At the Drop of a Hat (13 page)

“Russo was a drunken, womanizing letch,” Viv said. “There had to be scores of jilted lovers who would happily shove him off a roof if the opportunity presented itself.”

“Andre also said he was a gambler,” I said. “That can get a person a broken arm or leg. Maybe he couldn't pay his gambling debts and the person who came to collect thought that a fall off of a building would teach him a lesson but he died instead?”

Harrison looked thoughtful. “I suppose anything is possible.”

“I have every confidence in Inspectors Franks and Simms,” Viv said.

“But?” Harrison asked.

“No buts,” Viv said. She looked serenely about the workroom. “Scarlett, it occurred to me the other day that we should probably consider hiring some models to do a fashion shoot of the spring hats.”

Harrison shook his head as if a fly were buzzing in his ear.

“Spring is eight months away,” he said.

“Yes, but Fee and I are already working on the spring line and we could use the boost of publicity,” Viv said.

This was a conversational segue out of nowhere. I couldn't imagine why she was thinking about this now. Unless . . .

“We really can't afford anyone who is cutting edge,” I said. “We'd have to find people whose careers are more waning than waxing.”

“You're really talking about business now?” Harrison asked. “You've spent all day at the jail, talking to a client who might very well be convicted of murdering her playboy boss . . . oh.”

Viv and I both looked at him.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

“Forbid it?” Viv repeated. She blinked at him as if he had belched and not excused himself.

“You heard me,” he said. His voice was a low, gruff growl. Why are men so attractive when they are being bossy and pigheaded? It really puts a girl at a disadvantage.

“Lucky for us, you're in no position to forbid anything,” I said. “Viv's idea is top notch. We can canvass Russo's clients under the guise of hiring them to model for us and maybe one of them will let something slip.”

“No, no, no,” Harrison said. “That's not how it works. Assuming it was one of Russo's clients, what do you think they're going to say when you badger them into modeling for the shop?”

“I expect they'll say, ‘Oh, and by the way, I did it, I pushed Russo off of a building,'” I said without smirking.

Harrison let out a pent-up breath as if he were exhaling hot air in order to keep his internal temperature from reaching full-on combustion.

“You can't stick your nose into the investigation,” he said. “Aside from the fact that you could hamper the actual detectives' work, if one of his ex-girlfriends is Russo's killer, then you're making yourself a target by nosing around too much.”

Viv and I looked at Harrison for a moment and then Viv looked at me.

“So I was thinking we could start with the most recent girlfriend and work our way backwards,” she said.

“Excellent,” I said. “I'm sure a simple search on the Internet will give us a good starting place.”

Harrison shoved his hands into his hair. “This is madness.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But this is your friend's bride. I would think you'd want to help him out by proving his future wife is innocent.”

“If she is,” Harrison said. “Let's look at the facts, shall we?” He lifted a hand and ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. “She was alone in the building with Russo when the tragic event occurred. He fell from a spot only a person familiar with the building would know was not under surveillance. He was clutching a piece of her blouse, the very one she was wearing on the day he died, in his cold dead hand.”

“Heard about that, did you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“It's circumstantial,” Viv said. “There's no way to know how he got that scrap of fabric in his fist.”

“Sure there is,” Harrison said. “He probably made a mad grab for her shirt trying to save himself when she lured him to the rooftop and pushed him to his death.”

“Does Alistair believe that it means she pushed him?” Viv asked.

“He believes in his client,” Harrison said. “But that's his job as her defense attorney. We're not her defense and need to view this situation through logical, rational reasoning of the facts.”

“This isn't a math equation,” I argued. “There is no two plus two equals four. Human beings are involved and human behavior is rarely logical or rational.”

He looked at me and pursed his lips in a way that I knew meant he was unhappy. “You can say that again.”

“Listen, Harry,” I said. He frowned at me.

“Harrison,” he corrected but I ignored him.

“All we're going to do is talk to some of Russo's exes and see if they know of anyone who wanted him dead,” I said. “That's not going to mess up any investigation or put us on anyone's list to be rubbed out.”

“Exactly,” Viv said. “I'd say we're actually helping the inspectors, you know, by sorting their suspects for them.”

Harrison groaned and put his head in his hands.

“Aw, chin up, Harry,” I said.

He looked so beaten down that I couldn't help but throw my arm over his shoulders and give him a bolstering half hug. He lifted his head and I realized I was too close. Too close to the lovely bay rum smell of him, and too close to his bright green eyes, which seemed to see deeper into me than I was comfortable with.

“Harrison,” he corrected me again. His mouth curved up in one corner in an irresistible smile.

I dropped my arm and scooted back a few steps. That made his smile deepen into a full-on grin as if he knew I was too aware of him.

“All right, I can see I've lost this battle,” he said. “But there will be conditions.”

I glanced at Viv. I hadn't really thought we'd win Harrison over, and I could tell by the look of surprise on her face, she hadn't thought so either.

“What conditions?” she asked.

“You don't talk to anyone alone,” he said. “In fact, if it can be managed, I think I need to be in on all meetings.”

“Won't that seem odd?” I asked.

“Given that I'm part owner in the shop, no,” he said. “We'll explain that I'm taking an interest in the business. I can always portray a batch who just wants to flirt with the pretty models, if need be.”

“Oh, I like that,” Viv said.

I did not.

“Please try to schedule these things in the evening,” he said. “I do actually have to show up at the office, or they might give my corner spot away.”

“I doubt it,” Viv said. “You're far too clever for Carson and Evers to let go. You could work from the back of an elephant in India and I'm sure they'd be okay with that.”

Harrison shrugged. I knew he was a financial genius and worked for the same company that his uncle had. Essentially, they were business consultants who were hired to come in and help businesses increase their profit margins.

I had always assumed that the businesses he helped were like ours but I was beginning to see that Harrison operated on a much bigger scale than our modest millinery. Viv seemed to understand so much more about what he did than I did. Again, I got the feeling that Harrison and Viv knew more about each other than I knew about either of them, and I didn't like it.

“All right, Ginger?” Harrison asked.

I realized they had been talking and I had missed the entire conversation.

“Sorry, I drifted there for a bit,” I said.

Harrison looked sympathetic. “I imagine the memory of finding Russo like that will pop up on you now and again.”

Great, now I felt like a heel. Here I was mulling over the hierarchy of our friendship, and Harrison thought I was thinking about the dead body I'd seen just twenty-four hours before. And there was no way I could deny it without seeming like a horrible person.

“Yeah,” I said. See? I am a horrible person, aren't I?

*   *   *

Viv and I spent the rest of the afternoon checking out Russo's list of exes. It was impressive, to say the least. His dating laundry list ran the gamut from lower royals to lingerie models and anything with a pulse in between.

Some were easy to dismiss since they were out of the country and a few seemed more like friends than girlfriends and then there was Mariska Kravchuk. An off-again, on-again lover, she and Russo lit up the tabloids every time they got back together and every time their relationship imploded. Accusations of cheating, public intoxication and vandalism riddled their breakups. It made for some very juicy reading.

I was working in the front of the shop, searching for articles on my tablet computer, while Viv and Fee worked on hats in the workroom. For what had to be the fifth time in the past two hours, I popped my head into the workroom to share what I'd found.

“Listen to this,” I said. “According to the
Daily News
, attorney to the stars Anthony Russo and Russian model Mariska Kravchuk were splitsville following a nasty spat on the roof of the Shoreditch House.”

“I thought you had to be a member to get into the Shoreditch House, yeah?” Fee asked.

“You do, but I'd be willing to bet Russo is a member since his client list is pretty much filled by their membership roster,” Viv said.

“Really not the point,” I said. “I think we need to talk to Mariska. And because she's a model, we could absolutely use the front that we want her to model hats for the shop.”

Viv nodded. “It could work.”

“Great. How do we go about that?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Viv said. “Usually, when I'm working in high fashion, the designer hires me to work up hats to complement their clothes, and they already have their models picked out.”

“Who would know how to do this?” I asked.

We were all silent for a moment and then the lightbulb over my head flashed. It must have been bright enough for the others to see because as one all three of us said, “Andre.”

*   *   *

“My reputation is at stake,” Andre said. “Whatever you do, do not tick off Mariska. I can't have her complaining about me.”

“You hate fashion photography,” I said.

“Yes, but I don't want to burn any bridges there,” he said. “It's lucrative and you never know when you'll need to diversify your income streams.”

Viv and I exchanged a scandalized look.

“You have been spending entirely too much time with Harrison,” she said.

Andre waved her off.

“I don't need to tell you that fashion people judge you by what you're wearing, so dress appropriately,” he said.

I glanced down at my outfit, a pretty soft brown wool skirt with a moss-green cashmere sweater and my favorite knee-high brown lace-up boots.

“No, you're not wearing that,” he said to me. He looked at Viv. “You're fine, better than fine. That's perfect.”

“What's wrong with my outfit?” I asked. I glanced at Viv's royal blue A-line dress with black patent knee boots and a snappy black trilby.

“Nothing if you're a first-time schoolteacher. Lose the Peter Pan collar,” he said.

I fingered my collar. “I thought it looked cute.”

“You were wrong. Besides, cute is for baby ducks,” he said. He turned back to Viv. “Fashion models like gifts, so you should bring her a hat from the shop.”

“Go change,” Viv said. She actually waved me away. “I'll pick a hat whilst you're dressing.”

I stomped up the stairs to our flat like a high school girl being forced to change into something more appropriate. As I walked into my room, the retina-searing pink walls mocked me. My room was stuck somewhere in 1999, and now that I looked in my full-length mirror, I think it was causing my fashion sense to go backward, too.

I ditched the pullover sweater and Peter Pan–collared shirt and went for a sophisticated sheer floral top in reds and browns with a fitted red jacket over it and kept the boots and the skirt. Take that!

I jogged down the stairs, fluffing my hair as I went. As I skidded into the shop, Viv was just boxing the hat of choice up and Andre turned away from her at the counter and looked me up and down.

“That's my beautiful girl,” he said.

Given his faultless sense of style, this was high praise and I beamed at him.

“Which hat are we giving to Mariska?” I asked.

“The black cap with the black blusher and three long black pheasant feathers on it,” Viv said.

“Oh, I like that one,” I said.

“Me, too, but if Mariska is planning to play the grieving ex-girlfriend, and I'm betting she is, the hat will win her over, for sure,” Andre said.

“Right then,” Viv said. She looked at me. “You need to wear a hat.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you're representing the shop,” she said. Her critical gaze moved over me. “Oh, I know just the one.”

She thrust the hatbox at me and then darted across the room to the shelves on the opposite wall. Opening the cabinet below the shelves, she dug through the hats in there until she found a floppy-brimmed linen hat in the same rich brown shade as my skirt.

“Perfect,” Andre said. “It makes you look like a seventies fashion model.”

“Would that be a model in
her
seventies or a model in the
nineteen
seventies?” I clarified.

Andre laughed. “Hippie chic, darling. You've got it going on.”

I glanced at my reflection in the nearest mirror. The brown hat did frame my red hair in a flattering way.