Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

“And how did you celebrate?” he asked running his hand down her arm inching closer to the warm black satin.

  “I did what all women do. Went to my favorite designer and picked out a few items as well as a fitting for an absolutely exquisite pink silk pantsuit. Cost scads of money. It was heaven. Paid in cash so your suitcases full of bills are just in time.”

  “When will you model it for me?”

  Reaching for the crystal pitcher, she refilled his glass. “Oh, in a day or two. But enough of me, my clever man.” She tapped her glass to his and took a tiny sip of her drink as he drank two large swallows of his.

  “Gerald dear, you must tell me again how you managed the heist. Detective DuBois never suspected you, poor thing, those terrible robbers leaving you bound and gagged in the library.”

  They both giggled at the scene, Eleanor and her husband coming home from the symphony to find Gerald knocked about by the robbers, leaving him supposedly unconscious on the Persian rug.

  “I know DuBois finally came to the realization that Jack Carlson, my husband’s former financial consultant, fired financial consultant, was the ring leader. Of course, dearest, I know you must have been the one to so cleverly map out the deed. But they never learned who the third man was. Of course, I immediately, after learning of Jack’s death, figured that you had paid the third man to do away with Jack. Really smart.”

  Sacco leaned back on his pillow, a grin crossing his face. “Yes, it was brilliant. Poor Tweed. So stupid. Poor stupid, greedy Tweed. Dumb ass wanted more money to keep quiet. More of our money, Eleanor. Of course, I didn’t know you were going to find the key to the locker. Carlson had me scared for awhile. Afraid I wasn’t going to find the key. I should have told you about our plans from the beginning, my darling.” Sacco leaned over to kiss his love but missed as she turned to fetch the pitcher kissing her shoulder instead. She filled his glass.

  So close. So close to his completing the story. Not much longer and she would have her evidence, in his own words.

  “Oh, yes, Tweed. I had heard his name. Friend of yours or Jack’s?” she asked softly running her fingers along his cheek.

  “Jack’s. They knew each other in college, but Tweed was always in trouble. He roomed with Jack for awhile. So when we needed another pair of hands to help haul the crates, because we had to hurry you know, Jack suggested Tweed.” Sacco drained his drink and held it out to Eleanor for a refill. “Ah, but I used Tweed. He was the one who knocked Jack off. Pushed him over a cliff across Puget Sound. Quaint little town. Hansville I believe.”

  “Oh, you are so smart, Gerald dear, not to get your hands dirty. Is Tweed still around? We wouldn’t want him to upset our plans.”

  “Oh, no. I took care of him. A shot of coke. He had a nasty dog bite on his ankle. He told me an old man’s dog bit him. In Hansville. I did him a favor relieving him of his pain. Left him in an alley. No trace. No connection.”

  Sacco suddenly moved in on Eleanor his glass falling to the floor. He tugged her satin nightgown down from her shoulders pulling her to him, breathing in her perfume, his head slowly slithering to her breast, his eyes fluttering, body relaxed, falling into a drunken sleep.

  Chapter 6

  ───

  Seattle

  SKIP HUNTER, TWENTY-EIGHT, lead crime reporter for the Seattle Times, sat at his desk staring at Gillianne Wilder’s picture tacked to his wall. Another reporter had taken the picture at The Working Girl shop where Gillianne modeled a collection of her designs for the storeowner’s show. Gilly was the last model down the red carpet that day. She paused, threw a kiss to the crowd giving her a standing ovation before she darted out of sight behind the blue velvet curtain.

  So pretty, he thought. First of her triumphs as a budding designer—her green eyes sparkled at him from the photo, deep red hair circling her face, lips in a bright smile. Those lips. He had tasted those lips. He ached to taste them again, but she had flown off to Paris to learn about the fashion industry where, she said, “fashion was born.”

  Continuing to tap his pen on his calendar desk pad, his eyes where troubled. Two weeks had lapsed before he had heard from her. Was it his imagination or had Gilly seemed distant when she called to tell him about seeing Eleanor Wellington. It wasn’t what she said, more what she didn’t say. She was vague. Preoccupied. Maybe she was tired. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe she was lost in thought with all she was learning, or, God forbid, maybe she had met someone. A man.

  On the other hand, he had heard from DuBois. Once. The detective said he’d get right on Gilly’s tip. Contact the Paris police. See if they could turn up Eleanor Wellington. DuBois called back four days later to inform him that a woman by the name of Elaine Waters had visited the salon the day Gilly said. A saleslady picked Eleanor Wellington’s photo from five others. However, the trail ended there. They hadn’t been able to track her down. Elaine Waters didn’t seem to exist. Not in Paris anyway. DuBois said he’d call Skip as soon as he had a lead on the woman.

  “Hi, Skipper. Penny for your thoughts.”

  Caught slouching, Skip snapped up in his chair and looked at the woman who had broken into his thoughts. Dazed for a moment, he looked into the eager brown eyes of Diane Starling, the Times Society Editor.

  “Hi, Diane. Sorry, just thinking about one of my stories.”

  “It’s six o’clock. Want to stop for a drink before heading home?” she asked.

  Leaning against the frame of his cubicle, he saw a beautiful brunette, her warm eyes and pouty smile inviting him to join her. Why the hell not. “Sure. Great.” He logged off his account, turned off the monitor, and reached for his navy blazer hanging on the hook beside where Diane was standing. His hand swept his buzz cut, a habit from when he shaved his head bald. Since Gilly left Seattle he had let his five o’clock shadow become permanent along with the dark brown fuzz on his head.

  “Charlie’s okay with you? We can walk. Maybe the night air will sweep away the fog you’re in,” she said laughing.

  Leaving the building, Skip jammed his hands into his chino’s pockets. Diane threaded her hand through his arm. They walked in silence. Entering the bar they squeezed around a raucous group, looking for a table. Music flowed from the overhead speakers, glasses clinked, and waitresses in short black skirts and plunging white blouses scurried with trays of drinks to the office workers winding down the day. Spotting two empty stools at the end of the bar, Skip nodded to Diane, took her hand and snaked through the crowd.

  Skip ordered a beer. Diane a glass of white wine, “Very cold, please,” she said.

  Drinks in hand, she touched her glass to his bottle. “Cheers.” Her warm eyes beamed over the rim of the glass. “That picture on your wall. You asked me for a copy when we ran it in the paper with the article about that shop’s little fashion show. Girlfriend?”

  “Friend. Only a friend. Her grandfather was a participant in one of my stories.”

  “I see. And the dog. The picture next to the girl’s?”

  “Oh, that’s my dog all right. Agatha.”

  “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, Skip. You—

  “No, no. Really. I’m glad you suggested we go out for a drink.” He swung around to face her. He saw a woman who wanted to be with him. He touched her fingers holding her glass with the back of his hand. “How’s everything going in your society world?” He smiled back at her, letting his body relax. This was exactly what he needed. A drink with a pretty woman. No harm with that.

  “Society is heating up with engagement announcements, fall wedding plans, and of course restaurant advertisements—rent my place for your reception. Really makes the higher-ups happy with the burgeoning ad revenue.”

  “How long have you been with the paper? I know you were working here when I started almost three years ago.” Skip took a sip of beer suddenly thinking about the day a year ago when he first met Gilly. A bright, fresh, young woman hell bent on being a fashion designer. He didn’t realize at the time how captivated he was with her exci
tement, her excitement for fashion rivaling his own to become a mystery writer, aka Agatha Christie. He had named his Bassett Hound Agatha to keep his dream close.

  “Five years. Started as a junior reporter—like you,” Diane said. “I remember the day you arrived. My God, you were intense. Still are from what I hear. You wrestled that gold robbery from the lead reporter at that time and now look at you—heading up the crime beat.” She bathed him with her smile.

  “Yep. Several lucky pieces of the story came my way. Which reminds me, I have to check in with a detective. Gave him a lead on that gold heist over a week ago.”

  “I didn’t realize the case was still open.” Her face fell. Looked as if it was going to be a quick drink. Not drinks and dinner, and…

  “Open, but cold.” Skip laid a couple of bills on the counter to cover the tab. “Sorry, I have to run.”

  “Me, too.” Diane slid off the stool. “I’ll follow you out.”

  On the sidewalk, Skip asked if she parked in the newspaper’s garage.

  “No. I find it easier to take the bus. Thanks for the drink. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

  “Sure. Stop by,” he said with a quick smile.

  “I will.” To end the awkward silence, Diane planted a very quick peck on his cheek. “Don’t work too hard, Mr. Crime Reporter.”

  Chapter 7

  ───

  Paris

  THE WORKROOM WAS CHAOTIC. Animated chatter flew from sewing station to sewing station. Words spoken so fast Gilly had no chance to translate, catching only a phrase here and there. She forced herself to watch diligently, observing every trick as the hum of the sewing machines going full tilt mingled with the chatter. Fabrics were guided under the foot of the machine, the needles pounding stitches into place. Four weeks had flown by as Gilly observed, discovered, and learned the techniques brought to bear, techniques excellent for one fabric but not another. She was expected to repeat the techniques precisely. No time to make a mistake.

  Rumors spread that the fashion house was on the hunt for more elegant fabrics for the holiday season five months away. A buying trip was quickly scheduled to search for new fabrics to produce sample designs for buyers around the world—special orders for discerning buyers demanding something exceptional for their stores, something unique to entice their customers for the holiday parties. They were behind—the unanticipated demand for new elegant fabrics catching the house unprepared. A disaster in the fashion business. Clients were clamoring for sparkle, satins, lace—all form fitting with a hint of a train adding sophistication.

  Drama was in.

  Gilly was constantly being called to model—her figure, topped with her red hair coiffed into a French twist, or flowing with extensions adding a glamorous element to the must-have gowns to complete a buyer’s stock. Jewels—diamond and ruby earrings, bracelets, necklaces in gold and silver—were worn by the models giving their personal patrons ideas for that special gift from their husbands, or lovers.

  Amour filled the air.

  More often than not, Maxime caught wind of Gilly’s presence in the salon—standing in the doorway with a smile, with a wink of appreciation. Gilly wondered how he knew when she was modeling. Modeling came naturally to her. Showmanship. She slowly turned in front of the client, teasing her with her body language, the gold satin gown’s train demurely covering then revealing jewel encrusted strappy silver, gold, or glass-like heels. Catching Maxime in the archway, her heart skipped a beat, heat rising through her body adding a pink glow to her cheeks.

  She began checking for possible modeling gigs, and then requesting assignments. The added money was piling up in her bank account, but she really put in the requests hoping to see Maxime, to feel the thrill when he appeared. In the middle of a seam, the needle piercing the fabric, Gilly found herself thinking of him. She waited impatiently for Friday when he would whisk her away for an intimate dinner, waiters hovering around her, topping off her champagne, serving an espresso with a nod from Maxime. Dinner was always followed with a stroll along the Seine sparkling with the reflection of the city lights, moist air caressing her skin, the scent of Maxime’s cologne drawing her close.

  Last Friday he had turned her into his arms, bringing his lips slowly to hers in a long soft embrace. He had held her close, gazing into her eyes, telling her how beautiful she was in the moonlight.

  “Gillianne, Gillianne. My beautiful Gillianne.”

  Reluctantly leaving the vision of Maxime’s embrace, Gilly turned to the saleswoman who was asking her to walk around once more at her client’s request.

  Friday.

  The waiter dressed in black, a white linen towel over his arm, topped her glass with champagne then quietly retreated with Maxime’s order for their dinner.

  Maxime discreetly took her hand placing it on his knee, covered her hand with his, their table privately tucked behind a bank of large brass pots filled with greenery. A candle flickered on the table playing with the sparkling bubbles of champagne, playing with the soft curves of her little black dress.

  Gilly told him of her day and what she was learning in the sewing workroom—how to handle filmy fabrics so they didn’t pucker, or the draping of silks and satins to show off the client’s form. “I’m scheduled to accompany the lead fabric buyer to Milan next week.”

  “Must you travel with her or can you meet her there?” Maxime lifted her hand to his lips.

  “Well, I presume I’ll travel with her—I don’t know where we’re going, and then the language, and—

  “Gillianne, I want to steal you away, to be with you, just us. May I suggest you accompany your teacher to Milan, visit the fabric mills, then beg off for a weekend to play tourist. I will be your guide and fly you back to Paris Sunday evening. Please, say you will allow me to show you the sights of Milan, and especially the pleasures of the Italian cuisine.”

  “Umm, sounds wonderful. And, I won’t ‘beg off.’ I’ll just tell her I’m staying with a friend.”

  “What day next week is this scheduled trip?” Maxime looked at her with such warmth, Gilly wished they were in Milan this minute.

  “Tuesday. Tuesday morning we’re flying out. I guess it’s a little over an hour nonstop?”

  “Yes, and when can I have you?”

  “She said we’d fly back Thursday afternoon. Maxime, can you really get away?”

  “My darling, I won’t allow anything to interfere.”

  Chapter 8

  ───

  EARLY MORNING SUNSHINE WARMED the Paris air as the three roommates settled at their favorite outdoor bistro table for a quick café crème before heading to work.

  “You’re taking a dream trip to Milan,” Sheridan said accepting her coffee from the waiter. “How ever did you land it?”

  “I kept badgering Gabby that I wanted to accompany a buyer looking for fabric—what textile factories she visited, names of the best contacts, and how she went about making her choices. Somehow she got wind of the fashion house, where I’m interning, preparing to make a quick reconnaissance for holiday fabrics. They had a rash of inquiries about their holiday line and wanted to offer more of a selection to their clients. I was in the right place at the right time with the right badgering,” Gilly replied with a quick laugh, eyes wide.

  “What time does your flight leave tomorrow, and when do you expect to be back? Dinner Thursday so you can tell us all about what you saw? Make us jealous?” Nicole asked sipping her coffee.

  “I’m meeting the buyer at the airport. Flight leaves at 12:20. Our last appointment is Thursday at 1:00, and she is returning soon after.”

  “She’s leaving? What does that mean? You’re not flying back with her?” Sheridan asked.

  Gilly clutched her small cup then looked up at her friends with a bright smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners with excitement. She was ready to divulge that Maxime was going to meet her, show her Milan, and that they were flying back together on Sunday afternoon.

  “You know I�
�ve been seeing a man. A Frenchman.”

  “Yes. Nicole and I didn’t want to pry. Are you finally going to tell us who this mystery man is and how you met him and—

  “His name is Maxime. He spotted me at my first modeling assignment and immediately took over tourist duties showing me Paris, wining and dining, literally. Sometimes he picks me up for lunch if I can get away, but we meet every Friday night—winding down the work week on a high note as he would say.”

  “Wow. What’s his last name? What does he do?” Nicole leaned forward, anxious to hear about the man, her eyes showing concern.

  “Beaumont, Maxime Beaumont. He’s a corporate attorney in a firm his grandfather founded.”

  “Have you checked him out?” Nicole asked not responding to her friend’s excitement over this Monsieur Beaumont.

  “Check him out? What do you mean? He’s definitely an established lawyer, a well-to-do lawyer. You should see how the waiters fawn over him. The staff at the salon defers to him, making sure whatever he asks for he gets.”

  “I’m just worried about you, honey,” Nicole said reaching out to squeeze Gilly’s hand. “A Frenchman, handsome, attentive, and wealthy can turn a girl’s head. Frenchmen fall in and out of love every hour, I swear. And here you are, a beautiful young woman, in the city of love, in the springtime where amour springs from every fresh new flower.”

  “I appreciate your concern.” Gilly reached out to grasp her friend’s hands. “Honestly, I do. I want you to be happy for me. I don’t know what this means for me. Who knows, Nicole, maybe I’ll end up staying in Paris.”

  “Back to my question,” Sheridan said smiling. She didn’t share Nicole’s skepticism only wishing she had met the Beaumont guy first.

  “Maxime wants to introduce me to Milan, show me the sights, and experience the food. He’s taking me to see da Vinci’s painting of the Last Supper. Attend a wine tasting to learn about Italian wines. See the churches, museums, and maybe take a day trip to Monaco.”