"Gee, do you know how to look on the bright side," Ava piped up. I hadn't had enough caffeine yet to tell if she was being sarcastic or sympathetic.
"What happened?" Conchita asked. "I see you had the pie," she pointed out hopefully.
I nodded. "And he thanked me for the pie."
Conchita's smile widened.
"Before he stormed out."
The smile died.
"Ouch," Ava said. She put a hand on my shoulder as I joined the trio at the counter. "Sorry."
I shrugged. "It's okay."
"Did you tell him about the emerald?" Ava asked, her brows drawing down in a frown of concern.
I shook my head. "Maybe I should have." I looked up at all three faces. "Probably I should have. I'm pretty sure he knows something is up." I quickly relayed the gist of our conversation from the night before as I dug into a cinnamon bun. Or two. Okay, fine, three. But they were small. By the time I was done, I was licking the last of the sticky gooey goodness off my fingers, and Ava's eyebrows were scrunched down in thought.
"So Gia was receiving large, regular payments from an off-shore account?" she asked, her voice lifting.
"I don't know if Grant said regular," I hedged.
"Emmy, you know what this means, right?" she asked.
I looked from Eddie to Conchita—both faces as blank as my mind was on the subject. I shook my head. "What?"
"Blackmail!" I swear, she looked practically giddy at the thought.
Eddie gave an appropriately scandalized gasp. "Blackmail?"
Ava nodded emphatically. "Why else would someone send her large, untraceable payments?"
"I'm not sure they're totally untraceable either," I added.
But she waved me off, on a roll with this new theory. "And you said they came from a bank in Puerto Rico, right?"
I nodded. "That's what Grant said."
"Fabio is from Puerto Rico!"
"Who?" Conchita asked.
"Carl Costello's young, hot boyfriend." Ava turned to Eddie. "You would adore him. He's delish. Abs you could do your laundry on."
"So you think this boyfriend was being blackmailed by your dead woman?" Conchita asked, trying to catch up.
"It all fits. I mean, let's face it—Gia was no pillar of morality. We already know she was stealing from the designers who hired her."
"True!" Eddie agreed, nodding as he sipped his coffee.
"And it can't be just a coincidence that Gia's getting big sums of money for seemingly nothing from a Puerto Rican bank," Ava reasoned.
Which, when she put it that way, did kind of make sense. "But what would Gia be blackmailing Fabio over?" I asked.
She frowned. Apparently that one stumped her.
"Maybe he knew about her stealing gems?" Conchita offered.
"Which would be a great thing for him to blackmail her over," Eddie pointed out. "But the money would be going the other way in that case."
"You know, Fabio didn't strike me as independently wealthy. I'm wondering…what if it wasn't Fabio she had something over but Costello?" I said, working it out in my head as the caffeine kicked in.
"Yes!" Ava stabbed a finger at me. "That makes more sense. Didn't you say you overheard Gia and Costello arguing before the show?"
"I did. And she was threatening him with something."
"Maybe the same something she was blackmailing him over," Eddie added. "Maybe she was threatening to make it public if he didn't pay up."
"But he already paid her," Conchita pointed out. "From the Puerto Rican bank."
Eddie shrugged. "Okay, if he didn't pay up more."
"Which, maybe he didn't want to do," I said.
"Or couldn't do," Ava added. "Depending on his financial situation."
"And he killed her to keep his secret quiet," I finished.
"Exactly!" Ava said, eyes shining, grin taking over her face, practically bouncing on her toes.
"But what is the secret?" Eddie asked.
"And where is the emerald?" Conchita added.
Ava lowered back to flat feet. "I dunno."
"But maybe Costello does," I pointed out.
"You think he would tell us?" Ava asked, and I could tell she was thinking back to our less than diplomatic last visit to his penthouse hotel room.
I shrugged. "I think it's worth a try."
"I don't know if your detective is going to like this," Conchita said, shaking her head.
I knew he would hate it. But since his status as my detective was currently iffy at best, I set that factor aside for the moment. "There's no law against talking to someone."
Conchita gave me a dubious look and mumbled something in Spanish. Having grown up in California, my command of the language was pretty good, but I clearly did not know all the swear words, as the translation of her particular phrase escaped me.
"Conchita!" Eddie said on a gasp. Apparently he was more fluent than I was.
She threw her hands up in surrender. "Okay, fine. I just better get to baking him an apology pie now." She shot me a look.
The only way he was getting more pie was if he was the one apologizing for treating me like a child.
But I didn't voice that, instead turning to Ava. "Everyone associated with the show was cleared to go home. So, I'm guessing that means Costello is back in San Francisco."
She nodded. "We did the fittings at his studio. I know exactly where it is." She grinned. "Road trip?"
* * *
Carl Costello's studio was housed in a converted crab processing plant that was in a more shabby than chic section of San Francisco, near the wharf. While the outside of the building still bore the historic rusted corrugated metal siding and gray faded logo of a crab wearing a top hat, the interior was as plush as any couture house in Paris. As we pushed through the front doors, gleaming marble floors, a sleek glass reception desk, and a yellow satin covered Louis XV style settee greeted us in the lobby. Costello's blingy hand could be seen in the crystal sconces and gold leaf picture frames on the walls, as well as the photos of the glamorous gowns the frames held.
"Good morning and welcome to the House of Costello. May I help you?" a slim, waifish looking woman behind an enormous glass desk asked.
"Ava Barnett," my friend announced, and I detected just a hint of an upper crust affect in her voice. "Jewelry designer. I'm here to see Carl."
"Do you have an appointment?" the woman asked.
Ava laughed. "Darling, when Ava Barnett shows up, you don't turn her away!"
I stifled a snicker.
But apparently her egotistical third-person reference had the desired effect, as the waifish receptionist hesitated. I could see her checking her mental catalog of who's-who in fashion. "Uh, I suppose I could see if he's free."
"You do that, dahling. Hurry, now, I haven't got all day," Ava said, the accent somewhere between Boston and London.
"Of course. One moment…" The receptionist trailed off, getting up from her desk and disappearing through a pair of double doors to her right.
As soon as she did, Ava let out a sigh. "I'm so glad that worked. I was afraid it was going to be over the top."
I shook my head, letting out the snicker I'd been holding back. "Apparently perfect for the fashion world."
"You think he'll see us?" she asked, uncertainty in her eyes.
"You know what?" I said, making a spur of the moment decision. "Let's not give him the chance to say no."
I grabbed her by the hand and followed in the direction that the receptionist had gone, not waiting for an invitation.
Beyond the double door we found ourselves in an open workspace filled with several seamstresses at sewing machines, some hand beading gowns, and others pinning garments onto dress forms. I had to stop myself from fangirling at the inside peek into a real live fashion studio, as my gaze pinged from one custom outfit to another. A couple of models stood at the far end of the room—one being measured by an assistant and the other wearing a pair of tailored pants and a jacket with str
ategically placed lapels to cover all the necessary bits. She walked back and forth in front of a pair of large windows with a view of the Bay as the designer himself looked on.
Costello was adorned that day in a pair of tuxedo pants, embellished with shiny sequins all the way down the sides, and a teal shirt that billowed loosely in the sleeves as he gestured to the model. The receptionist we'd seen earlier was whispering to him as he watched his model prance back and forth in his creations.
Though, as soon as the receptionist spied us, she stood up straight.
"You can't be back here," she protested. The look on her face was clearly bewildered at how we'd breached her marvelous security.
Costello turned, and for a brief moment I saw annoyance flash across his features before he pasted on his usual over-the-top flounce. "Well, if it isn't my little Wine Country lovelies. How are you babies?" He dismissed the ineffective receptionist with a wave as he dropped air kisses at Ava and me.
"We're well, thank you," I answered.
"Come to see the master at work?" he asked, gesturing toward the model in the tailored outfit. "Isn't she a doll? I'm in love with this look. Head over heels, in love."
"It's very pretty," Ava said, and I could see her eyeing the jacket with something akin to envy in her eyes.
"But actually, we drove down to talk to you," I added.
The annoyance made a brief reappearance before he could cover it. "Oh? I would have thought we did plenty of talking back in Sonoma."
"We wanted to talk about Fabio," Ava jumped in, tearing her gaze from the outfit. "You mentioned he's from Puerto Rico, correct?"
"Yes, born and raised. But sorry, ladies, he's taken." He laughed. "And, no, I'm terribly sorry to report he does not have a brother." He gave Ava a wink.
"Does he have a bank account?" I asked pointedly.
Costello blinked at me, the jovial smile frozen in place. "A what?"
"An offshore bank account in Puerto Rico, from which he was sending large sums of money?" I shot him a look. "To Gia."
Costello paled beneath his layer of eyeshadow and bronzers. His eyes blinked, tongue darting out to lick his thin lips. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do," Ava said, taking a step closer to the man. "Because I think it's actually you who has been using that bank account to send Gia payments. Blackmail payments."
Costello looked about ready to pass out. Or throw up. His gaze darted to the model, now standing idly in front of the large window. "Quiet," he hissed. He took a step close to us, practically whispering. "Someone will hear you, for goodness' sake."
"So it's true?" I asked, my tone lower.
He shook his head and waved his manicured nails in the air. "Shhh." His eyes flickered around the room to the seamstresses and assistants—none of whom were paying us any attention. "Not here." He licked his lips again. "Come. Come."
With one more nervous, over-the-shoulder glance, he ushered us across the workroom floor and into a small private office. Like the lobby, it looked like it had been displaced from an 18th century French palace. Though I did detect a faint fishy scent lingering from the building's days housing crustaceans.
Costello shut the door behind us before daring to speak again. "How could you accuse me of such things! Out in the open! Where anyone could hear you!" Costello collapsed into a white leather chair behind his gold desk and fanned himself.
"So Gia was blackmailing you?" I asked, ignoring the theatrics as Ava and I sat in a pair of carved wooden chairs opposite him.
His fanning paused. "Who told you about the Puerto Rican bank?"
"Is it true?" I pressed.
His eyes narrowed, going from Ava to me. Then finally he spat out one word. "Yes."
I could feel Ava vibrating with delight beside me.
"So the payments to her account…those were all you?" she asked.
He nodded. "Gia was bleeding me dry. How could someone so beautiful be so cruel? And to me? I treated her like royalty!" His eyes filled with tears, and I almost felt sorry for him.
That is, if he hadn't killed the model.
"How did it happen?" Ava asked.
He sighed. "At first I thought it would just be a onetime thing. Of course, I was furious she would dare to threaten me. And heartbroken at the betrayal. But, I had the funds, so I paid."
"But it was not a onetime thing," I said.
He shook his head. "No. She"—he took a deep, shuddering breath—"she just kept coming back. The threats growing more and more horrible. I had no idea she could be so terribly unfeeling."
"What were the threats about?" I prompted.
"Well, about telling the world my secret."
"Which is?" I tried again.
His eyes darted around the room that we were clearly alone in. "I-I don't want to say."
Ava gave him a get real look. "Look, you can tell us, or you can tell the police."
"Police?" If it was possible, Costello paled even further. "No, no, no. You have this all wrong. I-I didn't do anything illegal. It's not like that!"
"So tell us what it is like," I prodded, softening my tone to what I hoped sounded understanding and comforting. "What was she threatening to go public about?"
He sighed again, his shoulders sagging and making his usually larger-than-life personality suddenly seem very small and vulnerable. "My love life."
"Fabio?" I clarified. "Did she know something incriminating about him?"
But Costello shook his head. "No, you see, that's just it. Fabio is all for show. I don't love him." He let out a humorless laugh. "And he surely does not love me."
"I don't understand," I said, meaning it.
"Don't you?" Costello looked from Ava to me. "Babies, my dirty little secret is that I'm straight." He gave us a small smile and a shrug.
"Wait—" Ava said, shaking her head. "The whole scene at the penthouse, your arms around Fabio, all the lovey-dovey stuff?"
"All fake, dahling," he said on a sad sigh. "For your benefit."
"I still don't understand," I said. "Why would you fake being gay?"
"Well, how else was I supposed to get anywhere in the fashion world?"
"Maybe on the merit of your designs?" I mumbled.
Costello scoffed. "Oh dear naïve one." I tried not to be offended as he continued. "I came up in the 90s fashion scene in San Francisco." He gave us a pointed look. "Anyone who had a prayer of getting any attention then had to be beyond flamboyant. So…I was." He twirled his wrists as if to illustrate his point.
"So who exactly is Fabio to you?" Ava asked.
"My straight beard." Costello shrugged again. "Found him on some online hookup site trolling for women. He had a bunch of shirtless photos, and I thought he'd be perfect."
"So, he's straight?" Ava asked. From the lift in her voice, I could tell she was picturing his enticing abs.
I gave her a down girl look.
"As an arrow, honey," Costello confirmed. "But really, our arrangement was a win-win for all involved. He gets to live a fabulous lifestyle in penthouses, and all he has to do is make nice with me at public events."
"And Gia found out about this arrangement?" I asked.
Costello clucked his tongue and shook his head. "I don't know how, but yes, she did. She said if I didn't pay up, she'd out me. Tell everyone I'd been living a lie."
"Forgive me for saying this," Ava started, shaking her head, "but do you really think anyone would care now? I mean, it's not the 90s anymore."
"About being a boring, straight, white man?" Costello said. "Maybe not. But about lying? About keeping up the charade and playing gay all these years? Honey, they'd kill me in the press."
He had a point there. Especially with the Daisy Dots of the world, ready to shove him under any oncoming busses.
"I mean," he went on, "can you imagine how offended the gay community would be? Not that I ever meant to offend anyone, but they'd crucify me. And the straight designers would never take me seriously now. I'd be
double ostracized! Image is everything in this business, dahlings. No one would ever want a Carl Costello label showing again."
Again, I had to agree there. I couldn't imagine his core audiences proudly brandishing his signature logo handbags if that sort of scandal came out. Let alone paying four figures for them.
"So, you paid Gia off to keep your secret quiet," I said.
Costello nodded. "She asked me to wire the money into her account. I did, and I thought we were done with the matter."
"Only she came back," Ava jumped in.
"She did. Often. And the number for her silence kept going up. It was like, once she realized I'd pay, she just kept pushing and pushing to see how far I'd go."
"Before you cracked," I added.
Costello turned to me, his expression morphing from the teary-eyed victim to a fashion mogul with a little fight left in him after all. "Now, hold on a minute. What do you mean by cracked? I had nothing to do with what happened to Gia."
"But you did argue with her just before the show at the Links was about to start," I pointed out.
He didn't deny that. He didn't confess to it either, clamping his lips shut.
"What was it I overheard?" I said. "'Careful what you wish for. It might be your last.'"
"That is totally out of context!" he said, popping up from his chair, his previous pale pallor being replaced with two bright, angry red spots on his cheeks.
"So give us the context," Ava told him. "What was the argument about?"
Costello wrung his hands together and began to pace behind his desk. "Fine. Okay. Yes, she was asking for more money, alright? She said she'd go on social media and spill everything—that I was straight, that my relationship with Fabio was a sham, that I'd been lying to my public all this time. And I'd paid blackmail to cover it up."
"How much more did she ask for?" Ava asked.
"Fifty thousand."
I gasped before I could rein it in. "That's a big number."
"Right?!" Costello threw his hands up. "I don't have that kind of money sitting around. I mean, this isn't Milan, dahlings." He gestured around his fishy smelling, gold gilded office. "I-I'm not making what I once was. The fashion market is flooded these days."
Fashion, Rosé & Foul Play (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 6) Page 14
