Completing her business in the restroom, she washed her hands and headed out toward the ballroom.
Tiered crystal chandeliers dimmed inside the vast hall while spotlights aimed at the runway. A man at a podium on stage spoke about making tax-deductible contributions to the organization. Marla surveyed the round tables filled with guests that stretched from one end of the room to the other. Her nose sniffed food again, and her stomach growled. She should have grabbed one of those sandwiches earlier, but nerves had kept her appetite at bay.
She couldn’t spot Dalton at the darkened edges of the room. She’d have to look for him later. Hopefully, he was somewhere nearby, watching the show same as her.
The announcer’s voice boomed in the cavernous space. “Now let’s welcome the woman in charge of this spectacular event, the great fashion icon, Yolanda Whipp.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Yolanda came sweeping onto the stage with a radiant smile to a round of wild applause. After giving a brief introduction, she signaled the band to play a lively overture. As she segued into the prescribed segments, her voice resonated throughout the ballroom. She described each model’s outfit in lavish detail. Two girls began the cocktail dress sequence by walking down the runway together. At the tee on the end, they crossed places and strutted back toward the stage, finally vanishing behind the curtain.
Marla imagined them tossing their dresses to the assistant and donning the next outfit in a rush. Meanwhile, Yolanda described the next scene of party gowns. This involved a single model walking alone. When one girl was halfway back, the next one appeared from the side curtain and began her stroll. Everything ran smoothly, and the audience looked as entranced as Marla felt. If only she could afford one of those dresses!
Scene Three included ball gowns. Again, each one of the ten models strode alone down the runway. Cameras flashed all around. Marla caught a glimpse of Jason Faulks among the media crowd. Her mouth widened into a grin. This event would be splashed across the community news boards by tomorrow, and hopefully her salon’s name would be listed.
Finally, the flower girl paved the way for the bridal procession. Bubbles blew onto the stage, from which emerged each of five models to pose alone at various spots along the runway. Their gowns glittered and so did the tiaras on their heads. Gauzy veils completed the look. Marla could only shake her head in awe. And here she’d thought her wedding dress had been special. These were worthy of royalty, and likely the prices were, too.
“But we’re not finished,” Yolanda announced, after the last of the models disappeared behind the curtain. She nodded at the band, which played a flourish. “I am pleased and excited to introduce my latest development, a signature headpiece. This unique creation not only changes color with the mood of its wearer, but it can read your brain waves and transmit them to a receiver for biofeedback. Behold our top model, Ashley Hunt, wearing this glorious achievement, a blend of fashion design and technology for tomorrow’s future.”
Ashley appeared in a ravishing black sequined gown. Her hair had been let down, and a jeweled hairpiece crowned her head. Marla jostled forward so she could get a better look. The thing was made up of tiered black ridges studded with turquoise and black diamond-like stones that glittered in the light’s reflection. Exclamations of awe came from the audience as camera bulbs flashed.
The model didn’t exit, remaining at Yolanda’s side as the brides and other girls in their long gowns reentered the stage to take a final bow together. Yolanda read each person’s name and thanked the various people who’d made her show possible. Her voice cracked when she mentioned Valerie Weston.
“Although Val is no longer among us, I’m sure she is watching over us now. She was an inspiration to us all with her generosity. Val would have loved this show. I don’t know how we’ll go on without her.”
Would the ball continue without her underwriting? Or did her will include a provision for the group as everyone expected? Marla had meant to ask Dalton if he’d contacted Val’s attorney. Still not catching a glimpse of him among the throng, she added it to her mental list for later. Hopefully they would hook up once the lighting improved and she could see clearer.
Glancing at her watch, she gasped. How could it be ten o’clock already? She’d been there since five. And these people hadn’t even finished dinner yet.
“I’d like to thank Marla Vail from Cut ’N Dye Salon, for the hairstylists who made our models look so amazing tonight,” Yolanda said. “Marla, please come out now.”
Oy, vey. Marla had forgotten all about waiting backstage. Her heart thumping, she hurried forward. She’d take the steps in front leading up to the dais.
“And Joyce Underwood is our expert makeup artist. Please join us so we can acknowledge your contribution. Of course, I wouldn’t be here without the support of my dear husband, Henutt.”
As Yolanda rattled off more names, Marla climbed a short flight of stairs onto the stage, carefully watching her footing so she wouldn’t trip. Then she turned to face the hot, bright spotlights. Joined by the others Yolanda had mentioned, she smiled at a round of applause.
Finally free, she reentered the ballroom proper to search for Dalton as the lights brightened. The dance music resumed and guests headed for the dance floor. She didn’t encounter her husband but ran into Solomon Gold giving a dressing-down to Andrew Fine, the group’s publicist.
“What were you thinking in that article?” the organization’s president said, his eyes blazing. “One would think you were on the side of the developers.”
“Sometimes preservation isn’t in the best interest of the community, Sol. You have a personal stake in this site, so you’re biased.”
“You’re being paid to slant pieces in our favor, buddy, not side with the enemy.”
“Rick isn’t the enemy, man. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the sake of progress.”
“I agree, if conditions warrant it, but not in this case. Soften your slant, or you might find yourself looking for another job.”
The publicist marched off, a scowl on his face. Gold’s gaze swung to Marla, who craned her neck as though searching for someone. “Marla, your gals did a splendid job tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gold. I’m looking for my husband. He was here earlier, but I don’t see him anywhere.”
Gold cleared his throat. “Can you do a favor for me? Tell the detective to look into Andrew’s paper trail when you have a chance.”
“Why is that?” She kept her expression sweetly innocent.
“His recent articles have favored the building developer’s efforts to acquire those historic structures on Hollywood Beach that I’d mentioned earlier. Andrew is supposed to drum up support for our organization, not the opposite.”
Maybe Rick Rodriguez is greasing his pockets. She didn’t voice her thoughts aloud. “Don’t you own some of those buildings?”
“I do, and I appreciate their historical value. I could sell and make money, but preserving our heritage is more important in this case.” He pointed. “Speak of the devil, there’s Rick now. Have you met the guy?” Gold pulled the man over and introduced them. “I see someone I have to greet. Please excuse me.” He wandered off, leaving Marla alone with the land developer.
“I understand you and Val were at odds over certain projects,” Marla said to Rodriguez after they’d exchanged conversational platitudes.
“She put up a good fight,” the man said with a tinge of admiration. He looked like a fighter himself with a crooked nose, hooded eyes, and broad shoulders. His tux seemed an ill fit, as though he’d feel more at ease on a construction site than in a society ballroom.
“Did you butt heads often?”
“We had our differences. I stand for progress. Val stood for saving old structures that cried to be torn down.”
“She believed in preserving our region’s heritage. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s okay if you’re talking about a significant property, like Whitehall in Palm Beach, th
e home of Henry Flagler. His estate has inestimable value as a piece of our area’s history.”
“But not a row of buildings from the 30s on historic Hollywood Beach?”
“Look, Mrs. Vail, I’ve already had this argument. I can’t say I’m sorry Val is gone. She was a thorn in my side. So is this group’s president. Mr. Gold has his own biases.”
“So why are you here tonight at a fundraiser for their organization?”
He sneered. “Many of the city’s movers and shakers are here, that’s why. I can work the room same as their crowd. Gold isn’t thinking straight, or he might have asked me the same question. Either he’s blinded by his own selfish interests, or he’s been dipping into Dr. Needles’s concoctions.”
“What does that mean?” Marla leaned forward to better hear him over the band’s loud tempo. The music’s thumping vibrations shook her to the bone.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but ask Ashley Hunt if you want to know more. Good evening, Mrs. Vail. I have to circulate.”
Marla meandered through the crowd, wondering where Dalton had gone. She’d call him on her cell phone once she found a quiet zone. She sought Lora Larue to thank the woman for including her in the show, but Lora was engaged in a cluster of friends. Marla could send her a thank-you note later, perhaps with a small gift of appreciation.
Meanwhile, she headed backstage to collect her gear. These fights weren’t hers. She had enough to deal with on her own without getting involved in preservationist issues.
The dressing room resembled chaos with the models changing into their street clothes right out in the open. Yolanda’s assistant checked off each gown on her list, hanging it properly and reapplying the dress tag. Other personnel bustled about, including stagehands carrying equipment back and forth.
Marla sent Jennifer and Nicole on home with her hearty thanks. Then she sought Yolanda to let her know she’d be leaving. “I’m going to head out,” she said to the designer. “This has been a blast. I’m glad we had the opportunity to participate. Please keep me and my stylists in mind for future events.”
Yolanda’s face crinkled into a smile. She had a small mole above her wide lips that Marla hadn’t noticed before. “I will. And here’s a little something for your trouble. You can divide it among your girls.” Yolanda reached into a hidden pocket of her robe and handed over a roll of bills.
“Please, that’s unnecessary. You weren’t even the one who hired me.” But Yolanda insisted, so Marla stuffed the gratuity into her purse. She’d divide it among her stylists on Tuesday. “Thank you from all of us. It’s very kind of you.”
“My pleasure, darling.” Yolanda turned away, pausing when a blood-curdling scream pierced the air. “Oh, my God, what is that?”
Without hesitation, Marla sprinted toward the sound. She came to an abrupt halt further back among the maze of rooms where people formed a semi-circle. They faced a man slumped against the wall, a screwdriver-type tool sticking from his chest. Crimson stained his dress shirt.
“It’s Jason Faulks,” Marla said, recognizing him. “Is he dead?”
“I think so,” squeaked a trembling woman in a housekeeping uniform. She must have been the person whose shrieks had summoned them.
“Stay calm, the police will want to talk to you. That goes for everyone here. And stop taking videos, please.” Horrified that some of the onlookers were filming like they had at her day spa after Val’s death, Marla personally knocked down a few of the people’s raised arms.
“What’s going on?” Dalton’s voice thundered from behind.
With a whoosh of relief, she spun to face him. “It’s about time. Where have you been?”
“I was interviewing folks.” His gaze swung toward the object of people’s fascination. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’ve found another one.”
She gave a hysterical half-laugh. “Not me. That maid was first on the scene.”
Dalton was already pulling out his cell phone. He barked a few orders to the crowd and then stepped aside for privacy while he called for assistance.
Marla’s glance returned to the photographer who wouldn’t be covering these events any longer. And speaking of coverage, where was Jason’s camera? His camera bag lay open on the floor, but a quick glance told her it was empty. The camera had been too bulky to fit in a pocket.
She scanned the area, wishing the onlookers would disperse but knowing the cops had to get their statements and contact info first. The space was cluttered with furniture needing repairs, heavy-duty cleaning equipment, extension cords, and other miscellaneous items that would make a search difficult. Her stomach sank. It also meant Dalton might not be home for hours.
Exhaustion made her shoulders sag. She turned away, intending to look for a seat on which to wait, but Ashley had already claimed the only viable chair in the vicinity. Marla’s eyes narrowed at the way Dr. Needles knelt by her side, holding her hand in an intimate manner. They exchanged a brief but intense dialogue before he rose and left.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Backup would arrive soon. So would other detectives. This may not be Dalton’s jurisdiction, but since some of these people were involved in his ongoing investigation, perhaps it would justify his presence. She hoped the same team didn’t show up who’d dealt with the wedding murder. Marla had been a bridesmaid at her friend Jill’s ceremony when the matron of honor got fatally stabbed with a cake knife.
“Marla, isn’t it?” Ashley said, approaching. “Do we have to hang around?”
“If you’ll give your name and phone number to one of the cops, then you can probably leave. Did you see anything relevant? Like, did you notice Jason coming back here?”
“Not at all.” A tear streaked down the model’s face. “I can’t believe this happened. Jason covered a lot of my events and always caught me at my best angle.”
It would be about you. “I don’t see his camera. You wouldn’t know where it is, would you?” Marla eyed the large bag at the model’s side. She could fit a host of things in there.
“I have no idea. Sometimes he wore it on a strap around his neck.”
“It’s not there now.” Had someone stabbed him because of what he’d caught on film? “I saw you speaking to Dr. Needles. What was he doing back here?”
Ashley looked startled. “Um, he . . . why do you care? And how come you haven’t left already? All the other stylists are gone.”
“I’m waiting for my husband, Detective Dalton Vail.”
Ashley’s mouth gaped. “You’re married to him?” She pointed to Dalton, who cut an authoritative figure as he interviewed witnesses.
“That’s right. I gather you and Dr. Needles are friends? Or do you have a professional doctor–patient relationship?”
Ashley lifted her chin. “If you must know, Ian has been treating me for back pain. I injured myself during a rehearsal when a loose board on a runway made me trip and fall. I’d been seeing him for a cosmetic procedure and mentioned my injury. He offered to help.”
“It looks as though you’ve made a good recovery.” Marla didn’t miss her familiar use of the doctor’s first name. She opened her mouth to ask another question but was drowned out as other officials crashed the area.
“Here’s my card,” she told Ashley. “If you think of anything important, please call me. I can pass your information along to my husband.”
Dalton was apt to be here late, and Marla didn’t care to wait around that long. She should leave him their car and hail a taxi. She’d stepped forward to tell him when a howl of anguish froze her in place.
“My masterpiece is gone!” Yolanda hollered. “Thief, thief! Someone has stolen my priceless crown.”
Marla rushed over. “What do you mean? Your jeweled headpiece is missing?”
“Yes. Oh, I am going to faint. Someone call my husband.”
“Calm down. It has to be here somewhere. Maybe you misplaced it.”
“I did not. I’d put it inside its case and got distracted same as everyone else.”
“Where’s your personal guard?” Marla peered at the crowd.
“He went over when he heard the screams from that stupid maid. That’s probably when somebody stole it. My assistant isn’t here either. She left to load the gowns into the van.”
“What use could the crown be to anyone else? It’s your signature item. Or are those stones worth money? I thought they were lab-made crystals.”
Yolanda gave Marla a cold glare. “My invention has garnered interest from other parties, including the military. It has ramifications you wouldn’t understand. Help! Help! Somebody find the thief.”
Marla stepped back to let others minister to her. She studied the throng with suspicion. During the commotion, anyone might have snatched the case with its precious cargo. It was a decent-sized item that would be difficult to hide. Had the thief stashed it nearby, intending to return for it later?
She commenced a search but gave up shortly thereafter, too tired to continue. It wasn’t her job, anyway. The thought briefly crossed her mind that the murder might have occurred as a smokescreen for the theft. Was Yolanda’s invention so precious that someone would kill for it? Or was this merely a ruse to collect insurance money? She should suggest Dalton check into Yolanda’s finances.
Standing on her tiptoes, she scanned people for the guard’s buzz-cut head. He seemed to have vanished, as had the young assistant. Maybe they were both involved somehow.
Another thought made Marla pause. Val had been an acquaintance of Yolanda’s. Had the benefactress discovered something suspicious about the designer that had led to her death?
She sent Dalton a text message that she’d grab a taxi and meet him back home. This new ripple would add hours to his stint here, assuming the local boys didn’t mind his presence.
Outside the main lobby, the last crowd of guests lingered while waiting for the valet. She caught one of the young men and asked him to call a taxi for her.
“Hey, Marla,” said a sultry woman’s voice at her elbow. “What’s the matter, your date stand you up?”
Facials Can Be Fatal Page 10
