Part 2 (2/2)
-DIANA VREELAND I'd say one thing for Dominique, given her elaborate after-death plans. She was an original.
The sudden silence of the phone going dead left us stunned and staring at the silent thing as the first customer of the day arrived. A redhead. A gorgeous redhead, as bundled up and unidentifiable as the Wings delivery man.
She held her head upright and walked like a runway model. Female perfection, she displayed, in an all-encompa.s.sing red Valentino cape, a colorful Herme's scarf that seemed to celebrate warm colors, and a pair of eighties Manolo boots, white with red heels. And she carried a retro white bunny m.u.f.f.
The Lady in Red looked out of place at this end of Connecticut, even in a shop as upscale as mine.
Wandering my fas.h.i.+on nooks, aimlessly, from Mad as a Hatter to Little Black Dress Lane, she threw an occasional glance our way, peeking over her rose-colored gla.s.ses.
Not prescription, then, and were they an intentional metaphor?
When I looked back at Werner, I set the tips of my fingers beneath his chin to raise his jaw. ”You got a little drool on your chin.”
He firmed his lips and stuck his hands in the pockets of his Mickey Spillane trench coat. ”Listen,” he said, purposely turning his back on the Lady in Red. ”You'd tell me if you were in trouble, right, Mad?”
Now he was using my nickname? Lytton was letting honest concern dislocate his polite, if feigned, indifference.
”I've lost a good friend,” I said, ”but I'm not in trouble.” That I know of. Yet.
My cell phone rang, again. And, again, it was Kyle, so I grabbed the bag with the boxed dress in it, walked to the dressing rooms, where Eve and Werner followed, and I set my cell phone down so we could listen while my customer could not.
I, however, stood in the doorway to keep an eye on both the shop and the Lady in Red.
”Sorry, Aunt Mad, for cutting you off like that.”
”What happened?” I asked.
”People are calling and knocking at the door. Some of them brought maids carrying ca.s.seroles, but I told Higgins to send them away. I'm not receiving guests until seven tonight.
”Higgins said they're coming to offer their condolences, but they seem more like vultures who want to pick at the gristle surrounding Mom's death. Frankly, the whole thing's freaking me out.”
”What can I do to help?” I asked.
”I don't suppose you feel like coming to stay for a couple of days, like before seven tonight? I can't wade through this catty Broadway love/hate gossip suck, alone, and I can't trust any of Mom's . . . whatever they are.”
Parasites, I thought. ”Why can't you?”
”I should think that would be obvious, but that's like the last thing she told me. Don't trust the-well-the people who've leeched her dry. d.a.m.n, Dad's here. I can hear his voice. Higgins likes him. He's gonna let the jerk in, I know it.”
Now, that's bad, I thought. Greedy, bitter Ian DeLong, Dominique's philandering ex-husband, is the biggest scavenger of them all. His favorite form of self-flattery was a line I could hit him for. In referring to Dom's celebrity status, he would say, ”She wouldn't be a DeLong, if it wasn't for me.”
As if his name had anything to do with her success.
As her business partner, Ian owned half of Dominique, a circ.u.mstance that not even a dirty divorce had been able to erase. And it was entirely possible that he was about to inherit the other half of DeLong Ltd. jewelry, perfume, and accessory design interests, not to mention Dom's highly popular tell-all books turned movies.
”Can you wait in the den, Dad?” Kyle swore beneath his breath. ”You're the executor, did you know?”
I straightened and took my gaze from the shop. ”What? Kyle, who were you talking to just now?”
”You. You're the executor. Of Mom's will. You, Aunt Mad. You knew, right?”
Son of a slip st.i.tch. ”No, I did not know.”
Kyle made a tsking sound. ”You should see the instructions she left for you on that score. And I'm talking musical score here.”
I pinched the top of my nose to stop my throbbing brain swell. Dominique hadn't been kidding when she said, ”Tag, you're it.” I sighed. I needed to go. I wanted to go. For Dom. For her son. ”Give me a few hours to get the shop in order. I'll try to be there by seven, but I can't guarantee I'll make it.” I looked at my watch. ”Well, nearly ten hours. Maybe.”
”Call me when you're on your way. I'll send a car. And thanks, Aunt-”
”Kyle. Drop the 'aunt.' Call me Mad. You've caught up with me. We're both the same age now.”
His chuckle eased the ache in my chest, for both our sakes.
Everything would be okay, I told myself, though it wouldn't, really. Dead was dead. His mother. My friend.
Dead . . . forever.
Eight.
”Style” is an expression of individualism mixed with charisma. Fas.h.i.+on is something that comes after style.
-JOHN FAIRCHILD I snapped my phone shut, slipped it in my suit pocket, and turned to Werner. ”As you heard, I'll be going to New York. I just have to see if Aunt Fiona is available to run the shop.”
”Good thing she went into semiretirement,” Eve said.
I shrugged. ”Sometimes I think she did that for me, to help me with the shop.”
Eve tilted her head. ”I think she did it for your father.”
I chuckled. ”Detective, thank you for your patience and understanding this morning.”
He tipped his nonexistent hat, left the dressing room, and went to the door, without so much as a glance toward my unusual customer in red, but he did stop and turn back to me. ”Stay out of trouble, will you?”
”I resent that.”
He shrugged. ”I mean, be safe.”
”You sweet-talker, you.”
He blushed but not for long. ”I actually mean, don't look in people's windows, break into their houses, riffle through their things, steal their dogs, or tick off the NYPD.”
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