Death Of A Supermodel Part 21

"I was out the door, and I just had to give it one more pa.s.s." She stepped back from her work. "Do you think it's gone?"

"I think you should just get Jimmy to replace the counter."

"He is. But I can't even stand having it in here." She tossed the sponge, and Laura wondered at what point in the previous eight hours Ruby had spoken to their landlord.

"I think Rolf killed his sister," Laura said. "He was using her organization to traffic girls since the Jewish guy wasn't doing it anymore, and she was going to stop him."

"What Jewish guy?"

Laura explained as Ruby put her cleaning products away, leaving out the parts that made her nauseous.

Ruby snapped up her keys. "He would have needed to see her in the morning, and he didn't. She would have mentioned it because she couldn't stand him and b.i.t.c.hed about it all the day before. I mean, she loved him." She turned to the door. "Can we go to the station together? Are you ready to go? Do you need help with your bag?" She took Laura's bag, teetered, then slung it over her shoulder. "What the h.e.l.l do you have in here?"

"Fall inspiration. I'm meeting with Ivanah."

"Good luck. I really have to be in the showroom today. We're having Barneys Co-op again, and I need to be totally, like, early and present. Did you know Debbie Hayworth is their buyer? I'm selling her some clothes; I promise you. Today is the day."

She seemed to have forgotten there was ever a hip little creep named Darren in her past. Laura wanted to tell her that the way to get on Debbie Hayworth's good side wasn't to wear four-inch stilettos and full makeup. Wearing super-slimming Marni pants and having a pile of hair that dropped in place like an obedient child wasn't the way to Debbie's heart, nor was the marble skin or flat stomach. If Ruby could have put on twenty pounds, failed to wash her hair for a week, and knocked out a tooth, she may have had a chance of Debbie's order-writing pen. But as it was, she was walking into disaster, and Laura had neither the heart nor means to tell her why. The information would have done nothing but make her sister nervous. So instead, she built a case around Rolf on the walk to the train station.

"He did it," Laura said, staring down the stairs, which would be a huge pain with her arm in a sling. She wasn't interested in falling down the stairs because she couldn't hold onto the rail with her right hand, but traveling a crowded staircase on the left was the depth of ignorant slum behavior. "Whoever was in that cab with her killed her, and Rolf was in that cab."

Since they were raised by the same mother, with the same life lessons, Ruby offered her arm and helped with Laura's MetroCard, then slipped her own with a sleek push at the turnstile with her hip.

"He hijacked White Rose, and Thomasina got mad," Laura said.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"I don't think so," Ruby said.

"Huh?"

"He loved her." Ruby helped Laura down the second flight of stairs. "He was a beast, but he was this total big brother. Always protecting her."

"So?" Laura was getting a tight feeling in her chest, which meant she felt threatened. "If she was so willing to pay your rent without a fuss, she was probably doing the same for him and thought nothing of it. So she probably let him get deeply involved in her stuff to give him something to do and a paycheck, and he screwed her. And maybe she only found out, like, the day before, so she didn't mention it to you."

"She would have said something."

"You can't prove that."

"Why should I have to?" Ruby sighed. "Look, pretending she wouldn't have told me about that or about meeting him before she went to the Ghetto, well, to me, it's just unlikely. We talked a lot."

When they got to the platform, Ruby flung herself onto a bench, flipping her hair as if Laura didn't know she'd been having a nervous breakdown the day before.

Laura stood over her. "Corky saw Rolf that morning in the park. I bet he was in the cab with her. He had opportunity."

"So did every model and agent and piece of eurotrash hanging out at Marlene X, which you have no proof Thomasina even went to anyway. Yesterday, you were convinced she was meeting Roquelle Rik, and she was the killer. Today, what?"

Laura plopped her bag onto Ruby's lap and pulled it open as if she wanted to split it in two, except she only had one good arm, so it kind of opened and kind of flopped over. She didn't know why she was so angry. Was it because she was being lambasted for changing her mind? Or because she'd spent all that time away from work and she'd been wrong? Or because she'd gotten Ruby out of danger without finding the killer? Or was it the ugliest reason of all... that when Ruby came up with ideas, Laura stopped feeling superior?

Laura pulled the rolled-up roll of receipt copies from her bag and tore through them with her teeth and the tips of the fingers on her right hand as if she had three seconds to answer a question with one arm. She finally found the one she was searching for and handed it to Ruby. "The receipt for Marlene X. Skinny latte with soymilk and a pump of something it doesn't say. And a drip coffee, which I have no idea who it was for."

Ruby just handed it back. "It doesn't say her brother was with her. I'm not saying he didn't do it. I'm saying you don't have enough to back it up, and you won't. And also, it's not important. Laura, listen." Ruby took her by the wrists even though one was fully encased. "I am so grateful you helped me. I was in such trouble, and I was so depressed. And you pulled me out. You did things no other sister would do. I love you. I appreciate you. Can you please not be mad at me?"

"I'm not mad."

But she was. A little. Maybe a lot. And her anger didn't stem from anything she could explain. She wanted to be the hero and had succeeded in execution, but failed in scope. She stuck the papers in her right fingertips, and Ruby helped her open the bag. As she transferred the paper from right to left hand, a whipping breeze came from the tunnel. It was a strong breeze, the kind that came before the rumbling of the arriving train, and it came without warning, grabbing the receipt copies and blowing them all over the station.

Ten pages fluttered like paper bags. Laura caught one that flattened itself against the side of a baby stroller. She smiled at the mother, then eyed the situation. The platform was crowded. The papers were everywhere, and few pa.s.sengers even noticed that the flying pages weren't garbage. Ruby bent to scoop up two, then chased another one as it scuttled along the platform, grabbing it by the edge. Laura tried to catch one in midair, but her right arm was unwilling to follow her brain's instructions by snapping her cast, so she reached with her left hand and missed. The woman with the baby stroller must have had warm feelings from Laura's unsolicited smile because she plucked it out of the air and handed it over.

"Thanks!" Laura said.

Mother pointed. "There are two over there."

Laura nodded and went for them, but everyone was in her way and the arrival of the eastbound train increased the breeze. Her busted arm wasn't helping either. It threw her off balance and disabled her ability to grab anything on her right side. As a result, she lost three pages to the tracks and another to the ceiling.

Ruby appeared, lipstick barely smudged, but panting nonetheless. "I got four."

"I got two," Laura replied as the doors slid open. "Thanks."

The page with Penelope Sidewinder's number was present, but the page with the Marlene X receipt was gone.

"You still have everything from that morning," Ruby said, shuffling through the pages.

"No, Marlene X is missing. They were all on the same page."

"What's this, then?"

She handed Laura a paper. It had a taxi receipt from that morning, but it had been so deep in the wee hours, she'd put it with the receipts from the day before.

"There's a twenty-four dollar surcharge," Laura said.

"LaGuardia," Ruby offered. "They started charging two dollars more for LaGuardia last month."

"It has the last four digits of the credit card." Laura scrambled for the copy of the cards. It had been rescued. She scanned it. The digits matched the Amex Black. "Rolf is Sabine Fosh. That's why he wanted her wallet. She took his cards when they met at the Ghetto. And that message on her phone, I don't remember the time, he was saying wecken ick eeber eer. Which means, I don't know, what?"

Ruby, ever useful, pulled out her phone. "She used to freak me out with the German, so I got this translator."

A hot breeze blew in from the Manhattan-bound tunnel. The commuters packed up their things and drifted toward the edge of the platform, where they'd get too close, daring the train to take their faces off. Laura needed another minute of delay while Ruby said, "Wecken ick eeber eer" into the phone.

As the train sped into the station, Ruby held up the phone, the screen glowing with the words, Wake up! I got her!

But who was her?

Ruby went to Broadway, and Laura walked west to the 40th Street office, where Ivanah would be waiting in fifteen minutes. She was unprepared at best and out of her depth at worst. She tried to keep her mind on the task at hand. In a couple of hours, she could find out more about Rolf, or the poison, or something. All she had to do was think about line, color, and shape until ten thirty, latest. Then she'd break with them before she was forced to have lunch. Ruby and Corky would call, but she'd pretend she was busy helping Jeremy with his show.

What she intended to do was try and put this thing to bed by the end of the day. She had a feeling of power and competence in murder-solving that she hadn't felt since she quit working full time at Jeremy St. James, and she needed to keep that fire burning. She hadn't realized how depressed she'd been.

She could smell Rolf's guilt. He was a man rotten to the core, selling young girls into prost.i.tution, laundering them through her company, probably with info stolen from Bob and Ivanah through their involvement with White Rose. He would pick them up at LaGuardia Airport and take them G.o.d-knew-where.

Laura hurled herself up the stairs, her heavy bag ten pounds lighter in her mind, broken arm tap-tapping against the banister as she ran, too impatient for the elevator. Spring was easy. Update last season and shorten the skirts, lighten the fabric, and brighten the colors. Short sleeves became sleeveless, and long sleeves went half sleeve. Switch pockets and collars until they looked new. Let Ivanah design something outrageous in every group, choose sparkly b.u.t.tons, and trim with silly fabrics. Tell her she's brilliant, and they're done. Backing secured. Line perfect. Branding protected. Everyone happy.

In the middle of all that, she was going to ask pointed questions about Ivanah's relationship with White Rose and Pandora Modeling. About Meatball Eyes. About how Rolf could have gotten his hands on their EIN and the corporate paperwork needed to sponsor foreign workers without her knowledge. It was going to be a super-productive morning.

She was sure the sun shone right out of her a.s.s when she stepped into the little studio. Her pattern table was clear because she was done with everything, and Ruby's drafting table was the usual orderly clutter. Ivanah and the new Eastern European a.s.sistant she expected were nowhere to be found. Two men stood in the middle of the room, talking softly about something she didn't have a chance to hear because they shut up as soon as she entered.

"Pierre?"

"My dear." He gave her the double kiss. "My goodness, what happened?"

"You should see the other guy."

Pierre indicated the man standing beside her cutting table. "Do you know Mister Stern?"

Buck nodded and sat down in her chair.

"Hi, Buck," she said, using the first name as if she didn't hear the formality Pierre had suggested with his introduction. "What's up? Is Ivanah okay?"

"She is attending to other business," Buck said. Laura imagined her getting a manicure, but business took many forms.

Pierre cleared his throat. "Mister Stern wanted to let us know that Sartorial Sandwich will have to proceed without the backing of the Schmillers."

"What?"

"All present contractual agreements are still in force, of course," Buck said, "including payment with whatever profit sharing we previously agreed upon. Nothing new should be required. The Schmillers just wanted you to be told in person, rather than through your agent." He nodded to Pierre, and Pierre nodded back, like two old boys sucking each other off.

"But I agreed she could work on the line with us!"

"Mrs. Schmiller will be pursuing other opportunities in the fashion world."

Laura looked at Pierre for an answer, or a way out, but there was nothing. He just shrugged. Just another line losing its money midstream.

"I can work harder," Laura said, and almost immediately regretted it. She sounded every bit as desperate as she was. "And I can get Ruby in more often. She was distracted last season. We're selling. Barneys Co-op is in the showroom right now, writing an order. We just need enough for fabric. I'll sew the whole d.a.m.n line myself to save money."

She could have gone on, but Pierre put one hand on her shoulder while holding the other out to Buck. "Thank you for coming," he said. "Tell the Schmillers we appreciate the courtesy."

"My pleasure."

They shook hands, and Laura knew she was expected to show the same kind of professionalism. She didn't know if she had it in her. Luckily, her right hand wasn't available for shaking because either she would have refused, or he would have felt the sweat on her palms, or she would have tried to break his fingers.

Buck saw her inability to shake his hand and, not understanding what a blessing it was for everyone involved, took her by the shoulders in a brotherly grip. "It was nice to work with you. I hope to see you again sometime."

"Sure," was the best she could offer.

He nodded to Pierre and left.

"What the h.e.l.l just happened?" she asked.

Pierre sat halfway on Ruby's chair, one ta.s.seled oxblood loafer swinging and the other pressed to the cement floor. "It would help going forward if you spoke more as a businesswoman and less like a teenager."

"What the heck just happened?"

"You're closed. You cannot make your orders."

She fell into her chair before she lost the support of her knees. "But it's not fair." She heard the ridiculous whine in her voice. She must have sounded like a child. When she and Ruby were eleven and twelve, Mom had sent them to a two-week sleep-away camp that had gotten some state-funded grants for poor kids. If there was a scholarship to be had, Mom found out about it and applied. Laura had no idea how many application rejections Mom slogged through, but the benefits of her tenacity always fell on the girls. The camp was a wooded ten acres on Long Island's gold coast, and as usual, Laura and Ruby were the freaks of the camp with their secondhand designer clothes and worn out shoes, before secondhand designer was a thing. When the bus dropped them at the outdoor amphitheater for orientation, she saw a sign draped over the stage. It read, "Camp Is Not Fair."

And it wasn't. The sign was meant to warn the kids that things wouldn't always go their way, and they'd have to be okay with it, because the type of kids at the camp always got their way. But camp was going to be a change for them. It was going to be like the real world. Sometimes you got away with stuff, and sometimes you got nailed for standing up to a mean girl who made fun of your shoes, and sometimes you pulled her Calvin Klein socks off and held her down while your sister shoved them down her throat. And when Mom came to get them a week and a half early because they were kicked out, maybe the fair thing would be for them to get in trouble, but maybe she'd laugh and get them vanilla ice cream for not taking any flak from a senator's daughter. But she wouldn't actually say that. She didn't advocate violence. She wouldn't actually say her daughters had made things fair by doing what they'd done. She'd say maybe the sisters were better off urban hiking, chain-link fence climbing, and camping out in the living room.

Even though an adult definition of fairness had been a mystery before camp, but after camp, Laura still felt she knew it when she saw it, and she was not looking at it. She'd worked hard up until recently. Really hard. Day-and-night hard.

As if he could read her mind, Pierre said, "I think they decided this before the show."

"Then what was the whole dinner at Isosceles about?"

"Feeling out their options is my guess. Who can say? At the end of the day, your destiny is not yours to write."

"Destiny? Are you serious?"

"How else do you explain? You work very hard for this line and have it taken from you, and them? They don't work so hard and have the power to take it. It is not equitable. It's this type of thing that makes me miss France. At least there, we try, and we take not so much glee when we succeed at the expense of others." She felt an odd kinship to him until he said, "Well, onward and upward! My guess is you have the weekend to clean out. You may be able to sell some of this to pay your debts, if you choose to remove the Schmillers from your life. Or you may wisely wish to elongate a bankruptcy process to keep them close. We can discuss further on Monday. I have a client show in fifteen minutes."

He kissed both of her cheeks. "Trust me. I'm not abandoning you. There are things in the works." Before she could ask him what he meant, he left. Another day in the life of super ninja fashion agent, Pierre Sevion, who couldn't protect them from a flame-out.

She thought one thing might go right. There was one place where she could show a little competence and dignity. She sat alone in an office that wasn't hers, with sewing machines silent just on the other side of the door. Owning nothing, in charge of nothing, with little to call her own, she called Cangemi.

"Carnegie, what now? Leg caught in a thresher?"

"Rolf did it!" She told him the whole story in a single breath.

"You copied the receipts before handing them over? Claiming her expenses on your taxes is illegal, far as I know. Dunno what else you thought you were doing with them." She was cowed into silence. "But I appreciate you calling me to tell me what I know. Except the part you don't know, which is Rolf was in a meeting all morning, and it checks out."

"Was he at LaGuardia? Maybe picking up a girl from a German airline?"

She was sure that if he just told her, the pieces of the puzzle would fit together with an audible click. But her optimism did not meet reality.

"Ask him the next time you're chasing him down a stairwell, okay?"

"Please?"

"Go get a coffee, Carnegie."

He hung up on her.

CHAPTER 22.