Part 2 (1/2)
”There isn't one that the FBI can find.”
”The Feds are in on this?”
”Stolen diamonds are known to fund terrorist activities, so yes, there's an FBI investigation. Not to mention that Pierce Pierpont, current scion and head of the Pierpont Diamond Mines, has political clout, and he, of course, wants his diamonds found.
”But a stolen ambulance that carried a famous movie actress, who died under mysterious circ.u.mstances, is certainly cause for speculation.”
Mysterious circ.u.mstances. Baste it, I knew it.
”Also, the lengthy time lapse between the ambulance's departure from the theater and the time it was found bearing Dominique DeLong's body, siren blasting, at the hospital's emergency room entrance, missing its driver, allowed for more than enough time for a diamond robbery to take place.”
”You mean they ripped the diamonds off her face while she was unconscious? Poor Dom. That must have been so painful.”
”No,” Werner said. ”All indications are that she died instantly and on stage. They took the diamonds after she died.”
My stomach flipped while my brain fired like popcorn, my thought processes having multiple partings of the way. Should I admit that I knew Dominique, that I was carrying a dress that might-if one had a wild imagination-be construed as evidence? Or should I let it ride until I talked to Nick?
Dom's death touched me, rocked my world, and the diamonds were only an afterthought. ”All this because somebody misplaced a few diamonds in New York City? They're probably still in the woman's dressing room.” It wasn't easy to distance myself from Dom at this point, but for Werner's sake, I felt it necessary for the moment. Dom hadn't exactly been a neat freak, not even when it came to her pricey baubles. She liked to make the Parasites earn their keep and pick up after her.
I shook my head. ”They should be looking into what happened to Dominique, not the diamonds.”
”The NYPD are also looking into what happened to Ms. DeLong,” Werner said. ”Never fear.”
”Good.” Still trying to decide whether to out the dress, evidence wise, I decided to pay attention to a family echo in the voices of my siblings, who coined the phrase: ”Shut up, Mad!”
Decision made. ”If we've answered your questions, Detective, I have an errand to run.”
Werner nodded toward my newly delivered package. ”Is that the box Wings brought?”
Sc.r.a.p! From the corner of my eye, I saw Eve slip the note from Dominique into her folded newspaper, so I relaxed and handed Werner the box.
He opened it, folded back the tissue, and whistled. ”This is primo designer, isn't it? From Paris maybe? Mucho bucks?”
”Thank you, Detective.”
”Why thank me?”
”I designed it.”
That surprised him. If I didn't know better, I'd think respect laced his regard, until he frowned and looked more closely at me. ”Why are your eyes red?”
I hated that Werner noticed small personal details about me. I raised my chin. ”Someone I care about pa.s.sed away.”
”I'm sorry to hear that.” He took the canvas bag from my limp hand, slid the empty packaging out, saw the return address, and whistled. ”That dead movie star? You knew her?” A baited accusation if ever I'd heard one.
I gritted my teeth, a bad and costly habit. ”She was a Broadway star, not a movie star. Dominique, yes, that's her. Please have some respect and stop tossing about the word 'dead' as if it were a color.”
”My apologies and condolences,” Werner said, and he meant it, ”but that dress could be evidence.”
”It's a gift. I made it for her, and she left it to me. Period.”
”Too bad somebody felt the need to steal a truck to get it to you.”
Double sc.r.a.p with a ”tucking A” thrown in for trim. My ringing cell phone saved me from responding. I'd never been so grateful for the opportunity to answer it.
My caller's voice shocked the Hermes out of me. ”Kyle! I'm so sorry about your mom.”
Werner mouthed ”speakerphone,” so I had no choice but to set my phone down so we could all hear what Kyle had to say. Well, I might have argued, because this had nothing to do with Werner, but I would only look as guilty as I felt if I refused the request.
”It's sad and chaotic here,” Kyle said, ”but Mom left strict instructions about what she wanted done after she died.”
”Funeral arrangements, you mean?”
”They're not releasing the b-her-until the investigation is finished. Uh, no, not instructions for her funeral. I haven't been able to bring myself to read those instructions yet.”
I was confused. ”But she left instructions for after she died? When did she take the time to do that?”
”They're dated two weeks ago. Weird, I know.”
So had Dom been suicidal? Suspicious? What?
Kyle cleared his throat, the sound of a man who's trying to deny emotion. ”These instructions have to do with her vintage clothes,” Dom's son said. ”She wants-wanted-the collection to raise money for charity during a big fas.h.i.+on show produced while she's still in the news and that you should arrange the show. She left a list of causes for you to split the proceeds among, but she suggested that you hold the show there in Mystic to pull in collectors from Newport, Rhode Island, Boston, and New York City. You can invite anyone you want. Can I count on you, Aunt Mad?”
Oh, great, play the aunt card in front of Werner. Okay, so Kyle had been twelve when I was nineteen, but time should have erased our age difference, and it would have, if he wasn't asking for a favor. A big favor.
”Of course, Kyle.” But I'd sure like to see Dominique's instructions, I thought.
”Good. Thanks. After the fas.h.i.+on show, I have permission to sell her collection at a private auction, if I want to, and I'm not sure that I do. Mom included a list of the people she wanted you to invite to both events, but you get first pick of the vintage clothes you want before you host an auction, if there is one.”
”I'm overwhelmed.” No fooling.
”Anyway, I'm allowed to sell them all except for a dress she wanted you to have, and don't worry, Aunt Mad, I'm sure I'll find it, eventually.”
Werner glanced at the dress box delivered that morning, as did I, then we glanced at each other.
I shrugged. Could be a different dress, right?
”Kyle, it sounds as though your mother knew she was going to die.”
The phone went dead.
Seven.
The energy of imagination, deliberation, and invention, which fall into a natural rhythm totally one's own, maintained by innate discipline and a keen sense of pleasure-these are the ingredients of style. And all who have it share one thing: originality.