by Judith Gould
Susskind’s eyes blinked rapidly. “She’s twenty-four. If it weren’t for the flies and the smell, we wouldn’t even have found her. Someone folded her up in the convertible sofa. Nice, huh?”
“Christ.” Koscina sighed deeply and looked away. At least that explained the strange way her arms were squeezed against her sides. He looked down at the river, where a tug pushing barges was making slow progress against the current.
“Name’s Joy Zatopekova,” Ben Susskind went on. “Model. No one at the agency missed her. Seems she took two weeks’ vacation time.”
“Some vacation.”
“Tell me about it. If she’d gone to Miami Beach, she’d still be alive.”
“According to you, going to Miami solves everything. What agency’s she with?”
“Either Ford or Elite. We’re checking now.”
Koscina nodded.
With a sigh, Susskind ground his cigarette out on the balcony railing and then bent over and placed the butt carefully inside the right cuff of his trousers.
Koscina watched him with incredulity. “You still doing that, Ben?” He shook his head. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re startin’ to sound like the wife,” Susskind grumbled. He sighed. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
They went back inside and stood studying the corpse.
“Here’s all we got so far.” Susskind’s eyes blinked rapidly. “You’d never tell by looking at her now, but she was one of them cover girls. You know, fashion magazines and stuff.” He shook his head mournfully. “Now look at her. Stabbed. Mutilated. Scalped. Who said death isn’t the great equalizer?”
A curious female face, dark as polished walnut, with slanted feline eyes, brutal cheekbones, and a leonine mane of black hair, peered into the living room from around the corner of the narrow hall. She was strikingly bizarre and stood six feet tall. “What happened?” she demanded in a rising voice.
“Hey!” Susskind yelled. “Someone get her outta here!”
“I live here, dammit!” the beautiful black woman said angrily as two cops intercepted her.
“Carm and I’ll take care of this,” Koscina said, and together he and Toledo took the woman out into the public corridor. Koscina noticed she had a blue suitcase fitted with casters. “Ma’am,” he said gently, looking at her beautiful face with its striking pantherlike features.
“What happened?” she demanded. “Is it Joy?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Koscina said softly. “ ‘Fraid so. And who are you?”
“Obi Kuti. Joy’s roommate. We’re represented by the same modeling agency.”
Koscina turned to Toledo. “Take care of her, Carm. See if she has any friends she can stay with, okay?”
“Sure, boss.” Toledo looked relieved for an excuse to get as far away from the death scene as she could. “Come, ma’am,” she said softly to Obi Kuti. “Let me help you with that suitcase. Is there anybody you can stay with? A friend or a relative, maybe?”
“Edgar,” the beautiful black model said. “I won’t leave here without him.”
“Edgar?” Carmen Toledo stared at her.
“The cat.”
Chapter 31
“Personally,” Catherine Jacqueline Warren Gage observed in that boarding-school lockjaw of hers as R.L. unlocked the door to the stately brick mansion on Beacon Hill, which his family had occupied for the past two hundred years, “I much preferred your penthouse.”
He shrugged. “After my father died, the house became mine. It was move in or sell it. I chose to move in.”
She stood in the center of the dark parquet with its scattering of patterned red rugs, one elbow cocked as she drew on her cigarette and glanced about. The big foyer was overbearingly heavy, and the afternoon sun lit the rich ruby reds and sapphire blues of the stained-glass panels to either side of the front door, dappling her in ecclesiastic colors. Somber-faced portraits—ancestors dressed mostly in black with frugal bits of lace at the collar—marched like giant gilt-framed steps up the wall along the golden oak staircase. “Is anybody home?”
He shook his head. “Leslie’s visiting his mother, and it’s the servants’ day off.”
“Good. Then we’re alone.” She grinned at him. “What I can whip up to eat is nobody’s business. Point me toward the kitchen, lover.”
He looked surprised. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
A silvery light glimmered somewhere deep in her eyes. “There are many things you don’t know about me,” she said huskily. “Well?”
“The kitchen’s back through there. Last door.” He pointed down a long door-lined hall that stretched away under the staircase.
She nodded. “Leave it all to me. Meanwhile, go upstairs and get tucked in. I’ll bring us a little something up.”
“Not too much,” he warned. “I’m really not very hungry.”
“You will be.” She laughed. “Just wait and see!” She grinned. “I won’t be but a flash.”
She was as good as her word. Not five minutes had passed before he heard her calling softly from somewhere out on the landing, “R.L.? Where are you?”
“The second floor at the end of the hall.”
“Okay. Just keep talking, and I’ll let your voice guide me.”
His vast bedroom was dim and peaceful. Fringed dark green draperies were drawn shut across the windows, and each time a breeze stirred them, thin, diagonal shafts of sunlight glinted in. The sounds of civilization were distant and muted. A trapped fly droned relentlessly between two layers of glass.
He heard the slap of her bare feet against the parquet and lifted his head from the pillow. In the doorway, Catherine Gage was striking a languid Rita Hayworth pose, one bare arm resting on the doorjamb, the other cocked lazily on her rounded hip. She was watching his reaction through half-closed, sultry eyes.
He was silent. There was a tight feeling in his chest.
Catherine Gage, Daughter of the American Revolution, princess of Beacon Hill, and heiress to a pure and unbroken bloodline that went back to the Pilgrims and their revered Mayflower, must have acquired a questionable ancestor or two somewhere along the line. Because right now she was wearing two clouds of whipped-cream breasts and absolutely nothing else from the waist up—if he didn’t count the two slipping bright red maraschino cherries dripping pink juice, which were supposed to pass for nipples. As for her groin, it was something else entirely—a smeary pinkish mass of more whipped cream, this batch liberally mixed with strawberry jam.
“Well?” she asked impatiently. “What do you think?”
His first reaction was to laugh. “What’re you wearing?” he quipped. “Barbasol?”
Humor was definitely not on her agenda. “Whipped cream,” she said huskily with a straight face. Her eyes glowed brightly. With a forefinger she deliberately scooped a dollop of cream from her breasts and made a production of licking it off. “Mmmm,” she said. Her entire finger disappeared down her throat. “I got all sweet and tasty for you, R.L.,” she whispered huskily. “I taste really good.” She giggled lewdly. “ ‘Finger-lickin’ good,’ as the late Colonel would have said.”
“I’m sure you do,” he said with a frozen smile. “Got any other tricks I don’t know about in your repertoire?”
She looked at him narrowly. “Now you’re poking fun at me!” she accused. Frowning, she twirled little circles in the cream around the cherry nipples. “Come on, R.L.” she said. “Lick it off.”
Coming forward, she scooped another dollop of cream off her breasts and held it out to his lips, a solemn offering.
He clamped his mouth shut and averted his face.
“Damn! What a prude you are!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright and dark at the same time. Angrily she smeared the cream across his closed lips, his cheeks, his eyes—seeking to wound and hurt and deface.
His hand moved with the speed of lightning. Clutching his fingers around her elegantly thin wrist, he forced her struggling hand away and held it at arm’s length.
“Let’s you and I get something straight,” he said quietly. “I don’t like mixing my food and my sex. Okay? I happen to like the one on a plate and the other in bed.”
She was glumly silent.
“Got that?” He looked at her almost sadly. “Do yourself a favor,” he advised tonelessly. “I’m not into all your kinky shit. Go find yourself a sweet-toothed victim who appreciates you.”
She raised her chin defiantly. “If you don’t like this, then what are you into?”
He smiled. “You know, the basics. Man-and-woman. Give-and-take.” He paused and added softly, “Making love.”
She stared at him. “You,” she said without malice, “are full of crap.”
Abruptly he let go of her arm and pushed her away. She stumbled back on her haunches and crouched there on the carpet beside the bed, her hair hanging over her face. For a moment she seemed subdued. Then she slowly looked up and fingered a tendril of hair away from her face. Her lips were half-parted, and she ran the pink tip of her tongue across her perfect teeth.
He got up and stood looking down at her. “The shower’s through there,” he said harshly. He gestured to a door across the room. “I suggest you wash that goop off fast and get out of here.”
“You bastard,” she said quietly, her voice almost impersonal. “You measly little piece of shit. I should have known better.” She gave an ugly laugh. “This is the last time I’ll have lunch with you,” she said unnecessarily, the accompanying toss of her head supposedly restoring her dignity. And with that she rose to her feet and stomped off across the room to the adjoining bath.
His eyes followed her wearily, but he didn’t blink when she slammed the door. He’d expected it.
He shook his head at his folly. What was wrong with him, anyway? he wondered. Was he so desperate to get laid that he reached out for the first female shark who cruised along?
No, he reflected, that wasn’t true. He had needed female company— not sex—only to get his mind off Edwina.
What a damn stupid reason for getting laid! His face darkened with self-loathing. For immediate penance, he retied his tie and yanked the knot as tight as a noose.
Edwina stood broodingly in front of her upright easel, tapping a newly sharpened number-two pencil against her bared teeth. She was staring with malevolently narrowed eyes at the unfinished pastel sketch she’d begun yesterday—an almost monastic jersey dress topped with a cowl-hooded rust-colored plaid bolero cape that, ironically, seemed now to stare tauntingly right back at her. Even the lengths of bright rust mohair plaid and the soft fluid gray jersey she’d intended to use, and had spread out side by side on the worktable, didn’t make a dent in her plunging spirits.
It was almost four o’clock. She had been locked in her study-turned-atelier ever since coming home from her disastrous meeting with the infernal Ms. Brackman. And what did she have to show for the last hour and a half? Nothing. Absolutely, unconditionally nothing.
She tapped the pencil against her teeth with renewed vigor. If divine inspiration didn’t hit soon, then the entire afternoon was wasted, another day gone. The problem was, how could she summon up her creative energies after this latest rejection.
Why, oh why, wouldn’t inspiration just come? Was it so difficult to simply shut her mind to the harsh facts of reality and keep on plodding? Hadn’t Van Gogh painted furiously despite being mired in direst poverty? And hadn’t Balzac written masterpieces while suffering the same harsh circumstances? And what about poor Bizet? Hadn’t he composed a whole slew of failed operas until he’d finally produced his glorious Carmen, after which he’d promptly dropped dead? Yes, he had. They all had, despite everything. And if they could create so abundantly through the worst difficulties, then shouldn’t she be able to also? Just standing here moaning and groaning and feeling sorry for herself would do nothing but incapacitate her even further. Meanwhile, time was a-wasting. Time, the luxury she could least afford.
Time, she reminded herself grimly, as if it didn’t occur to her at least ten times hourly, is money.
Lacing her fingers purposefully behind her head, she forced herself to focus on the sketch, concentrating so fully on it that the paper began to swim in front of her watering eyes.
“Damn!” she said out loud. “Damn damn damn damn damn!” She squinted to bring the blurring sketch back into focus. She stared at it awhile longer. It looked so deceptively simple, this garment she’d envisioned—yet it was its very simplicity, its almost architectural purity of line, that made it such a well-designed item of clothing. No, she amended, it was more than merely well-designed. Truth be told, it was terrific. Splendid. Magic. Yes, magic. She was convinced that if she, the ultimate fashion consumer, spotted it in a store window, she would be unable to resist buying it on the spot. And wasn’t that the proof of the pudding?
It was—or at least it should have been.
Then dammit, why couldn’t she get on with it, finish it?
She moaned dispiritedly. How could she, when she felt so defeated and debilitated? Hell, under these circumstances even Pollyanna would give up. It was time, really high time, she mused as she plopped herself into her swivel chair, to take the bull by the horns and look squarely into its fearsome face. Because, why work like a dog to design clothes when there was no way, absolutely no way on God’s earth, her collection would ever become a reality, let alone see the inside of a store.
Sighing heavily, she swung herself from side to side in the chair. Money. Why did everything always have to boil down to something as creatively uninspiring—but necessary—as money?
Damn my need to create! she cursed silently, and stared at the drawing on the easel one last time.
She drew a complete blank.
But she remained seated. Even getting up seemed too much effort. Bleak depression, fueled by harsh reality, numbed her entire being. What a fool she had been! Creating her own fashion firm! What a foolish, childish indulgence.
You might as well admit it, Eds, old girl, she told herself cruelly, it isn’t just a question of someone investing money in you. What you’re aiming for is to break into one of the most failure-ridden industries on earth! Think about it. For all the media hoopla, exterior signs of success, and meteoric rise, even the house of Christian Lacroix, for God’s sake, lost four and a half million dollars during its first operating year alone. And what about Stephen Sprouse? And David Cameron? Look what had happened to them. And the list goes on and on. You, better than almost anyone, should know that even the most gifted designer with the most sensationally received collection can lose money hand over fist.
Wake up, kid! What makes you think the world needs another fashion designer?
Edwina sat statue-still, her blood suddenly running cold.
And one more thing, her mind continued inexorably. What makes you think you’re so great? Maybe you’re not good enough! Isn’t it possible that you’ve been fooling yourself all along and really don’t have what it takes?
She absolutely had to stop this negative line of thinking. She rubbed her face wearily with her hands. What if she approached all this more rationally? From a business point of view? Maybe compared her designs with what was out there to see how her work stacked up to the successful competition? Now, there was a positive idea. She could even take a little time and . . . No, she should take a lot of time, and start back in the seventies—the sixties, even—and trace the successes and, far more important, the failures of various collections and designers, seeing who and what had fallen by the wayside and, if possible, figuring out why. At least that way she would stand a better chance of not repeating others’ mistakes. Because for every household name, every Krizia or Ralph Lauren or Valentino, there were dozens of wunderkinder who had shot onto the scene, only to be quickly weeded out by fashion’s own fierce Darwinism.
Without further ado, but sighing painfully all the same, she went around the room pulling fashion magazines off the built-in shelves, and deposited them in selective stacks all around. When
she finished, she had created a Manhattan in miniature with precariously listing breast-high skyscrapers of paper. Maybe placing them in a circle would help. With utmost caution she gently shoved them around until Manhattan metamorphosed into Stonehenge. There. Infinitely better. Then, like some high priestess, Edwina sat cross-legged in the center of her daunting paper temple. Reaching up, she grabbed the top magazines off each stack and created a new, shorter stack composed entirely of April 1989 issues.
Now.
Now she was finally ready to begin.
She took the top magazine off this new pile, placed it ceremoniously onto her lap, and stared down at it. It would have to be the ubiquitous Vogue, she thought; what else had 564 intimidating pages to wade through?
Slowly she began to leaf through it, front to back.
The Vogue was followed by Harper’s Bazaar.
Bazzar by Elle.
Slowly, picture by picture and page by page, the coming season’s designs began to make a visual impact. And, deep inside her, something began to stir, gently at first, like the thrumming whir of a hummingbird’s wings, then more forcefully, like the powerful flapping of a raven. If she wasn’t mistaken—and she didn’t think she was—what she had believed all along was true.
“You know, Eds old girl,” she marveled aloud, “your own stuff isn’t half-bad.”
Within half an hour, she’d changed even that opinion about her work. Her hunched-over posture abruptly straightened. “Not bad, hell!” she said with awe. “I’m damn good!” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “In fact, I’m better than most. Why, I’m . . . I’m right up there beside the best of them—Bill! Oscar! Antonio! Wow!”
Cautiously Edwina forced her elation down. Could she possibly be getting carried away? Was she really that good? Or was her eye conceited?
She took a deep, perplexed breath and let it out noisily. That was the trouble with creativity: it was a lonely process, tailor-made for hermits instead of fun-loving, gregarious humans. Constant doubts so easily jaundiced everything. Maybe that was why even the most gifted designers needed some company, someone to share ideas with. Didn’t Valentino have Giancarlo Giametti? Didn’t Yves St. Laurent have Pierre Berge and Lou Lou Klowsowski? And didn’t Oscar de la Renta have somebody: Well, dammit all to hell, she needed somebody too! Somebody with a critical eye and a sympathetic ear, somebody who could offer a friendly clap on the back, a word of encouragement. . .
