, “is motive. Galina’s motive would be jealousy. She’s known for despising Dominique. Getting Dom out of the way would be a powerful motive for her own acting career, not to mention getting her daughter the starring role in Diamond Sands as an added bonus.”
I nodded. “Right in one, Detective.”
Nick crossed his arms, and the look he gave me shivered me to my toes, warm bedroom eyes full of promise. “Jealousy is powerful,” he said. “Makes people do stupid things.”
“Apology accepted.” I nodded and flipped the page on my notebook. “What about Gregor? Was he working on his own do you think? Or was he getting what he thought were the diamonds out of the country for himself and a few partners?”
Werner ruminated on that.
Nick sat across from me. “We gave Zukovski a chance to give us his partners’ names for a “get out of jail free” card, and he didn’t take it. I think he was working alone. He saw his chance when Dominique collapsed and grabbed the diamonds, which she always wore glued to her face like a mask in the last act, before the ambulance left the theater.
“The real killers, I suspect, pulled over on their way to the hospital planning to take the diamonds from her in the stolen ambulance only to find that the diamonds were already gone.”
“Who called nine-one-one?” I asked.
Nick shrugged. “Nobody seems to know.”
“Or they’re not talking. Can you run voice recognition software on that call?”
“Done. Same setup as your call.”
Nick opened another beer. “Zukovski’s plan sucked. That’s why I caught him so fast. The real killers were more thorough in their planning—not counting Zukovski’s last-minute theft—which is why we haven’t nailed them yet.”
“You caught Zukovski because he’s dumb?” Werner said. “Doesn’t say much for your skills.”
I was afraid they were going to get into it again. “What about Ursula Uxbridge, herself?” Nick asked, ignoring Werner’s taunt. “Same motive: the lead role in an off Broadway production?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think she can spell motive, much less plan a murder. However cozy she looked on Pierce Pierpont’s arm, that was an act. Pierce was using Ursula to tick off Ian—her father—and Ursula lapped up the diamond magnate’s attention. She’s a bit of a pin tuck. No substance and more than a few stitches short of a seam. Murder seems too complicated for her, career or not.”
“Madeira Cutler,” Werner said, shaking his head. “I do believe that you’re a natural-born sleuth, whether I think you should be or not.”
Forty
Whether it’s the past or the present, all my ideas come from what’s going on around me . . .
—ANNA SUI
“Thank you, Werner. I’ll take that as a compliment. A natural-born sleuth, hey? Hear that, Jaconetti?”
“I do, and I’d like to throw natural-born vixen into the pot. You’re enjoying us butting heads over you, aren’t you?”
What girl wouldn’t? “Are you butting heads over me? I hadn’t noticed.”
Both men cracked a smile.
“I mean, why would you?” she asked on second thought. “It’s friendly head butting, isn’t it? Which is definitely better than the other kind.”
“If you’re fishing for compliments,” Nick said, “you won’t get them here. You’re one scary sleuth.”
I raised my chin. “A sleuth should scare the perps.”
Werner chuckled. “But should she scare the police and the FBI?”
Nick gave Werner a nod. “Good point. She’s pretty much a loose cannon when it comes to sleuthing, don’t you think?”
“Hey, are you calling me a flake behind my back, right in front of me?”
Nick tried to look innocent. “Only on some points.”
“But you’re smart and amusing, too,” Werner said.
“And we both want what’s best for you, ladybug, so think of us as covering your back.”
“Damned straight,” Werner added. “And the head butting, that’s us jostling for position back there.”
I stood to look down at them, my hands on my waist. “Damned if your abuse didn’t end up sounding like a compliment. Anyway, murder case, remember? Try this clue on for size. I think Gregor Zukovski was a decoy.”
Werner stood and stretched his legs. “A decoy. Good point. He could have taken those diamonds where?”
“Plaidivostock,” I said.
Nick growled. “Slovenia!”
“Okay, don’t get your boxers in a bunch.”
Werner coughed. “He could have taken the fake diamonds to Slovenia to throw the police off the trail while the real diamonds were being stashed somewhere else.”
“Lytton, you’re good. I never thought of that.”
Werner looked surprised. “Isn’t that what you meant by decoy?”
“No, I meant that Gregor was a decoy boy toy. Dominique didn’t love him. She was in love with Victor Pierpont.”
“Ah,” Werner said. “The old double-decoy routine.”
Nick gave Werner the old double take. “Victor Pierpont? Do you mean Pierce Pierpont?”
“No, Pierce is Victor’s son. Dom loved Pierce’s father, Victor, who died two weeks ago. He lived upstairs at the Pierpont Mansion in a retro seventies apartment.”
“Why didn’t I know about this?” Nick asked.
“Because you went to Plaidivostock and missed the funeral. Pierce told me, personally,” I added, “that his father died of cancer, but that was a bald- faced lie. Dom told me that Victor was cancer free after his treatment. Nick, can you have the FBI take a look-see into Victor’s death?”
Nick sat straighter. “On what evidence or at least on what veneer of pretense? They need a reason to investigate. Tax dollars and all that.”
“What, the death of a millionaire diamond mine owner who supposedly died of cancer when he was cancer free isn’t enough? You’ve got motive: His son lied about what killed him. So they match his medical records to cause of death. Can’t cost the taxpayers that much.”
Nick flipped open his cell and made a few calls. “What else do you have?” he said when he was done, looking from me to
Werner.
“Don’t look at me for answers,” Werner said. “I was only there to keep Mad out of trouble.”
“Fat lot of good you did,” Nick mumbled. “You got her into trouble.”
“Hell-lo. I’m in the room. And that’s another bone I have to pick with you, Jaconetti. What’s with sending a babysitter to look after me? Whatever happened between me and Werner is your own fault, you know.”
“Excuse me,” Nick said. “Did you say: whatever? Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know? Either of you?”
Werner and I exchanged glances. We knew what we knew, and I needed to fess up about that kiss.
“I didn’t mean to tell you anything,” I snapped. “Now stop trying to change the subject. You didn’t trust me and that could put me off you like . . . for a very long time.”
Or ten minutes if we were alone together.
Forty-one
I liked the whole feeling . . . that everything was about to happen, that there were so many possibilities.
—ANNA SUI
The day for Dominique’s charity vintage fashion show finally arrived with too many suspects and no clear murderer in sight.
Everyone buzzed at the Vancortland House, a Mystic riverfront mansion with a glossy marble façade and Gothic arched windows. How easy was it for me to get the place for the event? Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. My sister’s father-in-law, Justin Vancortland IV, owned it.
Today, its second-level diamond-pane windows winked like conspirators in the winter sun glinting off the water.
At least that was the sight that greeted me after the twenty-four-karat gates opened, parting a central pair of kissing swans and breaking the heart made by their necks.
To give them their due, those swans allowed us into a world that just might be a worthy backdrop to showcase Dominique DeLong’s famous and outstanding designer vintage clothing collection.
Yes, today I was hosting Dom’s posthumous fashion show, highly publicized, of course, and every fashionista in the free world would be crossing the drive beside a snow-dusty garden, spiraled shrubs, sleepy weeping cherry trees, and an angel fountain whose rainbow mist had taken the winter off.
In the grand foyer—remarkable for its French crystal chandelier and its floor worked in a royal- blue-and-gold fleur-de-lis mosaic—I had two hundred matching chairs placed in a three-quarter circle facing an ultrawide curved staircase straight from Gone with the Wind.
Tonight, each model wearing one of Dom’s vintage outfits would descend the stairs and pose for the guests while outside spotlights sent artificial gaiety cascading through the colorful Tiffany glass in the floral-scape windows on the first floor.
Because Dominique planned this to pull money in for her two favorite children’s charities, she had recorded a medley of vocals specifically for the occasion, and the CD would be given to each of the guests before they left.
I read the list of songs on the back of the crystal case: “Monday’s Child,” “Pass It On,” “This World Is What We Make It,” “Mighty Like a Rose,” “Little by Little,” “Children Need a Helping Hand,” and “Carry On.”
Well, I thought, if Dom’s songs don’t wring a few donations out of these wealthy vintage clothing aficionados, nothing will.
At five hundred dollars a ticket, you’d think the pickings would be slim, but fortunately, I rented fifty extra chairs for the overflow. Then we had to bring in chairs from all over the house. “Gee, Cort, I never thought I’d say this, but your foyer is too small.”
My sister Sherry, radiant in her pregnancy, hugged her husband Justin’s arm and laughed. “See, and you always thought it was too big.”
My brother-in-law rolled his eyes.
“Don’t tell your sister Brandy it’s too small,” Cort said. “I promised her she could use the place for a fundraiser when she comes home next month.” He lifted his granddaughter, Vanessa, into his arms because she was asking Sherry to pick her up, and she was just too heavy for that to be safe at this stage of Sherry’s pregnancy.
Cort had also promised me that I could use the place for Sherry’s shower, which is another reason Brandy was coming home next month, but we didn’t want Sherry to know that.
Vanessa, three years old, and excitement personified, was wearing her best red plaid party dress with matching shoes and purse, another impetuous fashionista in the making.
“Well, Brandy can use the ballroom,” I said. “For my part, I chose your spectacular staircase in lieu of a runway.”
“Am I wrong?” Cort asked, “or are there a few big-name celebrities in my house?”
“I’ll say.” Sherry put a hand to her back, which was my brother-in-law Justin’s cue to get her to her seat.
I kissed her cheek before Justin led her away. “You have lots of celebrities in your house, Cort, and here come two more,” I said. “Cort, this is Melody Seabright from The Kitchen Witch show. She’s the founder of the Keep Me Foundation. And this is Kira Fitzgerald Goddard representing St. Anthony’s Home for Boys.”
“It should be for girls, too,” Vanessa said.
“We’re building one for the girls,” Kira said. “The Bessie Pickering Hazard Home for Girls. My husband’s grandmother started the foundation to support St. Anthony’s, so we’re naming our sister school after her.”
Vanessa beamed. “That’s okay then.”
Vancortland, Cort for short, shook their hands. “Welcome to my home. Vanessa, will you show our guests to their seats in the front row?”
Fiona was already upstairs among the models when Eve came in. “You look gorgeous in that feminine steampunk look,” I said. “Seriously. The style is you. I was wrong when I said it wasn’t.”
“If you make me blush, I’ll personally throw you into the Mystic River, and this time, I won’t jump in after you.”
“Right. Sorry. No compliments. Did you remember to bring me a robe for between changes? I’m so mad I forgot mine and so glad that I caught you before you left home to bring one for me.”
“Yep, it’s the black one I bought at your shop the other day while you were bringing Dom’s dress to Nick’s,” Eve said. “Well, I’d better scoot up the elevator to join the other models. I’ll throw the robe over a chair in plain sight.” Eve took the stairs as Werner came our way.
“Is Nick coming?” he asked.
I chuckled. Nick’s exact words when I asked him were: “Not if you Tasered me.”
Werner took my arm and propelled me into the nearest den, looked around, and invaded my personal space.
“Have you told him about the kiss?” His jaw got tense.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, it was only a kiss. A chaste kiss.”
“A kiss, yes. Chaste? Not hardly.”
“So you agree it was nothing more?”
“Just tell me when I can stop worrying Nick’ll take a swing at me.”
“Yesterday. Last week. Next Tuesday. Never. Fagedaboutit!”
Men!
Forty-two
It is all magical. I always look at nature and I think nature has the most beautiful colors. I always like to have colors in my designs, like the flowers and the sea, that make life.
—VIVIENNE TAM
The Parasites had come to the fashion show, I realized as I stood up to begin. Even Chef Zander Pollock came, “for Dominique’s sake,” he said. He had prepared the canapés for before the show and the dessert, to be served afterward.
Once Nick’s background check on Pollock revealed nothing incriminating or suspect, I accepted his offer.
“Before we officially begin the Dominique DeLong Memorial Vintage Fashion Show, I’d like to introduce Melody Seabright, founder of the Keep Me Foundation, which helps young, unwed mothers to keep their babies, and Kira Goddard, a member of the family who founded St. Anthony’s Home for Boys who need parents.”
Vanessa, to the side, put her arm around Cort’s leg and leaned into him. With her mother, Cort’s daughter, being hospitalized indefinitely, Cort had become Vaness
a’s family. I imagine that she felt the sting of being without a mother, more or less.
Cort picked up his little one and cuddled her until her smile grew and her cares vanished.
Melody and Kira took center, er, foyer, and gave the attendees a brief overview of their respective charities, both mentioning how much Dominique had meant to them, and how deeply she would be missed.
They presented a short slide show in which Dominique interacted with the boys at St. Anthony’s and with the Keep Me Foundation’s teen mothers and their new babies.
The soundtrack for the slideshow was a recording of Dominique singing “Children Need a Helping Hand.”
I gotta tell you, seeing my friend loving those kids, hearing her gentle, caring voice sure gave me a lump in my throat.
After the presentation, Dom’s music continued while I gave Kyle a set of index cards. “I numbered them,” I told him, “in case you fumble or drop them.”
“I should be insulted, but I’m that nervous. I’d be less intimidated by a room full of stockholders out for blood, or even an angry board of directors.”
I squeezed his arm. “As each girl comes down the stairs, read the name of the item at the top of the card. They’ll do three poses here in the circle at the base of the stairs. Read the descriptions in order, one description for each pose.”
“Got it,” he said. “And what will you be doing?”
“Coordinating the models as they change their outfits.”
“Can we switch jobs?” he asked as I walked away and grabbed little Vanessa by the hand.
I smiled as the elevator took us upstairs to the chaos I knew was waiting for me.
My models belonged to me and to Dominique: Phoebe Muir, Dom’s girl Friday; Rainbow Joy, her hairdresser/ makeup artist; Galina Lockhart, a rival ingénue and actress, and mother of Dom’s understudy; Ursula, the understudy herself; Quinny Veneble, Dom’s catty best friend, mother of Phoebe; Dolly Sweet, centenarian; Eve, my BFF; Aunt Fiona, my mother’s BFF; oh, and me.
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