On the Avenue (10 page)

He knew what he had to do.

He would sit here and wait till morning. If the cops didn't show up, he'd know the Hamilton girls hadn't turned the camera in. After all, they had their own reputations to think about. With the camera in their possession, Chicky had a good shot at getting it back. Not legally, of course, and not very easily. But there was always a way….

He raced over to the tiny closet in the corner of the room. The contents nearly spilled out when he opened the door. Boxes and boxes of junk, hangers, and old clothes that smelled of mothballs and cheap cologne. He cut through it all, tossing items across the floor until he found what he was looking for.

The black and white French maid's uniform was at the bottom of the heap. It had been at least a year since he'd used it to sneak into one of those ritzy uptown
buildings in search of a good picture. Now he'd have to use it to bust into the Hamiltons' penthouse. At the back of the closet, Chicky found the curly blond wig and the bag of makeup that would accentuate his feminine look.

I can do this. I can outsmart those silly Hamilton girls before they ruin my life.

Yes, he would do what was necessary. He would get that camera back no matter what.

Standing in the bright kitchen, Madison yanked open the refrigerator door and plunged her hands inside. From the bottom rack she grabbed a carton of milk, a container of imported Belgian chocolate syrup, and an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon. Her stomach was in knots. Her nerves were an inch from cracking. There was only one remedy that would alleviate the stress, and she needed a whole damn lot of it.

She moved like a robot on speed, lining the items up on the counter while reaching into one of the
cabinets for a tall glass. She tore the top of the milk carton. She opened the spout on the container of chocolate syrup. Then she wrapped her fingers around the bottle of champagne and popped the cork with a quick jab of her thumbs. The cork ricocheted across the kitchen, as loud and fast as a bullet. The boom didn't scare her. Madison was too consumed by impulse to notice anything but the tall glass on the counter, now bubbling richly with champagne and milk. When the mixture foamed at the rim, she shot it with the chocolate syrup and gave it a little stir.

She lifted it to her lips and took long, slow gulps, closing her eyes as the strange cocktail soothed her nerves. It was her own personal concoction, an elixir that drowned all traces of anxiety. She only drank it in cases of extreme stress, and when no one was around to tell her how disgusting it looked. In truth, Madison didn't care what Park or Lex thought about her penchant for milk, champagne, and chocolate syrup. When panic took hold, she fell prey to excess and impulse. She lost herself completely in the hazy zone between control and surrender. She was a woman possessed, the ultimate poster girl for gluttony. There had been times when she'd plunged huge tablespoons into a jar of peanut butter and eaten the sticky globs until her mouth felt glued shut. Once, when she was thirteen and worried about failing an art history class, she went all the way to Zabar's and polished off
half a babka right there in the dessert aisle, her lips and chin caked with cinnamon.

It always happened this way: tension rose and her willpower tanked.

She pulled the glass away from her mouth. She was dizzy from the swift shock of bubbly booze and sugar, but ugly images kept flashing in her mind's eye. Zahara Bell's body, Lex's dress, the dozens of cameras zooming in on them as they descended the steps of the Met. Madison couldn't begin to understand how it had all happened, how a perfectly lovely evening had gone from magic to murder in the blink of an eye. And she certainly couldn't bring herself to imagine the wall of scandal tilting in their direction.

A spasm hit her stomach. Unable to control herself, she refilled the glass, pouring in the champagne and milk and chocolate syrup in one messy swoop. Then she brought it to her lips and chugged.

“Madison!”

She started as a voice sliced through the blessed silence of the kitchen. Turning around, she saw Lex standing at the opposite end of the long counter, her jaw wide open.

“Look at you!” Lex shouted. “Making a pig of yourself with that disgusting drink. And you didn't even have the decency to change out of your gown!”

For the first time since they had arrived home,
Madison glanced down at herself. She was still clothed in the black Chanel, and now it was stained with tiny white dots from the champagne's bubbly spray and the drops of milk that had dribbled down from her chin. Slowly, she placed the glass on the counter. She brought a hand to her mouth, where a thick brown mustache glowed just beneath her nose. Shame washed over her in waves.

“What is
wrong
with you?” Lex snapped, stomping toward her. “You know
exactly
what happens when you guzzle too much champagne.”

“I can't help it. I'm too nervous,” Madison told her. “I held on to my cool for as long as I could … but once we got home …I…I…” Her voice died down, and she felt a rumble in her stomach. She hunched over slightly. She grabbed the edges of the counter for support. And then it happened—what always happened when she drank too much champagne: she burped like a runaway freight train. The sound boomed all the way into the living room.

A moment later, Lupe came into the kitchen.
“Dios mío,”
she whispered. She crossed herself, then went to Madison's side and rested a hand on her back.

“Ugh.”
Lex shook her head. “It serves you right!”

Madison looked down, embarrassed. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

Lex stormed to the other side of the counter and grabbed the glass, which was still half full.

“No!” Madison screamed. “Leave it! I'm not finished drinking!”

“Not finished?” Lex's eyes nearly popped from her head. “One more burp and you're gonna blow us out of here!”

“Shut up!”

“Stop it, Lex. Let her drink what she wants to drink.” Park's even voice cut through the bickering. She had just walked into the kitchen.

With a nod, Madison slowly reached out her right hand and wrenched the glass from Lex's fingers. She downed another gulp, then stared at Park, who was holding a snifter in one hand and two cigars in the other.

“There's no time for arguing,” Park told them. “We have a lot of work to do, so let's get started.”

The very thought of discussing Zahara Bell's murder made Madison's anxiety spike a notch. She drained what was left in the glass and slowly refilled it.

“That's your last one, Madison. I mean it.” With that, Park set her snifter down on the countertop, giving it a little swirl as she did so; it was filled halfway with cognac. She dipped the back ends of the cigars into the smooth brown liquor and held them under for exactly eight seconds. Then she handed one to Lex and they both lit up.

Lupe waved her hands at the stream of smoke.

She hurried out of the kitchen, giving Park one of those if-your-father-only-knew stares.

“Come on,” Madison said quietly, finally relenting. “Let's head into the library.”

It was the room of the penthouse reserved for family meetings. The oak-paneled walls, rich red carpeting, and plush leather couches created a warm atmosphere. But the air was charged tonight, the tension palpable. Madison began pacing the floor almost immediately. Park and Lex took their seats beneath the ornately framed Picasso sketches that were only a small part of Trevor Hamilton's extensive art collection. They puffed slowly on their cigars, exhaling thin swirls of smoke and sharing sips of the cognac.

“So what do we have here?” Park spoke up first. “Zahara Bell is found murdered in one of Lex's Triple Threat sample designs, and the Avenue diamond is missing. Either way you look at it, the whole damn mess revolves around
us.
”

“Totally,” Lex said. “How much more obvious can it be? First the diamond, and then my dress. And don't forget: I created the Triple Threat line with all three of us in mind, and people know that. My designs reflect our unique and different personalities.” She tossed her head back dramatically, but the expression on her face remained serious, as if she were sitting across from a journalist, being interviewed for a cover story in
Vogue.
“Only the best designers
can accomplish something like that, you know. It's such a trying job. But my inspiration comes from the fashion greats: Galliano, Armani, Westwood—”

“Please!”
Madison cut in sharply. “Can you keep your mind focused for just a few minutes? We have to figure out who stole the dress from your closet, and how he got in here. As it stands, we've been totally set up.” She paused and chugged another mouthful of her drink. This time, when she burped—like the flat crack of a gunshot—she wasn't embarrassed.

Park and Lex didn't flinch; they had obviously been expecting it.

“Lex,” Madison went on, “who could have stolen that dress? Are you even sure it was in your closet? Did you maybe leave it somewhere? Think.”

Lex shook her head vigorously. “That dress was in my closet. I
know
it was. I didn't leave it anywhere.”

“So then we had an intruder and didn't even know it,” Madison whispered. “And he came specifically for that dress, because nothing is missing from my closet.”

“Or mine,” Park said. “Which means that this little plan was put together a long time ago. The killer stole the dress knowing that he would kill Zahara Bell and shove her body into it.” She puffed hard on the cigar. “We have to solve this crime before the scandal gets huge—and before we're hauled in as suspects.”

“We're
already
suspects,” Madison said. “You heard the way that detective spoke to us.”

Park sighed. “I know, but I don't think he
really
believes we killed Zahara Bell. I mean, that whole theory doesn't make sense. What motive would
we
have?”

“And how would we even have the time?” Lex added. “With our schedules? With our lives as busy as they are?
Puh-lease.
”

“So who
did
have a motive to kill Zahara?” Madison set her drink down on the mahogany coffee table and clenched her hands together. “She was a revered woman, but also hated. Anyone at the gala could have wanted her dead. The list is endless.”

“No, it isn't. The list is actually very short.” Park stood up. She walked across the room to one of the perfectly lined bookshelves. Scanning it quickly, she spotted a hardcover copy of
Rebecca
and pulled it back; behind it was the small ashtray she and Lex used when they smoked their father's cigars. Trevor Hamilton didn't know about this particular hiding place, and he wasn't likely to find out. Park grabbed the ashtray and flicked her ashes into the tarred bottom, then brought it over to Lex.

“Could you explain your theory, please?” Madison snapped. “Every minute counts here.”

Park took a long, slow puff on the cigar. “The two biggest items in this case—Lex's dress and the Avenue diamond—are both connected to us,” she
began. “Whoever killed Zahara Bell planned this so that all the fingers would point to
us
. Or so that the scandal will be mostly about
us.
The killer could have chosen any young, beautiful celebutantes in this city to pin it to, but he chose
us
. That doesn't leave a very big list.”

Lex cleared her throat, rolling the cigar in her fingers. “You think the killer is someone we know?”

“Maybe,” Park answered. “But not necessarily.”

“So then, who are the suspects?” Madison asked, her voice rising. “You're not adding anything new here.”

“I said the list was short,” Park answered. “I didn't say I knew who was
on
the list.”

“Brilliant. Just brilliant.” Madison clenched her hands into fists and started pacing the floor again. “Your theory doesn't solve anything. Right now, the only real suspect is Jeremy Bleu. Did you even think of that? How much more obvious does it need to be?”

Park frowned. “Of course I've thought about it. But does he really make sense as a suspect? He's a movie star, he has plenty of money—”

“And he fled the crime scene!” Madison screeched. “How do we know that he didn't have a motive for killing Zahara Bell? You've known him for a total of twenty minutes, Park. He could be a total serial killer in the making.”

“Serial killers usually
are
very intelligent and
charming,” Lex chimed in. “That's why it takes years and years for them to get caught.” She popped the cigar back between her lips.

“Who's to say he didn't have this whole thing all detailed and tagged?” Madison went on. “And that you weren't just another part of his master plan?”

“You both sound ridiculous,” Park told them coldly. “I know Jeremy's innocent, and I know I wasn't only a quickie plaything for him. We have a connection. I felt it the second we set eyes on each other, and so did he. I'm not his little pawn. I'm smart enough to see through that kind of bullshit. And besides”—she lowered herself into one of the plush chairs—“how on earth would Jeremy Bleu have gotten ahold of one of Lex's dresses? We've never met him before tonight, remember?”

“
That's
why it's a mystery!” Madison exclaimed. “Because we
don't
know. He could very easily have had a motive to kill Zahara Bell, and the Avenue diamond is worth a pretty penny. Maybe he's one of those people who believes the diamond has some sort of mystical power. Maybe he's not as wealthy as we think. Maybe he made bad investments, blew it all.
Maybe
he's sitting in his hotel room
right now
staring at it.”

“While we're here preparing to walk through a major scandal,” Lex added. “I checked the news when we got home. We're all over the channels.”

“I'm telling you,” Park said calmly. “You've both
got it wrong. Jeremy Bleu is not a killer. He has a killer body and a killer smile, but he's not actually a killer.”

Madison felt a wave of angry heat flush her face. She looked at Park. She looked at Lex. She looked around the room and then back at Park again. “I won't stand for it!” she shouted. “I won't wait around here and let this horrible scandal take root. Jeremy Bleu owes you—us—an explanation. And he's going to give it to us before midnight! Do you hear me?
Do you?
”