Killer Look (16 page)

“Two and through for me.”

“Is there anything that made Velly plan his revenge at the Met, besides the retrospective of his work?” I asked.

“There's no bigger stage in this city, Alex. The Metropolitan Museum of Art? What's more highbrow than this joint?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“A few years back, the House of Chanel took over the Palais-Royal in Paris, turned it into a French chateau. Spent five million on re-creating the space and the look. If you want to talk over-the-top, there it was,” Tiz said. “Then it began to happen in New York. One of the major fur houses leased the Park Avenue Armory and re-created St. Petersburg in the days of the tsars. Brought in ice carved from Alaskan glaciers to make everyone feel the chill, develop a yearning for sable.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Maybe to you, Alex, but this industry thrives on outrage. Outrage. Wolf Savage—Velly Savitsky—in the Temple of Dendur at the Met? C'mon. It's a stroke of genius.”

The ancient Egyptian temple, created during the reign of Emperor Augustus Caesar in 10 BCE, had been given to the United States in 1965. It was one of the most magnificent structures built in its time—Aeolian sandstone—and saved from destruction in the building of the Aswan Dam by American dollars.

“It sounds more like an exercise in ego to me,” I said.

“Don't you see Velly was trying to go global? He set his show in this fabulous temple from the Roman period in Egypt,
in a totally elite venue that can only fit about three hundred seats, in the city's center of all things highbrow cultural—but it gives him the ability to live-stream an event at the very same time to everyone who wants the grand look but can't afford the ticket. Flipping the bird to everyone who counted him down and out.”

“But the temple itself represents—”

“Yeah, luv. I know. The pharaoh's offering to the gods,” Tiz said. “Sounds completely appropriate to me. And damn if it didn't make Velly laugh. The idea of him launching his line to the new global gods of style. What an offering that's going to be.”

There's no accounting for taste, as my mother liked to remind me frequently when I was a kid.

“I'm just curious, Tiz, but what does it cost to rent the temple—that entire wing of the museum—for Monday night?”

“I didn't see the contract myself, but I know it's upwards of one million dollars.”

“One million? That's a staggering number.”

“That's just the price for the space, Alex. That's before you throw in the gobs of flowers and the liquor and the security costs and all that,” Tiz said. “Plus the salaries of the models.”

“How many are there?”

“Sixty. Six-oh. In most shows they use twenty girls and make them change two or three times,” Tiz said. “Velly was following the Calvin Klein method. One outfit, one girl. No sweating the quick-change routine backstage.”

“So where's the money for that coming from?”

Tiz held up her hands and pursed her lips. “Don't know.”

“It has to be Kwan Enterprises,” I said. “From what I've been hearing about the Savage business dealings, there wasn't the money to bankroll something at this level.”

“I can assure you George Kwan is not the one underwriting this show,” Tiz said, standing up and signaling for the check.

“Who, then?” I asked. “Who's paying the bill for all this?”

“I haven't a clue, Alex,” Tiz said. “I thought I could wheedle anything I wanted to know out of Velly, but that's a mystery I just couldn't
solve.”

“I've got to go now,” Tiziana Bolt said. “It's almost six. Taking the elevator down?”

“Yes,” I said. “How can I contact you if I want to stay in touch?”

“I'd really like to meet this Lily chick. See why Velly never talked about her.”

“She'll be curious to meet you, too.” The Columbia MBA with husband and kids was not what I'd call a chick, but the language fit Tiz's persona to a
T
.

“Got a card on you?”

“No. I'm on leave from my job, actually.”

“What do you do, anyway?”

“I'm a lawyer.”

“Lawyer? Awesome,” Tiz said. “No wonder you ask so many questions.”

“I'll give you my cell,” I said, taking out my phone to enter her contact information. “Mind giving me yours?”

We exchanged numbers and while doing so, I realized that I
had forgotten to press the lobby floor. We wound up back on the lower level, where the exhibition was.

“I just need to pick up my tote and my jacket,” Tiz said. “I'll walk out with you.”

As we wove our way through the posed mannequins, I was reminded of her remark that, like the up-and-coming young designers, Wolf Savage wasn't known for his couture line.

But there were at least a dozen formal gowns on display, and Joan Stafford and I each owned a couple that boasted a couture label.

“Hasn't Velly's formalwear been a successful part of the division?” I asked.

“You seem to know your French, luv—like with that ‘sangfroid' line,” Tiz said, imitating the way I talked. “Don't you know about haute couture?”

“I thought I did.”

“You being a lawyer and all, I'm surprised. In France, there's a commission that regulates which design houses can use the haute couture label,” Tiz said. “It's all firmly written into the laws.”

Sometimes a bit of the Bronx seeped through the fake British accent, especially when she was trying to speak French. I could see why that put-on had failed her.

“You mean, you can't just be a great stylist, do made-to-order work with expensive fabrics, and call it couture?”

“No way. There are specific rules in France. Government legislation about haute couture,” she said, stuffing her papers into a worn-looking Vuitton Neverfull bag. “Special fittings are required, and an atelier—you know, what that is, Alex?”

“Yes. A workshop,” I said. “A studio.”

“That workshop has to have at least fifteen staff members and twenty full-time tech people. And the label has to present at least fifty original designs twice a year—eveningwear and daytime. On
and on like that, and well, Velly never made the cut, despite the fact that he sucked up to the French like it was the way to go.”

“I'm so surprised.”

“Let me tell you, the man didn't deal with rejection well. The likes of Chanel, Dior, Gaultier, Armani, Valentino, Versace—they're legitimate French couture houses, designated by the government. It isn't a club that wanted Velly Savitsky.”

“Is it different in America?” I asked.

“Sure. Here you just sketch out a pretty design, limit the numbers of it that you produce, and slap on a label that says the word ‘couture.'”

“I'm pretty sure I have a couple of old WolfWear gowns in the back of my closet,” I said. “I know the label had a fancier name, but certainly no fittings and no studio.”

Joan and I had bought them together at a sample sale for some charity benefit. They'd been remaindered at some upscale department store and we got bargains, we knew, while the money went to a good cause.

“Haute Sauvage?” Tiz said, laughing. “You? Really? Let me guess. Something with long sleeves and a high neck. Very lady lawyer–like.”

“What you see is not always what you get, Tiz.”

“What style? I know most of the lines.”

“It was a toga. Sort of a Roman toga—white chiffon with a long scarf of the same fabric that kind of draped over the shoulder.”

“Hail, Caesar,” Tiz said, grabbing me by both elbows. “I know the dress! It was from the collection about five years ago, right? Strapless, with a band of gold trim around the top and a gold rope belt that looped at the waist. Do I have the one? A slit on the left leg up to the thigh. Right?”

We were both laughing.

“That's the one I own. My friend made me buy it.”

“Did you wear it to an orgy? Please say you did.”

“To a Halloween party, I think. Bad mistake, that one.”

“Damn. I wish I could get you a pass into the show on Monday. You've got to wear it, Alex. I think we've got one of those—in aqua—on the runway. What a hoot,” Tiz said. “All those Park Avenue social X-rays always come in their old favorites. Let me snoop around and ask for a freebie. You'll fit right in.”

“Don't ask, Tiz. I'm not going to be there, and I will never wear that dress again.”

She was too open, too nice. A free spirit with a big personality. I didn't want her head to roll if she mentioned my name to Hal or Reed Savage. Not to mention anyone finding out that a prosecutor had taken a comped ticket to get into a top-price event.

She was sashaying down the hallway, zigzagging between the mannequins, pretending that she was swishing a chiffon skirt to either side of her legs.

“Will you indulge me in a silly question, Tiz?”

“You're a lawyer. They're mostly silly, aren't they?”

“Got me there,” I said. “In all your time modeling and around fashion houses, how many of the women had breast implants?”

“You're a little late to get into the game, Alex,” she said, turning to size up my body.

“I'm serious, Tiz. Is it done?”

“The girls who work Victoria's Secret catalogues and swimsuit covers, they might,” she said. “But high-fashion models? The runway? The more androgynous the better. Tall, thin, and flat-chested like me. If diet doesn't get rid of the breasts, then reduction surgery will do it.”

I was thinking of how Tanya Root and her Brazilian implants might have fit into the picture of the Savitsky-Savage odyssey.

“Look at this,” she said. “Dammit.”

“What?”

“Just mumbling to myself.”

She had stopped in front of a figure dressed in a Chinese silk gown tight-fitted to the dummy, with golden-threaded birds and flowers embroidered onto a bright-red ground. The bottom was tapered and the neck was closed with a mandarin collar.

“See? This happens even when the garments are maintained under the most perfect circumstances,” Tiz said, adjusting the camera app on her phone to take a picture of something she noticed on the garment. “Mrs. Thurston Higgeldy-Piggeldy the Fourth or Fifth loaned this to us for the exhibition, and I thought we went over it with a fine-tooth comb. I was certain she stores her vintage stuff in the same cryogenic freezer with Ted Williams's head, and that it was in pristine condition.”

“Looks pretty swell to me,” I said.

“The frigging frog is missing.”

“What?”

“You must know what a frog is.”

“Sure.” Frogs were the ornamental braiding for garment closures that consisted of a button and the loop through which it passes. “I just didn't get what you were talking about at first.”

“This was supposed to be a key detail of the dress,” Tiz said. “One closure at the neck and four down the side of the piece. Hand-stitched frogging in the self-fabric, which cost an arm and a leg per yard.”

The large pearl button was in place, but the loop was frayed and hanging away from the button instead of around it.

“Can it be fixed?” I asked.

“This broad probably eats pizza with a knife and fork, and a napkin tucked in under her chin,” Tiz said, losing her cool. “Everything we took from her was just perfect, except this one spot, and nobody noticed it—not even me—till this moment.”

“You've got the weekend to have it repaired.”

“Find me the fabric, Alex. Think you can? It's from 1998, Velly's Chinese Wall line. I dare you to find another piece of it.”

“There's a zipper maven and a lace store and a sequined trim shop,” I said, trying to calm her down. “Isn't there a frog maker in the Garment District?”

“Sure I can find a frog maker. But it's the damn material,” Tiz said, dropping to her knees and flipping the hem of the dress to see whether there was enough extra fabric to craft a new loop. “And we don't dare snip an inch from this one without clearance from Her Ladyship.”

Tiz got back on her feet and typed in a message to herself, adding a photograph of the dress—its collar, hem, and mangled frog.

“Oh, Velly,” she said, talking to herself. “You'd take someone's head off for missing that little froggy.”

I didn't have much to lose by getting more personal at this point.

“I've just got to ask, Tiz—I mean, I hope you don't think it's out of line—but it sounds like you knew the man better than anyone else, at least in this last decade of his life.”

We were walking through the last room, with the life-size magazine covers of supermodels and the reproductions of headline stories featuring Wolf Savage.

“Probably as well as anyone. That's true,” she said.

“You're smart,” I said. “And you're terrifically attractive. You've got a great sense of humor and a lot of style.”

“You want to know if I f—?”

I interrupted her. “Were you lovers?” I asked.

She laughed. “Not for his lack of trying, you understand. I'm just not into men who are as old as my dad.”

Lily had commented on her father's infatuation with young women.

Tiz stopped in front of the photograph I had paused in front of earlier. It was the shot of Wolf leaving the Musée d'Orsay after his brilliant coup at the shows in Paris—a handsome man with a spectacular beauty on his arm.

“Do you know who she is?” Tiz asked.

“No.”

“Don't you remember the name Samira?”

“I don't.”

“One of those first-name-only supermodels. An Ethiopian girl who prowled the catwalk from the time she was seventeen like she was the only star in the galaxy.”

“Looking at this photograph, I can understand that.”

“Velly found her in a refugee camp on some bullshit humanitarian trip he made to Africa, after some kind of famine or plague. I can't remember which one.”

“Why are you making fun of that?”

“The man made the trip for the publicity, Alex. Not because his heart was in the cause, but to have the cameras focused on him all the time,” Tiz said. “He saved Samira's life, I'm sure, and then he launched her on a career most girls would sell their souls for.”

“He was her mentor, then? Like he tried to be with you?”

“Yes, he was her mentor, and yes, she sold her soul to him, too.”

“They had an affair?” I asked.

“Velly Savitsky liked his women young, and except when he was forced into an early marriage by his parents or stuck in rehab, in the heartland of white America with me, he preferred them dark-skinned,” Tiz said. “He had an affair with Samira, and then he ended her career by impregnating her.”

My head was spinning, wondering if Wolf Savage's
predilection for black women could lead us to his blood connection to Tanya Root. Before I could form a question, Tiz finished her story.

“Samira's spirit was broken when she lost all her modeling jobs because of the pregnancy. She went home to Africa, to her village, to have the baby,” Tiz said, letting her emotion show for the first time since we'd met hours earlier. “But she died there. Both Samira and her son died in childbirth.”

I had no words to speak.

“It's one of the things that haunted Velly to the very end of his life.”