He goes a shade even whiter, which is saying something since the man rivals Conan O’Brien in the paleness department. He gives me a quick onceover. “Get her into the crocheted one-piece,” he orders the minion, and with a wave of his hand I am pulled deeper backstage. “Go, go!” I hear him cry and the music ramps up into an even faster beat. The models screech before scrambling to get in line.
The fashion show is starting. And I’m in it. Model Number Thirteen. That may be a lucky number for Hugh White, but I’m not sure it is for me, especially with how Fate is toying with me here in New York City.
I can’t believe it! So much for enjoying this spectacle from the front row, fully clothed and in a prime position to overhear Violet Honeycutt’s no doubt catty observations. Now I must strut the needle-thin catwalk with no practice whatsoever while wearing a highly revealing swimsuit that might or might not fit, all while hoping I don’t become shark food.
“The other models are going twice, but you only have to go once,” the minion informs me. “And you’re last.”
So I’m bringing up the rear. I hope Hugh White isn’t making a snide comment on my aging behind. I am handed the crocheted one-piece, a white halter-style which fortunately is less skimpy than it might be. I’m forced to get into it out in the open—neither pageants nor fashion shows allow for modesty—but I am delighted to see that butt glue is as much a thing here as it is in pageant competition. The last thing I want is my one-piece riding up my cheeks.
More bad news comes when I’m prodded into backless sky-high nude stilettos that only sort of fit. As models go out onto the runway and come back, yelping exuberantly when they return still dry, I hear something alarming. I grab the minion’s arm. “What are they talking about, the runway’s getting higher?”
“It’s on a hydraulic system,” she tells me. “After each model makes her run, it rises an inch or so.”
“What? Are you kidding me?” I run to the launch area to see for myself, the minion, hairdresser, and makeup girl in my wake. “Oh. My. God,” I breathe, for yes, this nightmarish rumor is true.
At the start, the runway rose perhaps six inches out of the water. Now the darn thing protrudes by a good two feet. I watch in amazement as a model in a boho-style fringed bikini exits the catwalk and the entire thing lifts.
“Why?” I wail. “The higher the catwalk, the scarier it is to walk it!”
“It’s exactly the same,” the minion blithely informs me. “Nothing changes but the height off the water.”
I want to wring her skinny neck. Saying it’s exactly the same is a load if I ever heard one. That beach bum Hugh White is heightening the drama by raising the runway and everybody knows it.
I squint at the crowd, my heart jigging in my chest. I can see Senior and Violet Honeycutt, both of whom appear riveted. But of course! Those two would love the tension. Will a model fall in the water? Maybe the one we sent out there? How fun would that be! What will the sharks do, I wonder?
“I have to leave her hair loose,” the hairdresser says. “I don’t have time to do anything else.”
“No time?” I cry.
“Only two more and then you’re up,” the minion says.
God help me.
“Let me pump up her lips,” the makeup artist says, and on goes a shade of hot magenta you could find in the dark. I’m sure the sharks will have no trouble homing in on it.
“Stand here,” the minion says, and I am pushed behind a blonde in a barely there nude bikini I thank the heavens I didn’t have to wear. Off she goes. I’m next.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Eventually a sort of fatalistic calm settles over me. What am I so worried about? I’ve done this sort of thing a hundred times. Smile, strut, turn, call it a day. Easy as pie, I tell myself. No way will I flub this and give that bombastic old coot Oliver Tripp Sr. the satisfaction.
It seems barely a moment before the blonde is back. She squeals as she races past me, high fiving the other models. Every single model has come back dry. And now so must I.
“Hold,” the minion orders, and I wait as the infernal catwalk elevates yet again. I swear that thing must be two and a half feet above the water by now. “Go,” the minion barks, and she shoves me onto the stage.
I throw back my shoulders, stretch my lips into my competition smile, and make for the runway. From here the crowd is bathed in darkness. All I can see are the white ribbon of the catwalk and the flashes of what seem like a million cameras. I step onto the catwalk and slow my pace just a trifle. Smile! Smile! I keep my chin up but am acutely conscious of placing my feet exactly in the middle of the runway. No hugging the edge for me. I try not to panic when a shark zooms past on my right and then another does the same on my left. Are they circling or what, the slithery predators? I bet they’re salivating by now. I hope somebody fed them breakfast.
After what seems an eternity, I make it to the runway’s horseshoe turn. Hurray! Another few strides and I’m halfway home! I’m celebrating that milestone when the catwalk suddenly jerks and then rises a bit. I halt, my heart pumping madly. The crowd gasps. I can’t help it; what with these stupid backless stilettos that don’t quite fit, I have to fling out my arms to keep my balance.
A second later, I take a deep breath, bring my arms back in, and giggle as if that was nothing. I earn applause and a few bravos and boy, do I deserve them. I venture another step. Then, wouldn’t you know it, the catwalk jerks again and this time it drops, shockingly fast, and I can’t help it, I’m flailing, and then I’m gone, gone, gone, falling sideways into the water like I’m a body being tossed overboard.
Splash! Bam! I hit the bottom fast. The water is shallow and salty and cold. I scramble to my feet, aware of pandemonium all around me, and find myself nose to nose with a shark. I know it’s only about three feet long but it might as well be twenty. I screech and manage to get my feet under me and then I see another shark coming from the other side. I’m about to be the meat in a shark sandwich! I kick at one and then the other—I’m probably screaming all the while, I’m not sure—and must hit pay dirt because I feel a shark’s sandpapery skin against my bare foot. Needless to say, those accursed stilettos are long gone.
All I want is out and I don’t care how I get there. Those sharks must be pissed by now and they probably sent an SOS to their slimy brethren. The only way I can get back onto the runway is to hoist one leg up and then lever the rest of myself up, too. It’s not the most graceful maneuver I’ve ever made and I am not happy that a couple hundred people are watching. I escape the water just as the rest of the shark posse arrives. I lay on the catwalk on my belly, dripping and panting but out of reach of the sharks, which are now thrashing about in a fairly frantic manner. It’s then that I realize how many cameras are pointed at me, me with my wet, bedraggled hair and streaming mascara and 35-year-old butt.
Okay. Showtime. I get myself into a kneeling position and then rise to my feet. Applause breaks out, and catcalls and whoops. Even though I’m trembling from cold and fear and my body is covered with goosebumps, I wave jauntily to the crowd before jutting my chin and striding barefoot along the catwalk to the stage, where that shark-crazy maniac Hugh White stands waiting, clapping with the rest. I feel like kicking him in the you-know-what. Let’s see him navigate the catwalk in backless stilettos! He grabs my arm and raises it in the air as if I’m a prizefighter. Right now Model Number Thirteen does feel as if she just went ten rounds.
Later, Shanelle and Trixie ask me what happened after that and I couldn’t really tell them. It’s kind of a blur. Somehow I dried off, got dressed, and reunited with Senior. The moment I got back in the limo, the driver—the same nice man who procured Italian food for Senior and me Sunday night—showed me on his phone that I was trending on Twitter. Unfortunately, not dry, self-possessed, upright me, but wet, panicked, lying-on-the-catwalk me.
Needless to say, this is not the re-posting I was hoping for.
“There is video of you waving and looking ver
y calm,” Trixie tells me back at the apartment. I’m showered and wearing a robe and all three of us are at the table eating crackers and soup. “Lots of people are tweeting that you were amazing kicking at those sharks.”
“I bet that’ll be the part that goes viral,” Shanelle says. “Anyway, did you find out why the runway went haywire in the first place?”
“Hugh White swore it was a malfunction,” I say. “But I have to wonder if he torpedoed me so I’d fall in the water. He doesn’t have any loyalty to me, after all. I’m not one of his models.”
“He is getting a lot of buzz out of all this,” Trixie says. “His swimwear’s going to fly off the shelves now.”
I glance at Shanelle, who’s staring at her phone and frowning. “What now?”
She shakes her head and hands me her phone. “I might as well show you. You’ll see it soon enough.”
It’s a tweet from Sherry Phillips. About, you guessed it, Sebastian Cantwell. “They’re in a photo looking thick as thieves,” I tell Trixie. “Apparently he invited her to his country home in the Cotswolds next month after she attends, wait for it, London Fashion Week.” I suppose this day could get worse. I can’t imagine how, though. I hand Trixie Shanelle’s phone so she can see this abomination, too. “Sherry’s testimonial must have made Mr. Cantwell sound like a saint,” I add.
I watch Shanelle and Trixie struggle to think of something reassuring to say. “Listen, girl,” Shanelle offers eventually. “This could be a good thing. Cantwell could get fed up with her pretty darn fast. Because when it comes to Sherry Phillips, I am here to tell you that less is more.”
“Maybe. All I know is that all of a sudden he’s taking quite an interest in my runner-up.”
“All right. Enough of that.” Trixie reaches over to rub my arm, but her voice is stern. “You’re forgetting the key to triumphing over your rivals. Being the best you can possibly be. Don’t think about Sherry. Think about yourself. That’s the only person you can control, anyway.”
“Good advice, girl,” Shanelle says.
“So here’s what you do now,” Trixie says. “Solve Lisette’s murder.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I don’t know how Trixie managed it, but she came up with something that might be even tougher than fending off sharks. “Here’s problem number one with that plan,” I say. “We’re leaving Thursday. That gives me only forty-eight hours to figure out who killed Lisette.”
“No problem,” Trixie declares. “You’re always fast.”
“I wish. Anyway, problem number two. My suspects are dropping like flies. Oliver’s father told me that Violet Honeycutt told him that the Belfer told her that the apartment would never go to Lisette. The other residents wouldn’t stand for it, basically. Lisette’s reputation preceded her.”
“So you’re saying Violet Honeycutt had no motive for murder,” Shanelle says.
“Exactly. And while Oliver might’ve hired somebody to kill Lisette, he wasn’t backstage to do it himself.” I explain why. My BFFs find Junior’s secret McDonald’s habit pretty hilarious.
“But Oliver is still a suspect,” Trixie says. “And so is Kimberly.”
True. And just today I heard from Tonya yet another reason why our petite would-be homewrecker would’ve loved to see Lisette dispatched to the Great Beyond: Lisette was scheming to get her fired. I rise to look for my phone, which I’ve been shunning since the fashion show. Among the concerned texts and calls is a voicemail from Mario Suave. As you can imagine, I listen to it ASAP.
“He wants me to call as soon as I can,” I tell Trixie and Shanelle. “He says it’s important.”
Shanelle harrumphs. “I know better than to stand between you and your cell phone when Mr. Suave wants a call back.”
I ignore Shanelle’s snarky comment and relocate to the semi-privacy of our kitchen to return Mario’s call.
“I wasn’t trying to reach you because of the case,” he tells me. “Although there is one new development. My contact told me there are no fingerprints on the ball bearing.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. That would be a pretty basic mistake.”
And thus we exhaust the topic of Lisette’s murder. Mario pauses and I wonder what else could be so important that he wanted me to call him as soon as possible. Then he speaks again, in as somber a tone as I’ve ever heard from him. “I want you to know that I agree with you, Happy. We can’t keep going on this way.”
It’s unmistakable, the note of finality in his voice. “What are you saying?”
“It has to be yes or no for us. It can’t keep on being maybe or someday. Not for me, anyway. It has to be yes or no.”
I know he’s right. That doesn’t mean I’m ready for this. “You know we’ve tried this before. Tried to cut each other off.”
“Yes. And what happens? At the first possible moment, we both backslide. That’s why for me it’s decision time.”
So. An ultimatum. I can’t really blame Mario. We’re in a sort of limbo and have been for a while.
“Are you free tonight around six?” he goes on.
“Yes.” Senior promised me he’d stay away from tonight’s preview. Blackmail is so very effective.
“Then,” Mario goes on, “if you want us to be together, meet me at the Empire State Building. At the open-air observation deck on the 86th floor. If I don’t see you there, I’ll know what that means.”
“Mario, this is very An Affair to Remember.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” He hesitates, then: “I’m sorry, Happy, but I just have to know. Once and for all.”
Then he’s gone. Just like that. Poof.
I have a few hours to decide. Not that there’s anything to decide, really. I’m married to Jason and I love him. Just this morning I vowed to make sacrifices for our marriage. Still, I’m crushed at the idea of never seeing Mario again. Being with him might be an improbable fantasy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t treasure it. That doesn’t mean that on some level way deep down, I don’t want it to come true.
“You all right, girl?” Shanelle wants to know.
I realize she’s standing behind me. I wonder for how long. I force myself to turn and face her inquisitive eyes. “I’m fine,” I lie.
“What did Mario want?”
I hesitate for only a second. “To tell me no fingerprints were found on the ball bearing.” I don’t want to tell her what Mario really wanted. I don’t want to hear what she thinks. Because I know what she thinks. Now what does that tell me?
Trixie comes into the kitchen to stand behind Shanelle. “Oh, my Lord. If there are no prints, it’s going to be even harder to figure out who the murderer is.”
“It sure enough is.”
Not a peep comes out of Shanelle. She just stares at me. At moments like these, I wish she weren’t so darn good at reading read every single thought that passes between my ears.
“Do you want to meet up with your mom and Bennie at the Met?” Trixie asks me. “Shanelle and I are going. I’d hate to leave New York without seeing it, but you might want to hang out and try to figure out who killed Lisette.” Her eyes grow serious. “I could skip the Met and help, if you want.”
“That’s a really sweet offer, but you know what? Let’s all go to the Met. Sometimes I get my best ideas when I’m out and about. I’ll be ready in fifteen.” I escape Shanelle’s penetrating gaze by busying myself with dressing. I keep it simple and all black: skinny jeans, turtleneck, 3-inch-heel booties. I can’t even bring myself to wear my new asymmetrical earrings: they’re too festive. Today I’m going with plain silver studs.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art would be overwhelming even if I were in full possession of my faculties. As it is, I’m only too happy to adhere to the viewing suggestions that Bennie texted Trixie.
We begin by admiring the sprawling Fifth Avenue façade, which to me has a monumental Greek temple look. “It’s Beaux-Arts, which lots of public buildings were in the late nineteenth century,” Trixie says, reading from her
phone. “What amazes me is that now, after so many additions, this museum has over two million square feet of floor space.”
“You could visit every day for a year,” I say, “and always see something new.” We walk up the grand front steps. “We’re supposed to meet Bennie and my mom in the Egyptian Galleries, right?” I ask Trixie.
“Yes, back here on the first floor,” she says, and soon we’re walking past sarcophagi, sculptures and sphinxes. Like everyone else in this gallery, we’re pulled as if by a magnet to the stunning Temple of Dendur, one of the museum’s highlights, which presides over a breathtaking room with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looks out on Central Park.
“This temple was constructed in the fifteenth century B.C.,” Trixie murmurs. “Egypt gave it to the U.S. as a gift after we helped salvage monuments that would’ve been flooded by Lake Nasser after the Aswan Dam was built.”
It’s an astonishing sandstone structure that’s even more incredible close-up when you examine the carvings of papyrus and lotus plants, deities and vultures.
“That reflecting pool in front represents the Nile,” Shanelle whispers.
Even my mother seems awestruck. We find her and Bennie peering at a segment of wall covered by hieroglyphics. “I don’t know how they got this thing here from that Egypt,” my mother says.
“By the freighter Concordia Star,” Bennie says. “All these stone blocks put together weigh eight hundred tons.”
“Thank God that ship didn’t sink,” my mother says.
We’re taking our time wandering around the temple when Bennie steps away to take a call on his cell.
“Your skin still looks fabulous, Mrs. P,” Trixie says.
“It better still look good on Easter. So what have you all been up to today?”
I’ve just started describing the fashion show when Bennie rejoins us wearing a puzzled expression. He looks at my mother. “I just got a call from the Saks Fifth Avenue fur salon. They told me your fur is ready to be picked up.”
Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Page 27
