Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  The woman in charge of three models nipped, tucked, and pushed their bodies into place. “You have five minutes to catch your breath but don’t sit down,” she told them and dashed to the salon to check when the models should appear. Gilly started down the hallway to the salon passing several rooms occupied by clients standing on platforms being fitted for the garments they were purchasing. Passing one of the doors, a tall blonde, maybe mid-forties stood on the pedestal facing a floor-to-ceiling mirror that wrapped around three walls. The woman’s back was to the doorway but Gilly had a clear look at the woman’s image in the mirror. Gilly stopped and stared at the woman. Feeling Gilly’s eyes the woman looked up catching a glimpse of the girl in the doorway.

  Gilly quickly moved on. That was Eleanor Wellington. I’m sure of it. Skip Hunter, her reporter friend at the Seattle Times had included Mrs. Wellington’s picture with her husband in his stories about a gold heist—biggest robbery in Seattle history. Skip said the woman had disappeared with one of Mr. Wellington’s employees and it was thought the pair had been in cahoots making off with the gold.

  A smile crossed Gilly’s face. Just wait until Skip hears I’ve found his fugitive. Maybe he’ll come to Paris to write more stories on the heist, after all it was a big one, several million dollars if I remember right. I miss Skip. Should’ve called him. He’s probably wondering if I fell off the face of the earth or worse that I love Paris and I’m not coming back. He warned me that might happen before I left. What if he came to Paris to write …

  Catching up with the other two models, the first girl was immediately called into the salon. Gilly was the last to enter. The client, a young woman, was putting together a trousseau for her wedding in eight months. She must be from a rich family. The dress I’m wearing is $3500 and that’s without accessories.

  Gilly knew that when she was called to model she should listen to the client’s comments catching what they liked, didn’t like, and why. The modeling assignments provided a wonderful opportunity to hear what the woman buying the clothes thought—insight into the buyer’s decision process in picking one dress over another, their comments giving her an advantage in her future designs. After modeling she made it a habit to take a few minutes to jot down their impressions. A tingly feeling ran up her spine as she thought again about launching her own label.

  The young woman loved the dress Gilly modeled asking her to turn several times, to come closer so she could feel the fabric, and then walk away a few steps to observe how the gown looked from the back.

  As Gilly stepped away, following the client’s instructions, a tall, dark, and very handsome man passed the open door, walked back into view and smiled at Gilly. Gilly smiled in return, then turned to face the client. The saleswoman thanked her and Gilly exited the room. The other two models had already changed and left the dressing room.

  The woman who made adjustments to the gown earlier carefully helped Gilly out of the dress leaving her naked except for her panties. She wondered if she would ever be comfortable with a model’s dressing and undressing routine. They were stripped bare naked except for their panties to eliminate any chance of unsightly bumps that would ruin the line of the garments they were modeling.

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle.”

  The male voice came from the open doorway. Gilly grabbed her slacks covering herself as she jumped into the rack of clothes away from the voice. She looked around to see whom he was addressing, but the tailor was a madame and didn’t pay the slightest attention to the man. Gilly looked straight at the man, brows arched, and was about to tell him to get out when she recognized him as the man who had smiled at her when she was modeling in the salon. The tailor excused herself leaving Gilly alone holding her slacks.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to barge in but I didn’t want to lose you. I’ll wait outside.” He smiled again and shut the door leaving Gilly peering out from the rack of clothes holding her slacks over her bare chest.

  She quickly dressed into her work clothes—black pants, white cotton blouse, and black flats. Her red hair set by the stylist fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and makeup with rosy cheeks and thick black lashes fringing her green eyes remained in place. Slinging her black leather bag over her shoulder she opened the door peering out to see if the man was there.

  He was.

  “Mademoiselle. I must say your pants were more interesting a minute ago.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I have to get back to work. So if you’ll excuse me—

  “Let me escort you. Where do you work?”

  “No, no, please.”

  His cologne was light and drifting in her direction as he stepped closer. She was unaware of the animated French chatter from somewhere down the hall.

  “I insist.”

  “Look. I don’t know who you are. It’s very kind of you to offer to escort me to work but I can make it just fine. Now, if you please, mister, let me pass or I shall start screaming for help.”

  “Ah, mademoiselle, forgive me. I’m too, what you Americans call, pushy. Let’s start over. Mademoiselle Wilder, my name is Maxime Beaumont—

  “How do you know my name?”

  Monsieur Beaumont smiled down at her. “I should very much like to escort you to work but maybe we can stop for a coffee on the way. If not, then I shall pick you up after you finish work and we shall have a nice quiet dinner at a café around the corner during which we can introduce ourselves properly.”

  “Hello, Monsieur Beaumont. The package you requested from our legal department is waiting for you at the front desk. I see you found Mademoiselle Wilder.” The saleswoman, whose client Gilly had just modeled the gown for, smiled sweetly at the man, and then at Gilly, and then proceeded down the hallway.

  “There, you see, I’m not a bad person. Shall we?”

  Monsieur Beaumont offered Gilly his arm but she was already heading for the front door.

  Chapter 4

  ───

  GILLY TRIED TO CONCENTRATE on what she was being shown—tricks to patternmaking for various sizes which would then be sent to the cutting workroom. Her mind was wandering. I have to call Skip. With the time difference it’s close to midnight. Iffy that he would still be up. But I spotted Mrs. Wellington, at least it looked like her. I have to tell him right away. I would have called if that Monsieur Beaumont hadn’t interfered. I shouldn’t have let him talk me into a coffee … but he was so French … are all Frenchmen so handsome? Dinner tonight? I didn’t say yes. He probably won’t be waiting for me after I finish…

  “What? What was that last step? I’m sorry. Can you show me again, madame, s'il vous plaît? Merci.”

  Pay attention, Gilly, or your internship will be out the window, she thought, chastising herself. The next two hours flew by. Gilly forced herself to concentrate on the patternmaker’s every word. “Wonderful. Merci. Merci.” Standing back, she smiled at the woman finally grasping the techniques the madame was showing her.

  Gilly grabbed her shoulder bag and joined the line to punch out for the day. Waiting her turn, she mulled over the strategy and steps she had learned. Stepping out into the sunshine she headed for the stairs leading down to the metro.

  “Hello, Gillianne.”

  It was Mr. Beaumont, gently grasping her elbow.

  “Oh, hi, I didn’t think—

  “I know this delightful little café…only a few blocks. All right with you?”

  “All right, Mr. Beaumont, but then—

  “Maxime, please,” he said with a smile that swept away any notion she may have had about going back to her apartment. As they walked he pointed out places he thought might interest her.

  Arriving at the cafe he asked the hostess for a table in the back instead of outside even though the night was mild. More private. Wall sconces with little beaded shades provided a dim light coupled with the soft glow from the candles on the tables. A pretty, dark-haired French woman stood on the small stage. She was splashed
with a beam of light, a love song floating from her bow-shaped red lips. Her lashes fluttered shut as she quietly made love through song to the patrons longing to join her in romance after a day of work.

  Gilly looked away from the singer and found Maxime watching her with warmth in his eyes drawing her eyes into his. Seconds passed before she broke the trance. “Tell me, what do you do for work in this beautiful city besides taking an American girl you happened to meet to dinner tonight?” She hoped his work might be a safe subject—cool the warmth in his dark eyes.

  Maxime looked away for a moment and then he told her a little about his work as a corporate attorney in a firm his grandfather had founded decades ago. “Very boring, the law. I want to know more about you, Gillianne. Everything about you. Over coffee today you told me you grew up in a little town across the water from Seattle. Puget Sound I believe you said. Now tell me why a beautiful red-haired American girl happens to step into my life in the city of lights.” Maxime reached for her hand, lightly kissing her knuckles without taking his magnetic black eyes from her face.

  Swallowing, Gilly placed both hands in her lap, returning his smile, her breathing rapid.

  Maxime turned to the waiter as he approached their table. He spoke briefly to the waiter, the order flowing from his lips in French.

  “I hope you don’t mind my ordering for you. They have a wonderful chicken dish here, very American. We’ll explore French cuisine at another time.”

  Dinner was slow and easy. Gilly began to relax helped along with a lovely white wine. She told him of her ambition to become a famous fashion designer, why she was in Paris, and what she hoped to learn.

  Maxime ordered an after-dinner espresso, and then it was time to leave. They walked to his car and he drove her to her apartment. He held her hand as they slowly walked up to the building. The front door was set in an alcove surrounded with roses, their scent filling the mild night air. “You are a very beautiful woman, Gillianne Wilder. Will you have dinner with me again? Next Friday?”

  “Yes, I’d like that. It was a lovely night. Thank you.”

  Maxime gently kissed her cheek. “I’ll introduce you to Paris properly with a nice dinner in a beautiful but cozy café and then we’ll walk along the Seine. I’ll pick you up here, Gillianne. Good night,” he said, kissing her other cheek and then left with a slight wave as he got into his car.

  Her fingers trembled as she punched in the security code and stepped inside. She heard his car drive away—he had waited until she was safely inside the building. Quietly entering her apartment she took note that Nicole and Sheridan were asleep. Checking her watch, Gilly calculated that with the nine-hour time difference, it was one o’clock in Seattle. Skip should be at work. Gripping her cell phone, her body a little off kilter with Maxime filling her thoughts, she tapped in Skip’s code as she stepped into the bathroom closing the door behind her.

  “Hey, stranger, how goes it in the city of lights?”

  Why did he have to say that? Gilly was suddenly at a loss for words.

  “Gilly? You there?”

  “Yes, yes I’m here. The city. The city is beautiful. How’s Seattle?”

  “Rainy afternoon. You caught me with a tuna sandwich at my desk. I hoped you might call sooner. It’s been over two weeks since you left. I miss you.”

  “Miss you, too. I’m learning a lot and … meeting people.”

  “You sound funny. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” Gilly shook her head. Come on girl. Focus. “Saw someone today. A woman. Skip, I’m certain it was your missing Mrs. Wellington. She—

  “Where? Are you sure?”

  “I was called to model at this designer’s salon for a special customer. Mrs. Wellington was in a fitting room. Her back was to me, but—

  “Then how could you recognize her if you only saw her back?”

  “She was facing a mirror, being fitted, as I said. I stared at her for a few seconds but she looked up so I scooted down the hall. But after I modeled I asked the fitter who the woman was.”

  “And—

  “She said she was a relatively new client. Liked expensive clothes—exquisite taste, her words, exquisite taste.”

  “Gilly, her name?”

  “Elaine Waters.”

  “EW. That fits. Did you get an address?”

  “Heavens no. I wanted to talk to you first. I’ll send you an email as soon as we hang up with the name of the salon, street address, and telephone number. Maybe she and her partner in crime fled to Europe. If she’s a relatively new client, that tells me she’s been to the salon more than once, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. As soon as I get your email I’m calling Detective DuBois. Gilly, this could be the break we’ve been hoping for.”

  Hearing the excitement in Skip’s voice, she could visualize him pacing, rubbing his hand over his bald head, blue eyes intense as he processed her words.

  Chapter 5

  ───

  ELEANOR WELLINGTON, A.K.A. Elaine Waters, a.k.a. Elizabeth Winters, gazed out of her penthouse window overlooking the carpet of twinkling lights below. In the distance the Eiffel tower glowed piercing the starry black sky. She smiled as her plan to be the sole keeper of her husband’s gold bullion crystallized. She had managed to manipulate the fool Gordon Silvers, a.k.a. Glenn Stevens, a.k.a. Gerald Sacco, to flee with her and the crates of gold bullion.

  It had been so easy once she realized Sacco and two others—Jack Carlson and Lester Tweed—had pulled off the largest gold robbery in Seattle’s history. And there Sacco was, ripe for her picking. She knew with her statuesque body and flowing blonde hair that even at the age of forty-five the world was hers. She was sure the fool had killed his two partners in the crime, but she needed proof so that she could never be accused of murder or of having anything to do with the heist. Her part in the whole sordid affair came after the fact, after she found the key to the locker where her ex-lover, Jack Carlson, had stashed the gold the night of the heist, double crossing his partners Sacco and Tweed.

  Eleanor walked to the wet bar, poured a quarter flute of champagne and strolled back to the panorama that lay at her feet. She had to be careful not to drink too much, just a little to relax and seduce Sacco, loosen his tongue with liquor—not hard to do. Then she’d get him to tell her the story of how he did away with his partners, all the time being recorded.

  Eleanor heard him entering the condo which she had cleverly rented in her new name, Elizabeth Winters. Her slave who followed her every lead, drooling over the fact he had landed the beautiful blonde, set two cases on the floor and quietly walked up behind her, encircled her with his arms and kissed her delicate neck warming the blood in both of their bodies. She leaned back into him accepting his advance, feeling his body harden against her.

  “Did you make contact with our buyer?” she asked her words slow and soft.

  “Yes, my love. Nineteen of the gold bars are on their way to be melted down and resold—half of the money deposited in our account and the other half here in my two suitcases—one million and eighty-seven thousand dollars. The rest of the gold remains in storage. Want to see the money?”

  His hands were now roaming her body as he turned her to look into her eyes, his melting into this goddess like creature.

  “Yes. I’d like to see it, touch it. My anticipation for your return was agony, but now you’re here. I’ll come to you in the bedroom. Open the cases while I fix your Manhattan the way you like it—a touch of sweetness with the bitters.”

  Sacco moaned, his lips grazing her neck down to the wisp of black lace of her peignoir sliding over the black satin gown underneath. Eleanor gently moved from his arms still around her. She floated to the bar and fixed his drink as he stood transfixed. She looked at him as she removed a cherry from the silver bowl. Running her tongue over the fruit she then immersed it into the amber liquid.

  “Go, Gerald. To the bedroom. Open the cases,” she whispered.

  Sacco dutifully turned,
picked up a case in each hand, and went to the bedroom to wait for her. Eleanor joined him, sitting on the edge of the bed, the cases open on the small sitting bench at the foot revealing stacks of $100 bills. Handing Sacco his drink, a fresh flute of champagne in her other hand, she gazed at the money and smiled. Closing the cases she turned to the besotted man. Yes, this was going to be easy.

  Tapping her glass to his, she stood between his legs, leaned in, “Here’s to a wonderful life. You are so clever, my dear. Tonight we celebrate the successful culmination of our plan.”

  Lifting her flute she drained her champagne then nodded to him to do the same. Obliging her suggestion, he plucked the cherry from the glass, laid it on his tongue, swallowed, then drained his glass. Removing her peignoir, she picked up his glass. “Make yourself comfortable, my dear, while I freshen up our drinks.”

  Leaving the bedroom she heard him turn on the shower. Yes, this was going to be easy.

  She quickly mixed a batch of Manhattans in a crystal pitcher, filled her flute with sparkling ginger ale and returned to the bedroom. She turned on the recorder in the bedside table leaving the drawer slightly ajar, checked to be sure the tiny microphone she stuck to the back of the headboard was still in place, and then laid on the bed smoothing the black satin nightgown flowing around the curves of her body.

  Sacco returned to their bed. Eleanor, reclining against the pillows, patted the pillows on his side inviting him to join her. As he glided on the white satin sheets to her side she handed him his drink, again tapped her glass to his, and drank deeply of its contents. Sacco followed her lead.

  “I celebrated yesterday, thinking of you once again replenishing our account,” she whispered kissing his ear.