Melody paused, seeming to collect her thoughts, then said, “I liked Rayna. She was always cheerful, sweet, thankful for whatever bookings I could find for her. She was nice. Really nice.”
“But …?”
She huffed and glanced away. I could tell she wanted to say something more but was reluctant, probably because Rayna was dead and who wants to speak ill of a young woman who’d been murdered?
While I appreciated Melody’s hesitation, I didn’t have all day to stand around.
“Something wasn’t right about Rayna, was it?” I said. “Please, tell me. It could help find her killer.”
“Okay,” Melody said. “I sometimes got a weird vibe from her. Nothing I could really put my finger on, but I felt that I could never get to know her. Rayna always said and did the right things, yet it seemed like it was all a façade, like she was hiding who she really was or what she was really doing.”
“You mean, she was desperate for work and was crazy-nice to you since you did the model bookings?”
“It was something deeper than that. I don’t know. It was odd,” Melody said. “I did try extra hard to find her work. I knew she was struggling financially. I sent her out on every casting I could. Once I even called Emerald.”
“That’s a clothing line?” I asked.
“Emerald Graffiti,” she said. “They only do plus-size clothing. The company is massive so they use a lot of fit models, which means they book a lot of hours. Rayna’s specs were perfect for them.”
“But it didn’t work out?”
“I called Chyna, off the record, of course—”
“Emerald does their fittings in China?” I asked.
“It’s a person, not the country,” Melody explained. “Chyna Baine. She’s the senior tech designer at Emerald.”
The name hopped around in my head, but didn’t settle on a memory. I knew I’d heard it before, somewhere.
“At first Chyna was interested—they always need plus-size models,” Melody said. “Until I gave her Rayna’s name. Then she pulled back and said she’d check the schedule and let me know. I never heard from her. It made me think something was going on.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Melody said, then shook her head. “I let the whole thing drop, since it nearly got me fired.”
I could see this was a personal issue with Melody and probably had nothing to do with Rayna’s death, but jeez, I couldn’t ignore this huge, juicy chunk of gossip.
“What happened?” I asked, and managed to sound stunned and outraged, not simply nosey.
Melody grumbled under her breath for a few seconds, then said, “Katrina got wind of my call to Emerald. I don’t know how, but she did. She threw an absolute fit that I’d contacted them. We’re not supposed to do business with Emerald. Period. End of story.”
Okay, I was confused.
“But you said they book tons of hours for plus-size models,” I said. “That would mean major bucks for KGE, wouldn’t it?”
“You bet. It’s standard that any clothing design company who uses an agented model has to pay her agency an additional twenty percent of her hourly wage, on top of what they pay the model,” Melody explained. “You want to hear something crappy?”
I always wanted to hear something crappy.
“KGE also takes fifteen percent out of what the models are left with,” Melody told me.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You mean KGE collects twice for every booking?”
“Crappy, huh?” Melody said. “Most of the models are young, not the least bit business savvy. They sign the KGE contract without understanding what they’re really agreeing to. By the time they figure it out, it’s too late. They’re locked in.”
“That’s mega-crappy,” I said.
“Some of the models pick up bookings independently so they don’t have to pay KGE,” Melody said. “Can’t say that I blame them.”
“So where do Emerald Graffiti and you nearly getting fired fit into this situation with Rayna?” I asked.
“Emerald doesn’t use agented models, just girls who work independently. I know Chyna pretty well, so I thought maybe I could sneak something by for Rayna’s sake.”
“That’s what Katrina nearly fired you over?” I asked. “Because you tried to steer one of her models to Emerald Graffiti?”
“It was because of a lawsuit.”
My now-we’re-getting-somewhere invisible antennas shot up.
“I’d heard Rayna had gotten tangled up in a legal matter with one of the designers,” I said.
Melody shook her head. “This lawsuit was several years ago, way before Rayna signed with KGE. Back then Emerald used agented models. There was a huge blow-up between KGE and Emerald over billing. It got really ugly. As a result, Katrina won’t allow anyone to even say the name ‘Emerald Graffiti’ in the office, and Emerald went to an unagented-models-only policy.”
“Wow, that must have been one heck of a blow-up,” I said. “So you quit before Katrina could fire you?”
Melody shrugged. “Partly. But mostly it was because the agency was circling the drain. I wasn’t going down with that sinking ship.”
“What?” I might have said that kind of loud because, yeah, I was stunned.
The entire fashion crawl flashed in my head. KGE was a major sponsor. Huge commitments had been made, tons of money still needed to be spent, reputations were on the line—including mine. No way did I want to be known as the event planner who rode NoHo’s inaugural fashion crawl into the ground.
“Katrina tried to cover up the problems at the agency, but I saw what was happening,” Melody said. “First it was little things, like no more snacks in the breakroom. Then she started hounding us to get the models more work. She was more uptight than usual about expenses. The models started complaining that they weren’t getting their paychecks on time. Then the employees who’d quit weren’t being replaced.”
“But I’d heard Katrina had other holdings, other income, not just the agency.”
“I’d heard that, too. Whether it’s actually true or not, I don’t know, and I had no way of finding out,” Melody said.
Maybe she didn’t. But I did.
***
I’d swapped my fabulous Gucci bag for a Dooney & Bourke barrel to better match my Holt’s-wear when I’d stopped by my place to change after work, and was now headed across the parking lot for my evening shift. With a full six minutes left before I had to clock in, I dug out my cell phone and called Marcie. I’d tried to reach her earlier but my call had gone straight to her voicemail, which probably meant that, as usual, she’d let her battery run down and hadn’t been able to find her charger.
“I couldn’t find my charger,” she said, as soon as she picked up. “Want to meet for dinner?”
“I’m slaving away in purgatory tonight,” I said. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Sure,” she said. “So what’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
“Okay. What?”
No hesitation, no reluctance, nothing. That’s why Marcie’s the best BFF on the entire planet.
“Have you still got that friend at the bank who can do a property search?” I asked.
“Oh my God, you’re not involved in another murder, are you?”
Okay, now she was sounding a little less like a bestie.
Before she could shift into don’t-get-involved mode, I said, “It’s about the fashion crawl. I’m concerned that the major sponsor I’ve been working with may go belly-up and wreck everything.”
Marcie was quiet for a minute then said, “Text me what you need.”
“Thanks,” I said. We firmed up our plans for tomorrow night, and ended the call.
I dashed off a quick message to her and headed inside the store to the breakroom, stowed my handbag in my locker, and fell in behind the other employees at the time clock. Rita stood by, marker in hand, ready to write my name on the white-board for being tardy. I gave her my midd
le-school snarky smile as I clocked in with two seconds to spare.
Not to be outdone, she barked, “I hope you’re not thinking you’re going to actually win one of the prizes in the contest.”
Thanks to my competitive nature, my first thought was to enter the contest and win first prize, just to prove her wrong.
“You’re on the schedule to take the test tonight,” she said, waving her hand at a sign posted above the time clock. “But why bother?”
Some of the employees in the breakroom turned and stared. I ignored her.
“It’s a contest about customer service,” she said. “Customer service. Do you even know what that is, princess?”
Now everybody in the breakroom was staring.
“No, wait. I’d better clarify it for you,” Rita said. “The contest is about good customer service.”
Okay, now I really wanted to blast her with what I thought of that stupid contest, but I held back—yes, I know, that’s totally unlike me, but I was kind of tired. Instead, I channeled my mom’s beauty pageant queen I’m-better-than-you walk, and left the breakroom.
Still, I was fuming—and, I realized, I’d forgotten to look at the schedule to see which department I’d been assigned to tonight. No way was I going back in there for round two with Rita, so I headed across the store to walk off some of my irritation.
I spotted Sandy working in the children’s clothing department—I hate that department—and she waved me over.
“Everybody’s really going crazy about this new contest,” she said, smiling and doing jazz hands.
Good grief, not this again.
“I can’t believe you’re not going for it,” she told me. “I mean, winning a third-place prize wouldn’t be all that great, but you’d love it.”
“I doubt it.”
“No, really, you would,” she insisted.
I was in no mood. But Sandy was one of my Holt’s BFFs and it wouldn’t be right to take out my annoyance with Rita on her.
“So what’s the third-place prize?” I asked, and actually sounded pleasant.
“Well, first prize is not exactly—”
“Just tell me about third place,” I said.
Sandy’s smile got wider and she said, “Third place is a one-hundred dollar gift card for Starbucks.”
“What?” I’m pretty sure I said that too loud.
“Yeah!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I screamed that.
“Isn’t it great?” Sandy said. “Like I said, the first-place prize is—”
Everything she was saying turned into blah,blah,blah, which was just as well since I’d quit listening anyway.
Oh my God, a huge Starbucks gift card. I absolutely had to win it.
I was definitely taking that test tonight.
It’s like I always say—you never know when something good is going to happen to you, and this was beyond good.
Then things got even better. I spotted Detective Shuman walking down the aisle toward me.
Wow, I was on a major roll tonight.
I left the children’s department, caught his attention, and headed toward the stockroom. He followed me inside.
It was quiet, except for the music playing on the store’s P.A. system. We had the place to ourselves.
Shuman had on his slightly mismatched cop-clothes. His shirt collar was open and his tie was pulled down. He looked tired. I figured he’d had a tough day—and when a homicide detective had a tough day, it was really tough.
Still, he gave me a smile. Nice.
“How did you know I was working tonight?” I asked.
His grin turned kind of crafty and he said, “I’m a detective, remember?”
I guess that meant he’d gone by my apartment and not seen my car, so he’d taken a chance and driven here. Not Miss-Marple-quality detective work, but I was glad he’d put in the effort and given my day a boost.
“I’m in the middle of something,” Shuman said, his smile disappearing, “but I wanted to give you some info.”
I figured he was on a case, and if he needed a short break, it must have been a bad one.
“Rayna Fuller wasn’t a party in a lawsuit,” Shuman said.
Jack had told me the same thing, and while I’d trusted his info, hearing it from Shuman left no doubt.
“Another dead end,” I said. “I don’t suppose anything new has come up? A clue? Suspect? Some evidence, maybe?”
Shuman shook his head. “Nothing.”
Then I remembered my this-will-break-the-case awesome idea that I’d wanted to ask him about, and said, “What’s up with Rayna’s cell phone? She must have had it in her hand when she tumbled down the stairs because I saw it lying next to her. Was she talking to someone?”
He grew still and I was pretty sure I saw his cop-brain engaging.
“I’ll check into it,” he said.
I’d hoped for a bigger this-will-break-the-case-and-you’re-awesome response.
“Sorry to send you on a wild goose chase with the whole lawsuit thing,” I said.
Shuman managed a small smile. “It was worth it.”
I took that to mean stopping by to give me the info in person had brightened his day. Cool.
Still, I couldn’t shake my troubling thoughts about the supposed lawsuit.
“I don’t know why Libby gave me that info,” I said. “I guess she was confused, or misinformed.”
Shuman frowned, shifting into cop-mode again. “Or maybe she was deliberately lying.”
I guess she could have been. But why?
Chapter 13
The fashion crawl was drawing closer—almost crunch-time—so it was imperative that I stayed on top of everything; no way could I leave any details for the last minute. I’d emailed Peri twice to finalize the menu for the dessert stations but hadn’t heard back. I figured she was elbow-deep in problems since the agency was short-staffed, so I decided to stop by and see her in person.
A spot opened up in the lot outside of the KGE building so I whipped into it, then realized that the Paint Masters van was parked a couple of spaces over. Clark was still painting the office suite, apparently.
I’d put him on my mental maybe-he-did-it-even-though-I-have-no-evidence suspect list. He was still hovering around in the back of my mind for no real reason, except that he’d been evasive about his actions immediately prior to discovering Rayna’s body at the foot of the steps. With no new info to go on in the investigation, I decided it was time to dig into his life. Maybe I’d get lucky and find out he was some sort of weirdo serial killer.
Digging my cell phone from my handbag—a take-me-seriously Burberry tote that paired perfectly with my black YSL suit—I googled Clark’s name and got a lot of hits. Wow, this guy was everywhere.
I clicked through all the links, my spirits sagging with every site I hit. Clark didn’t work for Paint Masters, he owned it. And not only that, he was an artist who’d done murals for most every city in Southern California, plus big name celebrities and billionaires.
He’d told me that the guy who was supposed to paint the office suite had a family problem so he’d taken the job, which meant he was also a really nice person.
Crap.
This left me with no choice but to mark Clark off my suspect list. Though why he’d been popping in and out of the office suite he was painting the day of the murder, supposedly waiting for someone to arrive, and claimed he didn’t have his cell on him, I still didn’t know—except that maybe he was one of those artsy people and everybody knows how weird they could be sometimes.
I left my car, but instead of heading for the KGE office, I looped around the building and headed for Darby’s boutique. While paying a cordial visit to the soon-it-will-be-mine Domino clutch would give my day a boost, I had an ulterior motive for going there.
My cousin’s wedding was getting bigger in my head with each day that passed, making it more and more imperative that I get my hands on the Domino. This morning when I’d walked into
my office at L.A. Affairs, the perfect way to get Darby to make my clutch immediate had—wham—popped into my head. I intended to hit her with it this morning and, yeah, she’d be crazy to turn me down.
As I was mentally rehearsing my oh-so-clever ploy, my gaze locked in on the Starbucks across the street. The Holt’s employee contest lit up my brain.
Normally, thoughts of Holt’s would be a bad thing, but all I could think right now was how great it was going to be when I won the third-place prize and got my hands on the one-hundred dollar gift card from my favorite place on the planet.
I’d taken the test last night before my shift ended, twenty what-has-become-of-my-life minutes of reading and answering questions on a computer set up in the Holt’s training room.
Finessing the test had been a bit tricky. No way did I want to do well enough to win the first- or second-place prize—whatever they were—and I didn’t want to tank and end up with a crappy Holt’s beach towel.
It had hit me then that getting third place wouldn’t be so hard. The other employees would be going all-out for first or second and, really, since I’d drifted off through every training session—including my new-employee orientation—there was no chance I could do better than third, anyway.
My cell phone buzzed. I glanced at the ID screen and saw that Mom was calling.
Crap—just when I was feeling great about everything.
Then I thought—oh my God—maybe she’d tell me the wedding was off.
“You’re not going to believe what your cousin has done,” Mom exclaimed as soon as I answered. “It’s the most amazing thing.”
Obviously, the wedding was still on.
Damn.
“You know she and her husband, the neurosurgeon, just bought that beautiful historical mansion in Philadelphia that they’re restoring,” Mom said.
I had no idea which cousin she was talking about.
Mom didn’t seem to notice.
“Guess what they found—an original Declaration of Independence,” Mom said. “It was in the attic. They’re in the process of authenticating it now and—”
Backpacks and Betrayals (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Page 10
