“Arthur, you should have seen the tiny space Gilly and I plus Sheridan, another roommate, shared in Paris,” Nicole giggled. “We couldn’t turn around without bumping into each other. Just wait until you see what we girls can do. We’ll make it work. You’ll see.”
“Count me in,” Cindy said looking at her husband. “I can at least run errands while you set up.”
Gilly smiled at Cindy. “Oh, and there’s one more thing. I asked Butch, the landlord’s name, if he could ask the cleaners to wash The Working Girl shop windows and floor where we set up our mannequins. Gabby checked and they were still intact—no cracks. He said he thought he could.”
“Why?” Arthur asked.
Gilly sighed. Poor Arthur. He’d never seen four women in action before. “Nicole and Gabby will put up our window displays again. Of course, the ladies will have to be scrubbed, fresh wigs, and Nicole will dress them in samples of our new collection.”
“Gilly, that’s brilliant,” Maria said. We can keep the public informed of the progress, even tease them a little with what’s coming—they’ll be part of it—a show.”
“That’s right. Now, one more thing I want to do … nothing to do with what I’ve mentioned so far. We’re going to sign up for a spot on the runway in September’s fashion week … in New York!”
Chapter 4
───
MARIA MOSEYED ALONG THE Wellington driveway taking note of the spring bulbs pushing through the mulch. The first week of April. She had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air hoping to stir her creative juices. It was Friday morning, and in a few minutes she and Gabby were meeting to brainstorm some killer ideas for the shop’s front window displays as renovations began. Next she’d be off to order a sign for the new store front: Gillianne Wilder Fashions.
An hour, and two cups of coffee later, Maria and Gabby were ready to show Gilly and Nicole their ideas. The pair was working at the opposite end of the dining room table.
“Come look,” Maria called out. “Here are the concepts and possible signage for the windows to lure pedestrians to pause, peek in, see the reconstruction in action.”
Gilly and Nicole stood looking over Maria’s shoulder. “I love it,” Gilly said. “It adds an element of excitement—
“Excitement,” Nicole chimed in.
Scooting to the other end, Nicole picked up the papers she and Gilly had been working on. “Here’s the layout of the loft—apartment and studio. Any suggestions?” Nicole asked.
Gabby and Maria made a few comments and then Gilly and Nicole left for the furniture warehouse. Anne was taking care of Robyn in Hansville and would bring her back to Gilly Sunday morning after the barren loft was set up. At the warehouse the pair began the arduous task of picking out what they needed to make the empty space livable, rather what they could afford being mindful of Arthur’s admonition to try to stay within his budget.
Three hours later they huddled in the office with the warehouse manager and added up their selections. Over budget! They eliminated a few items.
“Close enough,” Gilly said, putting the calculator back in her tote.
The manager agreed to arrive at the back of their building at one o’clock the next day and that his men would assemble the eight-foot partitions, and position the furniture including a refrigerator, microwave, and small stove. It was also agreed, that if Gillianne Wilder Fashions replaced a rental piece, the warehouse van would pick up what they didn’t need twice a month reducing the rental fee appropriately.
Tired but pleased with their selections, Gilly climbed into her car with Nicole and headed to the building to see what the place looked like as the cleaners did their thing. Hearing her cell, Nicole dug it out of Gilly’s tote and handed it to her. It was Detective DuBois.
“Gillianne, Edward Churchill’s lawyer, and the lawyer for the prosecutor on the case are taking Churchill’s deposition in an hour. It’s been requested that you attend. Can you make it?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Here, at the department. Ask the desk sergeant to call me and I’ll take you to the conference room. Spiky, your blackmailing friend, has been making some comments you might find interesting. Of course, he’s trying to plead to reduced charges. Skip Hunter will also be attending.”
“Oh. Okay. See you in an hour.” Gilly handed her phone to Nicole, and let out a sigh. Her heart hitched up. Damn, she thought, why the flutters just because I’m going to see Skip again. She had seen him the morning he helped her retrieve her car. There was absolutely no reason seeing him today should bother her.
Nicole saw Gilly’s spirit deflate. “Bad news?”
“Not really. Spiky, that guy who stole my designs a couple of years ago—
“The one who started stalking you, sending red satin hearts with a nail through the middle, and later tried to blackmail you to keep the secret of Robyn’s father out of the media? That guy? How could I forget? He stalked you in Paris and back here to Seattle.” Nicole looked out the car window. “He’s a psycho if you ask me.”
“That’s the one.”
“Creepy.” Nicole looked back at Gilly. “You thought he started the fire in the shop.”
“He’s been in jail on blackmail charges, and the detective who arrested him, that was DuBois on the phone, wants me to be present at his deposition. Seems he’s trying to make a deal in return for less jail time. DuBois said Skip is going to be there although I’m not sure why. He’s not reporting on the story for the newspaper. No one is.”
“You like him … Skip I mean not DuBois,” Nicole giggled.
“Skip always seems to be there for me when I’m in trouble.”
Chapter 5
───
THE POLICE DEPARTMENT CONFERENCE room was located in the interior of the building—no windows, eight-foot oak conference table dinged up from hard use. Old oak chairs wrapped around the table as well as extras placed against the wall. A small cart was pulled up to one end of the table on which a recording machine sat to capture what was said by the various participants.
Detective DuBois escorted Gilly into the room. She was the last to arrive before Edward Churchill was brought in. DuBois told her where Churchill would sit and suggested she take a seat on the opposite side of the table so she could watch him.
Skip stood as she entered the room, gave her a quick hug, and the pair sat down along with DuBois and three lawyers—two from the prosecutor’s office. A guard escorted Churchill into the room. He was dressed in a new pair of jeans, white T-shirt, and sneakers. His head was shaved and he walked with a decided limp. No cuffs. An armed guard sat behind him.
The State’s attorney started the deposition establishing Churchill’s name, age, and address. Churchill gave his parent’s fifth Avenue condominium in New York City as his address. The attorney then asked Churchill if he knew the young woman sitting at the table.
“Sure, I know her. That’s Gillianne Wilder,” he answered with a smirk.
Gilly, no expression of acknowledgement, looked straight into his eyes.
The lawyer shuffled through some papers, pulling out a folder. Opening the folder he laid it in front of Edward. “Do you recognize these letters, note cards?”
Edward shuffled through the pages, looking up at Gilly after each one, smirking.
“Sure, I recognize them.”
“Did you send them or have them delivered in some way to Ms. Wilder?”
“Yup. You see I figured she owed me. It was on account of her that I was fired. Had a great job at a fashion house in New York. And then that old man, her grandfather, shot me for no reason. It’s because of him that I’m in constant pain. Can barely walk.”
“I see. You said you recognized the letters. In the last two you sent, you asked for twenty-thousand dollars or you were going to tell the news media in Paris who fathered her baby. Is that correct?”
“As I said, I figured she owed me.”
“Mr. Churchill, we found a deposit of twenty-five thousand dol
lars in a bank account with your name on it. Here is a statement from that account. Is it your account?”
“Yup. So?”
“Where did this money come from? Ms. Wilder has stated she never sent you any money.”
“It came from Mr. Maxime Beaumont.” Edward looked at Gilly and chuckled.
Gilly’s mind started spinning. Spiky had received money from Maxime? Did he tell Maxime about her baby?
“And why did Mr. Maxime Beaumont send you this money?”
“Oh, well, you see, Monsieur Beaumont didn’t want the fact that he had a bastard child with an American whore—
Gilly jumped to her feet, leaned with both hands on the table, her green eyes sparking disgust. “Edward, you told Maxime about my baby?” she yelled.
“Mr. Churchill, stick to the facts,” the lawyer said. “And, Ms. Wilder, please sit down.”
“I am sticking to the facts,” Edward spit out the words looking straight at Gilly. “He was running for the Senate, the French government, and certainly didn’t want the paparazzi to get wind of his little bundle in Seattle. I actually asked for a million Euros. The twenty-five thousand was just the down-payment.”
Gilly moved to stand again but Skip gently put his hand on her arm. She remained in her seat, her chest heaving with each breath. So Maxime knows about Robyn. But a down payment? That didn’t make sense.
Gilly looked at Skip then Detective DuBois. From their expressions she could see they had come to the same conclusion she had hearing Edward’s story. The detective’s words the day of the fire rang in her ears—Edward Churchill was in a Tacoma jail. He couldn’t have set the fire. Someone else is trying to murder you.
Suddenly the conference room door banged open and a trim woman, a senior citizen, strutted in directly to Edward’s side.
It was Helen Churchill, Edward’s grandmother.
“Edward dear, I came as quickly as I could. Your grandfather is parking the car. Are you all right? They aren’t being mean to you are they?”
“Grandmother, how nice.” Edward stood, kissed his grandmother on the cheek and sat down under the pressure of the guard’s hand on his shoulder.
Edward’s lawyer introduced the grandmother to the State’s attorney, gave the relationship, and asked that another chair be made available at the table.
“Oh, I’m not staying,” Helen said. “I just wanted my grandson to know we are here to support him.” Turning to Edward, she said, “Now you remember that your grandfather and I are working very hard for you. So, don’t you worry, dear.”
Helen nodded to Edward’s lawyer and turned to leave. “Gillianne, I hold you responsible for putting my grandson in this awful situation. If it hadn’t been for you, he would still be a designer in New York City. Well, you have seen the last of my money. Why I ever offered to help with your move to Seattle I’ll never know. I’m shocked that you kept any of it. I expect to be repaid … with interest. Here I was trying to help you get established and this is the thanks I get … my dear Edward in prison. The very idea that Edward was under suspicion for setting the fire just makes my blood boil.” The door slammed shut behind her.
Chapter 6
───
Paris
THE VOTES WERE CAST. The votes were tallied. Maxime Beaumont was one of several men to win a Senate seat in the French government. His father, Count Beaumont, couldn’t stop smiling, his mother was quietly proud of her son. His wife, Bernadette, went on a spending spree. After all, she had to dress the part of a Senator’s wife and certainly couldn’t be expected to wear her old wardrobe, let alone be seen.
Underneath the gaiety—the new work in the Senate and never-ending social engagements—the Beaumonts, each from their own perspective, fretted.
The Count couldn’t decide if he should call off the demise of the American harlot, Gillianne Wilder. The blackmailing of his son had come to an abrupt end. His detective said the blackmailer had been arrested in Tacoma, Washington. One thing the Count was sure of, the result of his son’s infidelity producing a bastard child had not come to light during the campaign.
Then there was Bernadette Beaumont, thirty-four, now a Senator’s wife added to her status and power. Power because she had agreed to reconcile with Maxime so he could present himself as a steady, happily married man, and thus one who could be trusted by the electorate. Well, married, anyway. But Bernadette, while achieving one goal with the successful election of her husband, still desired to seal her position in the family and partake of their wealth forever. A baby would cement her place. But she and Maxime never conceived a baby in the first year of their marriage, and she had banned him from their bedroom.
Overhearing a heated argument between her husband and his father, she learned her husband had fathered a child. Maybe she had been a bit hasty in her conclusion that Maxime was impotent. But there was a baby out there with Beaumont blood running through its little veins. So, Bernadette, with knowledge of a baby and learning the identity of the mother from the shouting on the other side of the door, had discreetly hired a detective in Seattle. She wanted to know when the birth was announced. And learn she did—it was a girl!
Bernadette preferred it to have been a boy, but the mere fact the baby existed was good enough, especially since she knew the secret of its birth. How wonderful, she thought. I don’t even have to go through the painful, messy process of bearing the child myself. Without a baby the Beaumont blood line ceases with Maxime. Maybe I should continue to employ that detective. Someone to keep tabs on the little treasure, and someone to figure out the best way to bring the little darling to me. Oh, I can just see their faces when I walk in and present Maxime and his father with the baby.
His baby.
Our baby.
Bernadette, one year junior to her husband and feeling she was much wiser, had to determine what was in her best interest—bring that baby to the Beaumonts, or be content with her new role as the wife of a Senator.
Pouring a snifter of cognac, twirling the amber liquid in the glass, she developed a course of action. “I have to see the infant first. Then I will decide,” she muttered emptying the glass, the contents slowly warming her body as it slithered down her throat.
───
MAXIME, THIRTY-FIVE, THREW himself into his new position as Senator in the French Parliament. He forced himself to concentrate on his duties, indeed, his new life—one his father had coveted for him since he was born. Maxime always believed that what he was groomed to be—a lawyer and then a senator—was what he wanted as well. But he found, if he wasn’t careful, his mind wandered to the image of Gillianne. She took over his thoughts. Swimming in his apartment building’s heated pool, he decided on four more laps to clear his head. Unsuccessful, he pulled his six-foot-one body onto the side of the pool. Picking up the towel lying beside him, he dried his short black hair then got to his feet toweling off his muscular frame.
Gazing down at the water with his dark brown, almost black eyes, he ruminated what he learned through his father’s detective. Gillianne had given birth to a baby girl—a tiny baby girl with red hair and black button eyes he was told. He ached to see the baby and he ached to hold her vivacious mother in his arms once again. How could he have let her go? He should have resisted his father’s warnings to forget the woman. If he had it to do over he would have wrapped his arms around her that night in the restaurant when she said goodbye. Her eyes sparkled that evening. He had since come to the conclusion that she was going to tell him she was pregnant, that they had created a baby. But he had quashed any thought she may have had to reveal her pregnancy with his sudden announcement that he was running for the Senate, and, more to the point, that he and Bernadette had reconciled.
“Fool. You were a fool, Maxime,” he whispered. He couldn’t turn back the clock, but maybe, just maybe he could persuade her to come back to Paris. Divorce Bernadette? Why not? She only wanted his money. His family’s money. He could see to it that she was taken care of for life, maybe not in
the lifestyle she thought she was entitled to, but a good one nonetheless.
“Oh, Gillianne, my beautiful, beautiful Gillianne, how can I convince you that we should be together, a family with our baby girl?”
Chapter 7
───
Seattle
THE MORNING SUN BREACHED the building next door to Skip’s condo sending a beam through the window hitting him in the eye. His Basset Hound Agatha tugged on his bed covers trying to roust him to take her outside.
“Come on, Aggie, two more minutes.”
The blanket fell on the floor followed by a soft bark.
Skip swung his feet to the floor, gave Aggie a pat on the head, and dressed in his jogging pants. Today was his first day of training to run the Seattle marathon in November. Maybe.
Skip Hunter, twenty-nine, kept his six-foot body in top condition—diet, free weights and cardiovascular workouts. His frame was hard as steel. Some said he was too thin. His retort was always, “You’re just jealous.”
A runner in college he had participated in three marathons and placed in the top ten of each. Of course, this marathon would be different—he was seven years older. But he felt training for a marathon would help clear his head, give him a goal. And training usually provided a breakthrough in any problem that was plaguing him. He hadn’t committed to running the Seattle marathon yet which was always held the first Sunday after Thanksgiving. He had a couple of months before the actual preliminary training would begin—preliminary training to get his muscles and bones toughened for the intense sixteen-week training program his college coach swore by.
With Agatha in tow he headed out of the building and down the driveway to the park. The first mile consisted of jogging, stopping occasionally when Agatha insisted there was something unusual in the grass beside the park’s running path. Then there were a few obligatory stops to relieve herself coupled with greeting her buddy, a St. Bernard who put up with her sniffing. Of course there was always a poop session or two, which Skip quickly picked up with a plastic bag and deposited in the nearest trash can.
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