Death by Diamonds (18 page)

“No, Pierce is Victor’s son. Dom loved Pierce’s father, Victor, who died two weeks ago. He lived upstairs at the Pierpont Mansion in a retro seventies apartment.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?” Nick asked.

“Because you went to Plaidivostock and missed the funeral. Pierce told me, personally,” I added, “that his father died of cancer, but that was a bald-faced lie. Dom told me that Victor was cancer free after his treatment. Nick, can you have the FBI take a look-see into Victor’s death?”

Nick sat straighter. “On what evidence or at least on what veneer of pretense? They need a reason to investigate. Tax dollars and all that.”

“What, the death of a millionaire diamond mine owner who supposedly died of cancer when he was cancer free isn’t enough? You’ve got motive: His son lied about what killed him. So they match his medical records to cause of death. Can’t cost the taxpayers that much.”

Nick flipped open his cell and made a few calls. “What else do you have?” he said when he was done, looking from me to Werner.

“Don’t look at me for answers,” Werner said. “I was only there to keep Mad out of trouble.”

“Fat lot of good you did,” Nick mumbled. “You got her into trouble.”

“Hell-lo. I’m in the room. And that’s another bone I have to pick with you, Jaconetti. What’s with sending a babysitter to look after me? Whatever happened between me and Werner is your own fault, you know.”

“Excuse me,” Nick said. “Did you say: whatever? Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know? Either of you?”

Werner and I exchanged glances. We knew what we knew, and I needed to fess up about that kiss.

“I didn’t mean to tell you anything,” I snapped. “Now stop trying to change the subject. You didn’t trust me and that could put me off you like . . . for a very long time.”

Or ten minutes if we were alone together.

Forty-one

I liked the whole feeling . . . that everything was about to happen, that there were so many possibilities.

—ANNA SUI

The day for Dominique’s charity vintage fashion show finally arrived with too many suspects and no clear murderer in sight.

Everyone buzzed at the Vancortland House, a Mystic riverfront mansion with a glossy marble façade and Gothic arched windows. How easy was it for me to get the place for the event? Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. My sister’s father-in-law, Justin Vancortland IV, owned it.

Today, its second-level diamond-pane windows winked like conspirators in the winter sun glinting off the water.

At least that was the sight that greeted me after the twenty-four-karat gates opened, parting a central pair of kissing swans and breaking the heart made by their necks. To give them their due, those swans allowed us into a world that just might be a worthy backdrop to showcase Dominique DeLong’s famous and outstanding designer vintage clothing collection.

Yes, today I was hosting Dom’s posthumous fashion show, highly publicized, of course, and every fashionista in the free world would be crossing the drive beside a snow-dusty garden, spiraled shrubs, sleepy weeping cherry trees, and an angel fountain whose rainbow mist had taken the winter off.

In the grand foyer—remarkable for its French crystal chandelier and its floor worked in a royal-blue-and-gold fleur-de-lis mosaic—I had two hundred matching chairs placed in a three-quarter circle facing an ultrawide curved staircase straight from Gone with the Wind. Tonight, each model wearing one of Dom’s vintage outfits would descend the stairs and pose for the guests while outside spotlights sent artificial gaiety cascading through the colorful Tiffany glass in the floral-scape windows on the first floor. Because Dominique planned this to pull money in for her two favorite children’s charities, she had recorded a medley of vocals specifically for the occasion, and the CD would be given to each of the guests before they left.

I read the list of songs on the back of the crystal case: “Monday’s Child,” “Pass It On,” “This World Is What We Make It,” “Mighty Like a Rose,” “Little by Little,” “Children Need a Helping Hand,” and “Carry On.”

Well, I thought, if Dom’s songs don’t wring a few donations out of these wealthy vintage clothing aficionados, nothing will.

At five hundred dollars a ticket, you’d think the pickings would be slim, but fortunately, I rented fifty extra chairs for the overflow. Then we had to bring in chairs from all over the house. “Gee, Cort, I never thought I’d say this, but your foyer is too small.”

My sister Sherry, radiant in her pregnancy, hugged her husband Justin’s arm and laughed.

“See, and you always thought it was too big.”

My brother-in-law rolled his eyes.

“Don’t tell your sister Brandy it’s too small,” Cort said. “I promised her she could use the place for a fundraiser when she comes home next month.” He lifted his granddaughter, Vanessa, into his arms because she was asking Sherry to pick her up, and she was just too heavy for that to be safe at this stage of Sherry’s pregnancy. Cort had also promised me that I could use the place for Sherry’s shower, which is another reason Brandy was coming home next month, but we didn’t want Sherry to know that. Vanessa, three years old, and excitement personified, was wearing her best red plaid party dress with matching shoes and purse, another impetuous fashionista in the making.

“Well, Brandy can use the ballroom,” I said. “For my part, I chose your spectacular staircase in lieu of a runway.”

“Am I wrong?” Cort asked, “or are there a few big-name celebrities in my house?”

“I’ll say.” Sherry put a hand to her back, which was my brother-in-law Justin’s cue to get her to her seat.

I kissed her cheek before Justin led her away. “You have lots of celebrities in your house, Cort, and here come two more,” I said. “Cort, this is Melody Seabright from The Kitchen Witch show. She’s the founder of the Keep Me Foundation. And this is Kira Fitzgerald Goddard representing St. Anthony’s Home for Boys.”

“It should be for girls, too,” Vanessa said.

“We’re building one for the girls,” Kira said. “The Bessie Pickering Hazard Home for Girls. My husband’s grandmother started the foundation to support St. Anthony’s, so we’re naming our sister school after her.”

Vanessa beamed. “That’s okay then.”

Vancortland, Cort for short, shook their hands. “Welcome to my home. Vanessa, will you show our guests to their seats in the front row?”

Fiona was already upstairs among the models when Eve came in. “You look gorgeous in that feminine steampunk look,” I said. “Seriously. The style is you. I was wrong when I said it wasn’t.”

“If you make me blush, I’ll personally throw you into the Mystic River, and this time, I won’t jump in after you.”

“Right. Sorry. No compliments. Did you remember to bring me a robe for between changes?

I’m so mad I forgot mine and so glad that I caught you before you left home to bring one for me.”

“Yep, it’s the black one I bought at your shop the other day while you were bringing Dom’s dress to Nick’s,” Eve said. “Well, I’d better scoot up the elevator to join the other models. I’ll throw the robe over a chair in plain sight.” Eve took the stairs as Werner came our way.

“Is Nick coming?” he asked.

I chuckled. Nick’s exact words when I asked him were: “Not if you Tasered me.”

Werner took my arm and propelled me into the nearest den, looked around, and invaded my personal space.

“Have you told him about the kiss?” His jaw got tense.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, it was only a kiss. A chaste kiss.”

“A kiss, yes. Chaste? Not hardly.”

“So you agree it was nothing more?”

“Just tell me when I can stop worrying Nick’ll take a swing at me.”

“Yesterday. Last week. Next Tuesday. Never. Fagedaboutit!”

Men!

Forty-two

It is all magical. I always look at nature and I think nature has the most beautiful colors. I always like to have colors in my designs, like the flowers and the sea, that make life.

—VIVIENNE TAM

The Parasites had come to the fashion show, I realized as I stood up to begin. Even Chef Zander Pollock came, “for Dominique’s sake,” he said. He had prepared the canapés for before the show and the dessert, to be served afterward.

Once Nick’s background check on Pollock revealed nothing incriminating or suspect, I accepted his offer.

“Before we officially begin the Dominique DeLong Memorial Vintage Fashion Show, I’d like to introduce Melody Seabright, founder of the Keep Me Foundation, which helps young, unwed mothers to keep their babies, and Kira Goddard, a member of the family who founded St. Anthony’s Home for Boys who need parents.”

Vanessa, to the side, put her arm around Cort’s leg and leaned into him. With her mother, Cort’s daughter, being hospitalized indefinitely, Cort had become Vanessa’s family. I imagine that she felt the sting of being without a mother, more or less. Cort picked up his little one and cuddled her until her smile grew and her cares vanished. Melody and Kira took center, er, foyer, and gave the attendees a brief overview of their respective charities, both mentioning how much Dominique had meant to them, and how deeply she would be missed.

They presented a short slide show in which Dominique interacted with the boys at St. Anthony’s and with the Keep Me Foundation’s teen mothers and their new babies. The soundtrack for the slideshow was a recording of Dominique singing “Children Need a Helping Hand.”

I gotta tell you, seeing my friend loving those kids, hearing her gentle, caring voice sure gave me a lump in my throat.

After the presentation, Dom’s music continued while I gave Kyle a set of index cards. “I numbered them,” I told him, “in case you fumble or drop them.”

“I should be insulted, but I’m that nervous. I’d be less intimidated by a room full of stockholders out for blood, or even an angry board of directors.”

I squeezed his arm. “As each girl comes down the stairs, read the name of the item at the top of the card. They’ll do three poses here in the circle at the base of the stairs. Read the descriptions in order, one description for each pose.”

“Got it,” he said. “And what will you be doing?”

“Coordinating the models as they change their outfits.”

“Can we switch jobs?” he asked as I walked away and grabbed little Vanessa by the hand. I smiled as the elevator took us upstairs to the chaos I knew was waiting for me. My models belonged to me and to Dominique: Phoebe Muir, Dom’s girl Friday; Rainbow Joy, her hairdresser/ makeup artist; Galina Lockhart, a rival ingénue and actress, and mother of Dom’s understudy; Ursula, the understudy herself; Quinny Veneble, Dom’s catty best friend, mother of Phoebe; Dolly Sweet, centenarian; Eve, my BFF; Aunt Fiona, my mother’s BFF; oh, and me.

I was the only one not dressed in my first outfit. Theirs I had marked with their names and

#1 on the temporary paper shrouds I’d slipped over each outfit. “Okay, Vanessa,” I told Cort’s granddaughter. “Go down and tell Kyle we’re ready to begin.”

This, I knew, would be my last moment of sanity. Changing into the second go-round of outfits on the run would cause chaos to the max.

“Phoebe? Need any adjustments? You’re first.”

“Nope. I’m all set.”

“Okay, then, the music has been turned down, so it makes a fine background for the show and people will be able to hear the outfits’ descriptions. Go.”

Galina came to me looking for a repair on an Elsa Schiaparelli linen jacket with an embroidered motif of a woman with gold sequined curls flowing down her right arm, done after a motif by Jean Cocteau, circa 1937. “Just half a snap missing,” I said. “Hold it closed.”

When she did, I saw her hand. “That’s a gorgeous ring,” I said. Galina preened. “It’s a diamond and gold cigar band initial ring. Someone I care about very much gave it to me.”

I tried to sew quickly, but my stomach flipped, and I had trouble keeping my balance. Suddenly, I was Dominique wearing the Schiaparelli jacket, and I heard several people, on the opposite side of a dressing room door, talking in hushed tones about “the diamonds,”

speaking at the same time, but somehow between them, repeating, almost word for word, the proposition Victor had made about stealing them. Oy, I was, of course in Dominique’s space, again.

I, I mean Dom, began to panic. How could they do that? Would I be wearing the diamonds when they tried to steal them? The show diamonds were either locked up or in my possession. There was no in between.

Only one thing to do, I—no, Dominique thought. Hide the diamonds.

“She’s okay,” Eve said, helping me up. “Have you been too busy to eat again today, Mad?”

“’Fraid so, Eve. Galina?” I asked. “Does the jacket snap now?”

“Yes.” Galina looked satisfied. “I guess it’s nearly my turn.”

I watched Galina take the stairs as Eve shoved a cup of juice to my lips. “What did you see?”

she whispered furiously.

I took the cup from her hand and drank the juice. “What did I see?” I asked myself. “The beginning of the end, I think.”

“Scary,” Eve said.

“You have no idea.”

Forty-three

The dress must not hang on the body but follow its lines. When a woman smiles the dress must smile with her.

—MADELEINE VIONNET

I took my seafoam gown out by the hanger and hoped beyond hope that I wouldn’t get a vision and see Dom’s painful and gruesome death or something, though how could that be if she died during the final act and my dress had not been a costume in the show?

I might be safe.

Figuring that out made me feel a little less shaky and a lot more confident. Maybe I wouldn’t zone and fall down the stairs. Not that I’d ever played it safe. My mother told me as much after I jumped off the Charles W. Morgan, Mystic Seaport’s famous whaling ship, when I was in kindergarten, to retrieve the purse that matched my jumper.

I proved it when I called Werner a Wiener in third grade, then I really proved it in high school when I snuck Nick Jaconetti up the getaway tree outside Brandy’s bedroom, so he could spend the night and leave via the tree before dawn.

Damn, I missed Nick.

I slipped over my head the sleeveless silk seafoam gown I’d designed and made so long ago when I was a fan hyperventilating over the adored Dominique DeLong, making sure not to catch my hair, or a fingernail, in any of the rows of gems aligned with the neck and sleeves. As I expected, since the dress was cut on the bias, it made love to my curves and adapted itself to mine in the same way it had adapted itself to Dom’s. I had never expected to wear this dress, but Dom asked in her instructions that I model it. Yes, I was chancing a vision, but I was doing this for her.