He finished the first mile, took Agatha home to eat, drink, and sleep on her bed for a doggie dream. Strapping on his heart monitor, swinging a backpack over his shoulders that held two water bottles, he set off again for a two-mile run.
Today he trekked up and down Seattle’s streets, some with more than a twenty-degree incline. At this point in his training, he was running at an easy pace. It all depended on his route. Slower today because he was doing the hills.
He had two issues he was dealing with and frankly admitted he didn’t know how to proceed with either one. His novel on the Wellington gold heist was at a dead end. So far he had written the background on Eleanor Wellington’s arrest—how she and Gerald Sacco smuggled the gold bars to Mexico. The gold had since been found and returned to Wellington minus the two million dollars the pair had spent.
Eleanor had been arrested on a yacht in Monaco and was serving time in a Seattle prison, not for the theft, which she had no part in, but for hiding and spending the gold. However, she would soon be released unless the authorities could prove she had killed Gerald Sacco who went missing out in the Mediterranean. The dead end. Unless Skip could find out how Sacco died, the last man alive who participated in the heist, he couldn’t finish the book.
And then there was Gilly. Oh, she was pleasant enough when they were together, but he wasn’t looking for pleasant. In talking to Nicole and Gabby privately, they had innocently told him that Gilly had changed since she returned from Paris from her six months of interning at various fashion houses. But what girl wouldn’t change, they argued, if she found herself pregnant and unmarried?
They had hoped that after the baby was born she would lighten up, but instead she became the opposite. She had turned into a control freak. She was involved in every little detail of the business. Not that Nicole and Gabby minded. Their discussions about the business were always stimulating. They didn’t mind that she kept asking questions after they had started implementing a decision. But, they were worried about the future as the company grew. Other employees might not enjoy her meddling.
As a result of talking with the two women, Skip toyed with the idea of running in the November marathon. He had to have something that challenged his mind and body until he could break through the wall that Gilly had built around her. Maybe he would never be able to break through but he wasn’t ready to give up. However, he was not going to wait forever. There was an end to his patience.
He had also begun to write a second expose—Edward Churchill. What made a young man from a wealthy family in New York City, steal the fashion designs from a wannabe designer—Gilly. Then finding out she’s pregnant he proceeds with a double blackmail without either party aware that the other was also being blackmailed. As soon as Churchill’s trial was over and he was sentenced, Skip felt he would be able to write that story.
Struggling to the top of the hill, he stopped, bent over, and inhaled deeply as he took his pulse. His heart rate was elevated higher than it should be. Another indication he wasn’t in quite the great shape he thought he was. He ambled back to his condo, took a quick shower. He then drove to the newspaper and his crime beat to find out what criminal activity had taken place in the city during the night.
───
THE NEWSROOM WAS QUIET. Reporters kept their heads down in anticipation of the weekend, bracing themselves in the event they were sent out on an assignment. Approaching his cubicle Skip heard two sharp rings from his phone, snatching the receiver on the third ring.
“Hunter.”
“Ah, Monsieur Hunter. You know of the Lady Margaret?” the male voice asked.
“The yacht? Monaco?”
“Good, good. I am in possession of some pictures. Pictures I believe you will find interesting.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll get to that, Monsieur.”
“What kind of pictures?” Skip flopped into his chair, leaned his elbows on his desk, as he bent his head down concentrating on the voice. French. His pen twisted erratically between his fingers.
“Pictures of a woman on the Lady Margaret. A woman with her drunken companion at the rail of the Lady Margaret.”
“Go on. What are they doing?”
“Ah, yes. What they are doing is quite damning—for them both.”
“Listen, mister, stop wasting my time. You either have something of interest or you don’t. Maybe you were hallucinating.”
“Monsieur Hunter, I believe you would find the pictures fascinating. So fascinating that you would be willing to buy the pictures—say, a thousand dollars apiece?”
“Where are you?” Skip asked writing the caller ID number on his desk pad.
“France.”
“Give me the name of the woman in the picture and then we’ll talk.”
“She chartered the Lady Margaret under an assumed name, Elaine Winters, but her real name is Eleanor Wellington.”
“Listen, mister, why call me now? It’s been almost a year since Mrs. Wellington was arrested. She’s about to be released. If you have evidence of something that happened when her companion fell overboard and drowned why didn’t you give it to the police at the time? I ask again, why now? And why me? I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Time, Monsieur. There are some things that grow more valuable given time. Don’t you agree, Monsieur Hunter? You see I read the Seattle Times. You wrote an article not long ago about what you believed was an unsolved case. Of course, you don’t really know if there was a crime. Must be driving you and Mr. Philip Wellington crazy, especially Monsieur Wellington. So crazy that I believe Monsieur Wellington would pay almost anything to put his adulterous, thieving, and perhaps murderous wife, in prison for the rest of her life. Wouldn’t you agree with me, Monsieur Hunter?”
Skip checked the caller ID display for the third time.
“Monsieur Hunter, are you there?”
“Yes, yes.” Skip stood, pushed his chair back with his leg, stroked his buzz cut. Was this guy for real, he wondered? Was the evidence for the climax of his exposé somewhere on the other end of this line?
“By the way, forget about tracing the telephone number,” the voice whispered. “It’s disposable. Now, why don’t you talk to Monsieur Wellington? Of course, every day that goes by the price goes up.”
“Look, let’s say Mr. Wellington is interested. He would have to have proof you really have something of interest and that you aren’t trying to extort money from him.”
“Yes, I can give you proof. Talk to Monsieur Wellington. I’ll call you back tomorrow for his answer, but of course that’s another day so the price will be two-thousand dollars—each picture.”
Skip hung up the receiver at the drone of the disconnected call.
Chapter 8
───
IT HAD BEEN TWO months since the fire and, if all went according to the contractor’s schedule, the shop would be finished next week. The investigation into the cause of the fire had cleared the Sinclairs and Gilly and her staff. However, the investigation continued. The police and the various insurance companies involved acknowledged the forensic results, proving the fire was the work of an arsonist, but the question remained: who struck the match?
Contractors quickly swarmed the little shop and the upstairs loft. Gilly pressed the general contractor to put all his efforts into completing the work on the shop first allowing her to open the doors for business. Gillianne Wilder Fashions desperately needed some sales. She oversaw every aspect of the work, laying out exactly what she wanted, but within the money allowed under the insurance policy. Gabby and Maria—sales and marketing—continually huddled with Gilly offering ideas. She agreed with many, adopted most, but always had the final say.
Gabby continued to change the front windows tantalizing pedestrians to stop, press their noses to the glass, hands cupped around their faces so they could see the interior, wave at a workman, and then amble on.
Gilly maintained control of the project and her directions were absolu
te. Robyn remained her first priority and the center of her attention, but the business was a close second. Robyn’s new bassinet was placed close to the conference table but this morning she was asleep in her crib next to Gilly’s bed behind the partitions.
The staff of four, plus Gilly, met every morning. Before sitting down, they helped themselves to Arthur’s freshly brewed pot of coffee.
This morning Gabby spoke first relaying what she had found out about debuting their collection in this fall’s New York Fashion Week. “We can’t do it.”
“And that’s because?” Gilly asked.
“Way too expensive—over $100,000 is not unusual and most designers spend way more than that. And besides the money, in order to participate, we have to be selling into several major stores and have significantly more revenue. However, these are all moot points because we missed the deadline. Applications were due by the end of last year.”
Gabby looked up from her notes. They all turned to Gilly waiting to see her reaction.
“Okay. Then that becomes our future goal,” Gilly said. “Gabby, make a poster with bullets—no more than three or five, listing what we must do to be invited to participate. We’ll mount it on the wall.” Gilly saw her staff droop. They had been excited at the prospect of going to New York, breaking into the big time. “Just because New York is out of reach … for the moment … doesn’t mean we tread water. We move to plan B.”
Nicole smiled brightly. “Tell us about plan B. What are we going to do?”
“California. Los Angeles. Spring Fashion Week next March—showing our fall collection. The registration form must be submitted by the end of June.”
Gabby smiled. Gilly had asked her to prepare plan B in advance of this morning’s staff meeting. Gilly had not only embraced the idea, she was off and running with it.
“We’ll have a fresh new collection. Here, look at these. Tell me what you think.” Gilly quickly walked to a stack of small posters she had mounted on foam core boards, standing them up on an eight-foot strip of molding she had asked one of the workers to tack to the wall. There were twenty-three posters depicting the new fall collection.
“Come on. What do you think? And, I want your honest assessment. Is it a start?” Gilly asked.
Gilly had shared her ideas with Gabby as she progressed through the designs—sketches, tweaks, adding and deleting until she saw what she was striving for. Then pausing only to tackle each sketch again. Perfecting. Perfecting. Perfecting. Gabby stood back while Nicole and Maria scrutinized the drawings from left to right, passing each poster, taking in the lines, the colors.
Arthur topped off his coffee. He knew nothing about fashion. He did know accounting and he prayed the new collection would bring in some much needed revenue.
Nicole threw her arms around Gilly. “They’re terrific. When can we start the samples?”
“Today. Maria, what do you think?”
Maria turned and smiled. “You blow me away. All new and fresh.”
“Hey, where is everybody?”
Their heads snapped up as the door at the top of the stairs from the shoe shop swung open.
“Sheridan!” Gilly exclaimed running to embrace her former Paris roommate.
Nicole was next to throw her arms around the New Yorker, and then Gabby kissed both of her former client’s cheeks.
“Sheridan, please meet Maria Jackson, my long-time friend, and Arthur Lewis, our accountant.”
Gilly pulled Sheridan to the table where she was greeted by Maria and Arthur. “We were discussing our new fall collection. Coffee? How did you find us and why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”
“Yes, to the coffee and I expect it to be great after all I’ve heard about Seattle’s coffee, especially Starbuck’s lattes.”
Arthur poured a mug of coffee handing it to Sheridan, nodding to the cream and sugar.
“How come you’re … in Seattle?” Nicole asked with a giggle.
“When did you leave Paris? Where are you working? You are working aren’t you?” Gabby asked.
“Yes. I tried to get a job in the fashion business in New York. But, no such luck. I’m modeling and doing some designing at a small company in Los Angeles.”
“We were just talking about LA,” Gilly said. “Tell us how you ended up there and about this company you’re working for.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” Arthur said. “I have some bookwork to do. Nice to meet you, Sheridan.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Arthur.”
“Gilly, I’m going to work from home today. If there’s anything you need, give me a call.”
“Can’t take all the female chatter huh?” Gilly asked with a little wave as Arthur smiled sheepishly and left.
“How long are you going to be in town?” Gabby asked.
“Oh, a day or two,” Sheridan said, adding a small container of cream, then taking a sip of her coffee. She looked over the edge of her mug at her former agent.
“Good. I’m afraid Maria and I have to duck out. We have an appointment with a buyer and then Maria has to pick up a special lookbook she’s been working on. Gilly, how about we treat Sheridan to dinner tonight down on the waterfront?”
“Good idea. See you two later.”
“Make that three,” Nicole said. “I have an appointment with Vinsenso at the factory.” She hugged Sheridan again and dashed down the stairs after Maria and Gabby.
It was suddenly quiet. Sheridan looked at Gilly. “Okay, start at the top and fill me in about the shop. But first, where is the baby? I still can’t believe you didn’t nail that creep Maxime for support.”
“She’s due to wake up,” Gilly said ignoring Sheridan’s barb. Robyn is none of her business. “Let me go get her. It’s time for her bottle anyway. I’ll be right back as soon as I change her. I can’t believe you’re here, Sheridan. It’s so good to see you.”
Gilly quickly walked to the other side of the large space and disappeared down a hallway of partitions.
───
SHERIDAN STEPPED OVER to the wall to get a closer look at the posters of Gilly’s collection. Fishing in her handbag for her cell, she clicked the button, one-by-one, taking a picture of each poster as she passed. She smiled as she took the pictures. They were just what she and Zak needed. Her two-person company was going under.
Bitter at not being hired in New York after all the hours she had spent interning in Paris, she had struck up a friendship with Zak Foster in a bar. They had shared a drink, and then smoked some marijuana as they walked the streets commiserating over their jobless plight. Zak suggested they hook up and go to LA where he was sure her designs would catch the eye of lots of buyers. She would design and he would manage the business—the money side. Of course, Sheridan, a beautiful twenty-seven, five-foot-ten woman with long silky black hair, could still do some modeling to bring in extra moola.
One night sitting outside in the ally in back of their LA shop, she told him about her months in Paris and how her supposed friends, her roommates, had formed an alliance without her. So, of course, together they had to be making scads of money. As they talked they enjoyed a snort of coke and she decided her former friends owed her. Zak wholeheartedly agreed and suggested if they were making so much dough, they would be oblivious to a few copies of their designs surfacing in California.
Glancing over her shoulder to see if Gilly was returning with the baby, Sheridan quickly retraced her steps snapping an additional set of pictures. Dropping her phone in her large shoulder bag, she poured herself another mug of coffee and again strolled along the wall of posters.
“Here she is. Her name is Robyn. Isn’t she the cutest little person ever?” Gilly asked kissing the mop of red curls as Robyn, now almost three months old, cooed and patting her mother’s cheek.
Chapter 9
───
A STRONG RAP ANNOUNCED a visitor as the loft door swung open. Startled, Gilly and Sheridan jerked around as Skip sauntered into the design studio. He kissed Gilly o
n the cheek lifting Robyn from her arms. Tickling the baby’s tummy, he sent her into squeals of delight resulting in the hiccups.
“Well, that’s quite an entrance,” Gilly said. “Skip, I’d like you to meet my Paris roommate, Sheridan—
“We’ve met,” Skip cut in. “What brings you to Seattle, Sheridan? I thought you were a New Yorker.”
Gilly watched the two, their eyes signaling more than just recognition. Skip had planned on surprising Gilly in Paris, but it turned out he was the one surprised. She was in Monaco and Milan that weekend. The weekend Robyn was conceived. Sheridan and Nicole had covered for her, not letting on to Skip that she was spending the weekend with another man. It was also the weekend when on her return, her roommates told her Maxime was married.
At this moment neither Sheridan nor Skip said anything more about their meeting other than recognizing it had occurred.
“Nice to see you again, Skip. I’m working in LA. Not much available in New York at the moment,” Sheridan said extending her hand.
Skip gave it a quick shake and sat down cradling Robyn as she played with his tie.
“I have to be going,” Sheridan said rising, pulling on her sweater.
“You don’t have to go, Sheridan,” Gilly said glancing at Skip.
“I have a couple of appointments. Cute kid. See you later for dinner, Gilly.”
Gilly and Skip watched the door close behind Sheridan and then turned to face each other.
“I forgot you two met. What’s up? I haven’t seen you for a few weeks,” Gilly said. “Coffee?”
“Not today. I dropped by to tell you that I’m leaving for Paris in the morning.”
Murder by Design Trilogy Page 44
