Death By Diamonds Part 2

"There isn't one that the FBI can find."

"The Feds are in on this?"

"Stolen diamonds are known to fund terrorist activities, so yes, there's an FBI investigation. Not to mention that Pierce Pierpont, current scion and head of the Pierpont Diamond Mines, has political clout, and he, of course, wants his diamonds found.

"But a stolen ambulance that carried a famous movie actress, who died under mysterious circ.u.mstances, is certainly cause for speculation."

Mysterious circ.u.mstances. Baste it, I knew it.

"Also, the lengthy time lapse between the ambulance's departure from the theater and the time it was found bearing Dominique DeLong's body, siren blasting, at the hospital's emergency room entrance, missing its driver, allowed for more than enough time for a diamond robbery to take place."

"You mean they ripped the diamonds off her face while she was unconscious? Poor Dom. That must have been so painful."

"No," Werner said. "All indications are that she died instantly and on stage. They took the diamonds after she died."

My stomach flipped while my brain fired like popcorn, my thought processes having multiple partings of the way. Should I admit that I knew Dominique, that I was carrying a dress that might-if one had a wild imagination-be construed as evidence? Or should I let it ride until I talked to Nick?

Dom's death touched me, rocked my world, and the diamonds were only an afterthought. "All this because somebody misplaced a few diamonds in New York City? They're probably still in the woman's dressing room." It wasn't easy to distance myself from Dom at this point, but for Werner's sake, I felt it necessary for the moment. Dom hadn't exactly been a neat freak, not even when it came to her pricey baubles. She liked to make the Parasites earn their keep and pick up after her.

I shook my head. "They should be looking into what happened to Dominique, not the diamonds."

"The NYPD are also looking into what happened to Ms. DeLong," Werner said. "Never fear."

"Good." Still trying to decide whether to out the dress, evidence wise, I decided to pay attention to a family echo in the voices of my siblings, who coined the phrase: "Shut up, Mad!"

Decision made. "If we've answered your questions, Detective, I have an errand to run."

Werner nodded toward my newly delivered package. "Is that the box Wings brought?"

Sc.r.a.p! From the corner of my eye, I saw Eve slip the note from Dominique into her folded newspaper, so I relaxed and handed Werner the box.

He opened it, folded back the tissue, and whistled. "This is primo designer, isn't it? From Paris maybe? Mucho bucks?"

"Thank you, Detective."

"Why thank me?"

"I designed it."

That surprised him. If I didn't know better, I'd think respect laced his regard, until he frowned and looked more closely at me. "Why are your eyes red?"

I hated that Werner noticed small personal details about me. I raised my chin. "Someone I care about pa.s.sed away."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He took the canvas bag from my limp hand, slid the empty packaging out, saw the return address, and whistled. "That dead movie star? You knew her?" A baited accusation if ever I'd heard one.

I gritted my teeth, a bad and costly habit. "She was a Broadway star, not a movie star. Dominique, yes, that's her. Please have some respect and stop tossing about the word 'dead' as if it were a color."

"My apologies and condolences," Werner said, and he meant it, "but that dress could be evidence."

"It's a gift. I made it for her, and she left it to me. Period."

"Too bad somebody felt the need to steal a truck to get it to you."

Double sc.r.a.p with a "tucking A" thrown in for trim. My ringing cell phone saved me from responding. I'd never been so grateful for the opportunity to answer it.

My caller's voice shocked the Hermes out of me. "Kyle! I'm so sorry about your mom."

Werner mouthed "speakerphone," so I had no choice but to set my phone down so we could all hear what Kyle had to say. Well, I might have argued, because this had nothing to do with Werner, but I would only look as guilty as I felt if I refused the request.

"It's sad and chaotic here," Kyle said, "but Mom left strict instructions about what she wanted done after she died."

"Funeral arrangements, you mean?"

"They're not releasing the b-her-until the investigation is finished. Uh, no, not instructions for her funeral. I haven't been able to bring myself to read those instructions yet."

I was confused. "But she left instructions for after she died? When did she take the time to do that?"

"They're dated two weeks ago. Weird, I know."

So had Dom been suicidal? Suspicious? What?

Kyle cleared his throat, the sound of a man who's trying to deny emotion. "These instructions have to do with her vintage clothes," Dom's son said. "She wants-wanted-the collection to raise money for charity during a big fas.h.i.+on show produced while she's still in the news and that you should arrange the show. She left a list of causes for you to split the proceeds among, but she suggested that you hold the show there in Mystic to pull in collectors from Newport, Rhode Island, Boston, and New York City. You can invite anyone you want. Can I count on you, Aunt Mad?"

Oh, great, play the aunt card in front of Werner. Okay, so Kyle had been twelve when I was nineteen, but time should have erased our age difference, and it would have, if he wasn't asking for a favor. A big favor.

"Of course, Kyle." But I'd sure like to see Dominique's instructions, I thought.

"Good. Thanks. After the fas.h.i.+on show, I have permission to sell her collection at a private auction, if I want to, and I'm not sure that I do. Mom included a list of the people she wanted you to invite to both events, but you get first pick of the vintage clothes you want before you host an auction, if there is one."

"I'm overwhelmed." No fooling.

"Anyway, I'm allowed to sell them all except for a dress she wanted you to have, and don't worry, Aunt Mad, I'm sure I'll find it, eventually."

Werner glanced at the dress box delivered that morning, as did I, then we glanced at each other.

I shrugged. Could be a different dress, right?

"Kyle, it sounds as though your mother knew she was going to die."

The phone went dead.

Seven.

The energy of imagination, deliberation, and invention, which fall into a natural rhythm totally one's own, maintained by innate discipline and a keen sense of pleasure-these are the ingredients of style. And all who have it share one thing: originality.

-DIANA VREELAND I'd say one thing for Dominique, given her elaborate after-death plans. She was an original.

The sudden silence of the phone going dead left us stunned and staring at the silent thing as the first customer of the day arrived. A redhead. A gorgeous redhead, as bundled up and unidentifiable as the Wings delivery man.

She held her head upright and walked like a runway model. Female perfection, she displayed, in an all-encompa.s.sing red Valentino cape, a colorful Herme's scarf that seemed to celebrate warm colors, and a pair of eighties Manolo boots, white with red heels. And she carried a retro white bunny m.u.f.f.

The Lady in Red looked out of place at this end of Connecticut, even in a shop as upscale as mine.

Wandering my fas.h.i.+on nooks, aimlessly, from Mad as a Hatter to Little Black Dress Lane, she threw an occasional glance our way, peeking over her rose-colored gla.s.ses.

Not prescription, then, and were they an intentional metaphor?

When I looked back at Werner, I set the tips of my fingers beneath his chin to raise his jaw. "You got a little drool on your chin."

He firmed his lips and stuck his hands in the pockets of his Mickey Spillane trench coat. "Listen," he said, purposely turning his back on the Lady in Red. "You'd tell me if you were in trouble, right, Mad?"

Now he was using my nickname? Lytton was letting honest concern dislocate his polite, if feigned, indifference.

"I've lost a good friend," I said, "but I'm not in trouble." That I know of. Yet.

My cell phone rang, again. And, again, it was Kyle, so I grabbed the bag with the boxed dress in it, walked to the dressing rooms, where Eve and Werner followed, and I set my cell phone down so we could listen while my customer could not.

I, however, stood in the doorway to keep an eye on both the shop and the Lady in Red.

"Sorry, Aunt Mad, for cutting you off like that."

"What happened?" I asked.

"People are calling and knocking at the door. Some of them brought maids carrying ca.s.seroles, but I told Higgins to send them away. I'm not receiving guests until seven tonight.

"Higgins said they're coming to offer their condolences, but they seem more like vultures who want to pick at the gristle surrounding Mom's death. Frankly, the whole thing's freaking me out."

"What can I do to help?" I asked.

"I don't suppose you feel like coming to stay for a couple of days, like before seven tonight? I can't wade through this catty Broadway love/hate gossip suck, alone, and I can't trust any of Mom's . . . whatever they are."

Parasites, I thought. "Why can't you?"

"I should think that would be obvious, but that's like the last thing she told me. Don't trust the-well-the people who've leeched her dry. d.a.m.n, Dad's here. I can hear his voice. Higgins likes him. He's gonna let the jerk in, I know it."

Now, that's bad, I thought. Greedy, bitter Ian DeLong, Dominique's philandering ex-husband, is the biggest scavenger of them all. His favorite form of self-flattery was a line I could hit him for. In referring to Dom's celebrity status, he would say, "She wouldn't be a DeLong, if it wasn't for me."

As if his name had anything to do with her success.

As her business partner, Ian owned half of Dominique, a circ.u.mstance that not even a dirty divorce had been able to erase. And it was entirely possible that he was about to inherit the other half of DeLong Ltd. jewelry, perfume, and accessory design interests, not to mention Dom's highly popular tell-all books turned movies.

"Can you wait in the den, Dad?" Kyle swore beneath his breath. "You're the executor, did you know?"

I straightened and took my gaze from the shop. "What? Kyle, who were you talking to just now?"

"You. You're the executor. Of Mom's will. You, Aunt Mad. You knew, right?"

Son of a slip st.i.tch. "No, I did not know."

Kyle made a tsking sound. "You should see the instructions she left for you on that score. And I'm talking musical score here."

I pinched the top of my nose to stop my throbbing brain swell. Dominique hadn't been kidding when she said, "Tag, you're it." I sighed. I needed to go. I wanted to go. For Dom. For her son. "Give me a few hours to get the shop in order. I'll try to be there by seven, but I can't guarantee I'll make it." I looked at my watch. "Well, nearly ten hours. Maybe."

"Call me when you're on your way. I'll send a car. And thanks, Aunt-"

"Kyle. Drop the 'aunt.' Call me Mad. You've caught up with me. We're both the same age now."

His chuckle eased the ache in my chest, for both our sakes.

Everything would be okay, I told myself, though it wouldn't, really. Dead was dead. His mother. My friend.

Dead . . . forever.

Eight.

"Style" is an expression of individualism mixed with charisma. Fas.h.i.+on is something that comes after style.

-JOHN FAIRCHILD I snapped my phone shut, slipped it in my suit pocket, and turned to Werner. "As you heard, I'll be going to New York. I just have to see if Aunt Fiona is available to run the shop."

"Good thing she went into semiretirement," Eve said.

I shrugged. "Sometimes I think she did that for me, to help me with the shop."

Eve tilted her head. "I think she did it for your father."

I chuckled. "Detective, thank you for your patience and understanding this morning."

He tipped his nonexistent hat, left the dressing room, and went to the door, without so much as a glance toward my unusual customer in red, but he did stop and turn back to me. "Stay out of trouble, will you?"

"I resent that."

He shrugged. "I mean, be safe."

"You sweet-talker, you."

He blushed but not for long. "I actually mean, don't look in people's windows, break into their houses, riffle through their things, steal their dogs, or tick off the NYPD."