Designer Knockoff (14 page)
That was just like a man, she thought. Trujillo had the metabolism of a wolverine; he could eat anything, and it never showed up on his thirty-two-inch waist. He munched on a green pepper, still poking around Felicity’s desk. Finding nothing, he gave up and grabbed a couple of cherry tomatoes for the long stroll back down the hall to his police beat fiefdom.
Waiting on Lacey’s desk was a messengered package from Chevalier, with Bentley’s company handbook. It did, in fact, back up Aaron’s position about no resistance in a robbery, but still, Lacey thought, it was cold. As if they counted on robberies as a cost of doing business. She didn’t especially want to talk with Aaron Bentley again that day, but she dutifully called Chevalier and gave him a message for Aaron. No doubt she was getting on the Bentleys’ collective nerves, with the possible exception of Jeffrey, the handsome nephew who seemed to be unfailingly polite and good-humored. She was astonished when Aaron called her right back, and even more so when he readily admitted his fling with Esme.
“Of course, I was hoping you, of all people, would not find out, but it would be foolish to deny it,” Aaron said. “Look at what happens to all those politicians when they lie. I may not be perfect, but I don’t lie about things like that.” He told her it was just a casual relationship, and besides, he was divorced, she was single, neither of them were breaking any laws or marital vows. “I enjoy women,” he said, with a hint of a come-on.
“Do you have any idea what happened to her?”
“No. I have no idea. She is a clever girl and I’m very fond of her. I would love it if she could turn up safe. Now is that all for today, Ms. Smithsonian?”
“When did you last see her?”
“Last Thursday, I think; then I returned to New York until just before the hearing. And my secretary can confirm that.”
Predictably, Lacey had less success with Senator Van Drizzen’s office. She knew his press secretary, Doug Cable, slightly, but he wouldn’t let her speak with him, even when Lacey said it was a personal matter. Finally, after too much time spent wrangling pointlessly with the press flack, Lacey decided to just drop the bomb and see what happened: She said she’d heard that the senator was having an affair with the missing intern, and would he care to comment?
Outraged, Cable simply hung up on her. It made her laugh.
Don’t they train press flacks not to do that? Would he have hung up if I were with
The Post? She made a few other fruitless calls on her Esme list. It seemed that Esme’s crowd, what there was of it, either didn’t know enough or care enough to return Lacey’s calls.
Don’t they train press flacks not to do that? Would he have hung up if I were with
The Post? She made a few other fruitless calls on her Esme list. It seemed that Esme’s crowd, what there was of it, either didn’t know enough or care enough to return Lacey’s calls.
She also made another call to Tyler Stone, who denied knowing whom Esme was seeing. Lacey confronted her with her new information about Esme’s two lovers; Tyler was unfazed.
“If that’s true, it’s no wonder we never saw her around the house,” Tyler said. “I don’t know where she slept.”
“Did you know she was seeing Van Drizzen?” There was silence. “You did.”
“You can’t use my name in connection with this.”
“I’m just trying to confirm what another source told me.”
“In that case, let’s say there were rumors to that effect.” Tyler hung up.
Forty-five minutes later the phone rang. It was Senator Demetrius Van Drizzen himself, taking a most imperious tone. He flatly denied the rumor and apologized for his press secretary’s rudeness. Mr. Cable had been too shocked by the idea to think clearly, he said. Mr. Cable would be taking the rest of the day off.
“Elected officials are too often the victims of these baseless allegations. I am a happily married man, Ms. Smithsonian.”
Aren’t you all,
Lacey thought, but did not say. “And where is your wife, Senator?”
Lacey thought, but did not say. “And where is your wife, Senator?”
“She’s visiting our son, who is a freshman at Princeton. She is unavailable for comment.”
Until the wagons are circled; then she’ll be out front catching arrows.
“When did you last see Miss Fairchild?”
“When did you last see Miss Fairchild?”
“I don’t recall. Certainly she worked for the committee, but I’m not aware of her comings and goings.” He continued with his lecture. “From now on I suggest you cover the facts, not these scurrilous rumors that are clearly politically motivated.”
“I’d be happy to. And the facts are ... ?”
“That a young woman is missing and we are all hoping that she is returned safely to her family. Good day to you.” He hung up.
“Thank you, Senator,” she said to dead air, and put down her receiver.
Lacey put together a few paragraphs with the statements of Esme’s paramours, both admitted and alleged, and sent them to Trujillo to work into his update. Then she wrote a preview of the museum collection she had seen that day, for which she had taken extensive mental notes while talking with Hugh Bentley. Even though other media had been promised exclusives, no one had embargoed Lacey from writing about it. The Bentleys would just have to get used to her being the barnacle on their boat.
An hour later, Lacey finished up her story, shut down her computer, and began packing up her stuff. She headlined it, “Master Designer Spins Yarns—and History,” knowing Mac would probably change it.
“Leaving, Lacey?” Felicity was back at her desk. She ostentatiously looked at the wall clock. Like the martyr she was, Felicity took pride in often staying later than anyone else.
“Don’t be silly. I’ve offended my quota of sources for the day. I’d like to quit while I’m ahead.”
chapter 9
When Lacey got home, the expensive shoes from Scarpabellas were still perched on the trunk, where she had left them last night, beckoning to her.
I’m sorry, beautiful shoes, but you have to go back.
She tried them on anyway and admired their sleek sauciness. She pranced in front of the hall mirror and admitted they weren’t quite as high and uncomfortable as they could be. She wondered what on earth had possessed her to buy them and promised herself they would go back
. Soon.
I’m sorry, beautiful shoes, but you have to go back.
She tried them on anyway and admired their sleek sauciness. She pranced in front of the hall mirror and admitted they weren’t quite as high and uncomfortable as they could be. She wondered what on earth had possessed her to buy them and promised herself they would go back
. Soon.
A call flashing on her machine diverted her attention. She pressed the button. “Lacey, it’s Marie Largesse. I just had the strongest urge to ask if y’all’re planting morning glories? It’s fine weather to dig in the dirt, but I don’t know why morning glories. I’m just the messenger,
cher.
You’ll understand. Just make sure they’re morning-glory blue.” Marie’s smoky Cajun accent flavored the message.
cher.
You’ll understand. Just make sure they’re morning-glory blue.” Marie’s smoky Cajun accent flavored the message.
Another cryptic bulletin from the friendly neighborhood psychic.
Marie was a psychic, all right, but she seemed to be forever getting her astral wires crossed. The one time Lacey had relied on Marie to pull something spectacular from the ether of the psychic network, she’d fainted dead away.
Marie was a psychic, all right, but she seemed to be forever getting her astral wires crossed. The one time Lacey had relied on Marie to pull something spectacular from the ether of the psychic network, she’d fainted dead away.
“Maybe blue is my color today,” Lacey said aloud.
“Y’all come on down to the Little Shop of Horus. It’s been ever so long,” Marie signed off.
Lacey removed the glittering fantasy heels and returned to the bedroom to change into her comfort clothes, black shorts and a light knit top. She put Esme Fairchild out of her mind. She would either turn up or not. Tony would get the story or not. Mac would be happy or not.
Gee, it’s nice not being the lead reporter on this story.
Gee, it’s nice not being the lead reporter on this story.
But one thing nagged at her: Why on earth did Hugh want Mimi’s suit so badly? He had offered Lacey a very expensive trade, and no doubt many women would be tempted. She pulled the black Bentley suit from her closet and took it from its special cloth garment bag. Hugh had even remembered the jeweled button covers fondly. They could be removed to reveal plain black buttons for a more subdued look. She peered at the suit closely.
So what are you woven out of, kryptonite?
Could it be carrying contraband microfilm from the Forties, or was there a treasure map drawn on silk and cleverly sewn into the lining? Silk maps had been sewn into the linings of jackets during the war for bomber pilots—and spies.
No, Aunt Mimi wasn’t a master spy and I am way too fond of melodrama.
She laid the suit gently on the bed, turned it inside out, and felt for anything suspicious or lumpy in the lining. There didn’t seem to be anything. She took the jeweled covers off and rolled them around in her hands, admiring the gold filigree that cradled the pearls and rubies.
Priceless gems? Don’t be silly.
Mimi spent a lot of money on clothing, but she could never afford real jewels for the button covers.
And if she had, I’d have heard about it.
Though they were lovely, they were just costume jewels.
Could it be carrying contraband microfilm from the Forties, or was there a treasure map drawn on silk and cleverly sewn into the lining? Silk maps had been sewn into the linings of jackets during the war for bomber pilots—and spies.
No, Aunt Mimi wasn’t a master spy and I am way too fond of melodrama.
She laid the suit gently on the bed, turned it inside out, and felt for anything suspicious or lumpy in the lining. There didn’t seem to be anything. She took the jeweled covers off and rolled them around in her hands, admiring the gold filigree that cradled the pearls and rubies.
Priceless gems? Don’t be silly.
Mimi spent a lot of money on clothing, but she could never afford real jewels for the button covers.
And if she had, I’d have heard about it.
Though they were lovely, they were just costume jewels.
She thoroughly examined the suit, the perfectly spaced stitches, the cleverness of the set-in shoulders and sleeves. The only oddity was the lack of the distinctive Bentley label inside the jacket, the label that would have said,
Premiere Collection.
It would have been black, embroidered with gold silk thread. That the label was missing made a certain kind of sense to Lacey. Mimi had such a distaste for Hugh, she could easily have snipped it out in a fit of pique. In fact, the label could be in the “Bentley” envelope that Lacey had set aside the other night when she became so distracted by the Gloria Adams letters. She went and retrieved the fat packet from the trunk now, sat down on the floor, and spilled the contents out onto her blue-and-rose Chinese carpet.
Premiere Collection.
It would have been black, embroidered with gold silk thread. That the label was missing made a certain kind of sense to Lacey. Mimi had such a distaste for Hugh, she could easily have snipped it out in a fit of pique. In fact, the label could be in the “Bentley” envelope that Lacey had set aside the other night when she became so distracted by the Gloria Adams letters. She went and retrieved the fat packet from the trunk now, sat down on the floor, and spilled the contents out onto her blue-and-rose Chinese carpet.
In front of her lay several articles snipped from glossy magazines about Bentley’s premiere collection in 1944 and a couple of patterns in smaller envelopes, with sketches and notes attached. In a full-color spread, Lacey saw her own suit, although shown in a blue-gray wool rather than black. Even with plain dark blue buttons the suit still carried lots of sass. The model wore it with an enormous matching hat with a navy ribbon, navy gloves, and navy pumps.
Too bad I couldn’t get away with that hat.
The Bentley story continued on a page that shared advertising space for Woodbury Facial Soap, their slogan: “It Keeps the Debs A-Glow with Glamour,” and a testimonial to the power of Camel cigarettes to relieve “nervous tension.”
Too bad I couldn’t get away with that hat.
The Bentley story continued on a page that shared advertising space for Woodbury Facial Soap, their slogan: “It Keeps the Debs A-Glow with Glamour,” and a testimonial to the power of Camel cigarettes to relieve “nervous tension.”
Handsome Hugh Bentley modestly said he was doing his patriotic job to keep America’s women beautiful during the war and was also keeping them employed in his factory. Some worked on the domestic side, while others stitched shirts for the military. Just an all-around peach of a guy, according to
LIFE
magazine.
LIFE
magazine.
The other article, also on the dashing young Bentley, was clipped from
Woman’s Home Companion
and featured evening attire for the “modern career woman” who needed to entertain at home, and for the “darling debutante” making her first appearance in society. It was a collection that borrowed heavily from movie glamour and featured dewy-eyed young starlets, a dream collection designed to help the female consumer forget about the war that intruded into so many other parts of their lives.
Woman’s Home Companion
and featured evening attire for the “modern career woman” who needed to entertain at home, and for the “darling debutante” making her first appearance in society. It was a collection that borrowed heavily from movie glamour and featured dewy-eyed young starlets, a dream collection designed to help the female consumer forget about the war that intruded into so many other parts of their lives.
Lacey set the clippings aside and looked through the smaller envelopes. To her surprise, the first envelope contained another note from Gloria Adams, along with several sketches of details of the suit in question, and a cartoon featuring Mimi in the suit, popping a bottle of champagne. Gloria proved to be a talented cartoonist. Lacey immediately picked out Mimi’s distinctive pert chin, high cheekbones, and luxurious hair.
Dear Mims,July 7, 1943As you can see by this package, I finished the suit that I promised to make you so long ago when I first came to New York. There are all kinds of excuses I can offer—too busy at work, too tired when I get home. You know me. But when I heard that your Eddie died, I felt so bad and I didn’t know what to do. Saying I’m sorry just doesn’t make a dent in it. But maybe the suit will tell you how much I care, so here it is. It took me a while, but I wanted every stitch to be perfect. Thinking about you and Eddie and how I was going to be your maid of honor makes me cry. Is it really true his parachute didn’t open?There are a few spilled tears on the wool, but because it’s black I don’t think they hurt anything. The beautiful wool you bought was a dream to sew, and I don’t want you to feel bad about wearing it. Remember, you bought it before we got into the war, so it isn’t like you didn’t come by it honorably.I have to tell you a secret, Mims, and you cannot tell anyone, not yet. I couldn’t work on your suit at the studio, so I had to use the sewing machine in the living room of the boardinghouse while the other girls played Scrabble and listened to the radio. I’d try it on in my room and step on a chair and try to see what it looked like in the bureau mirror, but I couldn’t see the whole suit and how it would hang in the back. So I took it to the workroom at Bentley’s and stayed after I clocked out. I adjusted it on the dressmaker’s dummy so I could really take a good look. Then Hugh Bentley walked in behind me. When he spoke I swear I nearly died. I explained real fast that I hadn’t done it on company time and I had this material and it was for you and it would never happen again. He didn’t say a word and he walked around looking at the suit, feeling the material, testing the seams. I waited to be fired. He asked me where I got it. I said I designed it. I didn’t tell him I had a drawerful of designs and patterns.He didn’t fire me, Mims! He looked at me, I mean really looked at me for the first time, and he wanted to know if I had any more! Then he took me out to dinner— spaghetti at a fancy Italian restaurant—and we talked all night. He wants to do his own line of clothes. He’s not bad, but he’s more of a tailor than a designer, technically very good, but his sketching... well, he’s not so much of an artist, you know? We talked about that, mostly. Now I have so many ideas running through my head. I sketch new designs whenever I have free time.Mr. Bentley had to explain personally to the landlady why I was out working so late. He took full responsibility. Only you and my roommate know. Wasn’t she the suspicious one when I came home after one in the morning! I stayed up till three telling her all about it, but she’s sworn to secrecy.It all sounds so crazy, but there you have it, Mims; I’m in New York to stay. And I have you to thank.Love to you, Gloria
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