Runways and High Heels and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  Okay, so two more suspects, one of them the person Vivian wanted me to exonerate. And honest, I was rather a fan of Grace’s myself, so if I could find evidence Mateo did do it, all the better.

  Right, because I was in the business of cheering for possible murderers. Now who was judging?

  “Does it bother you, following Grace’s rules?” Mom spoke up, startling Kami who shrugged, though her guilty expression returned.

  “It’s great,” she said, “Except. Well, when we’re working for Grace, she wants us a certain size. But when we go to work for the other designers or check in with our agents…” She looked suddenly uncomfortable all over again. “It’s been a bit of a struggle.” She burped softly, rubbing her stomach. Then, she brightened, leaning in to me again. “Oh, and Mateo!” She winked, naughty look crossing her face. “He’s been sleeping with Libby, or at least he was a month ago. I caught them at it.”

  Interesting, considering Libby worked for Grace. Was someone trying to frame the designer? Henry and Mateo working together, perhaps?

  “Is that relevant to the case?” I realized at that moment Kami might not have had justice for Faith in the forefront. Her nose wrinkle of wicked delight told me I was right.

  “Probably not,” she giggled, “but I have tons more gossip if you have more of that delicious bread to share.”

  ***

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mom took Kami in hand after that, summoning Dad to drive the young model home while I did some online digging. The fact my P.I. father wasn’t interested in lingering, didn’t suggest Mom do the driving honors to stay with me and butt his nose into said internet research, told me he thought he already had the clues he could glean and was likely going to take the time during the drive to pick Kami’s little brain clean.

  Let him. I had my own ideas. Okay, so that might make it sound as if there was a competition or something going on between me and my dad. Who could solve the case faster or an equally ridiculous supposition that had nothing to do with the truth. Right? We were supposed to be partners—at least, he’d thrown me into the ring without my knowledge or approval—so any kind of withholding of evidence from each other wasn’t in either of our best interests.

  Except, of course, this was my dad we were talking about and I was my father’s daughter.

  Snort.

  Noel Lewder’s blog was easy enough to find, the disgruntled and bitter model’s rambling diatribe against the fashion industry with enough truth nuggets to hold up but layered all over with the level of nasty resentment and whiny poor me that made my teeth ache like I’d eaten too much chocolate. From Henry to Mateo to Frederick, Noel had horrible things to say—accusing the last of assault and pressuring her into inappropriate acts. Since I had first-hand experience with Frederick Newmark’s particular brand of yuck, I was inclined to side with Noel on that one and struggled, then, not to judge everyone she wrote about.

  Except when it came to Grace. Everything I read about her from the ex-model’s perspective made Noel sound like her complaints were sour grapes, though there were enough supportive comments at the end of each post I figured Noel was being fed by those who would have preferred Grace wasn’t as popular as she was.

  A quick check on Faith turned up a large array of photo spreads, advertising campaigns and her own personal website. Every post I came across, including old social media shares, all pointed to Faith being well loved and admired. Which instantly put my back up and got my suspicions stirring. No one that willful and, according to Kami, confrontational, was universally loved. Certainly not as flawless as her online persona would have led me to believe.

  As for Henry Ostler, his modeling agency had enough big names on the roster he was clearly on the up-and-up, not one of those scammer companies that took advantage of the young men and women they contracted. Though, for all I knew, every agency was a scam. I did catch a sniff of an old newspaper article, from New York a few years ago, suggesting he was being investigated for further accusations of a sexual nature connected to a model that turned out to be a minor. But, as I read further, I realized it wasn’t Henry who was the actual accused, but Frederick Newmark.

  Personal experience tied to a trend, even if unsubstantiated? Enough for me to play judge and jury. Interesting. Frederick worked for Henry at one time, wasn’t just repped by him as a designer, and had embroiled his boss in his troubles. How lovely of him, though the pair seemed to have worked out the issue because there was no later story and nothing I could find in the court system that suggested he even pled out. And Frederick’s name was listed as part of Henry’s current agented roster.

  I took a quick swipe at Libby, realizing almost immediately the girl was an enigma. No social media, no blog, no real anything. All I could find was her bio pic on Grace’s website, and it didn’t even really look like her. Felt instantly sketchy and I made a note to ask Grace about her assistant’s past, especially since it seemed the girl had only been working for her for six months or so, if the bio was correct. And yes, I would share with Crew. But not Dad. He could uncover her lack of background himself.

  Competitive, who, me?

  Mateo Marney, on the other hand, was all over the internet, from one scandal to another, always involving gorgeous young women, and sometimes even those who were married and should have been off his radar. At least he seemed to love his flamboyant life. There were a few images of him with Faith, one of the two of them fighting backstage at Fashion Week, confirming Kami’s gossip. So he was definitely on the list of suspects, if only because the idea of giving a smarmy guy a hard time appealed to me.

  Oh, Fee.

  Frederick’s headshots made me cringe. Why he thought biting the arm of his thick, black glasses and trying to look coy appealed was beyond me. More ew than I could shake a stick at, even if he hadn’t hit on me. Again, I uncovered a few hints of him being inappropriate, but nothing concrete and certainly nothing that ended up in the courts or the papers as an actual full-blown scandal. Did he have something against Faith? Or did she have something against him?

  I purposely left Grace for last, squirming uncomfortably as I finally sighed and searched her name. Thing was, almost everything I uncovered reconfirmed to me she was genuine and the kind of person I really wanted to get to know better. Mind you, I had to admit I’d been fooled in the past. I’d fallen under the friendship spell—and once, more than friendship—of those who turned out to be guilty. But I just couldn’t bring myself to doubt the charming and forthright designer so, when all I uncovered on the negative were those who complained about her use of larger than wafer thin models, I abandoned my query.

  And hesitated, thought it over. Typed Vivian’s name into the search bar. Before deliberately backspacing until the box stood empty, cursor blinking, waiting for input. She’d given up modeling, abandoned her past for her family’s business. Yes, I was curious about her, about her career and honestly wanted to know if she was as good at modeling as she was being the Queen of Wheat. Why then did it feel like an invasion of her privacy to go looking? After all, the internet was a public space. Anything on there was fair game. Wasn’t it?

  I shut down the computer and sat back, frowning at the closed laptop on my coffee table, Petunia snoring softly next to me while I admitted Dad might beat me to the truth this time. I had almost nothing to go on, certainly no evidence of murderous intent. And I could have been at Crew’s all this time.

  Sighing, frustrated, wondering why I even cared Vivian asked me to be a busybody, I went to bed.

  I slept better than I expected and woke with a new direction of inquiry. A quick hug for Daisy and Mom after my morning rounds and I took a stroll to the center of town, to French’s Handmade Bakery, in search of the Queen herself. If she wanted me to solve this murder, she could dig deep and tell me everything she knew. Which meant maybe, just maybe, I might get permission to find out who she really was.

  ***

  Chapter Eighteen

  It didn’t take long fo
r me to find out Vivian wasn’t at work and I contemplated just going back to Petunia’s when her manager, Margaret Peadly, informed me of that fact. Except that she then filled in the rest of the information, prompting a fresh inspiration. “Vivian is home today,” Margaret said. “She always takes Monday off.”

  Huh. Good to know, though why Vivian would take such a random day to herself I had no idea but was suddenly eager to find out. Margaret’s instant flicker of what looked like regret at telling me so was all the more fodder for my imagination and I left French’s with a single goal in mind.

  Thing was, I’d never actually been to Vivian’s house before, though I knew where she lived, naturally. Her big, white home with the stunning wrought iron fence and massive gate build into towering brick cornerstones was a fixture in Reading. I’d walked and biked past here many times as a child and teenager, though I hadn’t had much reason to come to this part of town since I came home from New York. Even deeper in the rich part of town, neck-high with all the residences of the people who only came to Reading a few weeks a year, their vacation houses locked up tight and a bone of contention with local residents, Vivian’s was one of the only mansions—yeah, I called it a mansion—that had year-round living.

  I paused at the gate, my little car humming softly as I contemplated the call panel. There was a good chance Vivian would reject a visit from me. Then again, she’d asked me to look into this murder for her, so maybe she’d let our lifelong mutual animosity slide the rest of the way to the ground in favor of information that might help her friend. When I leaned out my window and pressed the button, a woman’s voice answered instantly.

  “Can I help you, Miss Fleming?”

  Did I know her? She clearly knew me. “I’m here to talk to Vivian.” I let it go at that. Yes, I could have played the Grace card and I was, after all, here to talk to the Queen of Wheat about the case. But it felt heavy handed to mention the designer Vivian seemed so deeply connected to.

  “Of course. Please, come right up.” I heard the mechanism of the gate click as it swung slowly, ponderously, inward. “You can park by the front door.”

  Why was I suddenly nervous? I hit the gas, cruising up the drive to the large, open entry to the house, parking as discretely as I could near the wide front steps to the looming front door, knowing I looked like the country mouse coming to visit her city mouse cousin, wishing I’d at least taken a moment to neaten my typically messy ponytail that used to be an effort at a bun at the nape of my neck, refusing to look down at the front of my t-shirt to check for stains. Purposely straightening my shoulders and choosing confidence over the rush of inadequacy I was feeling, I took the steps two at a time, the short flight barely giving me time to reach the landing before the front door swept open and an older woman smiled from the interior.

  Hey, I did know her, didn’t I? I smiled back, tentative, until she held out one hand and ushered me toward her, her own expression shifting from welcome to beaming.

  “So lovely to see you again, Miss Fleming.” She had the faintest British accent, as if she’d been born in England but spent most of her life here in the States. I shook her hand when she grasped for mine, mind whirling as I tried to place her. “You probably don’t remember me.” Whoops, was it that obvious? “I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl and you and Miss Vivian were friends and playmates.” Huh, what? Since when? All I remembered of our past was Vivian bullying Daisy and me breaking her nose with a solid punch. That was the definitive memory moment I had for the Queen of Wheat. Since when had we been friends?

  “Nice to see you again,” I said. And hesitated.

  “Clara French, Miss Fleming,” she said with that same smile. She was older than Mom by at least a decade, her hair untouched by artificial color, a solid and dependable steel gray cut short enough to be no-nonsense. Her blue eyes matched Vivian’s and I had to wonder how they were related, the much more practical Clara seemingly comfortable in her fuzzy cardigan, cream blouse, past-the-knee twill skirt and comfortable shoes. “I’m Vivian’s auntie. Her dear departed Uncle Stanley was my husband.”

  Ah, so they were related by marriage. I felt myself relax in her presence as she turned and gestured for me to move past the doorway and into the main foyer. I loved the newly renovated entry to the annex, but this place put Jared and Alicia’s efforts to shame. I’d known Vivian was wealthy, sure. But her vaulted ceilinged, winding wooden-staircased, marble-floored extravaganza made me feel even more like a commoner come calling on royalty.

  Queen of Wheat indeed.

  I followed Clara into the house, to the left and through a towering doorway arched in heavy crown molding that made me feel tiny in comparison, the quiet and faintly rose-fragranted air of the place giving me goosebumps. I found myself in a large sitting room, a circle of antique wing-backed chairs in the center, a huge fireplace with a white marble mantle looking big enough to fit a whole tree inside. My sneakers whispered over the lush carpeting, the looming oppression of the volume of the place cutting off my usual flippancy and honestly making me feel like I’d made a huge mistake coming here.

  And yet, this house seemed familiar after all, and as I ventured further, Clara leading me toward the chairs in the middle of the room, huge windows letting in light from the front of the house, I realized she was right. I’d been here before. How had I not remembered knowing Vivian as a child? Maybe because I hadn’t wanted to?

  “Martha, sweetness, we have a visitor.” Clara smiled at me again, gesturing for me to join her and, to my surprise, a tiny older woman nestled deep into one of the wingbacks like she lived in it. A twinge of something hit me as I sank down next to her, frowning and reaching for her hand as Martha reached back, thin fingers lined with veins, but surprisingly strong for her apparent frailty.

  “Lucy, darling,” she said in a clear, high voice, “how lovely of you to come visit us.”

  Clara winced a bit, her smile turning sad as she leaned in and patted Martha’s hand. “My mother-in-law has difficulty with the passage of time,” she said. “She knew your mother well, Miss Fleming.”

  “Fiona, please.” I held Martha’s hand while she clung to me, leaning toward me, her tiny face scrunched with wrinkles but her blue eyes sparkling in delight.

  “Lucy, sweet girl, you bring that handsome deputy boyfriend of yours over sometime.” She giggled like a teenager, lips twitching. “I want to pinch that fine bottom again.”

  I laughed, unable to stop myself, the idea that this old lady had a thing for my dad making me equally nervous and amused. “I’ll do that,” I said, winking at Clara. “I’m sure he’d love it.”

  Martha laughed, sinking back into her seat, the fur blanket tucked around her falling away from the simple cream dress she wore. Clara instantly tucked her back in before perching on the arm rest of the wingback, both of them smiling at me like they expected something from me.

  I cleared my throat, not sure what to say, and got to business. “I’m here to ask Vivian some questions about her friend, Grace Fiore.”

  Clara clucked softly, Martha’s face tightening in a frown a moment as she seemed lost in confusion. Dementia, had to be. From what I understood of the illness, though, she’d reached a ripe old age and still appeared to be bright enough. I’d be so lucky.

  “Sad business,” Clara said, patting Martha’s hand that she held between her own, resting in her lap. These two ladies obviously spent a great deal of time together, the elder looking to the younger for what seemed like direction, with adoration on her face, and I wondered then how long they’d spent here, in this house, alone or at least isolated from the rest of the world. Sad on the one hand, and yet, again, I’d be so lucky to have someone to spend my life with who loved me as much as these two obviously did. “Poor Viv dear is in a state over the whole thing.”

  I coughed softly, shocked to find I was choked up and needing to redirect my attention so I didn’t start crying for no reason. Right, Fee. No reason at all. “I understand. That’s
why I’m here. I need to get some information straight.”

  Martha tugged on my hand, pulling me closer, the little bow of her mouth puckering as she whispered. Well, tried to whisper, likely thought she was, that faint scent of roses rising from her clothing as she drew near. I focused on her still-bright eyes, the pure white curls of her hair falling around her in a delicate veil and I knew I was looking at Vivian’s future.

  “Iris, darling,” she said, surprising me again. She’d forgotten she’d called me by my mother’s name already, instead labeling me as my departed grandmother. I didn’t get to recover from that shock because she went on. “Why doesn’t Marie come around anymore? I miss her so.”

  “Marie Patterson?” Wow. I glanced at Clara whose face pinched a moment, again in sorrow.

  She shrugged, stared at the tiny hand clutched between her two. “Iris and Marie used to be dear friends. Martha was the oldest, but they, along with a few others,” Peggy Munroe for one, Doreen Douglas another that I knew of, “had a bit of a ladies club back in the day.”

  Ladies club, huh? “I’m sorry,” I said to Martha, squeezing her hand. “I’m sure she’ll come to visit soon.” Weak, Fee. A sad attempt to comfort an old lady. But it worked. Martha perked instantly, her cheeks turning pink as she pulled me tightly to her and kissed me on the corner of my mouth.

  “Sweet girl,” she whispered, really whispered this time. “Do you still have the doubloon? We’ll need it if Marie’s guess was right. And I’m sure she’s right. Reading’s treasure will be ours, just like we planned.”

  And, in that instant, the entire world went away. Murder, mayhem, Vivian, Grace, all of it. Every last scrap of anything that troubled me lately went out the proverbial window as I gaped and gasped for breath while Martha released my hand long enough to pinch my cheek and giggle.