Never Too Rich (27 page)

“
Okay, everybody,” Alfredo called
out at last. He passed the camera to his assistant. “That’s it for
these rags. We shoot the red-and-black St. Laurent next.” He
clapped his hands noisily. “Take five!”

His staff let out a collective breath of relief.
Someone switched off the fan and Billie Dawn’s shining hair
dropped. Thankfully, the miasma of manure receded almost instantly.
Tabs popped off diet-soda cans and coffee gurgled. The fashion
coordinator brought Billie Dawn a Styrofoam cup of mineral
water.

“
You were fantabulous, baby!”
Alfredo cried. He bowed over Billie’s hand and kissed her
fingertips noisily. “Supersensational!”

Her nose was poked in the cup of water, but she had
to laugh anyway. No one could lavish extravagant praise quite like
Alfredo Toscani. She adored the way he created those big sumptuous
nonsense words. Then, in mid-laugh she suddenly caught sight of
Duncan Cooper. He was standing over with the onlookers,
herring-bone sports jacket slung over his shoulder.

As though in slow motion, she handed Alfredo her
cup. “Excuse me a minute, Al, will you? I see somebody I have to
talk to.”

“
Sure, Superdelicious, go right
...” His voice trailed off, and he placed a fingertip on his lips.
“My,
my.
You do have good taste.”

Billie gave him a playful punch, and pushing her
hair back from her face, headed over to the plastic surgeon with
that leggy coltish stride of hers. When they were face-to-face,
they stared silently at each other for a moment.

Billie Dawn couldn’t help but notice Duncan Cooper’s
professional scrutiny of her face.

“
I look fine, Doc,” she assured him
with a smile. “Even in the sunshine. It’s really incredible. You
should see the way it prints! Do you know, Alfredo swears it’s an
improvement over the first shots he ever took of me?” She added
softly, “Thanks again, Doc.”

“
Don’t thank me, thank Olympia.
She’s the one who twisted my arm.”

“
Thanks to both of you, then.”
Billie Dawn hooked her arm through his, guilelessly leaned her head
against his shoulder, and led him over to the folding picnic table
that held a huge coffee urn and an ice chest. She gestured.
“There’s coffee, diet soda, and mineral water if you want
some.”

He shook his head. “No, thanks, not for me. I’ve got
to run in a minute. I just wanted to drop by to see how my favorite
ex-patient is getting on.”

She smiled. “Do you drop by to see all your
ex-patients, Doc?”

He grinned. “Nope. Just the pretty ones.”

“
Well, bless my soul . . .” Alfredo
said from behind them. “If it isn’t Dr. Frankenstein.”

Duncan turned around. “Al!” he said warmly, and held
out his hand in greeting.

Al shook his hand and winked conspiratorially. “I
just wanted to say hello to my former sort-of-son-in-law. I’ll
leave you two to your own devices!” Then he turned and walked
off.

“
Duncan?” Olympia, bearing down on
them, asked with asperity, “Don’t you have anything better to do
than bother honest working folk? This is Billie’s third shoot this
week, and unless my eyes deceive me, this is the third time you’ve
shown up. Don’t you have a face to lift or a nose to bob?” But her
eyes crinkled with warm humor and she held up a cheek for a
kiss.

Duncan laughed and bussed her cheek. “That’s what I
love about you, Olympia. You’re all heart.”

“
Yeah,” she retorted, “but at least
I’m not a mad quack.”

He turned to Billie. “What is it with these people?
Do you have to be certifiable to be in this business?”

“
It helps.”

“
Actually,” he said, “the reason I
came by was to see if I might take you out. Have dinner and take in
a show, maybe.”

“
Mixing business with pleasure,
Duncan?” Olympia asked tartly.

“
I’d love to,” Billie told him
quickly.

“
Good.” He grinned. “How’s
tonight?”

“
I’ve got an early call tomorrow,
so I can’t stay out very late.”

“
Just dinner, then. It’s a date.
I’ll pick you up at seven?”

She nodded. “Seven’s fine. Do you have my new
address?”

“
The receptionist will have it in
her files. I’ll have her dig it out.” He glanced at his watch.
“Well, I’ve got to run. I’m supposed to take my daughter to lunch.
See you later.” He glanced at Olympia. “Without your duenna,
eh?”

“
Quack!” Olympia snapped
good-naturedly.

Billie Dawn watched as Duncan sprinted across
Fifty-ninth Street and cut past the fountain in front of the Plaza.
When he turned to wave at her, she waved back. Slowly she lowered
her hand and turned to Olympia. “He’s nice, isn’t he?” she said
softly.

Olympia gave her an oblique look.

“
Billie Dawn!” the fashion
coordinator called out from the trailer. “Time to
change!”

As still happened on occasion, it took Shirley a
moment to realize he was calling to her.
Billie Dawn.
She
was still not quite used to hearing herself called that. She
wondered if she ever would be. In a strange way, it was as if her
old self no longer existed. Which was just as well, she thought. No
one was more anxious to put her past behind her than she was. She
knew she was lucky. How many people got the opportunity to start
life all over again? And for the better?

“
See anything?” Fred Koscina asked
his partner. They were sitting in their plain blue sedan, stopped
across the street alongside the Plaza Hotel.

Carmen Toledo lowered her binoculars and shook her
short-cropped head. “Shit, boss. Not a thing. It all looks
completely normal. You think keeping our eye on modeling
assignments might be a waste of time?”

Koscina shrugged and popped a potato chip into his
mouth. He munched it thoughtfully. “It can’t hurt. Since Vienna
Farrow, there’ve been three scalped models so far. Somebody’s sure
selecting ‘em from somewhere.”

“
Maybe it’s an inside job? You
know. Somebody from one of the agencies maybe?”

He grunted. “Beats me. But somewhere along the line,
the bastard’s gonna make a mistake. And when he does, we’re gonna
be there. You just wait and see.” For emphasis, he popped another
chip into his mouth and his teeth came down savagely on it.

It was then that the call came over the police-band
radio.

“
Central to Nineteen Charlie,
Central to Nineteen Charlie.” The dispatcher’s laconic voice came
through intermittent bursts of static.

Toledo grabbed the microphone. “Nineteen Charlie,
Central.”

“
Homicide at 226 East Eighty-fourth
Street.”

Koscina and Toledo both snapped up as if they’d been
goosed.

“
On our way, Central,” Toledo said,
and hung up the mike. She turned to Koscina. “Jeez, boss. They’re
not supposed to bother us unless . . .”

“
Unless there’s been another
scalped model,” Fred Koscina finished grimly for her.

He hit the ignition, grabbed his portable turret
light, and slapped it on the roof. Turning on the siren, he waited
for a break in the traffic and pulled out into the street.

“
Let’s hope the prick’s left some
clue behind this time,” he said. “Sooner or later his luck’s gotta
run out.”

Billie Dawn had changed into a slim black silk skirt
and hip-length double-breasted red silk jacket—both from St.
Laurent Rive Gauche. The dresser and hairdresser strode swiftly at
her side, hurrying to keep up with her as they made last-minute
touch-ups.

When she was in position, the portable fan was
switched back on. Her hair flew sky-high. The odor of manure
assaulted her yet again. Alfredo scrabbled around her, clicking
away.

The crowd of onlookers had changed. Most of the
earlier crowd had drifted away; curiosity had drawn new ones in
their place.

One of the new arrivals in the back of the crowd was
a man who unconsciously smoothed his hair, thinking: God Almighty.
That hair of hers! It will make a wonderful wig.

Chapter 28

It was a sold-out performance. The stars were
clothes.

Antonio de Riscal’s first-ever Boston trunk show was
a resounding success even before it began. Antonio, ever shrewd in
matters of business, refused to make personal appearances at any
trunk show unless it was a tie-in for a local charity. That way, he
was guaranteed an audience of the host city’s most important
women.

Four hundred of Boston’s female Brahmins had paid
one thousand dollars apiece for the privilege of shaking the
designer’s hand and previewing the Antonio de Riscal collection
before it hit Shacklebury-Prince’s in-store Antonio de Riscal
boutique.

It was a matter of simple economics.

The Children’s Hospital was four hundred thousand
dollars richer.

The women got to meet the famous designer.

The media covered the worthy event.

And Antonio de Riscal and Shacklebury-Prince
received untold tens of thousands of dollars in free publicity—and
potential sales.

The show was being held in the department store’s
Versailles Gardens restaurant. Even for a local trunk show, the air
was electric. This collection, with one foot in eighteenth-century
France and the other in the fiery flamenco colors of Antonio’s
half-Andalusian heritage, exploded like a kaleidoscope. Oohs and
ahs, gasps of pleasure, and spontaneous bursts of applause nearly
drowned out the classical guitars playing over the sound system as
the models strutted the designs. Klas Claussen, microphone and
index cards in hand, described each outfit as the models
entered.

As guest designer, Antonio, rather than waiting
backstage until a show was over, as was usually the case, was
seated in the place of honor—front row center; as department-store
host, R. L. Shacklebury sat two seats over. In the seat separating
them, and the ones immediately flanking them, sat Boston’s three
wealthiest and most generous female philanthropists—the trio who
had used their mighty local influence to arrange this worthy event
as a fund-raiser for their favorite charity.

R.L. watched the show with barely concealed
indifference. He had little interest in female attire aside from
the retailer’s bottom line, and even if he had, his mind was
elsewhere—in Manhattan. He was preoccupied with Edwina. With a
discreet pull at his cuff, he sneaked a glance at his watch. It was
almost time to call her again. When he had talked to her last
night, she had seemed snappish, as though he was intruding on
something. When he’d asked her what it was, she’d been
uncharacteristically evasive and had hurried off the phone. This
morning, sensing that something might be amiss, he had tried to
call her again. Ruby had answered and informed him that Edwina was
still asleep.

“
With the hours she’s been keeping,
it doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Ruby had grumbled. “All she does
is lock herself in the study. She hardly comes out even to
eat.”

And R.L.’s worries had increased.

When he’d called again earlier, just before the show
had begun, Ruby had told him that Edwina had gone out.

“
It’ll do her good,” she had said.
“She didn’t look too well to me. Maybe the fresh air will
help.”

“
Ruby, do you have any idea what’s
wrong?” he’d pressed.

“
No, though that’s one thing I sure
do wish I knew. I’ll tell her you called, okay?”

Now, itching to get away to try to call Edwina
again, R.L. noticed that in spite of the show’s late start, it
would thankfully soon be over. He stirred restlessly, unable to
curb his impatience. From the dress rehearsal he’d caught the day
before, he recognized the green watered-silk evening gown, with its
peasant bodice and flounces edged in red and gold embroidery, as
the third-from-last outfit.

Soon, he thought. Soon it’ll be over.

Fashion shows traditionally ended with a bridal
gown, and this one was no exception. Four hundred sighs of delight
merged into spontaneous applause as the bride swept down the
runway, resplendent in seventeen yards of creamy Valenciennes lace
trimmed with pearls and embroidered satin ribbons. The high-crowned
mantilla veil was adorned with white silk roses and stuck with long
mother-of-pearl combs, and instead of the traditional bridal
bouquet, the model carried a lace fan that she snapped open and
fanned herself with. She looked, R.L. thought uncharitably, like a
walking, breathing birthday cake. Dammit all to hell, it was really
too much for a man to have to watch. His annoyance with the bridal
gown and the whole caboodle Antonio and Klas had brought for the
trunk show was, R.L. recognized, brought on by his nagging worries
about Edwina. Christ Almighty, but that woman could drive him up
the wall! Why didn’t Edwina confide in him, tell him what was the
matter? Didn’t she realize she was making a nervous wreck out of
him?

When the bride had swept back out, Antonio leapt up
on the runway to receive his applause. The adoring women gave him a
standing ovation. R.L., realizing his staying seated would be
construed as an insult, reluctantly got to his feet and clapped
politely along with them. The women to either side of him turned to
him and smiled; he smiled back.

Taking the microphone from Klas, Antonio graciously
thanked the women for attending, said a few words about the money
the show had raised for the Children’s Hospital, and gave a little
bow. Then, with a flourish, he gestured to R.L.