“I’d have to check my calendar, but I believe I’m available,” I said. “In the city?”
“No, it would be close by,” she replied. “I have a weekend place that’s not far from here.”
For some reason, I was strangely pleased by that. It was as if the fact that one more prominent New Yorker—a fashionable, world-renowned one, no less—had chosen the area I called home as the place to spend her down time reflected positively on this corner of the world I loved so much.
“Interestingly,” Pippa went on, “it was Omar who convinced me that I should buy a weekend retreat here in the Hudson Valley.” She sighed, meanwhile gazing off into the distance.
I had a feeling that what she was actually doing was gazing into the past. I discovered I was right when she wistfully said, “Omar loved his home here so much. He talked about it all the time.” With a little laugh, she added, “It was as if he were Henry Hudson himself, the way he carried on about how beautiful this part of the country was. You’d think he was the one who’d discovered it!
“But in a way, he was,” she said. “He did discover it. He was the first of our group of friends to get a house here. We’d all heard about the Hudson Valley, of course. Living in New York City, how could you not? But since most of us aren’t from this area originally, we weren’t as familiar with it as he was. It’s always seemed easier to get a place out on eastern Long Island, in the Hamptons.”
“Is Omar a native New Yorker?” I asked, even though I already knew he was. Thank you, Wikipedia.
“Yes, he is,” Pippa said. “He grew up on the Upper East Side. That’s one of New York’s chicest areas, you know.”
Yes, I knew. I had lived there myself, although my address had been Upper enough and East enough that the rents were relatively reasonable, at least by New York City standards.
“He bought Greenaway—his ‘Hudson hideaway,’ as he liked to refer to it—a few years ago,” Pippa explained. “And he was enraptured by it. The way he talked about it impressed all of us. Finally, I came up here one weekend and saw for myself how lovely it was. I didn’t waste any time before I found myself a real estate agent. A few weeks later, I, too, had a Hudson hideaway.
“Which is why I’m here,” she said, as if the time for raving about this part of the country had ended and it was now time to get down to business. “Since I have a home here, it’s the perfect place for Omar’s memorial service. And I was hoping you’d be part of it.”
She looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to reply.
But I hardly knew the man, I thought, puzzled.
Then I realized she wasn’t referring to me. She was referring to Lickety Splits. And its ability to make a party special by including ice cream on the menu.
“Of course,” I said. “Let me just check my schedule . . .” I made a big deal about consulting my phone, frowning as if I were trying to read through the many upcoming commitments on my calendar. In truth, I was checking to see if I’d gotten any new e-mails, which I hadn’t. “Ah. It happens that I’m free on Sunday. I’d be happy to cater your event.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Since hot fudge sundaes were Omar’s favorite food, I thought it was imperative that ice cream play a large part in his memorial service.”
The corners of her mouth drooped, just a millimeter or two. But half a second later, she was back to her usual poised self.
“I was quite impressed with what you did the other night,” Pippa went on. “Not only the ice cream itself, which was utterly delicious. But the way you managed to make everything run so smoothly. You certainly have a way with the catering business. So I’d be happy to leave all the details in your hands.”
“Of course,” I told her. “Let’s start with how many people you’ll be expecting.”
“About two hundred,” she replied without even stopping to think. “Or perhaps as many as three hundred.”
I gasped. Three hundred people! I couldn’t even picture how many that was. I tried to picture three hundred ice cream spoons. And couldn’t.
And then another thought occurred to me.
“Do you have enough room for that many guests?” I asked.
She smiled. “Why don’t you come over to my house later this week—shall we say Thursday? That way you can see the space for yourself. Late morning, at around eleven, would be best. Perhaps then you could share your thoughts on how we might pull this off.”
She stared off into space again for a few seconds before adding, “Usually I have my people work out all the details for something like this. But since Omar and I were such close friends, I prefer to make all the arrangements myself.”
She looked back at me. “With help from experts like you, of course.”
If Pippa was using flattery to win me over, it was totally working. Not that I wasn’t inclined to do the very best job I possibly could with any catering gig I got.
But this one was extra-special, and would enable me to add a little glamour to my life as I hobnobbed with the elite players of the fashion world once again. Even more importantly, I hoped that being part of the memorial service would also help me with my investigation of Omar’s murder.
* * *
After Pippa left, I couldn’t wait to do what anyone else would do upon suddenly finding herself in the employ of one of the best-known, most influential figures in the fashion world.
I Googled her.
“Do you mind if I borrow your computer?” I asked Emma as soon as she came bounding into Lickety Splits, her arms wrapped around two big baskets. One was filled with ripe red raspberries and the other with bright yellow lemons. She looked as if she were posing for an oil painting by one of the Dutch masters. Except for the blue streaks in her hair, of course. “I could use my phone, but doing research is so much easier with a real screen.”
“Be my guest,” she said. “Just let me set these down and I’ll get it out.”
As soon as I settled in at one of the round marble tables with Emma’s laptop in front of me, I opened Google and typed in the words “Pippa Somers.”
Several photos came up. Not surprisingly, in each one Pippa was fashionably but conservatively dressed. And in all of them, her bronze-colored hair was perfectly styled in her famous flip. I got the feeling that whoever did her hair every morning used a special device, something the size and shape of a soup can, so that it always looked exactly the same.
I studied the photos more carefully. Pippa Somers sitting in the front row next to Heidi Klum at Paris Fashion Week. Pippa Somers whispering to Stella McCartney at Milan Fashion Week. Pippa Somers attending fashion week in countless other glamorous cities throughout the world, including London, Berlin, Florence, and Brisbane. Pippa on the arm of Michael Kors at the annual fashion extravaganza at the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, an event that was known as the Met Gala.
The woman certainly got around.
But I already knew that. There was nothing new here. So I kept clicking.
I learned that her annual salary as the editor of Flair was three million dollars a year. I also discovered that the Queen of England had awarded her a damehood, the female equivalent of a knighthood.
On Wikipedia, I learned that Pippa had been born and raised in London, the only child of a wealthy couple. Her father worked in the City, London’s version of Wall Street. Her mother ran three boutiques in London with a high-end clientele.
After graduating from Oxford University, Pippa began working at various fashion magazines. A standout from the start, she quickly landed a position at the British edition of Flair. She did such a good job of distinguishing herself that, when she was barely out of her twenties, the media company that owned Flair moved her to New York. In an amazingly short time, she took over the editorship of the magazine’s American version.
In addition to her business sense and her fashion acumen, Pippa Somers was known for her charitable work, her love of animals, and—the thing that most interested m
e—supporting young designers. Omar DeVane was named as an example, but so were a dozen others. Most of them were well known enough that I’d heard of them, even if I couldn’t afford to buy their clothes.
But as I read on, I learned that the media star was almost as well known for her dark side as she was for her fashion sense. Various sources had characterized her as “cold,” “calculating,” “merciless,” and “vengeful.” Her hard-driving personality, along with her quickness to anger, had earned her the epithet “the Ice Queen.”
And that was one of her kinder nicknames.
She had also been called “Pippa the Pulverizer,” “Sullen Somers,” and “The Pippanator.”
I felt a wave of discomfort as I read the disparaging names.
I checked a few more web sites, and they all contained pretty much the same information. Some of the write-ups were kinder, while some were even harsher.
I was about to abandon my search when the last listing on the page caught my eye.
“Feud Between Pippa and Omar Hits a New Low!” screamed a headline.
The appearance of those two names in the same line made me freeze.
My heart was pounding as I clicked on the link. According to the URL, the article had been published by the Sun, a British newspaper, fourteen months earlier. I couldn’t be certain, but I was fairly sure the Sun was one of those gossip-spreading and rumor-creating tabloids that England was famous for.
Which meant that what I was about to read might be true—or it might be fiction. Or it could be an exaggerated version of something that had really happened.
I began reading, my mouth already uncomfortably dry.
“The ongoing dispute between internationally acclaimed fashion designer Omar DeVane and Flair’s influential editor-in-chief Pippa Somers reached new lows last night at a high-profile fashion event. The fashion show, held at the Piccadilly Institute, introduced a controversial new designer from Japan, O. O, whose age, physical appearance, and gender remain a secret, wowed London with a runway show that featured the designer’s spring collection. The fashions included a three-armed and three-legged pantsuit made of newspaper, a pair of platform shoes made of metal two-Euro coins, and, for the finale, an elegant wedding dress made of paper towels and toilet tissue.
“Despite the outlandishness of the clothes on display, the true highlight of the evening turned out to be a loud argument between DeVane and Somers. The two were sitting in the front row when a discussion they were having during the show became increasingly louder and more heated. Their spat culminated with Somers rising to her feet, opening her purse, taking out a bottle of perfume—several onlookers reported that it was the classic Chanel No. 5—and dumping the contents on DeVane’s head. Somers then rushed out of the venue. The runway show continued without interruption.
“Increasing difficulties between DeVane and Somers have been in evidence for the past several years. Yet the two have a long history together, one that until recently has seemingly been only positive. In fact, in interviews DeVane has always credited Somers with helping him launch his career.
“Back in the early 2000s, DeVane opened his own boutique on Madison Avenue and 63rd Street in Manhattan. He quickly made a name for himself, thanks to his creative use of unusual fabrics—for example, an evening gown made of ruby red corduroy, a tailored women’s suit made of pink terry cloth, and a sleek black bathing suit trimmed with fake leopard-skin fur.
“But it was reportedly Somers’s decision to feature DeVane’s designs in Flair that made him and his inventive approach to fashion famous. Orders began pouring in, and he was sought out by such retail giants as Macy’s, Bloomingdale’s, and Nordstrom in the United States and Harrod’s and John Lewis in England, to create exclusive lines that would be featured in their stores. The designer quickly expanded into such diverse areas as footwear, jewelry, and handbags. Over time, DeVane moved away from his original concept, which some critics dismissed as ‘gimmicky.’ Yet he never strayed completely from his signature: incorporating his own unique and sometimes humorous use of surprising materials in every item that bore the famous ODV logo.
“As DeVane’s empire grew, he and Somers appeared to remain fast friends. They were seen together at fashion events, charity balls, and film festivals like Cannes and Sundance. However, in recent years, the relationship suffered a dramatic shift. The two fashion powerhouses became increasingly at odds. Explanations for their growing rift vary. Some people claim they’ve had conflicting ideas about what the relationship between fashion magazines like Flair and individual designers should be. Others say there have been problematic financial entanglements between the two. Still others simply attribute their difficulties to differences in their personalities.
“While the reasons for their falling out aren’t clear, what is clear is that the bad blood between the two fashion moguls has escalated to such an extreme level that they are no longer able to contain their hostilities while out in public. And if there’s one thing that people involved in the fashion industry should avoid, it’s airing their dirty laundry in public.”
I sat in front of the computer for a long time, thinking. This last piece of news left me reeling.
I certainly hadn’t picked up on any hostility between Omar and Pippa. If anything, the opposite was true. They appeared to be the best of friends. On Saturday night, Omar’s last night, he had gone out of his way to credit Pippa with helping launch his career, just as he had apparently done all along. And now Pippa was arranging a memorial service for the man, opening her home to hundreds of people.
Yet it was clear that the two of them had a past.
Was it possible that their feud, whatever it had been about, had reared its ugly head again more recently?
And that Pippa Somers’s equally ugly tendency to be “merciless” and “vengeful” had, too?
Chapter 9
Ice Pops began in 1923, when Californian Frank Epperson patented a “frozen ice on a stick.” While he originally called them Eppsicles, he soon changed their name to Pop’s Icle—which eventually became Popsicle. He made seven flavors, including cherry, the most popular. They sold for 5 cents each.
—http://www.expo2015.org/magazine/en/economy/a-short-history-of-ice-cream-from-ancient-roman-snow-to-love-with-a-heart-of-cream.html
Late Tuesday afternoon, I left the shop in Emma’s hands. As always, I was confident she could handle anything that came up.
And business continued to be shockingly light. Lickety Splits’ only customers were a smattering of locals who needed a quick ice cream fix in the form of a cone or a Bananafana Split. One woman bought a half gallon of Classic Strawberry for a family barbecue. But when it came to tourists, they were still avoiding Wolfert’s Roost.
As I headed home, I was preoccupied. But for a change, I wasn’t obsessing about how bad business was or Omar DeVane or even new ideas for ice cream flavors. I was ruminating about my date with Jake.
Not that it was a real date. It was just . . . a movie. Maybe with ice cream afterward.
But definitely not anything that would be considered a date in the classic sense. At least that was what I kept telling myself.
Once upon a time, Jake and I were boyfriend and girlfriend. He and I had fallen for each other—hard—back in high school. During our junior and senior year, we were inseparable. That is, whenever he wasn’t playing baseball. He was our school’s star player, his impressive record culminating in hitting the ball out of the park during the big game against Rhinebeck High, our school’s number-one rival.
So it was inevitable that the two of us would go to our senior prom together. At least, that was the plan.
Then the big night arrived. I’d spent hours getting dressed, taking a long bubble bath, and fussing endlessly with my hair and makeup. At last it was time to put on the perfect dress, one I’d spent weeks shopping for. The flatteringly cut strapless gown was the same shade of blue as the sky on a perfect day. I actually gasped when I looked at the final result in
the mirror.
But Jake never showed up. Seven o’clock rolled around. Then seven-fifteen, then seven-thirty . . . I’d waited until almost nine, certain that this couldn’t be happening. And then, finally, I’d thrown myself across my bed, crying for hours. Poor Grams did her best to comfort me, but I was beyond being consoled.
After that night, Jake disappeared. For the next fifteen years, I heard nothing. Not an apology, not an explanation, not even a posting on Facebook.
It had been only a few weeks earlier, right after Lickety Splits opened, that I’d finally learned the truth about what had happened that night. The reason Jake had stood me up was that he’d had to rush over to the police station, dressed in his rented tux. His father had been driving drunk—again. But this time he’d been in a car accident in which three people were injured. One of them had been a little girl.
Yet I still didn’t know how I felt about him. Not just because of prom night, either, but also because of his silence during all the years that followed.
Part of me could see things from his perspective, now that I knew the full story. But part of me still couldn’t let go.
As I pulled up in front of the house in my red pickup, I was snapped out of my distracted state by the sight of Grams. I spotted her in the driveway, climbing out of the front seat of her Corolla.
I was struck by how slowly she moved. I could see that the simplest movement, like getting out of her car, had become a challenge. I also noticed that, just like the day before, she was dressed nicely. She was wearing her good pants, a pretty flowered blouse, and jewelry.
I jumped out of my truck and dashed over to help her. To ask her a few questions, too.
“Okay, the jig is up,” I said sternly as I gave her my arm. “I want to know where you’ve been sneaking off to, all dressed up like that.”
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