Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  “Hell, Deirdre, for dinner at The Imperial I’d go out with Jack the Ripper.”

  “That is not very funny, Mitch. If you don’t want to go just say so.”

  He gave a small chuckle. “My, aren’t we touchy today? Of course, I’ll be there. Should I rent another tux?”

  “That’s up to you. And thank you.”

  “No, thank you. How could I turn down an offer like this?”

  “No, you know what I mean. You’ve taken everything well.”

  His voice changed, soured slightly. “What choice do I have? And when do you want me to pick you up?”

  “Why don’t you just meet me there? I’ll take a cab.”

  “Fine, see you at nine.”

  After a leisurely shower, I stood in front of my closet and tried to decide what to wear. Had my choices been limited, the choosing would have been easier. As it was, the rod was crowded with clothes for all occasions. Some were dismissed as too casual, others were too formal, or had been worn before at some other fashion industry function. Finally, I was down to ten dresses that would be appropriate. Of these, eight were black. “Deirdre,” I said to myself, “you have allowed yourself to get into a rut,” and eliminated all but the remaining two. One was red; too blatant, I decided. But I hesitated over the last one. It was velvet in the same deep forest green color I had chosen to wear for Mitch the night he had shown up three hours too late. Maybe it was a bad omen. Then again, it was a color I had always loved—it had been the color that my husband had always wanted me to wear.

  I pulled it from the closet, removing its protective bag and laying it on the bed. It had been packed away with a sachet and the scent had remained fresh. Holding the fabric to my face, I sniffed deeply.

  Lily of the valley—it had been my mother’s favorite flower. And although she had died while I was very young, I still associated it with her. My father had tended her garden beds religiously until the day he died, keeping the roses, azaleas and lilac bushes pruned and proper, but this flower he allowed a free growth and it flourished. On a warm day in May its odor would permeate the yard and the house. Somehow it seemed appropriate to meet Mitch this evening wrapped in the fragrance that was, to me, the scent of love and a symbol of loyalty and faithfulness.

  When my makeup and hair were complete, I slipped the dress over my head and struggled with the zipper. Then I smoothed the skirt over my legs and stood in front of the mirror. With a shock, I realized that this dress was similar to the one I had designed for Gwen’s wedding—it fell off the shoulders, had a rounded bodice and pulled to the back in a small bustle. But unlike Gwen’s, this dress was unadorned, with no pearls or lace, allowing the elegance of the fabric to speak for itself. I wore no jewelry, except for a small pair of emerald stud earrings and had inserted the contact lenses that matched the color of the dress.

  After one final check on my appearance, I worried for a second about the ironies of fate that had caused me to clothe myself in remembered deaths, but shrugged it off and collected my cloak.

  I was early in arriving at the restaurant, two hours early the maitre’d informed me with an apologetic smile.

  “I am very sorry, Miss Griffin, but Mr. Carlson made the reservation for ten. I hope you will not be too inconvenienced.”

  “Not at all. May I wait in the bar?”

  “Certainly.”

  I removed my cloak and gloves; he took them from me.

  “I will check these for you if I may.”

  “Thank you.” I reached in my purse and gave him a tip. “I’m expecting a Mr. Greer around nine; please see that he finds his way to me.”

  He nodded and I crossed the hall and entered the bar. It was brightly lit and elegantly decorated as one would expect from a restaurant of its class. But for all of that, I felt out of place and disoriented. I had spent too many nights at the Ballroom, in its comfortable darkness and ambience, to view this place as anything more than an overpriced waiting room. Still, I thought to myself with a smile, as I claimed a table from a couple leaving for their dinner, at least here I did not have to contend with sneering bartenders and overbearing owners.

  The service was good, the wine list better, and soon I was securely ensconced with a bottle of burgundy of excellent vintage. After admiring the color and taking my first sip, I began to reevaluate my opinion of The Imperial. Perhaps I should begin to branch out and bring some of my business here. Of course, I wouldn’t receive quite the same personal service that the Ballroom offered and would have to make contact with victims on my own. That would not be a bad thing, I thought, looking around curiously at some of the men lounging at the tables and bar. They were young and healthy and could provide amply for my needs. As I continued to glance at the prospects for future reference, I felt my mouth curve in what must have seemed a devilish smile.

  Quite accidentally, my eyes made contact with an older-seeming man standing at the edge of the bar. He intercepted my smile with one of his own, and I looked down at my wine in embarrassment. You’ll have to be more subtle than that, I chided myself, if you want to succeed at this game. I was severely out of practice. To further my disadvantaged feeling, when I looked back up again, he was standing at my table, smiling down at me.

  “Excuse me,” he said, his voice betraying a slight Germanic accent, “you are Deirdre Griffin, are you not?”

  “Yes.” I did not return his smile, but gave him an assessing stare. I couldn’t remember ever having met him before, although it was possible that he was a former victim. I’d had many. That thought was distressing; if I had fed off this man and could not recognize him now, I had stayed in this city too long. “Do I know you?”

  “No, may I join you?” Despite the coldness of my greeting, his smile did not subside.

  “Actually, someone is meeting me.”

  “But in the meantime, a lovely lady like you should not be drinking alone.” He reached over and lifted the bottle of wine, reading the label. “An excellent choice, and one of my favorites. Perhaps I should have the waiter bring another glass.”

  I gave him my sternest look. “Look, I hate to be rude, but I don’t know you. And I am not generally in the habit of . . .”

  “But of course you are not,” he smoothly interrupted me. “And I am afraid that I have been having a little joke on you. You see, we have a mutual friend. He has had the bad manners of never introducing us, so I thought that I might rectify his mistake. I am Victor Lange.”

  “And our mutual friend?”

  “Max Hunter.”

  At the mention of the name, I relaxed but smiled in resignation. And I thought I would be avoiding his manipulation tonight. I gestured to the chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Lange.”

  “Victor, please.”

  As he sat the waiter came over with an empty wine glass. I was surprised at the fast service and said so.

  “You must come here often. I think that waiter just read your mind.”

  Victor threw his head back and laughed. “Miss Griffin, you really should step out of that dive that Max runs and take in the rest of the world. Yes, I do come here often, as you say. I own the place.”

  “Oh.” I took a drink of wine to cover my chagrin.

  “But you mustn’t be embarrassed. I am afraid that I did rather mislead you. Did you think I was trying to pick you up?”

  “No.” I looked at him again and smiled. “Well, yes, I did. I am sorry to have misunderstood.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “It is quite understandable. It must happen to you often.”

  I shrugged and finished my wine. He filled the glass for me, drained his and then stood up abruptly. “I believe this must be the gentleman you are waiting for. What will he want to drink?”

  I looked up and saw the scowl on Mitch’s face as he came toward us. “Scotch, on the rocks, I’m afraid.”

  Victor said a polite good evening to me, nodded to Mitch as he arrived at the table and left. I stood up and gave Mitch a small kiss on the cheek.


  We both sat down again, and the waiter brought the scotch. “How did you know I would want this?” he asked, taking a sip.

  “From the look on your face, my love.” I reached over and stroked his cheek. “Bad day?”

  “No, not too bad.” He hesitated and frowned and I waited for the inevitable question; it was not long in coming. “Who was that?”

  I laughed. “Mitch, I really hate to say it, but you are so predictable. That was Victor Lange, he owns The Imperial.”

  “Do you know all the restaurant owners in town? Or does it just seem that way?”

  “No, I only met him this evening. He’s a friend of Max’s.”

  “Oh, Max.” Instead of his usual disgruntled expression at the mention of the name, Mitch smiled. It was not entirely a pleasant smile, but it was a good sign.

  “What is so funny?”

  “You may not find it funny, but I got a kick out of it. Before I came here tonight, I stopped over at the Ballroom and slapped a citation and a pretty heavy fine on Hunter for setting off a false fire alarm.”

  “Mitch, you didn’t, did you?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  Our eyes met and we both began to laugh simultaneously. “I’ll be willing to bet the price of tonight’s dinner, that he wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Deirdre, that’s got to be the biggest understatement you ever made in your life. He was livid. I wish you could’ve seen his face.” He laughed again thinking about it. “I’m afraid it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  “Too bad, you two were just starting to get along.”

  “Yeah, well, he canceled that out by letting you go down to his cellar alone. He’s a smart son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. He almost talked me out of the citation. I think he knew that it was more a personal matter than anything else.”

  “He’ll sue you for police harassment.”

  “I doubt it.” Mitch looked over at me and smiled. “But even if he does, it’ll be worth every penny. So, who are we having dinner with tonight?”

  “You mean besides Jack the Ripper?” I gave him a stern glance, but his eyes danced. He was enjoying that little insult, so I let it go, relaxed and answered his question. “My attorney and the people purchasing Griffin Designs.”

  “You’re selling the company? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  I could not tell him the entire truth; the fact that I wanted to be unencumbered and with cash available should I decide to move on soon, I kept to myself. “Mostly it’s because of Gwen. Yesterday I found that I could hardly tolerate the place. It made my skin crawl. I keep seeing her, dead and bloody, in that loft. I don’t think the image will ever fade.”

  “But you could just move into a different building.”

  “Yes, I could do that. But truthfully, it is time to get out. I have been in business for ten years now—in that time most people begin to age. I have not. Fashion is a high profile industry and although I have managed to avoid publicity more than some designers, I could not continue for too much longer without it being extremely noticeable. I just can’t take many more chances than I already have.”

  He took a long drink of his scotch, his mouth twisted into a frown. “Then you’ll be leaving town?”

  “Not necessarily. If I don’t have to run Griffin Designs, I can fade into anonymity again, staying another five or ten years if I wish.”

  “And do you want to?”

  I took a deep breath and reached over to touch his hand. “That all depends on you, Mitch.”

  “On me?” He looked surprised and I laughed at him.

  “Yes, on you.” I began to say more when the waiter came to the table. “Miss Griffin, Mr. Greer, the rest of your party is here. Shall I seat you?”

  Mitch stood up and moved my chair back. “Well,” he said in a thoughtful manner, extending his arm to me, “I guess we can talk about that later.”

  Introductions were made at the table; I had never met the woman who was purchasing the company, although I had heard of her. Betsy McCain was what I considered the epitome of the modern business woman, intelligent, brassy and high-pressure. I disliked her at first sight. Conversation with her merely reinforced my initial impression.

  She was accompanied by two attorneys and two assistants. With the exception of the lawyer seated to her right, they had little to add to the discussions. I felt that she had merely brought them along for a free meal. But after I realized that the purchasing price was twice what I had asked Fred to get for me, I thought she was entitled, even when all five of them ordered the most expensive items from the menu.

  She, at least, made no pretense about how she planned to run Griffin Designs. “We will modernize the entire place, of course,” her eyes reflected the glitter of the candles, “and any of the employees who cannot adapt to the situation will be welcome to leave after their two months are up.” I knew then that she meant to replace them all. “And the clothes themselves will have to be updated.” She reached over and laid her hand on my arm. “Not that what you have on isn’t a lovely dress, Deirdre,” she was practically purring at this point and I could smell the champagne heavy on her breath, “but today’s woman needs clothes that represent her place in today’s world.”

  I looked over at her. She wore a navy blue tailored suit, probably the same one she had worn to her office today. With the exception of her skirt, it was identical to the ones’ worn by her attorneys. She had at least made an attempt to dress it up for this evening with jewelry, gold necklaces and bracelets that clinked together harshly with every gesture she made. I smiled at her sweetly. “No, there isn’t much room for romance in today’s world, is there, Betsy?”

  “Romance?” she snorted disdainfully. “It’s a rough world out there. We need to dress like we mean business, all the time. Any woman in the marketplace should know how to go for the throat when necessary.”

  Mitch was in the middle of a drink of champagne and he made a small choking sound. I glanced over at him and winked, then turned back to her. “I do know what you mean, but I’m afraid I never developed much of a killer instinct over the years. Perhaps you could give me lessons sometime?”

  Mitch choked again, turned it into a cough and excused himself from the table. She, of course, was oblivious to the irony of the situation.

  “That would be a real pleasure, I’m sure. I could never figure how someone as young and inexperienced as you could make a profit anyway.” I was glad Mitch left before this last comment; he would probably be under the table in hysterics by now. Fred caught my eye warningly—he knew me well enough to sense my dislike and was probably worried that I might call off the deal.

  “Even so,” I said noncommittally, and signaled for the waiter. “More champagne, please. Now, shall we sign?”

  Mitch returned after we had completed the deal. He seemed to have regained his composure, but his eyes were still laughing. I took his hand and held it for a minute, the new owner of Griffin Designs caught the gesture and leaned forward over the table with an eager smile. “So, Mr. Greer, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Oh, how fascinating. Just like Mike Hammer, it must be exciting.”

  “Actually, I’m with the police department.”

  “I see,” she said with a bit of a sneer in her voice. “And how on earth did you two meet?”

  “Murder investigation.” Everyone at the table grew silent and stared at Mitch. The waiter brought our meals; after we were all served, he spoke again. I could hear the repressed laughter in his voice. “Deirdre was my main suspect.” Unconcerned he took a bite of food and a drink of champagne. “Still is, as a matter of fact. I go with her everywhere, so that when she slips up, I can get her.”

  I smiled sweetly on my dinner partner again. “So, you see, Betsy, I probably don’t need those lessons after all.”

  Fred started the laughter, and the others joined in, nervously at first then wholeheartedly. The tension dissolved and eventually even
Betsy participated.

  “Bravo, Deirdre. Maybe we’re not as different as I thought.”

  Chapter 21

  The new owner and her entourage left shortly after I paid the bill. We had reached an uneasy truce based on a grudging respect due to our verbal sparring. We made plans to meet the next week to tour the facility and take an inventory. She would not actually take control of Griffin Designs until the first of the year. That gave me time to start on the orders from the show, get everyone into the routine and then bow out gracefully.

  Fred, his wife, Mitch and I lingered at the table with after-dinner drinks and coffee. Betsy McCain had not been out of the restaurant for more than a minute before we all began to laugh.

  “Good God, Fred, where did you dig up that ghoul?” I wiped tears of amusement from my eyes.

  He shrugged. “You never specified we had to sell to someone you liked. She was interested enough to double the price; I figured that was a good deal.”

  “And it was, of course. Sally,” I nodded toward his wife, “would you like some more coffee?”

  “No,” she said with a shy smile, checking her watch. “Everything was wonderful, though. Thank you so much for inviting me. But I think we’d better get going, don’t you, honey?”

  Fred stood up and agreed. “We promised the sitter we’d have her home by one–thirty or two at the latest. It was interesting, Deirdre.” He shook hands with me and then turned to Mitch. “Nice meeting you, Greer. Maybe we should all get together some time, without the sharks.”

  “You could come over for dinner some night,” Sally urged. “You haven’t even seen the baby.”

  “I would like that,” I said, giving her a small hug. She smiled and they left.