by Lois Winston
“I came with Erica.”
“To do what? Accuse me of murder?” He waved his hand dismissively. “You, I don’t like. You may not call me Vittorio.” He snapped his fingers. “Show her out.”
THIRTEEN
Vittorio’s goon squad approached like a chartreuse and avocado tidal wave. So much for my interrogation skills. Maybe I should have watched some old episodes of Murder She Wrote before tackling this amateur sleuthing stuff.
I rewound the tape in my brain and began again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. I wasn’t sure you had heard about Marlys. That’s all.”
Vittorio held his hand up to stop the advance of the phalanx. “Why would I stoop to murder when the revenge of bringing Marlys to her knees would be so much more satisfying? And profitable.”
I blinked. “Profitable?”
Vittorio stroked his leather sleeve as though he were making love to his arm. “As I told the police yesterday, my dear Anastasia Pollack, I had already contacted my attorneys about instituting libel lawsuits against both Marlys and Trimedia. Twenty-five million dollars will go a long way toward pacifying my hurt feelings and salvaging my tarnished reputation, don’t you agree?”
“You’re suing Trimedia?” Erica’s jaw dropped. Her face paled under her Bobbi Brown makeup.
“Of course, I’ve dropped the suit against Marlys,” he said. “After a bit of investigating, my legal team discovered she left virtually no estate. And since you can’t get money from a corpse...” His lips curled into a catbird smile. “Why pay the lawyers?”
“Does Trimedia know about this lawsuit?” I asked.
Vittorio glanced at his diamond encrusted platinum Rolex. “They do now.”
I suppose that ruled Vittorio out as my prime suspect. There was no profit in murder—at least not Marlys’s murder. Why dirty his hands committing a crime when he could both destroy Marlys’s career and score millions through the legal system? Vittorio Versailles might be a god-awful designer, but he was a financially savvy, god-awful designer.
And as it also turned out, a financially savvy, god-awful designer with an iron-clad alibi for Monday night. While Marlys was getting glued to death in my cubicle, Vittorio was being feted in midtown Manhattan at a dinner sponsored by the Italian-American Fashion Collective. Several hundred witnesses could attest to his whereabouts at the time of the murder.
As apparently Batswin and Robbins already knew. Maybe the Dynamic Duo wasn’t as incompetent as they led me to believe. I wondered what other suspects they had already ruled out. What clues had they uncovered?
~*~
“You really thought Vittorio killed Marlys, didn’t you?” asked Erica on the train ride back to the office.
“I was hoping. He certainly had a good motive after the way Marlys skewered him in our latest issue.”
“And we all heard him threaten her.”
“Too good to be true. Nothing is ever that easy. I suppose anyone devious enough to kill Marlys would be smart enough not to make his identity so obvious.”
“Too bad he’s got an alibi.” She shifted position to face me. Worry clouded her face. Her lower lip trembled. “Those detectives scare me, Anastasia. They think I had something to do with it.”
I patted her clenched fists. “They suspect both of us. Which is why I need to find out who really killed Marlys. I can’t sit back and leave my fate in the hands of Batswin and Robbins.”
“Neither can I. What would Dicky think if I were arrested?”
“If we’re arrested for murder, Dicky will be the least of your worries.”
“True.”
“However, even if Batswin and Robbins find the real killer tomorrow, we now have another problem.”
“What?”
“Vittorio’s lawsuit.”
“How does that affect us?”
“If Vittorio is successful, he’ll bankrupt Trimedia. No Trimedia, no American Woman.”
“We’d lose our jobs!”
“Exactly. And I can’t afford to lose mine.”
“Just when everything was starting to go right in my life. I’ve worked so hard. He can’t do this to me!”
“Not much you or I or anyone else can do about it. The lawyers will fight it out. The shark with the most ferocious bite will win.”
Erica pounded her fist on the seat. “I feel so helpless. All these people controlling my fate. There’s got to be something we can do.”
“First, we need to clear ourselves of any involvement in Marlys’s murder. If we’re locked up as killers, our jobs won’t matter.” I mulled over our options. Next on my list of suspects was Marlys’s Monday night date.
In her new position as fashion editor, Erica had entrée to fashion’s newest rising star. And if Emil Pachette were anything like his many counterparts on Seventh Avenue, he’d grovel and drool for exposure. American Woman might be a second-rate supermarket monthly, but it was a second-rate supermarket monthly read by millions of women.
Erica sat silently for a moment, as if debating with herself. Finally, she asked, “Is there something I can...uhm...do to...you know...help?”
“Absolutely. When we arrive back at the office, you need to set up an interview with Emil Pachette. The sooner the better. I’ll come along as your assistant.”
“But don’t you think the police have already questioned him?”
“Probably. But if he is the killer, he would have been expecting the police and prepared for their questioning. Maybe we can catch him off guard.”
Erica rifled around in her purse and pulled out an iPhone. She waved it in the air like a kid who had just found the surprise in a box of Cracker Jacks. “Why wait until we get back to the office? I’ll phone him now.”
“You have Emil Pachette’s phone number programmed into your iPhone?”
She smiled a guilty smile and patted the phone. “A gift from Dicky. I have Marlys’s entire Rolodex and half her computer files programmed into this baby. Made playing slave a lot easier when information was this handy. Especially when she’d call me in the evenings or on weekends.”
Poor Erica. Yet another indication of her jellyfish backbone. Marlys demanded she jump, and Erica hoisted herself onto a trampoline, no matter the day or hour.
Instead of commenting, though, I simply said, “Smart woman.”
Her face broke out in a self-satisfied grin. “And finally getting the credit for it. Dicky was right.”
“About what?”
“He said all I needed was the chance to prove myself. It really made him mad that I was doing all of Marlys’s work, and she was taking all the credit.”
“We all felt that way.”
“Did you?”
“You didn’t realize that?”
Erica shook her head as she tapped her finger against the screen, then raised the cell to her cheek. “I guess I was too wrapped up in being angry and feeling sorry for myself to notice.”
After a moment, she spoke into the phone. “Hi, Gina. This is Erica. Is Emil available?...Oh?...I see.” Her brow furrowed. “When do you expect him back?...Really?...Yes, please leave him a message. I’d like to set up an interview... Thank you.”
Erica disconnected the call. “You’re not going to believe this. Emil Pachette didn’t show up for work today. Or yesterday. No one’s seen or heard from him since before lunch on Monday.”
FOURTEEN
“Angela Lansbury made it look so easy on television,” I told Cloris upon returning to the office. After a quick search, I had found her camped out in the test kitchen. “It took Jessica Fletcher all of an hour to catch the killer each Sunday night.”
“Less if you factor in the commercials,” she said around a mouthful of mango macadamia muffin. “Like everything else, reality takes a bit longer.”
“And reality just got a lot more complicated.”
“What do you mean?”
I told her about Vittorio’s lawsuit, as well as Emil’s disappearance.
&nbs
p; “Shit. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’ve still got a kid in college.”
“And I can?” Leaning against the counter, I pulled apart a still warm muffin and popped a piece into my mouth. Once again I had missed lunch, having gone straight into the city with Erica after the photo shoot. Besides, stress made me crave sweets.
“Hmm.” I closed my eyes, hoping the combination of sweet and tangy flavors would expunge the thought of impending unemployment. “You’re a spawn of the devil, tempting me like this.”
“Thanks. I think. I’m experimenting for an article on exotic combinations. If we have a magazine left to run such an article.” She reached for another platter. “Here. Tell me what you think of these.”
“What are they?”
“White chocolate and plum brownies.”
I hesitated. “How many calories per bite?”
“What the hell are another thousand calories or so in the greater scheme of life?”
Easy for her to say with her mach ten metabolism. I had a sneaking suspicion that Cloris exhaled calories and fat grams instead of carbon dioxide. On me, the calories and fat moved directly from my mouth to my hips, bypassing the entire digestive process.
But that didn’t stop me from caving in and grabbing a brownie. My willpower never stands a chance against my salivating taste buds. Besides, chocolate releases endorphins, and right now I needed all the endorphins my brain was capable of delivering into my blood stream.
“I suppose if I spread those thousand calories out over the course of seventy or eight years, you’ve got a point. Besides, who’s going to notice the added poundage under one of those neon orange prison jumpsuit?” I took a bite and moaned around the mouthful.
“Good?”
“Are you kidding? Let’s just say, white chocolate and plum put mango and macadamia to shame. If only I could catch a killer as easily as you kill my willpower.”
Cloris finished her muffin and helped herself to a brownie. “I’d think you’d be excited over Emil’s disappearance. Doesn’t this make him the prime suspect? You and Erica are off the hook.”
“And I’m so relieved,” said Erica, strolling into the test kitchen. She pulled out a stool and sat down at the end of the counter that also served as a table. “No more looking over my shoulder, worrying that those detectives are lurking in the shadows waiting for me to slip up.”
Both Cloris and I stared at her, Cloris’s expression mirroring the “uh-oh” feeling churning in my stomach.
“Slip up about what?” I asked.
Erica helped herself to a brownie and studied it, as if debating whether or not it was worth the calories and fat grams now that she had exchanged her shapeless jumpers for designer duds. “Nothing,” she said, speaking to the brownie instead of me.
She nibbled a corner and mumbled around the bite. “You know what I mean. Just having them snooping around and thinking I killed Marlys makes me feel guilty.”
She glanced up at me, then at Cloris. “Not that I have anything to feel guilty about but...”
“Don’t try to explain,” I said. “You’re not the only one those two detectives make nervous. But I don’t see how Emil’s disappearance gets either of us scratched off the suspects list.”
“People don’t vanish without a trace unless they have something to hide, do they?”
“And don’t forget the diamonds,” added Cloris. “All that ice could buy a brand new identity in a country where the police don’t ask too many questions.”
Anything was possible, but I couldn’t buy into the theory. I mulled over another possibility. What if someone wanted Emil out of the way because he knew too much or had seen something? “I don’t think Emil took off because he killed Marlys. Maybe he’s hiding because he’s scared. Or maybe the killer is actually someone who was jealous of the publicity Marlys was going to give Emil.”
“There’s another possibility,” said Cloris.
“What’s that?” asked Erica.
“We could be going about this backwards. What if Emil Pachette was the intended victim and Marlys got in the killer’s way?”
“So you’re thinking that Marlys may have met Emil as planned?”
“Who knows?”
“One flaw in that theory,” I said. “Why would the killer bring Marlys back here to kill her?”
“Right. Why wouldn’t he have killed her where he killed Emil?” asked Erica.
“Maybe he couldn’t for some reason,” said Cloris.
“Doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Marlys’s car was parked in the lot when I arrived back at Trimedia.”
Cloris reached for the coffee pot and poured three cups. “Maybe the killer followed her back here.” She added a generous amount of half-and-half to her cup before taking a sip. “If the killer set things up to look like someone at Trimedia had killed her—”
I finished her thought. “He’d divert suspicion from himself.”
“Why not? I’m just trying to look at this from all angles.”
Only as far as I could see, this particular angle was pockmarked with holes of flawed logic. “If Marlys saw someone kill Emil, why would she come back to the office? Why wouldn’t she call the police?”
Erica blew into her coffee. “With Vittorio eliminated as a suspect, my money’s on Emil.”
“Marlys was about to give Emil tons of free publicity that would send his career soaring,” I said. “Why would he kill her?”
Cloris exhaled a frustration-laced sigh. “We’re going around in circles, getting nowhere fast.”
“What if we search Emil’s office and apartment,” said Erica. “Maybe we could find some clues.”
“Good one,” said Cloris. “Ever hear of breaking and entering?”
Erica ignored the question as she pulled out her iPhone.
~*~
An hour and a half later the three of us were bucking the tide of rush hour crowds as we fought our way up the steps from the subway. Once on the street, I glanced at my watch.
“What time is it?” asked Cloris.
“Nearly five.”
“We’re probably too late. We should have waited until tomorrow morning.”
“Gina promised to wait for us,” said Erica. “She’ll be there.”
“Even if some stud with tight buns asks her out for drinks?” asked Cloris.
Erica shook her head as the three of us jogged across the street, skirting slower pedestrians and dodging cabs turning in front of us. “Gina doesn’t drink,” she said.
“Everyone in New York drinks,” said Cloris. “It’s practically a residency requirement. How else do you think they cope with all this?” With a sneer, she swept her arm in front of her.
Cloris despised the city. She was thrilled by our relocation to a meadow in Morris County. I was surprised when she’d volunteered to accompany us on our late afternoon field trip, but curiosity and an innate love of snooping had won out over hordes of humanity, bumper-to-bumper snarling SUVs, mind-numbing noise, and sidewalks filled with putrefied piles of trash.
“Gina has very strong feelings about alcohol,” said Erica. “Her father’s a drunk. Besides, all the guys who work for Emil are gay.”
“Including Emil?” asked Cloris. “Maybe he killed Marlys because she called him a fag.”
“Except Emil,” she said.
Cloris and I stopped short and stared at her. “And you knows this because...?” I asked.
Erica’s cheeks, bright pink from the stinging cold wind whipping down the street, deepened to crimson. “Gina has a huge crush on him.”
“Another suspect,” I said. “Gina could have killed Marlys.”
“You think she saw Marlys coming on to Emil and decided to eliminate her competition?” asked Cloris.
“Possibly.”
“No,” said Erica, her voice firm and defiant as she led us to a dilapidated tenement sandwiched between two highrises. “Gina did not kill Emil.”
“How do you know so much about Emil Pachette
’s secretary?” I asked as we entered the miniscule lobby.
Erica pushed the button for the elevator. “She’s not his secretary. She’s his assistant.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you know so much about her,” said Cloris.
“She’s my cousin.”
“The plot thickens,” said Cloris.
After a groan and a creak, the elevator doors opened, and the three of us stepped inside. “That doesn’t mean she’s not a killer,” I said.
Erica stabbed the button for the fifth floor. The elevator shuddered to life, jerking and rattling its way skyward. With mounting trepidation, I eyed the tiny graffiti-covered confines of the compartment.
“Gina agreed to help us,” said Erica, her voice now petulant. “That proves she didn’t have anything to do with Marlys’s death.”
“Maybe Emil was about to ditch Gina for Marlys,” said Cloris. “You know what they say about hell having no fury like a woman scorned.”
The elevator lurched to a halt. My stomach caught up with the rest of me several seconds later, but it took an additional ten or fifteen seconds before the doors stuttered open. I glanced down. The elevator had come to a stop at least eight inches below the cracked and dirt-caked vinyl flooring.
“We walk down,” I said.
“No complaint here,” said Cloris.
After we hoisted ourselves out of the elevator, Erica led us down the grimy, dimly lit hall to a frosted glass door at the end of the corridor. Half-hidden under a fine layer of soot, swirling black-rimmed gold letters spelled out House of Pachette.
“I think we can rule Emil Pachette out as the murderer,” I said.
“How so?” asked Cloris.
“If you worked in this dive, would you kill the goose offering you a platinum egg?”
“Shh,” said Erica, her hand poised on the doorknob. “Gina’s very upset about Emil’s disappearance. She thinks we’re here to help her figure out what happened to him, not find evidence to convict him of murder.”
Cloris saluted her. “Lead on, Macduff.”
We entered into a cramped workroom overflowing with industrial sewing machines, steamers, mannequins in various states of dress and undress, dozens of bolts of fabric, and bins brimming with notions. An enormous cutting table took up most of the center of the room. Squeezed into one corner was a battered metal filing cabinet and an equally battered oak desk with a mismatched chair.
