2 Death of a Supermodel

by Christine Demaio-Rice

But the girl with the meatball eyes squirmed out of his arms and sat next to Penelope with childlike delight.

  Rolf took the seat next to Laura. “Your sister is all over the news. They think she did Thomasina in. I want to tell you, I don’t think it’s true.”

  She didn’t want to give him one word he could use against either of them. She suddenly felt she was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with people who wanted to hurt her.

  “I have to go,” Laura said. “It was nice talking to you.” She shook Penelope’s hand and nodded to Rolf and Meatball Eyes.

  As she was leaving, Penelope called out, “To be continued.”

  Roquelle is careless.

  Laura sat in the very nice bathroom, looking at what may or may not have been an actual Manet hanging over the sink, and recalled the conversation.

  Why the interest in Roquelle? What had she done, or at least gotten caught for? Did Roquelle have a reputation Laura wasn’t aware of? Out of curiosity, she went back to the room with the big windows and the bays of couches. Penelope was gone, but Rolf and Meatball Eyes were hunched close in front of her unfinished rooibos tea. She took a long stroll around the lobby, looking at the art, and the orchids and paper whites on the tables, letting three elevators pass before she finally bit the bullet and left the club.

  CHAPTER 9.

  Laura had heard a gruesome story and little else, and the train ride back uptown was the perfect time for a little self-immolation. She got so embroiled in the Kentucky volleyball player’s metamorphosis into a savvy New York blowjob provider that she hadn’t gotten an ounce of information about Thomasina. She did, however, make a contact out of Penelope Sidewinder, which was no small thing, so if she ever had anything more specific to ask during an intentional phone call, maybe she could ask it. By the time she got to the 38th Street office, she was feeling pretty good about herself.

  She slowed by the newsstand and was about to glance over the headlines when she saw a face she recognized.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Kamichura’s cameraman said. He wore a huge tweed jacket with ballpoint pen stains at the bottoms of the pockets and a straw hat. He held out his hand. “Name’s Roscoe. Roscoe Knutt. You might remember me from Channel Four. When you were a kid.”

  “Vaguely.” Actually, her mother’s news-watching habits meant Laura knew the names of every broadcaster to grace a screen in the past twenty years, but she was in no mood to encourage him.

  “Might recollect me from your front sidewalk last night.”

  “That, I remember.” She took half a step toward the revolving door.

  Roscoe took it with her. “I wanted to get a jump on my partner. You know, she’s young and ambitious and on a camera like white on rice. As it were. Pushed me right outta my job. Can I ask you something?”

  As frustrated as she was, she was a sucker for regular people who got the shaft from someone more attractive. “One question, and I may not answer it.”

  “The coroner’s report says Wente was poisoned that morning between seven and nine.”

  “What? They gave you the coroner’s report?”

  “No one gave me nothing my whole life.” He shrugged. “We have a channel, lady, please. We’re not new at this, but listen, I got half the office saying she was at your sister’s that morning, and me, myself, I’m saying she wasn’t. So, can you prove me right? Please?”

  “What else did it say?”

  “I didn’t read it,” he said. “I just got a guy who tells me stuff, which is more than I can say for the girl getting all the credit for my job.”

  “Well, I can’t help you. The morning of the show, I was at work at six thirty, basting the Hudson dress to fit Thomasina. She lost a pound and a half, which on a percentage basis, meant I had to take in seams.”

  “One more question. You see anything wrong with anyone’s eyes that morning? Maybe a scratch on ‘em?”

  “What?”

  “They found eyeball membrane under a nail. It’d really help if you thought about it.”

  “I will.”

  “One more question.”

  She moved quickly enough to sidestep him and get into the building.

  She exited the elevator, expecting a day’s recap from Corky. What she saw once she turned the corner was Pierre texting as if his fingers itched. He was leaning on the doorjamb, as if he couldn’t commit to being either in or out of the room. He looked up at her pointedly, and Laura realized she’d never turned her phone back on after she left Baxter City. Too late. But she had been in a meeting with Penelope Sidewinder. He couldn’t get on her case for not working.

  She couldn’t have dreaded the meeting more. Her short encounters with Ivanah had yielded little in the way of good will or comfortable rapport. The scene at Isosceles had done absolutely nothing to improve things. The woman was pouty, coquettish, rich, and well-respected in interior design for reasons Laura feared she would never unravel.

  Ivanah had a toy poodle tucked under her left arm, and with her right hand, she held up an unlined Spring jacket with real shell buttons. “This here? The buttons can be rhinestones. Or gold at least. Why do we charge so much for something that looks like I can get it at Target?”

  “Hi,” Laura said, hoping to inspire politeness, if not a tiny bit of backpedalling.

  “Darling,” Ivanah said, “where is the other one?” She looked truly puzzled.

  Laura held out her hand. “Ruby’s not here, apparently.”

  Ivanah shook hands with her left, as her right still cradled the dog. “You’re the one who makes the clothes? The one with the seams? You do a good job, but designing is more than tailoring.”

  Laura didn’t know whether to argue or to let her talk. Did she want to disagree so soon? Or should she let the woman say her piece and give her yeses and noes where applicable?

  Pierre must have seen the lack of decision in her face. “Can I get you coffee, Ivanah? I can call for it.”

  “I’ll go!” Corky practically jumped out of his seat; not good salesperson etiquette, but if he didn’t want to be there, she figured he’d better go.

  Ivanah mentioned a mocha-frappa-something as she picked a Kate Spade men’s gym bag off the chair and threw it on the table. It made a big rattling noise as if full of pebbles in cans. “This is how we keep the showroom?”

  Corky slung the bag over his shoulder.

  Ivanah splayed the jacket with the faux fur on the table. “This is fake. I can tell.”

  “Barneys Co-op loved it,” Corky said. “And every buyer we had in yesterday wanted to know what Barneys liked.”

  “They’d like it much better if it was real.” Ivanah looked under the collar and then dropped it like a used tissue. “Did the Co-op write you an order?”

  “Well, no,” Laura said.

  “That’s right. Their money hasn’t been allocated. So talk is talk, and it’s free to talk.”

  “We have nothing else to go on right now.”

  Ivanah turned to Corky who, for all his general good cheer, seemed suddenly out of his depth. “Weren’t you getting coffee?”

  He slipped out as if a vacuum attached to the door had been turned on.

  “Sit down,” Ivanah said, as though it was her office.

  Laura sat.

  Ivanah put her dog down and put both palms on the table. “Do you need money or not?”

  “Sure.”

  “Last night, I was very hard on you, I admit. But I think you have a shot at greatness, my dear. A big shot. And I want to make it happen.”

  “Honestly, Ms. Schmiller—”

  “Ivanah’s fine.”

  “Ivanah. With what you said last night being true, and Thomasina dying at our show, well, I mean the news people are accosting me everywhere I turn, and the cops are scrutinizing everything. I think we’re finished here anyway.”

  Pierre took in a heavy breath. “Of course, you mean…”

  Laura shot him a look that shut him up immediately.

  Ivanah�
�s gaze did not leave Laura. “You’re worried about the police and the newspapers?”

  “I’m not worried,” Laura said. “‘Worried’ means I’m wasting my time concerning myself with things I can’t predict. In fact, the police dusted down my sister’s apartment, and mine is probably next. So I can predict pretty well that something smelly is hitting the fan, which means we’re not going to have time to give this the attention it needs. And I know Akiko Kamichura’s doing a story throwing accusations at us. I just don’t have the resources or the time to fight this and still run a business. So, can you tell Bob I’m sorry we wasted his money? I feel terrible about that.”

  Ivanah waved her hand as if at a pesky gnat in the room. “My husband doesn’t know how to waste money. His losses make profits. It’s a sickness.” She seemed both truly annoyed and truly proud.

  Laura held her breath, then held out her hand. “I’m so sorry, anyway. It’s been nice working with you, but we’re closed for business.”

  As if blown in by a surprisingly strong wind, Jeremy walked in with a fur swatch in his hand. He looked surprised to see Ivanah there. “Ivanah! Incredible. I was just thinking about you.”

  During the fake hugs and air kisses, Laura realized what Pierre had been texting and to whom. When she looked up at him, he winked.

  “Can you believe the quality these girls got into their line?” Jeremy asked. “This fabric…” He pulled down the magenta wool crepe. “Hundred fifty a yard and dyed in North Carolina because the flower that makes this color only grows in this one Appalachian valley. Feel it.”

  “The color is lovely, but—”

  Jeremy cut her off. “I can’t believe it.” He pulled the leather bomber out of the pile. He chuckled in a way that sounded real, but Laura knew was put on. Jeremy didn’t laugh that way. “I was just bringing you this swatch.” He held the fake fur in his hand against the fake fur on the collar. “Well, looks like I can’t use this now. Look at this, Ivanah. Feels real, doesn’t it? But we use it and we don’t have to alienate our younger customers. They don’t want to kill animals.”

  “Oh, please,” Ivanah squeaked. “This is a leather jacket.”

  “They think the rest of the cow is eaten.”

  Ivanah and Jeremy laughed at their customers’ stupidity, and Laura could see what he’d done. He’d spoken her language. He’d walked into the room, looking for a way to agree with her, and he immediately found it. Whatever that thing was that he had that could assess a person in half a second and use it to get what he wanted, she needed. He did it with the workers in his design room by playing on their fears, and he did it in the showroom by playing on the buyers need to feel like they were “in,” and he did it with Ivanah to show her the things about the line that would appeal to her and downplay the things she didn’t like.

  “Jeremy,” Laura said, “this is fun, but we’re dissecting a corpse. We’re closing up.”

  “I’m sorry?” His back was to Ivanah when he turned to look at Laura, and she became acutely aware of the fact that he knew exactly what was going on. “Oh, right. You’re going out. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come by for coffee in the morning.”

  “No,” Laura said, “we’re going out of business. We’re done here. Between the money running out and Thomasina, it’s too much to handle.”

  “She’s dead. What can she do to you now?” Jeremy asked.

  “Akiko Kamichura and her team or whoever are totally on us. They’re running a story on our relationship with her that I think is going to imply we had something to do with it, and the cops are all over Ruby.”

  “How is this more than a PR problem?” He looked from Laura to Ivanah and back. “Hire Tintell & Ives, and they’ll turn it into an asset.”

  “What?” Ivanah exclaimed. “They’ll botch it. No, darling. We have to use Greyson. They’re mine, and they’re fabulous. Yes, of course, you’re right. This is no more than a PR problem. We’ll have it sorted out in no time.”

  Laura folded her arms. “I can’t afford to hire Greyson Management to spin this.”

  “Don’t insult me,” Ivanah said. “I have them on retainer. I’m paying them to do nothing. It’s decided. We stay open, and Greyson is on this tomorrow morning.”

  Laura felt pretty sure that had been decided without her, and she was okay with that. Pierre and Ivanah exited in delightful moods, leaving her and Jeremy alone in the disaster of a showroom.

  She picked up the wool crepe dress and gave herself a proper mental beating. “God, I feel like such a whore.” She drifted off, thinking about Penelope’s story. Not a fair comparison. “She’s going to put glitter on everything, and I have to let her now.”

  “She’s more useful close.” He hung up the leather jacket, leaning over her to do it. The movement was completely unnecessary, since there was plenty of room on his side.

  She looked into his face and saw that he was sharing a deep secret with her, the secret of how to use people to get what you wanted. She felt a little queasy, and she didn’t know if it was because the idea was repugnant or exhilarating.

  “Her ideas aren’t bad,” he continued, “but they need to be reined in. Use them. Your trick is to take your own ideas and make her think they’re hers. If she’s invested creatively, she’ll use her clout to get people in the door. And she has clout, Laura. Don’t underestimate how important that is. There are no prizes for purity.”

  “Can I have just one season be right?”

  “You’re having it. And you can’t make your fabric minimums.” Only Jeremy could make the phrase “fabric minimums” warm and inviting and an opening to a kiss. He leaned in and did what she had wanted him to do since the day she met him. He did it smoothly, like a cat, or a snake striking, or a man who had not a cell of insecurity in his whole body.

  He kissed her. Or she kissed him. Or there was some silent communication from one to the other, some change in the intensity of their pheromones, or a look or glance coded to mean now, and they understood that now was now. Now was it. Now was the end of the line for her, the time when wondering and pining and candle holding slid off her, and something new started. Something undefined. Now was the pause between the wanting and the having, where the wanting was all she knew, and the having was suddenly possible, but unanticipated, unimagined, frightening in its unpredictability. It was a closet door that opened by itself in the middle of the night or a dark alley that was a shortcut. It was a wrapped package given by a practical joker. That moment, that now, that moment when she saw the door creak open, or considered the alley, or received the package, came before the surprise, which would be pleasant, or unpleasant, or unimagined, but different.

  Their kiss went on forever and ever, when all she wanted to do was sit alone in a dark room and remember it, ask what it meant, bring it to heel. Her mind went blank, and she existed solely inside her own mouth, where he was, with the warmth, taste, and feeling that he surrounded her inside and out, and when she thought she couldn’t take the pleasure of it anymore, she gave him a little push and opened her eyes.

  “Do I need to apologize?” he asked, all French roast eyes and black widow lashes.

  “God, no. I just… I thought of something.”

  He kissed her neck and she thought she would die right there when he whispered, “Tell me,” into her ear.

  “You’re using a wool crepe for Spring. Can I tack onto your fabric orders and drop ship here? I can make my yardage if they’ll ship greige.”

  “Yes. What else?”

  “I… ah… nothing.”

  “Anything. Name it.”

  “I can’t think.”

  She surrendered fully to his lips, letting him pull her close.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” It was Corky with a tray of frothy coffees. “About time.”

  They separated, and Laura felt prickly heat rise to her cheeks.

  Jeremy slipped Ivanah’s mocha-frappa-something out of the cardboard cupholder and handed Laura hers, saying, “I’ll be at the cutting ta
ble.”

  Once he was gone, she asked, “What do you mean ‘about time’?”

  “You’ve been mooning over him since senior projects.”

  “Well…”

  “Well?” he asked.

  “You thought he was gay. Even you said he had some gorgeous inaccessible thing going.” She was speaking in sentences and hearing herself say things, but her mind was dulled by the taste of him and the desire to crawl into a corner and relive the moment over and over. But Corky was looking at her as if trying to figure out what she was talking about, and it was disconcerting. “After the show, you were on the phone, talking to I don’t know who, and—”

  “Oh, honey, I wasn’t talking about St. James. I was on about Thomasina’s brother, Rolf. He was at the bandshell that morning, and he is searing hot. No, no, the hunk next door is all yours.”

  She rolled her eyes. Rolf was good looking, but somehow unattractive to her. Her phone rang, saving her from having to answer. Corky began straightening the showroom, making little kissy noises just to irritate her. She punched him in the arm before answering.

  “Hi, Uncle Graham,” she said.

  “How are you, favorite niece?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, leaving out the part where she had just kissed the love of her life, even though she had thought he wasn’t anymore. “Why are you calling me at dinnertime?”

  “Your sister was taken in this morning, and the police want to talk to you.”

  Laura abruptly left Corky with a messy showroom and mocking kissy faces.

  CHAPTER 10.

  He kissed me.

  She kept thinking about it and feeling the pressure of him on her lips. She walked to Midtown South, but nothing about the blocks between stuck in her mind. She had trouble paying attention, smacking into a parking meter and stopped dead by a cab door opening. But she just kept walking and staring into the distance, wondering if the feeling of his lips on hers would ever go away.

  She wanted to go home and tell Ruby and then warn her away from Jeremy forever and ever, but Ruby was at the precinct, and Laura had to have her wits about her if she was going to get her sister out of custody. She had to shake off Jeremy. It was nothing. It was going to lead to ickiness and discomfort tomorrow. She had to just move on immediately.