by Judith Gould
“Yeah,” she retorted, “but at least I’m not a mad quack.”
He turned to Billie. “What is it with these people? Do you have to be certifiable to be in this business?”
“It helps.”
“Actually,” he said, “the reason I came by was to see if I might take you out. Have dinner and take in a show, maybe.”
“Mixing business with pleasure, Duncan?” Olympia asked tartly.
“I’d love to,” Billie told him quickly.
“Good.” He grinned. “How’s tonight?”
“I’ve got an early call tomorrow, so I can’t stay out very late.”
“Just dinner, then. It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
She nodded. “Seven’s fine. Do you have my new address?”
“The receptionist will have it in her files. I’ll have her dig it out.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to run. I’m supposed to take my daughter to lunch. See you later.” He glanced at Olympia. “Without your duenna, eh?”
“Quack!” Olympia snapped good-naturedly.
Billie Dawn watched as Duncan sprinted across Fifty-ninth Street and cut past the fountain in front of the Plaza. When he turned to wave at her, she waved back. Slowly she lowered her hand and turned to Olympia. “He’s nice, isn’t he?” she said softly.
Olympia gave her an oblique look.
“Billie Dawn!” the fashion coordinator called out from the trailer. “Time to change!”
As still happened on occasion, it took Shirley a moment to realize he was calling to her. Billie Dawn. She was still not quite used to hearing herself called that. She wondered if she ever would be. In a strange way, it was as if her old self no longer existed. Which was just as well, she thought. No one was more anxious to put her past behind her than she was. She knew she was lucky. How many people got the opportunity to start life all over again? And for the better?
“See anything?” Fred Koscina asked his partner. They were sitting in their plain blue sedan, stopped across the street alongside the Plaza Hotel.
Carmen Toledo lowered her binoculars and shook her short-cropped head. “Shit, boss. Not a thing. It all looks completely normal. You think keeping our eye on modeling assignments might be a waste of time?”
Koscina shrugged and popped a potato chip into his mouth. He munched it thoughtfully. “It can’t hurt. Since Vienna Farrow, there’ve been three scalped models so far. Somebody’s sure selecting ‘em from somewhere.”
“Maybe it’s an inside job? You know. Somebody from one of the agencies maybe?”
He grunted. “Beats me. But somewhere along the line, the bastard’s gonna make a mistake. And when he does, we’re gonna be there. You just wait and see.” For emphasis, he popped another chip into his mouth and his teeth came down savagely on it.
It was then that the call came over the police-band radio.
“Central to Nineteen Charlie, Central to Nineteen Charlie.” The dispatcher’s laconic voice came through intermittent bursts of static.
Toledo grabbed the microphone. “Nineteen Charlie, Central.”
“Homicide at 226 East Eighty-fourth Street.”
Koscina and Toledo both snapped up as if they’d been goosed.
“On our way, Central,” Toledo said, and hung up the mike. She turned to Koscina. “Jeez, boss. They’re not supposed to bother us unless . . .”
“Unless there’s been another scalped model,” Fred Koscina finished grimly for her.
He hit the ignition, grabbed his portable turret light, and slapped it on the roof. Turning on the siren, he waited for a break in the traffic and pulled out into the street.
“Let’s hope the prick’s left some clue behind this time,” he said. “Sooner or later his luck’s gotta run out.”
Billie Dawn had changed into a slim black silk skirt and hip-length double-breasted red silk jacket—both from St. Laurent Rive Gauche. The dresser and hairdresser strode swiftly at her side, hurrying to keep up with her as they made last-minute touch-ups.
When she was in position, the portable fan was switched back on. Her hair flew sky-high. The odor of manure assaulted her yet again. Alfredo scrabbled around her, clicking away.
The crowd of onlookers had changed. Most of the earlier crowd had drifted away; curiosity had drawn new ones in their place.
One of the new arrivals in the back of the crowd was a man who unconsciously smoothed his hair, thinking: God Almighty. That hair of hers! It will make a wonderful wig.
Chapter 28
It was a sold-out performance. The stars were clothes.
Antonio de Riscal’s first-ever Boston trunk show was a resounding success even before it began. Antonio, ever shrewd in matters of business, refused to make personal appearances at any trunk show unless it was a tie-in for a local charity. That way, he was guaranteed an audience of the host city’s most important women.
Four hundred of Boston’s female Brahmins had paid one thousand dollars apiece for the privilege of shaking the designer’s hand and previewing the Antonio de Riscal collection before it hit Shacklebury-Prince’s in-store Antonio de Riscal boutique.
It was a matter of simple economics.
The Children’s Hospital was four hundred thousand dollars richer.
The women got to meet the famous designer.
The media covered the worthy event.
And Antonio de Riscal and Shacklebury-Prince received untold tens of thousands of dollars in free publicity—and potential sales.
The show was being held in the department store’s Versailles Gardens restaurant. Even for a local trunk show, the air was electric. This collection, with one foot in eighteenth-century France and the other in the fiery flamenco colors of Antonio’s half-Andalusian heritage, exploded like a kaleidoscope. Oohs and ahs, gasps of pleasure, and spontaneous bursts of applause nearly drowned out the classical guitars playing over the sound system as the models strutted the designs. Klas Claussen, microphone and index cards in hand, described each outfit as the models entered.
As guest designer, Antonio, rather than waiting backstage until a show was over, as was usually the case, was seated in the place of honor—front row center; as department-store host, R. L. Shacklebury sat two seats over. In the seat separating them, and the ones immediately flanking them, sat Boston’s three wealthiest and most generous female philanthropists—the trio who had used their mighty local influence to arrange this worthy event as a fund-raiser for their favorite charity.
R.L. watched the show with barely concealed indifference. He had little interest in female attire aside from the retailer’s bottom line, and even if he had, his mind was elsewhere—in Manhattan. He was preoccupied with Edwina. With a discreet pull at his cuff, he sneaked a glance at his watch. It was almost time to call her again. When he had talked to her last night, she had seemed snappish, as though he was intruding on something. When he’d asked her what it was, she’d been uncharacteristically evasive and had hurried off the phone. This morning, sensing that something might be amiss, he had tried to call her again. Ruby had answered and informed him that Edwina was still asleep.
“With the hours she’s been keeping, it doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Ruby had grumbled. “All she does is lock herself in the study. She hardly comes out even to eat.”
And R.L.’s worries had increased.
When he’d called again earlier, just before the show had begun, Ruby had told him that Edwina had gone out.
“It’ll do her good,” she had said. “She didn’t look too well to me. Maybe the fresh air will help.”
“Ruby, do you have any idea what’s wrong?” he’d pressed.
“No, though that’s one thing I sure do wish I knew. I’ll tell her you called, okay?”
Now, itching to get away to try to call Edwina again, R.L. noticed that in spite of the show’s late start, it would thankfully soon be over. He stirred restlessly, unable to curb his impatience. From the dress rehearsal he’d caught the day before, he re
cognized the green watered-silk evening gown, with its peasant bodice and flounces edged in red and gold embroidery, as the third-from-last outfit.
Soon, he thought. Soon it’ll be over.
Fashion shows traditionally ended with a bridal gown, and this one was no exception. Four hundred sighs of delight merged into spontaneous applause as the bride swept down the runway, resplendent in seventeen yards of creamy Valenciennes lace trimmed with pearls and embroidered satin ribbons. The high-crowned mantilla veil was adorned with white silk roses and stuck with long mother-of-pearl combs, and instead of the traditional bridal bouquet, the model carried a lace fan that she snapped open and fanned herself with. She looked, R.L. thought uncharitably, like a walking, breathing birthday cake. Dammit all to hell, it was really too much for a man to have to watch. His annoyance with the bridal gown and the whole caboodle Antonio and Klas had brought for the trunk show was, R.L. recognized, brought on by his nagging worries about Edwina. Christ Almighty, but that woman could drive him up the wall! Why didn’t Edwina confide in him, tell him what was the matter? Didn’t she realize she was making a nervous wreck out of him?
When the bride had swept back out, Antonio leapt up on the runway to receive his applause. The adoring women gave him a standing ovation. R.L., realizing his staying seated would be construed as an insult, reluctantly got to his feet and clapped politely along with them. The women to either side of him turned to him and smiled; he smiled back.
Taking the microphone from Klas, Antonio graciously thanked the women for attending, said a few words about the money the show had raised for the Children’s Hospital, and gave a little bow. Then, with a flourish, he gestured to R.L.
R.L. groaned inwardly. Now he also had to leap onstage, and he disliked nothing more than having to make public speeches. But what choice did he have? He accepted the microphone from Antonio and thanked the women and the designer profusely.
At last the show was over.
R.L. slipped out as the women converged on Antonio, and immediately took the escalators up to the eighth-floor executive offices. During the ride, he kept a sharp eye peeled on the shoppers laden down with the store’s glossy dove-gray shopping bags imprinted with blood-red lettering. Each floor he passed was doing a brisk lunchtime business. Computerized cash registers chattered and spewed out receipts. In the linen department, the White Sale had customers lined up to plunder the stacks of designer sheets.
As soon as he reached his office, his secretary looked up and held out a stack of messages. He waved them away. “Later, Sally,” he called out, strode into his large windowless office, and shut the door. Dropping into his leather swivel chair, he got busy on the phone.
After three rings, Ruby answered. “Robinson residence.”
“Ruby, it’s R.L. again. Did Eds get back yet?”
“Yes. She just walked in. I told her you said you’d call, but she told me she wasn’t to be disturbed. Even by you.”
His knuckles tightened around the receiver. He knew a runaround when he got one. What was it with Edwina, anyway? Didn’t she want to see him anymore? If that was it, why didn’t she just come right out and say so? She was normally frank, brutally so in fact.
“Ruby, what the hell is going on?” he demanded. “I’ve been trying to get hold of her for days now.”
Ruby’s voice was sympathetic. “I know, honey.”
“Is she avoiding me?”
“Honey, it isn’t just you. She’s been avoiding everybody.”
He felt a heavy sense of isolation steal over him. “Thanks, Ruby,” he said, his voice knotted up, and put down the receiver. For a long while he just sat there tapping his fingernails on the desk while he stared at the telephone. He couldn’t understand it. Half the time Edwina clung to him as though she were terrified he might disappear. The other half, she was cool and withdrawn. His brows descended in sudden anger. Well, if that was the way she wanted to play it, then why the hell should he keep running after her?
Why indeed?
The buzzing of the interoffice intercom intruded upon his thoughts. Wearily he depressed the talk button. “Sally,” he said with annoyance, “I thought I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“I know, but Miss Gage is here.”
He sighed to himself. Catherine Jacqueline Warren Gage. The youngest of the three philanthropists who had sponsored the de Riscal fashion show. Part icy New England WASP, part hot-tempered Irish Catholic, and rich as all get-out, she had been twice married and was now widowed and single again.
“Send her in, Sally,” he said wearily, and sat back gloomily.
His office door opened. “Darling,” the familiar voice cooed. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I told Mummy to go on without me. What a horrible scene that fashion show was!”
He looked across his desk at her. Catherine Jacqueline Warren Gage. Young, tall, extremely elegant. Her rich honey-blond hair was thick and wavy. Her suit was pink silk and severely cut, and triple strands of heirloom pearls glowed around her taut throat. She was more than just beautiful—with her Roman nose, wide mouth, and hollow cheeks, she was uniquely chic as well. She held a long, slim cigarette between two slender fingers.
Moving with lithe grace, she came forward and sat on the edge of his desk, half-twisting around to face him.
Like a cat on the prowl, he thought.
“I hope you won’t be angry, R.L., but I asked your secretary if you had lunched yet. She said she didn’t think so. Well, I haven’t eaten either, and I’m absolutely famished.” Her eyes were blue and luminous. “Care to take a girl out, R.L.?”
He stared at her silently. Even before the death of her husband, Catherine Gage had made no bones about being attracted to R.L.: she’d come on to him countless times, only to be firmly rebuffed. The last time had been downstairs at the fashion show, not half an hour earlier. He could say one thing for her: she never gave up.
He glanced at the telephone, willing Edwina to ring.
The telephone was silent.
What the hell. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. It wasn’t as if Edwina had a monopoly on him.
“Well?” Catherine Gage asked in pouty, honeyed tones.
“Sure,” he said, “why not?”
She stubbed out her cigarette and slid fluidly off his desk. A glow seemed to radiate from within her, enveloping him in warmth and promise. “I know just the place,” she said huskily, and hooked an arm through his. “We’ll have oysters before. And you can have me after.”
Hallelujah had little appetite, not even for her usual french fries doused with vinegar. When she pushed her barely touched plate aside, Duncan Cooper was more than a little alarmed.
“Sugar, you’ve hardly touched a bite,” he said worriedly.
“Who can eat? I mean, Daddy, I ask you. Ma’s not well.”
“She looked all right to me, sugar. And I invited her to join us for lunch, but she said she’d made other plans. You heard her.”
“Ma’s always saying that around you, Daddy! Like you haven’t noticed? Ever since you two got divorced, she’s been tryin’ to avoid you like . . . well, like the ex. Y’know?”
“Hmmmm. You are observant, aren’t you?”
“It takes a special gift to be able to tell when somebody makes herself scarce? That’s what Ma does every time the two of you are supposed to meet.” Hallelujah frowned and dabbed at crumbs on the tablecloth with her greenish fingernails. “Y’know, I was hoping that might change now that she’s seeing somebody.” She looked over at him. “But so far it hasn’t.”
“Your mother’s dating? That’s news to me.”
“Daddy! You never listen! I told you about it months ago. Anyway, get this. Ma will go out with R.L. and then she’ll push him away. Like all the time. Is that normal? I just hope she isn’t suffering premature menopause or something.”
Duncan nearly choked on his Perrier. “Prema . . . Hal! Where do you pick up these things?”
“This is the eighties, Dad
dy, okay? Everybody knows about the birds and the bees.”
“Well . . . I suppose you’re right...”
“Anyway . . .” Hallelujah reached to pluck a fry off her pushed-away plate and munched it thoughtfully. “That’s only part of Ma’s problem. Ever since she quit her job, she’s been going crazy. I mean totally nuts! It’s money this, an’ money that. That’s all she ever talks about anymore.”
“You mean things are that bad financially?”
“Not yet. Ma squirreled away something over the years. But the thing is, she never intended to be out of work this long. It’s driving her right over the edge. I mean, you know how she loves to shop?”
“Do I ever,” he said ruefully, remembering.
“Well, try this on for size. She hasn’t bought a thing since December. Not even a scarf or a pair of shoes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, it’s true.”
Duncan stared at his punked-out daughter. “We are talking about the same Edwina G. Robinson, aren’t we? Your mother? My ex-wife?”
“Daddy, would you stop making fun of this? This is serious. We have to do something before Ma drives me batty.”
“All right, sugar. What do you suggest?”
“First, Ma needs an income.”
“Hmmmm.” He took another sip of Perrier. “I’m afraid I can’t help there. I mean, she could always be a receptionist at the clinic, but I can’t really see her doing that.” He smiled at her. “Can you?”
“She needs a good income, Daddy. She’s looking for something that brings in tons and tons of money.”
“So’s the whole rest of the country, sugar.”
She ignored the gentle gibe. “R.L. offered to set her up in business. You know, designing clothes? Like she’s always dreamed of doin’?”
“Sounds like he must be loaded. Why doesn’t she just marry him?”
“Daddy! You know Ma would never marry for money!”
“Sorry, sugar. That just sort of slipped out. You were saying?”
“She doesn’t want help, at least not help from a boyfriend. You know Ma.”
