Death by Diamonds (22 page)
Authors: Annette Blair
“You know that I wouldn’t have liked getting old, but I don’t much mind dying before my career died, or of going out young, vibrant, and dancing in the Summerland with Victor.
“You know me, always a grand finale.
“Thank you my friend. Live long and happy.
“Brightest Blessings.
“Love, Dom.”
Kyle touched his BlackBerry and Dominique’s smooth rich voice comforted us, despite our tears.
“I’ve sung the grand finale, traveled some amazing byways, and so much fun for me . . . I sang it my way.”
A Lesson in Fake Designer Handbags
I bought a used Prada handbag as my vintage bag this time around, because it’s a lovely, olive retro design, and I knew my daughter would love it. I also suspected that, since it was a bargain, it might not be the real thing.
But I also thought that this would be a good lesson to all of us, if I researched it and learned if it was a fake and why, so you’d know what to look for in a designer bag that you don’t buy new from a department store.
First of all it’s shaped something like a wide-open fan, like Regency ladies used to flirt with. Take the fan design and cut the point off about half way up, and you have the shape of my
“Prada” bag.
You can see mine on my websi
te at www.annetteblair.com/vintage_magic_handbags.htm .
Why do I believe mine’s a fake? First of all, it doesn’t have antique brass hardware, which all Pradas do, I’ve learned. Mine has a silver zipper. First clue. Second, the lining, while lovely, doesn’t have the word “Prada” embroidered all over it, though there is a fair imitation of a Prada emblem embossed on the top front of the bag, with the word “Milano” beneath it and an escutcheon too small to see. Third, the seams inside are not invisible.
Fourth, the straps are too thin, though they’re smart looking and attached to black ovals on the bag, which adds to its lovely retro look.
Inside my bag there is another, smaller version of itself, same color, without the retro straps, though it does have a shoulder strap hooked to it with removable hooks in silver. You can call it a clutch or change purse if you will. It could serve either purpose. There you have the story of my “Prada” bag.
I wish you happy vintage bag hunting of your own and a specimen of high quality that’s the real thing.
Turn the page for a preview of Annette Blair’s next book in the Vintage Magic Mysteries . . . Skirting the Grave
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
I want a big house with a moat and dragons and a fort to keep people out!
—VICTORIA BECKHAM
Eve breezed into my shop. “Mad,” she said. “I just heard that Nick’s coming home. Did you ever confess to that thermonuclear kiss you shared with Werner the night you two slept together?”
I growled. Yes, growled, like a big cat. An angry cat. “We did not sleep together! We were out cold, both of us concussed . . . in the same bed. There’s a difference.”
“But the kiss did happen. You couldn’t both have dreamed it.”
“Get out, Meyers!”
Eve gave me that knowing grin of hers. “You didn’t tell the boy toy, did you?”
“He’s been on assignment the entire two months. The FBI takes advantage of their agents like that. I haven’t seen him since.”
“What?” she asked. “You lost Nick’s cell phone number?”
“He changed it.”
Eve grinned. “Hah! Is he ever pouting.”
“No kidding,” I snapped, Nick being only one of my problems.
Eve’s watch alarm rang. “Gotta run. Class in twenty.” “See you later, then.” I hung my “Out to Lunch” sign and shut and locked the door. I needed control over my life and that was the best I could manage on short notice.
Dante Underhill, my Cary Grant-type ghost, regarded me as if I might need to talk and he’d be willing to listen.
“Give me a quiet half hour first,” I said.
His chin dimple deepened with his worry lines, and he disappeared. Peace. I reveled in it as I stretched out on the fainting couch and closed my eyes. The scent of chocolate curled around me. My mother had been gone twenty years and was still reaching out to me. The more of her mystical, magical gifts I discovered in myself, the nearer she seemed.
So what’s my problem?
Brandy, my phantom sister, is due home anytime now, and she’s set me up as neatly as if she’d tied my wrists and ankles together.
In the same way that I, Madeira Cutler, am my mother’s daughter, psychic abilities and all, my sister Brandy—third Cutler, second daughter—resembles . . . no one. While Brandy denies the existence of my metaphysical gifts and scoffs at my love of vintage fashion, she’s not beyond soliciting my wealthy clients to seed her worthy cause, which will require a lot of work in the next couple of weeks . . . on my part.
Where my father, the English professor, quotes literary greats, Brandy quotes philanthropists and world hunger organizations. I admire her for that and for giving up her eternal stint in the peace corps to raise money for a good cause. Guess where she’s starting?
Here in Mystic.
To be fair, she planned her fundraising trip to coincide with our sister Sherry’s baby shower. Justin Vancortland IV, Sherry’s father-in-law, is lending us his mansion for Brandy’s events. She and Cort shared barbs at Sherry’s wedding, and he gave her a donation. Better than good cooking as a way to Brandy’s heart.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve missed my sister. But she didn’t just force a few fundraisers on me, she also talked me into taking on a design assistant. An unpaid one, it’s true, and on the plus side, Isobel Yost, or Izzy, as Brandy calls her, is practically paying me to take her on by giving me her grandmother’s vintage clothes, which I might or might not accept, depending on her attachment to them.
It seems Izzy applied for several fashion design reality shows and never quite made it. She wants to learn at the feet of a master. That’s the crap Brandy handed me, anyway. Fact is, I agreed because Izzy works for a top modeling agency and she’s getting her wealthy boss, Madame Celine Robear, to attend the fundraiser, a coup for Brandy in her new role as development director for the Nurture Kids Foundation. Besides, I need the models Madame Celine is bringing for the fashion show.
My cell phone rang, and since I was beginning to think my problems weren’t that huge, I answered it.
“Mad,” Brandy said. “Izzy and I aren’t coming in on the same train after all. There was a mix-up and she’ll be in before me, like maybe five minutes ago? Can you pick her up at the train station?”
Now I remembered why I thought things could get out of hand. “I’m on my way,” I said, clapping my phone shut before I growled or gave her a bit of snark. Mystic’s train station projected a quaint landmark beauty. Small and full of character, painted cream, its detailed architectural trim a rusty orange, it had once been used as a model for a toy train terminal by American Flyer. In minutes, I parked in the lot. On the track side, I saw no passengers. They only got off at the station if they were going south. As the northbound train disappeared around the curve, its absence revealed a swarm of motion. People dragging bags around an ambulance parked on the cross street with its bubble light turning. Directly across from the station, a humming crowd faced into the lean-to where people waited in bad weather.
A compelling whiff of chocolate hit me, and I ran, my heart racing. It couldn’t be Brandy. I broke through the crowd to find a girl passed out on the bench, a paramedic checking her vitals, and I ignored my shiver of unease. Nearby stood Detective Sergeant Lytton Werner, or “Little Wiener” as I’d dubbed him in third grade. Call ours a grudging relationship, except when awareness sizzled, as it unfortunately had one scary night. Werner gave me a double take. “Madeira, don’t tell me you know this girl?”
“No, I was afraid it was Brandy.” Relief flooded my senses. “I’m here to pick up my new assistant.” I looked back at the terminal, shading my eyes from the April sun to see if someone looked lost. “Isobel Yost,” I said, glancing back at Werner, his lips firming. “Has anybody seen her?”
Werner took my arm to walk me away from the crowd, and I knew. “That’s her,” he said.
“She’s dead, Mad. I’m sorry.”
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