by Zoey Dean
Those two thoughts propelled Anna forward. She actually found herself strutting to Mick Jagger. A smile curled on her lips. "You go, Anna! Do it for Norman Shnorman!" Sam yelled through cupped hands.
The audience started clapping to the beat. Anna had no idea what possessed her to do what she did next, when he reached the T. She yanked off the veil and whipped it into the audience. It definitely wasn't a moment sanctioned by the This Is How We Do Things Big Book (East Coast WASP edition); the clapping and whistling that greeted her spontaneous act was that much sweeter because of it.
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Shoplifters' Olympics
"Okay. We've got a little problem here. If I don't get some answers very quickly, it could turn into a big problem in about five minutes."
Assistant District Attorney Levitan stood together with Mrs. Vanderleer, Mrs. Chesterfield, and the designer Martin Rittenhouse in front of the five New Visions girls, Anna, and Cammie. They were all assembled on the edge of the catwalk backstage. The fashion show had ended with its gala curtain call about five minutes before; even now, the post-show din was nearly overwhelming--the shouts and cries of friends greeting each other punctuating a sixties dance mix.
Instead, once Mr. Levitan had been informed by Mrs. Vanderleer that the Rittenhouse dress destined for Anna had turned up missing, he'd conducted the world's quickest backstage investigation--one that now centered on the New Visions girls.
The Rittenhouse dress that had disappeared during the New Visions girls' visit to the Rittenhouse workshop had never been found. Now, the same designer
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had been victimized again. No way was the DA going to take this lightly. No way he should, Cammie thought. But the way he was focusing his investigation on the New Visions girls was pissing her off. She'd watched him and a few of the museum's security people do a perfunctory questioning of the male models, stylists, dressers, and other personnel who'd been backstage before or during the show. Then these people had been dismissed, and Levitan had zeroed in on who he obviously thought were his prime suspects.
Now the district attorney paced back in front of them like he might in front of a jury. Cammie and Anna sat in the middle, with Champagne to Cammie's left and everyone else to Cammie's right. She was directly atop the crack where two pieces of the prefab catwalk had been pushed together.
"You might wonder why everyone has been released and you're still here," Levitan declared. "It's because when you hear hoofbeats coming your way, you think horses, not zebras."
"What does that mean?" Daisy asked. Cammie could tell she really didn't understand.
"It means that you girls--not you, Anna or Cammie, but you other girls--have the most to gain by liberating a dress that doesn't belong to you. That's why you're here. And that's why I'd like whoever did this to speak up."
The group was silent. Cammie could feel the girls' embarrassment. She had a gut feeling that none of them
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was responsible, no matter what had happened at Rittenhouse's workshop.
"Excuse me, Andrew," Mrs. Vanderleer broke in. "I know these girls. I'd be very surprised if any of them took this dress. The only girl I don't really know all that well is Champagne."
"Fine. Let's focus on her. Did any of you see Champagne doing anything suspicious?" Levitan looked from person to person, until Mai raised her hand.
"Yes?"
Mai pointed right at Champagne. "Her. Before the show, I saw her try on the black dress."
Cammie saw Mrs. Vanderleer and Mrs. Chesterfield trade knowing looks. She felt like slapping them across their supercilious faces.
"Yes. I did try it on," Champagne admitted immediately. "Right before the show. It's a beautiful dress. But I did not take it! I just wanted to see what it looked like. I put it on and went to the bathroom. And then I put it right back on Anna's rack."
"Anyone else see Champagne here wearing Mr. Rittenhouse's dress?" Levitan queried.
Cammie saw Anna slowly raise her hand.
What?
"I did," Anna said. "About ten minutes before the show. But trying on a dress does not mean she stole it. And I think it's unfair to accuse someone with absolutely no proof. Sir," she added, scrupulously polite.
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"I did not take that dress," Champagne repeated. It sounded to Cammie like she was ready to cry.
Mr. Rittenhouse stepped forward. "I hope you understand the seriousness of this. That dress is as much a work of art as the Mona Lisa. I toiled for days designing it. Just like that other dress that disappeared. How do I know you didn't take that one, too?"
Mrs. Chesterfield nodded and entwined her narrow fingers, staring pointedly at Champagne. "Oh, dear. This is very upsetting."
Go choke on your pearls, Cammie thought.
"Martin?" Mrs. Vanderleer gave him a cool look.
"Yes?"
"If you would kindly allow Mr. Levitan to investigate. Mr. Levitan?"
"Yes?"
"If you would kindly move this along. Either one of these girls has the dress or she doesn't. If one does, make the arrest and let the others join what is a wonderful party on the other side of the curtain. If none of them has it, look elsewhere and let the rest of us go have a cocktail."
Levitan's response was to keep up his questions, despite the fact that he was getting no useful information from anyone. Then he put Champagne under an intense cross examination. Champagne got more and more flustered, and finally Cammie could take no more. She jumped to her feet so quickly she pushed apart the two halves of the catwalk, so there were a few inches of bare space between them.
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"Mr. Levitan, give it a rest. You're railroading my client!"
Levitan gave Cammie a scathing glance. "Your client? What are you talking about? This isn't one of your father's shows, and you're not some hotshot defense lawyer."
Cammie felt the bile rise in her throat. "I still represent her."
"For what, may I ask? Shoplifters' Olympics?"
"Modeling. I'm Champagne's modeling agent."
"Sit down, Miss Sheppard."
"I don't want to sit down." Cammie was so pissed at that moment that she was ready to go to jail for Champagne if she had to.
"Miss Sheppard? Take three deep breaths. Then sit down."
Cammie saw Anna motion with her hand: Sit. Don't be stupid.
Fine. She wouldn't be stupid. She turned around and started back to the catwalk, mostly because she was afraid of what she might say to Levitan. As she did, she saw Rittenhouse flash her a patronizing look. What a jerk. With that ridiculous overstuffed man-bag .. .
Hold on.
She stopped in her tracks and zeroed in on the man-bag. When she'd seen him with it before the show, the bag had been as thin and neat as an empty envelope. Now it was actually bulging. And no metrosexual worth his styling pomade would ever overstuff a slim leather bag unless . . . Could it possibly be ... ?
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"Mr. Levitan?" she asked sweetly.
The DA blew an exasperated breath between his lips. "Yes? I asked you to sit down."
"I'm going to. Right now." Cammie returned to her place on the catwalk. Then she looked at the DA again. "Could you ask Mr. Rittenhouse to please open his bag. Please?"
"Whatever for?" Levitan demanded.
Cammie fixed her eyes on the designer. She saw fear in them.
"Because I think that's where you'll find the missing dress."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" Rittten-house blustered. "I didn't steal my own dress!"
Levitan frowned. "Mr. Rittenhouse is one of our designers. I think it's highly unlikely that--"
Cammie got some help from an unexpected source. "I don't see you making any other progress, Andrew," Mrs. Vanderleer proclaimed. "And if Martin has nothing to hide, he has nothing to worry about." The event organizer marched over to Rittenhouse. "Your satchel, Martin. Open it."
"Don't humiliate me like this, please," he begged.
"N
ow." Her voice was steel.
Rittenhouse handed over the bag. Mrs. Vanderleer opened it. Inside, somewhat crumpled but still easily identified, was the missing black dress. "I can explain! I can explain!" he pleaded.
Cammie looked at him with murder in her eye.
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"Explain what? You son of a bitch. You loser son of a bitch."
Levitan pointed at Rittenhouse. "You. You stay." Then he pointed at Cammie. "You, stay too. All the rest of you?" His eyes swept over the New Visions girls. "You did a wonderful job tonight. You have a lot to be proud of. Champagne, I owe you one. Now go have fun. Mrs. Vanderleer, you should go join your own party, too. I know how to deal with scum like this guy."
Mrs. Vanderleer shook her head. "I want to hear Martin's explanation. If he has one. And I want him to apologize to Champagne. Champagne, please stay."
Cammie watched as Anna and the New Visions girls stepped away. Now, only she and Champagne remained.
"I can explain!" Martin exclaimed, once most everyone was gone.
"You said that before," Mrs. Vanderleer recalled. "So here's your chance. Make it convincing."
For a moment, it seemed to Cammie like he was going to spin out some big excuse-filled yarn. Instead, the designer just seemed to crumple.
"Publicity," he muttered, so softly that Cammie could barely hear.
"Publicity? Publicity!" Levitan thundered.
"Yeah. I thought I would get it when the dress disappeared at my workshop. When that didn't happen, I thought if there was another robbery here, it'd be all over the Times in the morning."
Cammie seethed. What an asshole. What was he
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going to do, wait until they broke down the catwalk and then retrieve his gear and the dress? And still blame it on Champagne? What a lot of nerve. Champagne could have been arrested, but he obviously didn't give a shit.
"You could have ruined one of these girls' lives," Cammie said through gritted teeth.
"But I wasn't going to try to press charges!" he insisted, sputtering. "I was . . ."
Cammie didn't need to hear the rest of it. "Going to use your 'generosity' in not pressing charges to milk even more publicity out of this situation? Make yourself look like a real hero?" she finished for him.
Rittenhouse looked down, silent.
"Mr. Levitan? You could arrest this bottom feeder."
"I could."
"But I've got another idea," Cammie went on. She did have another idea. An incredibly great idea, of which both her father and mother would have been proud.
She looked directly at Rittenhouse. "Tell me right now that you'll use Champagne here as a model in all the showings that you'll be doing over the next two years. Tell me right here, right now, in front of everyone."
"I can't do that! She's too short!" Rittenhouse exclaimed.
"Of course you can," Cammie cajoled. "Because you're also going to be featuring a new petite line called
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Martinette. If you do, I'm going to recommend to the district attorney and to Champagne that we forget this sordid little incident. To Mrs. Vanderleer, too. And don't worry, they'll listen to me. As you're witnessing now, I can be very persuasive."
Martin didn't hesitate. "Done."
"I'll hold you to it, too, Martin. Or you'll never show clothes in this town again," Mrs. Vanderleer told him. "Now, an apology to Champagne."
The designer apologized to Champagne. Champagne accepted the apology. Then she hugged Cammie in a way that Cammie remembered once hugging her own mother. It felt sincere. And real. It felt absolutely great.
As Mrs. Vanderleer put her arm around Champagne to lead her to the party, the district attorney asked Cammie to stick around for a minute.
"I need to thank you," he told her.
She smiled sweetly. No need to rub it in. "Truth, justice, and the American way. Just don't jump to conclusions again."
"This'll help remind me not to," Levitan admitted. "I'm just lucky you were around to figure it out. Maybe you've got a future in law enforcement."
Cammie guffawed. "I don't think so. I don't do blue uniforms. Not my color."
The DA offered her his hand. She shook it and smiled sweetly again. It never hurt to have a district attorney on your side. Never, ever.
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Double Dating
Cammie took in the reflection of her mother's pale pink blouse and skirt in the backstage mirror before heading out to join the after party. She ran her fingers over the smooth, silky material and tried to remember. The feel of her mother's well-manicured hands, her mom stroking her hair, reading her Where the Wild Things Are, Winnie the Pooh, Charlotte's Web, until she fell asleep. The same mom who managed to hide a depression so severe that she finally couldn't continue her way in the world.
Did anyone ever know anyone, really? Or was it that everyone had two sides, different faces seen by different people at different times?
Through the red velvet curtain, she heard the Supremes wailing, "Stop in the Name of Love," and a DJ urging everyone to dance. She knew what was happening on the other side. People were eating. Drinking. Dancing. Flirting. Getting their tax-deductible money's worth. Neither her father nor her self-involved stepmother had shown any interest in attending, but her
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friends were out there. Her new client, Champagne. And Ben.
She'd left him an oh-so-casual message, reminding him about the fashion show. Had he come for Anna, or because of the invitation she'd offered? What would Adam think when he heard that Ben was here? Or about their almost-encounter at Trieste?
Cammie knew just what she had to do.
She left the fashion show backstage area, but went in the other direction instead of joining the party, into an empty adjoining gallery that held half a dozen enormous abstract expressionist canvases by Clyfford Still. She took out her cell and pressed speed dial. He answered on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"I'm wearing my mother's clothes."
"I've been thinking about you. What did you say about your mother?"
"Never mind. So, I haven't heard from you in a while."
"I know. I miss you like crazy."
Adam sounded different somehow.
"That's so sweet. Are you coming home this weekend? That was your plan, right? Before all that silly nonsense you told me, about loving the Midwest and thinking about the University of Michigan, and all that."
"I'm not sure when I'm coming home, exactly. I really still need to figure some things out."
"Maybe I can help you with that." She shook out her Raymondized curls and moved the silver Razr closer to her
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lips. "It's Wednesday night. If you're not home by Sunday at midnight--Los Angeles time, that gives you a few extra hours--we're over. Four days, Adam. Four days."
She waited while an elderly security guard in a gray uniform padded across the empty gallery, his footfalls echoing against the walls. All the while, Adam was silent. Then, he managed a single, strangled word.
"What?"
"Over and done and it's been fun."
"You can't possibly mean that. Because I need some time to think . .. you'd break up with me?"
Cammie shrugged, even though she knew he couldn't see it. "I guess I needed less time to think than you did."
"That's not love, Cam. Please. Try to look at it from my point of view. I love this place, Cammie. The way you love L.A."
She could feel herself soften, feel something turning inside her heart. No. She was as much her father as she was her mother. Yes, there was a time for kindness. But also, yes, there was a time to be an asshole.
"Adam, I am telling you this sincerely. Come back. I'm here and I miss you. I want you. But if being in Michigan is more important to you than being with me, then ... oh well. So I hope to see you soon. I'll be waiting for you. Don't call me. Just make it happen. Sunday night. Midnight. 'Bye."
She snapped her phone shut before she could lose h
er nerve.
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"I love the gown Pegasus wore." The district attorney's aggressively thin wife, with aggressively implanted breasts and a too-long nose, was gushing to Gisella. "Could I get your card?"
Sam was happy for Gisella's success. She seemed like a lovely woman, and there was no question about her talent quotient. But success wasn't really what was on her radar as she stood with the Peruvian designer and Eduardo. Gisella wore a red-and-black embroidered gown of her own design, with a black off-the-shoulder sweater and long, dangling red earrings. The dress left no doubt: Gisella had the most spectacular behind in Southern California. Sam compared it to her own, in True Religion dark wash jeans and a pink Sweet Pea mesh T-shirt that crisscrossed under the bust. Gisella's butt was by Michelangelo. Hers was by Land Rover.
Gisella had a better body. Gisella was artistically talented. Gisella spoke Eduardo's language. Worse than that, after the DA's wife moved off, Gisella kept finding reasons to touch Eduardo during conversation that flitted from Spanish to English and back again.
Gisella and Eduardo were still yammering in Spanish. Sam looked around. There was Parker, over by the bar. He motioned to her.
She excused herself. The DJ was playing the Beatles' "Here, There and Everywhere." She met Parker in the middle of the small, crowded parquet dance floor that had replaced the runway and gave him a warm hug.
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"I owe you another one, Sam," he murmured, and mussed her hair up in back.
She had to admit it felt great to be in his arms, knowing that he had to be the best-looking guy at the party. He wore dark black pressed trousers and a white button-down cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up--nothing special, but she felt the stares of other girls, and even of other guys. It happened no matter where Parker went. "You owe me nothing." She beamed at him. "I do. For what you decided to do with those pics of me and Poppy"
"And then the gods of Hollywood intervened on my side."
"I guess they did. Your dad kicked her out, huh?" "He did. And the funny thing is, I'm glad she left the baby behind."
