2 Death of a Supermodel (14 page)

“I’m so sorry.”

“When I got back to the apartment, I was going to tell Dianne, at least to ask her if this was normal. But as soon as I got in, she sat me down and said she didn’t realize how little I’d eaten at home. The rich food of the past week had gone straight to my gut, and I was going to have to cut down. After she told me that, I couldn’t tell her what I’d done. What if it was the wrong thing? What use was I then? I would be a whore, and a fat one at that. On the bus back to the Midwest with nothing to show for it. I started making sure I ate well at dinner parties and puked thoroughly afterward.”

Laura felt a little sick, and it must have shown because Penelope, who had already been warm and inviting, softened even further. “Plenty of women have gone through worse, and plenty of models, I daresay. I came from the Midwest; some of them come from countries I wouldn’t even want to talk about. No citizenship and no one to protect them. No birth certificate with their legal age. Their passports are fake. It’s terrible. We can’t even track half of them down. Which is why it’s so important for designers to be on board.”

Laura had walked into the meeting ready to talk about Dymphna’s pre-adolescent cheeks and pubescent attitude. She was going to say she had a funny feeling about that girl, but after hearing Penelope’s story, she decided to say something else entirely. “Rowena Churchill. I was at a shoot with her this morning, and… God, I’m realizing there’s no way I can prove this. She couldn’t walk in the heels. She seemed so young. She was looking at Chase like he was a celebrity.”

Penelope leaned forward like a reporter getting the big scoop. “She’s from northern California, I believe. Sequoia country. Did she say anything, maybe about school?”

“She said she never took geometry.”

Penelope’s eyes looked far away, as if she were gazing inside herself. “Tenth grade. In my era, that was tenth grade.”

“How old is that?”

Penelope just said, “Roquelle can be careless.”

Laura was about to answer in the affirmative when she heard a gasp behind her. Then a swallowed giggle and she had to turn. Rolf stood there with a girl in an equestrian-printed pink georgette scarf. When he recognized her, he raised his eyebrows. Laura recognized the clothing. He wore a brown leather jacket. They were the two who had almost knocked her over on the way to the stairs.

“Laura Carnegie.” Rolf nodded at her. His breath was so unnaturally minty fresh, even from a more-than-adequate distance, that Laura flinched a little.

The pink georgette girl with the meatball-sized brown eyes turned to Penelope. “I am such a fan of yours.” Her Euro-accent was so thick, she was hard to understand.

“Frau Sidewinder,” Rolf said, using the German formal, which Penelope seemed to appreciate and understand. Apparently, they knew each other, like typical rich people, traveling in circles. “This young lady eats, sleeps, and breathes modeling. Her name is—”

“How nice,” Penelope said. She looked at the girl, but again did the thing where she was actually looking deeply inside herself. It was disconcerting. “I haven’t modeled since you were about four years old.”

Laura changed the subject to something she considered safe. “Did you get your sister’s bag from the cops?”

“They won’t release it.”

“You just have to wait.”

“These American cops—”

She had no idea what he was going to say, but was sure she didn’t want to hear it, so she interrupted with, “I’m sure in Germany they’re pussycats.”

Penelope snapped out of her middle-distance reverie and patted the seat next to her. “Sit here, young lady, and let’s talk about modeling.”

“Maybe next time,” Rolf said. “We were just leaving.”

But the girl with the meatball eyes squirmed out of his arms and sat next to Penelope with childlike delight.

Rolf took the seat next to Laura. “Your sister is all over the news. They think she did Thomasina in. I want to tell you, I don’t think it’s true.”

She didn’t want to give him one word he could use against either of them. She suddenly felt she was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with people who wanted to hurt her.

“I have to go,” Laura said. “It was nice talking to you.” She shook Penelope’s hand and nodded to Rolf and Meatball Eyes.

As she was leaving, Penelope called out, “To be continued.”

Roquelle is careless.

Laura sat in the very nice bathroom, looking at what may or may not have been an actual Manet hanging over the sink, and recalled the conversation.

Why the interest in Roquelle? What had she done, or at least gotten caught for? Did Roquelle have a reputation Laura wasn’t aware of? Out of curiosity, she went back to the room with the big windows and the bays of couches. Penelope was gone, but Rolf and Meatball Eyes were hunched close in front of her unfinished rooibos tea. She took a long stroll around the lobby, looking at the art, and the orchids and paper whites on the tables, letting three elevators pass before she finally bit the bullet and left the club.

CHAPTER 9.

Laura had heard a gruesome story and little else, and the train ride back uptown was the perfect time for a little self-immolation. She got so embroiled in the Kentucky volleyball player’s metamorphosis into a savvy New York blowjob provider that she hadn’t gotten an ounce of information about Thomasina. She did, however, make a contact out of Penelope Sidewinder, which was no small thing, so if she ever had anything more specific to ask during an intentional phone call, maybe she could ask it. By the time she got to the 38th Street office, she was feeling pretty good about herself.

She slowed by the newsstand and was about to glance over the headlines when she saw a face she recognized.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Kamichura’s cameraman said. He wore a huge tweed jacket with ballpoint pen stains at the bottoms of the pockets and a straw hat. He held out his hand. “Name’s Roscoe. Roscoe Knutt. You might remember me from Channel Four. When you were a kid.”

“Vaguely.” Actually, her mother’s news-watching habits meant Laura knew the names of every broadcaster to grace a screen in the past twenty years, but she was in no mood to encourage him.

“Might recollect me from your front sidewalk last night.”

“That, I remember.” She took half a step toward the revolving door.

Roscoe took it with her. “I wanted to get a jump on my partner. You know, she’s young and ambitious and on a camera like white on rice. As it were. Pushed me right outta my job. Can I ask you something?”

As frustrated as she was, she was a sucker for regular people who got the shaft from someone more attractive. “One question, and I may not answer it.”

“The coroner’s report says Wente was poisoned that morning between seven and nine.”

“What? They
gave
you the coroner’s report?”

“No one
gave
me nothing my whole life.” He shrugged. “We have a channel, lady, please. We’re not new at this, but listen, I got half the office saying she was at your sister’s that morning, and me, myself, I’m saying she wasn’t. So, can you prove me right? Please?”

“What else did it say?”

“I didn’t read it,” he said. “I just got a guy who tells me stuff, which is more than I can say for the girl getting all the credit for my job.”

“Well, I can’t help you. The morning of the show, I was at work at six thirty, basting the Hudson dress to fit Thomasina. She lost a pound and a half, which on a percentage basis, meant I had to take in seams.”

“One more question. You see anything wrong with anyone’s eyes that morning? Maybe a scratch on ‘em?”

“What?”

“They found eyeball membrane under a nail. It’d really help if you thought about it.”

“I will.”

“One more question.”

She moved quickly enough to sidestep him and get into the building.

She exited the elevator, expecting a day’s recap from Corky. What she saw once she turned the corner was Pierre texting as if his fingers itched. He was leaning on the doorjamb, as if he couldn’t commit to being either in or out of the room. He looked up at her pointedly, and Laura realized she’d never turned her phone back on after she left Baxter City. Too late. But she
had been
in a meeting with Penelope Sidewinder. He couldn’t get on her case for not working.

She couldn’t have dreaded the meeting more. Her short encounters with Ivanah had yielded little in the way of good will or comfortable rapport. The scene at Isosceles had done absolutely nothing to improve things. The woman was pouty, coquettish, rich, and well-respected in interior design for reasons Laura feared she would never unravel.

Ivanah had a toy poodle tucked under her left arm, and with her right hand, she held up an unlined Spring jacket with real shell buttons. “This here? The buttons can be rhinestones. Or gold at least. Why do we charge so much for something that looks like I can get it at Target?”

“Hi,” Laura said, hoping to inspire politeness, if not a tiny bit of backpedalling.

“Darling,” Ivanah said, “where is the other one?” She looked truly puzzled.

Laura held out her hand. “Ruby’s not here, apparently.”

Ivanah shook hands with her left, as her right still cradled the dog. “You’re the one who makes the clothes? The one with the seams? You do a good job, but designing is more than tailoring.”

Laura didn’t know whether to argue or to let her talk. Did she want to disagree so soon? Or should she let the woman say her piece and give her yeses and noes where applicable?

Pierre must have seen the lack of decision in her face. “Can I get you coffee, Ivanah? I can call for it.”

“I’ll go!” Corky practically jumped out of his seat; not good salesperson etiquette, but if he didn’t want to be there, she figured he’d better go.

Ivanah mentioned a mocha-frappa-something as she picked a Kate Spade men’s gym bag off the chair and threw it on the table. It made a big rattling noise as if full of pebbles in cans. “This is how we keep the showroom?”

Corky slung the bag over his shoulder.

Ivanah splayed the jacket with the faux fur on the table. “This is fake. I can tell.”

“Barneys Co-op loved it,” Corky said. “And every buyer we had in yesterday wanted to know what Barneys liked.”

“They’d like it much better if it was real.” Ivanah looked under the collar and then dropped it like a used tissue. “Did the Co-op write you an order?”

“Well, no,” Laura said.

“That’s right. Their money hasn’t been allocated. So talk is talk, and it’s free to talk.”

“We have nothing else to go on right now.”

Ivanah turned to Corky who, for all his general good cheer, seemed suddenly out of his depth. “Weren’t you getting coffee?”

He slipped out as if a vacuum attached to the door had been turned on.

“Sit down,” Ivanah said, as though it was her office.

Laura sat.

Ivanah put her dog down and put both palms on the table. “Do you need money or not?”

“Sure.”

“Last night, I was very hard on you, I admit. But I think you have a shot at greatness, my dear. A big shot. And I want to make it happen.”

“Honestly, Ms. Schmiller—”

“Ivanah’s fine.”

“Ivanah. With what you said last night being true, and Thomasina dying at our show, well, I mean the news people are accosting me everywhere I turn, and the cops are scrutinizing everything. I think we’re finished here anyway.”

Pierre took in a heavy breath. “Of course, you mean…”

Laura shot him a look that shut him up immediately.

Ivanah’s gaze did not leave Laura. “You’re worried about the police and the newspapers?”

“I’m not worried,” Laura said. “‘Worried’ means I’m wasting my time concerning myself with things I can’t predict. In fact, the police dusted down my sister’s apartment, and mine is probably next. So I can predict pretty well that something smelly is hitting the fan, which means we’re not going to have time to give this the attention it needs. And I know Akiko Kamichura’s doing a story throwing accusations at us. I just don’t have the resources or the time to fight this and still run a business. So, can you tell Bob I’m sorry we wasted his money? I feel terrible about that.”

Ivanah waved her hand as if at a pesky gnat in the room. “My husband doesn’t know how to waste money. His losses make profits. It’s a sickness.” She seemed both truly annoyed and truly proud.

Laura held her breath, then held out her hand. “I’m so sorry, anyway. It’s been nice working with you, but we’re closed for business.”

As if blown in by a surprisingly strong wind, Jeremy walked in with a fur swatch in his hand. He looked surprised to see Ivanah there. “Ivanah! Incredible. I was just thinking about you.”

During the fake hugs and air kisses, Laura realized what Pierre had been texting and to whom. When she looked up at him, he winked.

“Can you believe the quality these girls got into their line?” Jeremy asked. “This fabric…” He pulled down the magenta wool crepe. “Hundred fifty a yard and dyed in North Carolina because the flower that makes this color only grows in this one Appalachian valley. Feel it.”

“The color is lovely, but—”