Designer Knockoff (6 page)
So what was the Bentley link to her aunt Mimi? Lacey headed for the trunk that Mimi had left her, which doubled as her coffee table and served as her personal security blanket. She loved to wander through it when she was tired and low on inspiration. Mimi’s trunk of patterns and photos was a kind of combination time capsule and diary of Lacey’s favorite aunt. It was her secret pleasure to roam through the belted wooden trunk, as full of riches as any pirate’s treasure chest. Uncounted vintage dress patterns filled the chest, and Lacey had barely begun to explore them. The patterns had been collected and abandoned in various stages of completion, some still pinned to fabric, some nearly finished, a fashion archaeologist’s dream, left in stratigraphic context. Mimi had great plans, but limited time and, apparently, a limited attention span. Lacey delighted in choosing clothes from the trunk and completing them for her own wardrobe. Mimi had also tossed mementos, letters, and photos in the trunk, and sometimes she included a note about a dress or a picture of a movie star wearing a similar outfit.
Lacey changed into comfort clothes, poured herself a cold Dos Equis, and slid to the floor in bare feet to undo the brass buckles. If there were clues to That Bastard Hugh, they would be in the trunk. After removing about six layers of old patterns she found a large fat manila envelope marked
Bentley.
She glanced at it, set it down, and looked for anything else that might be related. An opening in the lining under the hinges of the trunk bulged out. Lacey had noticed the slit before, always telling herself she should fix it, but this time she looked closer, and she saw that another envelope was tucked inside. On the outside was a pencil sketch of the Bentley suit Lacey had worn that very day. It was signed,
Gloria Adams.
Bentley.
She glanced at it, set it down, and looked for anything else that might be related. An opening in the lining under the hinges of the trunk bulged out. Lacey had noticed the slit before, always telling herself she should fix it, but this time she looked closer, and she saw that another envelope was tucked inside. On the outside was a pencil sketch of the Bentley suit Lacey had worn that very day. It was signed,
Gloria Adams.
Who is Gloria Adams?
She was about to open it when the phone rang. It was Stella.
She was about to open it when the phone rang. It was Stella.
“Hey, Lacey, you’re on TV. Channel Five. Quick, you’re gonna miss yourself!”
Lacey grabbed the remote. She missed the lead-in to the story and caught the commercial, and then she had to wait for the twenty-second news story on Hugh Bentley, with a clip of the old patriarch parting the crowd with his walking stick and imperiously demanding their attention. Lacey was featured prominently in the shot, allowing her to bask in the moment all over again.
“Aren’t you the Queen of the May?” Stella said, still on the phone. Lacey was more interested in Bentley’s reaction to her in the news footage. In the close-up he had a look of recognition that she hadn’t noticed before; she’d been too surprised and flattered by his attention. He remembers Mimi, not just that suit.
I’m sure of it.
I’m sure of it.
“Wow, Lacey, what a crowd,” Stella gushed. “So, is Cordelia Westgate totally supermodel skinny? And can you tell if she’s had a little work done, like they say?”
“Yes, she’s skinny. Except for her plumped-up lips. Possibly Botoxed. And she’s not exactly Miss Congeniality. But I’m totally fried and I still have some work to do, Stella. Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.You can tell me what you think of Miguel. He thinks you’re a doll, by the way.”
Of course she had already conferenced with Miguel. “You’re amazing, Stella. Did you ever think of a career in journalism?”
“Nope, I’m doing what I love. Improving people, people like you.”
“You’re not going to suggest something new with my hair, are you?”
“We’ll talk.” She hung up and Lacey returned to the trunk. She shook out the envelope that held the sketch of the Bentley suit. Instead of finding answers, another mystery fell in her lap, consisting of a packet of letters, sketches, photos, and a few yellowed news clippings from The Alexandria Gazette in May and June of 1944. “Local Woman Disappears in New York,” “Friends Fearful After Disappearance of Local Factory Girl,” and “Gloria Adams Still Missing.”
Lacey read the short news stories, dated from May 24 and June 5, 1944. Twenty-three-year-old Gloria Adams was from Falls Church, Virginia, a little town out in the country at the time, now a booming suburb well inside the Washington Beltway. She was working at the Bentley’s dress factory in Man hattan, which also had a contract for sewing shirts for the military, at the time she disappeared. Miss Adams was last seen on Thursday, May 11, at her place of employment, according to other factory workers, and police were following up on leads. She was described as five feet, six inches tall, weighing one hundred fifteen pounds. She had dark curly hair and she wore a light blue Bentley’s smock over a navy skirt, white anklets, and navy-and-white saddle shoes. One of the clippings quoted a Miss Mary Margaret Smith, a friend of the missing girl, who said Gloria Adams would not just leave without telling her friends and family.
Mimi in the midst of a mystery? How exciting,
Lacey thought. Miss Smith had been in contact with Miss Adams recently and feared foul play. She urged anyone with information to contact the police or the Office of Price Administration, where she worked as an assistant to the director. The factory manager (and the owner’s son), Hugh Bentley, expressed his shock and sorrow, and offered a reward of $1,000 for information leading to her return.
Lacey thought. Miss Smith had been in contact with Miss Adams recently and feared foul play. She urged anyone with information to contact the police or the Office of Price Administration, where she worked as an assistant to the director. The factory manager (and the owner’s son), Hugh Bentley, expressed his shock and sorrow, and offered a reward of $1,000 for information leading to her return.
So, Hugh, you don’t remember Aunt Mimi? I wonder if you remember Gloria Adams.
Lacey told herself to be fair; old people had memory lapses. It might also be true that he had so many women in his life, he had forgotten some of them.
The bastard.
Lacey told herself to be fair; old people had memory lapses. It might also be true that he had so many women in his life, he had forgotten some of them.
The bastard.
Who was Gloria Adams, and how did her letters and dreams wind up in Aunt Mimi’s trunk?
Lacey wondered. And how did the long-defunct Office of Price Administration fit in? The only thing Lacey knew about it was that Mimi had worked there during the war. Perhaps Lacey’s finding this cache of documents was another gift from Mimi, a glimpse into the nearly forgotten life of the only family member with whom Lacey had had a real bond.
Lacey wondered. And how did the long-defunct Office of Price Administration fit in? The only thing Lacey knew about it was that Mimi had worked there during the war. Perhaps Lacey’s finding this cache of documents was another gift from Mimi, a glimpse into the nearly forgotten life of the only family member with whom Lacey had had a real bond.
She looked at one old photograph of three young women, including Mimi. On the back Mimi had written,
The Three Musketeers, Spring 1942,
and three names and places: Mimi Smith of Alexandria, “Morning Glory” Adams of New York City, and Mrs. Phillip “Honey” Martin of Georgetown. The black-and-white photo, hand-tinted with a soft wash of pastels, showed a picnic, an ideal day at Great Falls, Virginia. Mimi, so young, so pretty and full of life, wearing blue jeans and bare feet, was balanced on a log overhanging the Potomac. Lacey had never seen this photo, but she would know Mimi anywhere, at any age. Seeing her aunt so young gave her a pang of loss. She wished she could have known her then. Lacey guessed that Honey must be the pretty blond girl-next-door type with the big smile. That left frizzy-haired Morning Glory; she was no beauty, but she had a compelling intensity and a knockout figure.
Obviously Morning Glory must be the missing Gloria Adams, she thought. Obvious to me, anyway.
The Three Musketeers, Spring 1942,
and three names and places: Mimi Smith of Alexandria, “Morning Glory” Adams of New York City, and Mrs. Phillip “Honey” Martin of Georgetown. The black-and-white photo, hand-tinted with a soft wash of pastels, showed a picnic, an ideal day at Great Falls, Virginia. Mimi, so young, so pretty and full of life, wearing blue jeans and bare feet, was balanced on a log overhanging the Potomac. Lacey had never seen this photo, but she would know Mimi anywhere, at any age. Seeing her aunt so young gave her a pang of loss. She wished she could have known her then. Lacey guessed that Honey must be the pretty blond girl-next-door type with the big smile. That left frizzy-haired Morning Glory; she was no beauty, but she had a compelling intensity and a knockout figure.
Obviously Morning Glory must be the missing Gloria Adams, she thought. Obvious to me, anyway.
One mailing envelope with a canceled three-cent stamp contained old letters on blue stationery and written in blue ink. Lacey carefully unfolded the letters one by one.
Dear Mims,February 13, 1942I still don’t understand what your job is at the high-and-mighty Office of Price Administration, but I owe you for putting in a word with Hugh Bentley. I won’t have to start on the factory floor but will work as a cutter and draping fabrics for new designs. He’s impressed with my skills. By the way, I thought you two were an item. What happened? What’s wrong with you? He looks like Tyrone Power!I’m a little afraid about moving to New York and leaving my friends, but I’m going to be a career girl in fashion design and that’s the place to be. Imagine trying to do that in our sleepy southern backwater of Washington, D.C.! I know it’s the seat of government, but those trousers are baggy, Mims. That’s a joke. Besides, I know you love clothes as much as I do. There’s a rooming house for a lot of the factory girls where I can live. I’ll write when I can.Love, Gloria
Dear Mims,May 6, 1942I may have broken my first rule! Except it isn’t written down, so I’m not sure. I’ve been here two months and I haven’t said as much as “Boo!” Really. I have been a model of propriety. And Mims, I know you would be on my side if you could just see this silly smock we have to wear, a puffy powder-blue smock with patch pockets. It pouches in all the wrong places. I simply had to take it all apart and reshape the yoke, and take out some of the excess material. Now I look more like a designer and less like a clown. It fits so much better and looks quite smart when I fold the sleeves back into deep cuffs, even though deep cuffs are outlawed by the new clothing regulations. Can you believe it?Part of my job as a studio apprentice is to measure cuffs and the like to make sure we’re following the accursed L-85. I call it the collar-and-cuffs law, and I always wear my measuring tape around my neck or have it close by in my pocket.I’m just grateful that I don’t have to work on the factory floor Those poor girls have to wear drab green aprons and green makes me look so sallow! Anyway, my little blue smock looks so much better, and no one has said anything to me yet. Wish me luck.Love, Glory
Dear Mims,July 10, 1942I know we have to do our part for the war, but day-to-day factory life is not my idea of the best way to do it. Please don’t ever think I’m not grateful for your help in getting this job. Because I am, and I know that it’s a stepping-stone. But how on earth do those girls in the airplane factories do it? It’s so hot that the sweat trickles all the way down my spine. My shoulders ache and my back hurts and I get so thirsty.Of course I want to do my part for the war effort. But I’ve got dreams, Mims. Someday the war will end. At night when I work on my sketches, somehow I forget about the day. I have to go. Five A.M. comes too soon; guess I’ll never be a “Morning Glory. ”Love, Glory
Dear Mims,August 13, 1942I know I’m a dreadful correspondent. But truly, I’m so tired at the end of the day I can hardly keep my eyes open. Do you remember how I used to think about clothes all the time? Now all I think about is food! I’m so hungry and there’s never enough to eat. I dream of fried chicken and mashed potatoes the way my mother fixes it. I know I said I’d never miss anything about home, but now I do: home cooking!Love, Glory
Dear Mims,September 6, 1942This boardinghouse is worse than a convent! We are not allowed to have visitors to our rooms except parents on Sunday afternoon. And men, if there happen to be any, must meet us in the lobby. We might as well meet in Grand Central Station for all the privacy there! My landlady, who thinks she is the queen of Rumania, warns us not to mix with the soldiers or sailors. Curfew is ten o’clock on weeknights and midnight on weekends. Boy, do I feel like Cinderella.In spite of the hard work, I love to go to the factory because sometimes Hugh Bentley comes by to see how we’re doing. He works down the hall in a glassed-in office, which is nice so that we can see a real live man in the henhouse. He said someday I can show him my designs! Of course, “someday” hasn’t come yet.Glory
Honestly, dear Mims,January 12, 1943If I have to hear “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without” one more time I am going to scream. Marie of Rumania-remember my landlady?
—
has posted that sign everywhere. And just try asking for seconds. We have to turn over our ration tickets to her; it doesn’t seem fair. After working all day, a girl gets hungry!Your Starving Glory
Lacey wanted to read more, but she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She tucked the remaining letters into her purse to read at work the next day. When she fell asleep a little later, the wartime slogan
Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without
was ringing over and over in her head like a nursery rhyme.
Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without
was ringing over and over in her head like a nursery rhyme.
chapter 4
Lacey’s story on the hearing, “Bentleys Present Uniform Testimony in Olive Drab,” complete with photos and the exclusive interview with Hugh the B, “First Lady to Open Museum in Bentley Design of Vintage Silk,” were splashed across the front page of the Wednesday LifeStyle section of
The Eye.
The sidebar on the Bentley’s robbery was tucked in nicely. Lacey checked
The Post:
a perfunctory couple of paragraphs on the museum and the First Lady’s surprise letter.
The Washington
Times
had even less; their angle was Senator Dashwood’s sudden reverence for the taxpayer’s dollars. She had scooped them both with her Bentley interview—not that it mattered to anyone but her. She folded the paper and yawned.
The Eye.
The sidebar on the Bentley’s robbery was tucked in nicely. Lacey checked
The Post:
a perfunctory couple of paragraphs on the museum and the First Lady’s surprise letter.
The Washington
Times
had even less; their angle was Senator Dashwood’s sudden reverence for the taxpayer’s dollars. She had scooped them both with her Bentley interview—not that it mattered to anyone but her. She folded the paper and yawned.
“We keeping you up, Smithsonian?”
Lacey opened her eyes, stifled another yawn, and looked into the smooth, caramel-hued face of her boss, Mac, his bushy black eyebrows drawn together like caterpillars huddling. Her foe, her friend, and sometimes her nemesis. In other words, her editor. She was on the verge of nodding off when he interrupted her reverie. “I hope your column won’t put us all to sleep.” This was Mac’s stab at humor.
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