~*~
“If wishes were horses...” Later that day, I dropped the police report onto Detective Briggs’ battered metal desk and leaned back into my chair, trying vainly to control my sobs. I buried my tear-drenched face in my hands.
Normalcy wasn’t just around the corner. How had all of this happened? Less than a year ago, life had been perfect. My business was solvent, I had my daughter back, and a modern-day Jack the Ripper hadn’t killed Maggie.
Chapter 19
I collected myself and managed to ask, “Who could have done this?”
“Suicide is a possibility,” Briggs said. His voice held more than a note of doubt—it was more like a full-bodied chorus. “Her wrists were slashed, and there was a note confessing to the fire, the embezzlement, everything. She says also that the vandalism took place to cover up the destruction of financial documents, so all that’s left are the doctored computer records.”
“You did say, Cara, that she was dating a well-known model. If the relationship went sour, maybe that pushed her over the edge,” Fletcher said.
“What’s this man’s name?” Briggs held his pen poised.
“Adam Covarrubia, C-O-V-A-R-R-U-B-I-A. I don’t know his address, but you should be able to contact him through his agent.” I rubbed my cheeks with a damp tissue. “God. Maggie dead. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Briggs said. “That apartment wasn’t a pretty sight. There was blood all over the place.”
Fletcher tapped his teeth with the eraser end of a pencil. “When did this happen?”
“We won’t know until forensics comes back with a report, but we suspect sometime over the weekend. We discovered the body early this morning when we went in to serve a search warrant for her financial records.”
I closed my eyes. My stomach twisted. While we’d eaten a sumptuous dinner or shopped at Bloomingdale’s, Maggie had fought for her life—and lost.
“You suspect homicide?” Fletcher asked.
“I’m afraid so. The note is being analyzed by a psychologist, but our homicide division chief thinks that there are too many defensive wounds on her arms to rule out murder.”
I shuddered, curling up in the hard, plain chair as tightly as I could. Though Fletcher’s hand warmed my nape, I couldn’t stop shaking.
“Detective, I need to get Cara home. This is too much for her. Send me the reports, will you?” He whipped out a business card.
Detective Briggs accompanied us to the door. “Keep safe and alert. Does your building have security?”
“Yes, and we’ve installed a new system at Cara Fletcher Couture. I’ll keep her safe.”
“I believe Cara’s the focus of the attacks.” Briggs lowered his voice, but I could still hear him murmur to Fletch, “There’s no reason for him to stop now.”
~*~
Back in the limo, Fletch asked, “Honey, how are we gonna tell Natalie about Maggie?”
That issue had also been on my mind. “And when. Someone’s sure to mention it at school tomorrow if it hits the news.”
“That’s not too likely. Crime is a fact of life these days. I doubt the kids will talk about it.” He scooted closer to wrap his arm around my shoulders.
“I guess we can take that chance. But we should sure discuss it with her before she sees the evening news.” I again dropped my head into my hands.
“So she’ll go to bed worrying about it? I think we should keep the T.V. off, let her get a good night’s sleep and talk about it with her in the morning.”
“Maybe. We could get her up early to discuss it. Fortunately, Natalie and Maggie weren’t close. She’ll be worried, but not particularly sad.” I squeezed his hand as the limo halted at the atelier, and Nat got in.
As soon as we arrived at the condo, Fletcher helped me hustle Nat through dinner and into bed. The day had been stressful by any standard. Natalie’s first day at school, Mom’s visit, followed by the news of Maggie’s death—I grimaced. How would we tell Natalie about Maggie? I didn’t have a clue, and hoped an answer would come to me magically in a dream.
Fletch slipped into my room at about midnight. I knew because I was lying awake, worrying. He took off his robe and boxers, tossing them at the foot of the bed next to my new chenille robe before he slipped into bed beside me. I turned to him, and he took me in his arms.
Guilt struck. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I murmured. “Nat—”
“She’s asleep. I just checked on her.” He kissed me, and I faintly tasted toothpaste overlaying his natural flavor.
He spooned with me, cuddling one hand around my breast. “Mm-hmm.” I fell deeper into the sensual comfort of having him close to me. He gently slipped into me from behind and made love to me slowly but very thoroughly.
~*~
I awakened to the sound of Natalie shouting. “This is all your fault!”
“What happened to Maggie is not my fault!”
I blinked. Dawn’s thin light was filtering into my room. I listened more closely, and could hear background noise…like a newscast. Damn. Had Natalie heard about Maggie’s death on the morning news? Yikes.
“Everything bad started when you sued Mom!”
“What? They’re completely unrelated! Nat, if you’d sit down and listen—”
Stomping and a slammed door cut off Fletch’s attempt at reasoned discussion.
I hauled my butt out of bed, dragged on a robe, and found him on the sofa with a cup of coffee. The newscaster on C.N.N. droned on about the weather, to my relief. “What happened?” I asked him.
“She saw the newspaper, asked about Maggie and I felt I had to tell her.”
Speechless, I could only glare.
“I couldn’t lie, honey!”
I sighed. “You’re right. She freaked out? I’m surprised. Like I said, they weren’t close.”
“She says Maggie’s death is my fault.”
“I heard. She says everything bad started when we met, umm, when you sued us.”
He slumped into the sofa, looking truly dejected, and I went over to him and patted his knee. “She’s wrong, you know. She’s had a fractured life. She overreacts, or she’s mouthy, or she retreats and doesn’t communicate at all. Don’t worry about this. I’ll talk to her, and we’ll get her to her therapist tomorrow. She’ll be all right.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to have to fix anything.” I’d rarely seen him look so miserable. “What if she, you know, tries again?”
I pressed my lips together. I knew what he meant, and said lightly, “Well, I guess we’d better keep her away from knives, sleeping pills and open windows.”
He shot me a startled glance. I said, “Upsets happen when you’re a parent. Don’t be concerned about it. I’ll talk with her.”
I went to her room, aware that this conversation would tax my newfound parenting abilities.
Her mouth drooped. Her frizzy hair had come loose from its nighttime braid and surrounded her face like a fuzzy, reddish halo.
“Mom, are you m-mad at me?” Her eyes were puffy and bright with tears. “I yelled at Fletcher.”
My heart broke wide open, and I hugged her. “Oh, sweetheart, of course not. And he’s not mad either. He understands, really he does.”
Turning her head into my chest, she began to cry helplessly, great gasping sobs that racked her thin body. I stroked her hair, then eased her back onto her bed to cuddle with her.
“I’m scared,” she choked out.
“Oh, honey, don’t worry. This building’s security is excellent. No one’s going to hurt us here. Plus, Fletch has someone looking out for us all the time, so we’ll be okay. The police are on the lookout for whoever hurt Maggie, and I bet they’ll catch him soon.” I forced hearty assurance into my voice.
Rising, she reached for her uniform shirt with leaden hands.
~*~
After we piled into the limo, we swung by the workshop, where Fletch introduced Natalie to Tony Ramirez. Sam dropped Fletch and me off, the
n left with Nat for her school.
“That was a good idea,” I told Fletch as we mounted the spiral stairs to the loft.
He shifted the bag containing his fresh coffee beans and cream from one arm to the other while he tightened his grip on his briefcase, bulging with Maggie’s financial records. “Yes, she looked relieved. I think that we should get her a pager or a cellphone, just in case.”
“Good idea. Most other kids have them, and—Ella, sweetie!” I hugged my favorite model who, to my surprise, was standing in the loft with none other than Damon Wolf. Today, Ella’s blond, curly hair was teased high in a eighties-style Texas bouffant, and her hourglass body was clad in a gorgeous yellow print Versace.
“Yo, Fletch, Cara.” Damon swung out of the teal leather chair.
“Hey, Big D. What brings you here?” Fletch set down his bag.
“This gal.” Damon jerked his head in Ella’s direction. “Cara, meet your new personal assistant.”
“What?” I went rigid with shock. “Oh, noooo!”
Damon cast me a dagger-sharp glance. “What’s wrong with Ella? She attended a very respectable secretarial school and has a degree in administration.”
“She can’t do both!” This was too much. I just wanted to lay my head down and cry.
“Do both—what?” Damon asked, the dimwit.
“One of the major responsibilities of my assistant is to handle the logistics of the runway shows.” I tried to explain. “She can’t do both, Damon. Ella’s the best plus-sized model in the world. In the world. She’s been in every one of my shows.” Would he understand? I doubted it.
Ella hugged me again. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but it’s time for me to move on,” she said in her distinctive, west Texas twang.
“Oh, please. You’re fabulous. Look at you in that Versace.” I gestured.
“Cara, listen to me. I’m at a crossroads in my life. I can’t display myself any more.” She put one hand on each of my shoulders, forcing me to stare into her eyes. The effect was disconcerting—she’d never done anything like this before. “I didn’t say modeling’s done with me. I’m done with modeling. The contract with my talent agency is at the end of its term, and I didn’t renew.”
I gulped air. “If that’s so, I’m delighted to have you. But you have to decide you want to be here. Did you hear about Maggie?”
She went over to Fletcher’s desk to retrieve a big, square handbag and withdrew a folded newspaper. “Everyone’s heard about Maggie.”
I looked at the banner headline and garish photo, splashed with dull red. “Does your building have security?” I tried, without success, to control my tremors.
“I’ll take care of her.” Damon put his arm around her shoulders.
Interesting, I thought, then collected myself. “Okay, so let’s get to work. Target date is November tenth.”
“Umm, Cara.” Fletch interjected. “You too, Damon. I need a favor.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked, thinking, What now?
“We have our annual stockholders’ meeting coming up in Wilmington on November second. I’d like you to put on the show there as well.”
“Oh, great.” I collapsed into the leather armchair that Damon had vacated. “You want to put the show on twice. That’s not quite double the work and the expense, but it’s still a chunk of time and money. Models are pretty expensive people, huh, Ella?”
“Sure are,” she said. “And Cara’s very selective.”
“We don’t have to show more than a few outfits,” Fletcher said.
“Oh. Okay. That’s no big deal. You probably want to highlight Fletcher’s Gear, right?” My mind worked furiously. “We can bring in ten models or so and show the sportswear and a couple of gowns. That’s reasonable.” I glanced at Ella. “So, Ella, here’s your first assignment. You’re responsible for all the logistics of two runway shows in November.”
Her bluebonnet eyes widened.
“You sure you want this job?” I asked.
Chapter 20
“I can’t believe Ella went for it.” I poked a chopstick at a water chestnut in Fletcher’s serving of sweet-and-sour shrimp. It skidded across the plate.
“Think she’s competent?”
“I don’t see why not. She knows the business and she’s always struck me as a sharp mama.”
“Good. We need sharp.” He added rice from a covered bowl to his lunch. He seemed weirdly concerned about the proportions of food, sauce, and rice.
“Of course, I thought that Maggie was honest and intelligent, too.” I spread plum sauce on a doughy pancake, then topped it with mu shu style tofu.
“Quit beating yourself up over that,” he mumbled around a bite of shrimp. “Mistakes happen in every business. What happened to her isn’t your fault. She was a good risk.”
“Until Adam Covarrubia got his hands on her. Have you heard anything about him?”
“His agent told the police that the Covarrubia twins are working in Paris and Milan for this season.”
I picked up the folded pancake. “Fine. Hope they stay there. I can relax and do my job. Even with Ella on board, there’s a lot to do before November second.”
His cellphone chimed, signaling a text message. After putting his chopsticks on a china holder, he glanced at it while I munched on mu shu. Sauce dripped over my fingers, and I licked them off, conscious of his scrutiny.
He set the phone by his plate. “Damon and Ella are on their way over.”
I rubbed a napkin over my hand. “Okay. Do we need to discuss any other personnel issues before they come?”
“Yes. How much do you want to pay her?” He picked up his chopsticks.
“Ella? Hmm. She knows the business but can’t provide the range of services Maggie did.”
“Good. I don’t expect her to embezzle funds.” He crunched a snow pea.
“Ha-ha. Let’s offer her two-thirds of what we paid Maggie, full benefits, and see if she takes it. Fair?”
“Fair enough.”
We fell silent when Damon and Ella approached. Damon, clad casually in a T-shirt and jeans, held her elbow in a firm, possessive grip. “Good afternoon, all.” His voice was amiable.
She sat on the red vinyl banquette next to me wearing her usual sunny smile, which matched her corolla of teased golden hair and her yellow dress. She bubbled with excitement. “I have the greatest idea for the Fletcher Tool and Gear runway show.” Her accent seemed even more pronounced, due to her enthusiasm, perhaps. “How would the two of you gentlemen like to be models for a day?”
I dropped my napkin.
Fletcher’s busy chopsticks stilled. He leaned back in his seat, no doubt remembering some of the more creative outfits in the April show—perhaps the silver Mylar tux, or the feathered capes. Fletch would never put on a costume and prance down a runway, but I’d pay money to see it. If she could do it, I’d give her a bonus. “Well, Ella,” he said, “you certainly have a way of getting attention.”
“Yeah, whaddaya mean?” I asked.
She batted mascaraed lashes. “I think you’ll agree that the Wolf family has some fine-lookin’ members.”
“Members, hmm?” Fletcher winked at me.
I know I turned red. I felt the burn.
Oblivious, she continued. “Let’s put the Board of Directors in the Delaware show. The shareholders will love it.”
“Hmm.” I picked up my teacup. “It’ll be more work, fitting the clothes onto non-professionals.”
Damon said, “We may have a problem getting the stockholders to accept this joint venture. A lot of them have owned Fletcher Gear stock from time immemorial, and it’ll be a stretch for them to swallow a foray into designer clothing. Anything we can do to help should be done.”
“As long as you want to do it, I have no problem with the idea. It’s no crazier than other stunts I’ve pulled for the runway shows.” I chuckled inwardly. The Wolf brothers playing model! What would be next? Appearances on Tim Gunn’s show?
Flet
ch looked cornered, while Damon and Ella wore the hopeful expressions of kids at the door on Halloween night, confident and certain of a treat. “I guess so,” Fletch said, sounding dubious. “As long as I don’t have to wear anything weird.”
“What, exactly, do you mean?” I asked coldly.
“Your last show was influenced by the space program and Renaissance jesters. I won’t dress up like Robin Hood or Neil Armstrong.”
I raised my brows. “And you, Damon? Will you put on parti-colored tights and a tunic to make Ella happy?”
Damon tossed down his menu. “How ‘bout a T-shirt and jeans?”
I sighed. “That’s what you’re wearing right now. I guess I’ll design a couple of new suits for the corporate crowd. How boring.”
~*~
The morning of Maggie’s funeral dawned sunny and bright, one of those vivid October days which deny the threat of winter. Fletch kept my hand warm in his as we walked from the limo into one of the small stone churches that dotted Manhattan’s neighborhoods. Maggie had lived in this area, worshiped here in this sanctuary, I guessed while gazing at a stained glass window, blazing with color.
The crowd of mourners surprised me. I’d pictured Maggie the workaholic as lonely and friendless. According to the small program passed out at the door, she’d been an active churchgoer, even sang in the choir.
The murmurings and mutterings of the throng warned me that these people blamed me for her sad end. I could hear the gossip swirling around me: apparently she’d changed after she’d come to work for me, ditching her old friends for new ones and neglecting church. Fortunately, no one knew who I was, and I had dressed soberly for this event. No parti-colored tights and certainly no parti-colored hair. Instead, a navy suit, with brown hair and tortoise-shell glasses.
I tried to keep my head down while scanning the crowd of mourners, trying to spot suspicious characters. Maybe there was truth to the detective movie myths that criminals couldn’t stay away from the scene of the crime or the funeral of the victim. But if any knife murderers lurked in the congregation, they blended with the group.
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 172