by Lois Winston
Vittorio Versailles?
Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp?
Naomi Dreyfus?
Not that I thought either Naomi or Hugo were killers. My money was on Vittorio.
Or Emil Pachette?
Marlys had a date with him Monday night. Had he met her at the office instead of her meeting him in the city? I added his name to the list.
Or maybe none of my suspects had glue gunned Marlys to death. Maybe her killer was one of the many other people she had stepped on, dissed, or screwed in her quest to conquer the celebrity world of New York fashion.
Someone from her distant past, even. Was the killer an old acquaintance who had held a grudge for years, perhaps going as far back as high school, his or her hate simmering just below the boiling point until the perfect opportunity presented itself?
Placing that thought on hold, I started another sheet: Who the Police Think Killed Marlys. My name topped the list. Followed by Erica’s.
If I couldn’t find the killer, I’d have to find some way to keep the police from charging either of us. Erica had an alibi and a witness, but what did I have? Just my word that I didn’t kill Marlys. Meanwhile, I suspected Batswin and Robbins were in the process of building enough of a case against me to prove otherwise.
All of this supposition was producing nothing more than a whopper of a headache. I tossed the pad and pencil aside, closed my eyes, and massaged my temples. Enough procrastinating. My birdseed roses wouldn’t sprout by themselves, and since I lacked the necessary magic wand, I couldn’t bibbidi-bobbidi-boo them into existence, either.
I tried to focus my attention where it belonged—at least for the next few hours. I couldn’t let go of my problems, though. As I snipped, sewed, and glued satin roses and rhinestone tennies, I continued to ruminate over money and murder.
~*~
I was just finishing up the first pair of tennies when I heard Mama clomping up the outside stairs.
“You never told me why you came home so early,” she said as she opened the door and entered.
“Long story.” I grabbed two matching lace appliqués and positioned them over the toes of the second pair of tennies, adjusting the angle first in one direction, then the other. “I had a lot of work to do and decided I’d be more productive at home. Less interruptions. Of course, I had no idea I’d walk into Chaos Central.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re home early.” She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on a chair.
Her cheeks glowed from the cold; her eyes twinkled with excitement. “I had the most marvelous inspiration this morning as I showered. You know how I always get my best ideas in the shower, don’t you?”
“Hmm?” I glanced up to find her waving a handful of colorful, glossy brochures in the air between us. I stifled a groan but couldn’t manage to hide my frown. Mama’s ideas never came cheap.
“Don’t pout, Anastasia. Trust me. You’re going to love this.”
“Love what?”
“A cruise. Just the two of us. A week basking in the Caribbean. Mother and daughter healing time.”
I stopped work on the second pair of tennies. “Sounds lovely, Mama, but I can’t afford it.”
“Nonsense. Cruises are quite affordable.”
“Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are no longer affordable.”
“What are you talking about? Surely Karl left you with plenty.”
It was time to spring the bad news on her. “Karl left me with plenty, all right. Plenty of debt.”
Her brows pinched together. “I don’t understand.”
No way would Mama be satisfied with the Reader’s Digest condensed version. She’d insist on the entire epic, warts and all.
I sighed. “Sit down, Mama.”
TWELVE
Like everyone else, Mama loved Karl. At least, she had up until a moment ago. Mama always admired the way Karl had broken free of Lucille’s communist stranglehold and created the American dream for his wife and kids. Only her version of that dream—along with mine—hadn’t involved an affair gone bad with Lady Not-So-Lucky.
She reacted to the news in much the same way as Lucille had, except instead of blaming me, she turned her wrath on my mother-in-law. “This is all her fault.”
“That’s pretty convoluted reasoning. I don’t think you can blame Lucille for her son’s gambling addiction.”
“She raised him, didn’t she?”
“If you can call it that.” Lucille ignored Karl from the time he was old enough to fend for himself. Her political agenda came first, last, and always before her son.
“Precisely my point. And what kind of mother names her son after Karl Marx, for God’s sake?” Her voice rose three octaves. “Karl Marx Pollack. To saddle a child with a name like that! Nothing short of child abuse, as far as I’m concerned. Between that and all her other shenanigans—”
“Shenanigans?”
“Of course.” She flailed her arms in true drama queen style as her voice climbed another octave. Never let it be said that Mama didn’t love her soap box. “If she’d spent more time with her son and less time trying to overthrow our government—”
“Let’s not go there. It won’t change the past, and it certainly won’t erase the debt hanging over my head.”
Worry swept away the defiance in her posture and settled over her face. “How bad is it?”
I quoted her a sum.
Mama blanched. “Before or after you collect on the life insurance?”
A bitter laugh rumbled up through my throat and escaped past my lips. “Karl borrowed against his life insurance policy. There is no insurance. And no savings. Just a Mt. Everest of debt and a Dead Sea of red ink.”
“Red.” With a glower, Mama cocked her head in the direction of the house. “Like her.”
“Mama, please. Not now.”
She rose from the chair, swept across the room, and enveloped me in a breast-squishing hug. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”
“So do I.” But most of what Mama had counted on for retirement had disappeared thanks to corporate bamboozling. She lived from spendthrift husband to spendthrift husband. You’d think at least one of her many husbands could have left her with a sizable estate, but Mama had always been attracted to epicurean men who lived like there was no tomorrow. Ironically enough, for them, there hadn’t been a tomorrow.
“I have a few thousand tucked away for emergencies,” she said. “It’s yours if it will help. “Not that it will make much of a dent in that figure.”
I kissed her cheek. “Thanks, but you may need it. I’ll manage.”
“How?”
I grabbed my list off the table and waved it at her. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
Mama reached for the paper and began to read. “Who the Police Think Killed Marlys?”
I snatched the paper from her hand. “Wrong list.”
She stared at me, her eyes widening nearly to the size of her gaping mouth. She whispered, as if afraid that the very utterance of her question would convict me. “Who’s Marlys, and why do the police think you killed her?”
This was not the way I planned to spend my afternoon. I had work to do. Besides, I hadn’t wanted to worry Mama with my problems. Now I’d have to dump Marlys’s murder—and my involvement in it—on her.
“What are you going to do?” she asked after I filled her in on all the sordid details.
“What can I do? I’m going to find out who really killed Marlys.”
“Don’t you think you should leave that to the police? I don’t want you snooping after a killer. You could get hurt. Or worse.”
“I’ll be careful. Besides, if I don’t find out who killed Marlys, you’ll have to use that nest egg of yours to hire a lawyer to defend me on murder charges.”
“You really think the police want to pin her murder on you? That’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it is, but from what I’ve seen so far, these detectives don’t have much experience investigating murders. And that scares t
he freckles right off my nose. They leave me no choice. I’ve got to find the killer in order to save my tush.”
Mama opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted by the sound of Nick and Alex, bounding up the stairs. “Mom?” called Alex.
“You up there?” added Nick.
“Not a word about any of this,” I warned my mother before the boys opened the door. “I haven’t told them about their father yet.”
She pulled an imaginary zipper across her mouth as Nick and Alex tumbled through the door. Knowing Mama, that zipper would stay firmly closed for maybe an hour.
“Holy shit, Mom!” said Alex. “What the heck happened in the house?”
“More like holy double shit,” added Nick. “And what’s all that sticky stuff on the floor in the foyer?”
I scowled at Mama.
“I cleaned it up the best I could, dear. What did you expect me to do, get down on my hands and knees?”
That’s exactly what I’d expected. Silly me. “Don’t worry,” I assured the boys. “It’s really not as bad as it looks.”
~*~
I arrived at work the next morning with three dozen satin birdseed roses, four pairs of wedding tennies, and a sore back from another night spent on the den sofa. I also sported a Texas-sized bruise on my thigh thanks to Mama’s nocturnal gymnastics prior to exiling myself to the sofa.
Tonight Mama slept with Lucille, no matter how much she protested. On my way home from work I planned to buy a box of those anti-snore nose strips. If I had to, I’d even slap one across Mephisto’s muzzle. I wanted my bed back, and I wasn’t about to cave to any excuse or sob story.
Lost in lack-of-sleep grump mode, I smiled a voiceless greeting to an unfamiliar woman who offered me a wide smile as our paths crossed in the hall outside my office. A moment later, my brain caught up with my eyes. I stopped dead in my tracks and spun around. “Erica?”
She laughed. “I was wondering how long it would take you. I think Cloris is still scratching her head, trying to figure out who I am.”
I stared at her perfectly made-up face. Her Donna Karan burgundy raw silk pantsuit, cut perfectly to mask her excess poundage and various love bulges but accentuate her double D-cup breasts.
My mouth moved, but no words came out. Now I understood Naomi’s cryptic comment of yesterday. She had seen the potential hidden behind the sackcloth and sent Erica for a radical makeover.
With Marlys’s demise, Naomi was not only rid of her arch nemesis, but she had transformed Marlys’s ugly duckling workhorse assistant into a plus-size swan who wouldn’t embarrass Trimedia.
Was Erica’s metamorphosis all part of a well-organized plan that had begun with Naomi killing Marlys? Or had Naomi merely seized the opportunity presented by Marlys’s death? I still couldn’t accept Naomi as a cold-blooded killer.
Then again, my track record in the Character Judging Department was less than stellar, considering how blinded I was for eighteen years by my very own knight in not-so-shining armor.
“Well, what do you think?” Anticipation hung on Erica’s question; a need for approval colored her features. She raised herself up on her toes. I glanced down. Erica had traded her standard knee socks and clunky Doc Martens for a pair of whisper sheer hose and strappy burgundy suede shoes that looked suspiciously similar to the Jimmy Choos we’d featured in last month’s issue.
With one hand sweeping across a body no longer hidden beneath a shapeless jumper, the other brushing back the kicky bangs of her freshly styled and streaked hair, Erica executed a graceful pirouette. Coming to a stop inches away from me, she held her breath, awaiting my critique.
“I’m flabbergasted.”
The corners of her perfectly painted mouth dipped. Her eyes clouded with doubt. “You don’t like it?”
“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “As Billy Crystal would say, ‘You look maaavelous!’”
Erica exhaled like a kid blowing out all the birthday candles at once. Her face burst into a mega-watt smile. She giggled. “I do, don’t I?”
“Absolutely. So, tell me. What did Dicky say when he saw you?”
A deep blush traveled up her neck and suffused her cheeks. “I think he’s a little worried.”
“Why?”
She giggled nervously. “He said I was always beautiful to him, but now he might have to break a few legs if guys start hitting on me.”
“I hope he means that metaphorically.”
“Of course! Dicky’s a big pussycat.”
“The construction workers of the world will be happy to hear that.”
“Huh?”
“All those wolf whistles you’ll get walking down the street.”
“Oh.” She blushed again. “You think?”
Poor Erica. Improved packaging aside, she still needed a major overhaul to her self-esteem. I patted her shoulder. “Bet on it.”
She studied me for a moment, worrying away the color on her lower lip as she seemed to debate whether to say something further.
I prodded her into action. “You look like a woman with a question.”
She lowered her gaze to the floor. “Could I ask a big favor?”
“Of course.”
“Naomi set up an appointment for me with Vittorio Versailles later this afternoon. Sort of a kiss and make-up interview.”
“Or a baptism by fire. Hell of a way to start out on your first full day as fashion editor.”
“She wants me to make it clear to him that Marlys alone was responsible for the editorial attack on him. That Trimedia respects him as a unique and creative designer and that he has our complete support.”
“Unique and creative?” I couldn’t contain my laughter. “How diplomatic.”
As editorial director, Naomi was ultimately responsible for everything between the covers of American Woman. A consummate perfectionist, she scoured every word of copy in each issue. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d deliberately ignored the slice-and-dice hatchet job of Vittorio to set Marlys up for a fall.
“So you get to play Blame the Dead Woman?”
“I suppose. I was wondering...” She twisted the hem of her suit jacket into a wrinkled ball. “That is...I...I was hoping maybe...”
Were the Karmic gods and goddesses finally cutting me a much needed break? I had tossed and turned most of last night trying to think up some way to get past Vittorio Versailles’ phalanx of gay goons in order to question him about Marlys’s murder.
I had come up blank. Vittorio Versailles didn’t grant audiences to lowly crafts editors. My odds of winning Mega Millions were greater. Could getting in to see the primo don of the fashion world and Number One on my hit parade of suspects be this easy?
“You’d like me to go with you?” I asked, finishing her sentence for her.
“Would you?”
“Sure. I’m free as soon as the photo shoot is over this morning.”
Her face lit up. She grabbed both of my hands and squeezed them together between her palms and pumped. “Thank you, thank you. I’m in your debt. Anything I can do in return, just name it. Anything. I mean that, Anastasia.”
I thought about asking for a few hundred thousand dollars but bit back the urge. If Erica had a spare hundred thou or so, she wouldn’t be slaving away as a Trimedia drudge.
Besides, Cloris had promised to keep my financial fiasco a secret, but how many people would Batswin and Robbins leak the info to in their quest to ferret out Marlys’s killer?
~*~
Several hours later I found myself in a purple-walled, peacock feather-festooned Seventh Avenue loft in midtown Manhattan. The showroom resembled a jungle designed by a colorblind decorator. Groupings of towering palms in bright citrus and fuchsia glazed pots reached nearly to the twelve-foot ceilings. Magenta, navy, and sapphire striped balloon valances hung from the tops of the floor-to-ceiling windows. A bubbling azure blue and cadmium yellow mosaic fountain filled one corner of the room.
Leopard upholstered lounging chaises li
ned the walls. On each reclined a mannequin dressed in one of Vittorio’s latest creations. Small assemblages of House of Versailles costumed mannequins stood interspersed between the chaises.
The designer himself, wearing what could best be described as a wet-look black leather Spiderman outfit, complete with head-hugging hood, held court in the center of the room on a zebra print sofa with leopard throw pillows. His eight-man goon squad hovered in the background. Today they were dressed in chartreuse and avocado striped velvet jumpsuits, accessorized with matching striped velvet fedoras. They looked like anorexic watermelons.
Erica and I sat off to the side on gilt-edged Louis XVI chairs, patiently and silently waiting until the staff stylist had finished primping Vittorio and our photographer had captured enough shots.
After the photographer and stylist departed, Vittorio turned to Erica. He waved his hand in a gesture reminiscent of those old movies where Bette Davis played Queen Elizabeth. “You may apologize now,” he said.
Without batting an eye, Erica plunged into her pre-rehearsed Blame-Marlys-for-Everything grovel speech. “As the new fashion editor at American Woman,” she concluded several minutes later, “I want to assure you that you and your work will be treated with the utmost esteem and regard in future issues, Mr. Versailles.”
Vittorio glanced over at his goon squad. “This one I like,” he said. “She shows the proper respect.”
They nodded like a row of bobble-head dolls.
Vittorio turned back to Erica and offered her a benevolent smile. “You may call me Vittorio.”
Erica beamed. “Thank you, sir.
“Vittorio.”
“Vittorio.” Her cheeks grew crimson, but her body relaxed. She had successfully handled her first assignment.
I had kept quiet up to that point. Now I jumped in. “Vittorio, are you aware that Marlys Vandenburg was murdered several hours after you threatened her on Monday?”
He turned his attention to me, as if seeing me for the first time. “And you are?”
“Anastasia Pollack.”
“Why are you here, Anastasia Pollack?”