B004183M70 EBOK (14 page)

I had to get him to calm down enough to have a conversation.
"Can I get you a glass of water?"

"No. Tissues upstairs," he mumbled, collapsing onto
the chaise.

I hurried up the spiral staircase, my heels clanking on the
metal.

Pictures of Suzie on the walls, all smashed.

Big bedroom with a huge, unmade bed.

All the window shades pulled down.

Clothes scattered, all black.

Photo on the dresser of a young boy and his parents with
mountains in the background.

Framed photographs stacked against the walls. None hung.

Where were the tissues? I looked around and found a box on
the dresser. I grabbed it, turned on my heel, and started to make my way out of
the room, feeling uncomfortable being in a man's bedroom.

I stopped. There had been a bracelet on the dresser. Aware of
the sound of my heels on the hardwood floor, I tiptoed back into the room. Sure
enough, it was the bracelet Bradley had given Suzie. Evidence of his
relationship with her. Evidence she had been in Pierre's bedroom since Bradley
had given her the bracelet. I pocketed it, mentally adding "stealing"
to my list of sins, tiptoed out of the bedroom, and went carefully back down
the spiral staircase.

Pierre was where I had left him, tears falling silently now.

"Here," I said, offering him the tissues.

He accepted and blew his nose. "I apologize for my
display of emotion. What can I say; I'm French."

"There's no need to apologize, Pierre. Everyone has
feelings."

"Ah, but it is weak for a man to show his. She always
did bring out the weakness in me."

How I wanted to ask him about the shattered pictures of Suzie, about the bracelet, about their last dinner
together, but there were just the two of us in the studio, and he was not in
control of himself. What if he confessed to killing her, then killed me?

"I know you're grieving. When was the last time you saw
Suzie?" That seemed a safe enough question.

He paused. Reaching for another tissue, he wiped his face
with it, then got up and walked over to where a few pretty glass decanters sat
with glasses on the white cube. "Would you like a drink?"

"I appreciate it, but no. I don't drink much, and I
haven't eaten lunch yet."

"I'd offer you something, but I have my meals ordered
in, or I eat out. This is only wine; are you sure you won't partake?"

"I'm sure, even though I know that as a Frenchman, you
must have the best wine. Maybe another time?"

He stared at me. "Yes. I would like that."

"About Suzie. . . ."

He poured wine into a glass and almost drained the liquid in
one swallow. "I saw her last Friday night. We had dinner together
here."

"How lovely. I'm sure she enjoyed it."

His expression darkened, and his gaze went from my shoes to
my eyes. "What position do you hold at Ryan?"

Uh-oh. "I'm Bradley Williams's executive secretary."

With all his might, Pierre threw the glass across the room,
where it crashed against the wall and fell to the floor in pieces. My heart
beat fast at this display of temper.

"Your boss is filth! He treated my Suzie as a plaything,
not as the goddess she was!" he shouted.

"I-I don't know much about their relationship," I
lied.

"Believe what I tell you then, because it is the truth.
Williams tried to come between Suzie and me, but the two of us had a bond that
could not be broken. She toyed with him, since he was head of the agency, but felt
nothing for him. Nothing!"

I did not reply to this, as the uneasiness
I felt in Pierre's presence increased. But that didn't stop my head from reeling.
Gloria had been right when she said Pierre was possessive of Suzie. I could
easily imagine him having the motive and the opportunity to kill her, but
didn't he love her too much? Even if he didn't, he'd spent his life building a
name for himself. That wasn't something he would throw away easily, would he?
If only I could get him to talk about what happened at that dinner, but now was
not the time.

I said, "Would it be too much for you
to select a photograph of Suzie for the memorial Ryan is planning for
her?" I quickly filled him in on the details, trying to bring some
normalcy to the conversation.

"This photograph would be on loan,
no?"

"Oh, of course. I'll personally make
sure it's returned to you."

"I know all of the photos I've taken
of Suzie by heart. There is one that will be perfect." He walked over to
the far side of the room, near where the glass lay shattered, to a large group
of framed pieces. He picked one out and began stroking the frame with his
fingertip.

Several minutes passed before I cleared my
throat. "Is that the one?"

He looked at me as if he'd forgotten my
presence. Carrying the large silver-framed photograph, he handed it to me.
"Yes."

I accepted the heavy piece, which was about
two feet high, and gazed at it. The setting was summer in Central Park. Suzie
sat on a blue blanket, a wooden picnic basket beside her. She wore a
red-and-white gingham shirt, tied at the waist, and white shorts with no shoes.
She was about to take a bite out of a hamburger. Her delighted look at being
photographed screamed Mom, apple pie, and baseball.

She looked nothing at all like the Suzie I
knew. I wondered if it was one of the earliest snaps Pierre had taken of her.

"You see the innocence in her, Bebe?
How she speaks for the typical American girl? That is how I will always think
of my Suzie."

Everyone was entitled to their delusions, I
thought. "This will be perfect. Thank you, Pierre, for loaning it to Ryan.
I'll make sure it's displayed in the front of the church, where everyone will
see it."

"I'll bring it myself," he
insisted, taking the photo back from me.

I nodded in agreement, too afraid of him to
argue.

Suddenly it appeared he wanted me out of
the apartment. He led me to the front door. With one foot out in the hallway, I
turned and said, "I could get another photographer if you feel you can't
do the B. Altman's shoot tomorrow."

He ran a hand across his forehead.
"No, I'll be there."

I smiled. "Your reputation as a real
professional is well deserved, Pierre."

He shrugged. "You're correct. My work
is my life. I must continue or go mad."

"Perhaps time in the Virgin Islands
will help. You remember the photo shoot for Durden swimwear?"

His eyes narrowed. "That is to go on?
Who will we use as a model? There's no one who can do it but Suzie, and she is
lost to us."

I took another step away so that I was
fully in the hallway. "I understand your sentiment, believe me, but this
is business, as you know. We've decided to use Lola."

Pierre's face went red. "That drunken,
washed-up bitch who hated my Suzie? If your Mr. Williams didn't kill Suzie,
then without question Lola did!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I headed back to Ryan in a cab with the windows rolled down.
The sun poked out of the clouds, and the radio blared the Temptations'
"The Way You Do the Things You Do." As usual, the driver had to snake
his way through the crowded streets. He loved his horn, and used it frequently,
but I tuned it out, thinking of my last words with Pierre.

After he'd made his proclamation of Lola's
guilt, I'd had to soothe him by assuring him that he could make Lola look
fabulous, and that Ryan had no choice but to use her, since she was known as a
star model.

Pierre hadn't liked it, but the businessman
in him won out, and he went along. I started praying Bradley would be cleared
in time for the Virgin Islands trip, as I predicted Pierre would be hard to
handle, but logic told me otherwise. I wondered if Detective Finelli would
come to Suzie's memorial. Probably, if he really was investigating and had not
just decided Bradley was a murderer.

I had the cab drop me at Marv's corner, but
I was out of luck. Marv had packed up after lunch. Glancing at my watch, I was
shocked to see it was almost two thirty! My growling stomach insisted on food
and drink. I needed something fast, so I could relieve Danielle, who had
probably developed ulcers from the stress of working for a suspected murderer.

I caught the elevator and punched eighteen.
Maybe Debbie Ann had a piece of fruit to spare.

An hour and a half before showtime, Debbie
Ann was already in makeup. She wore a turquoise shirtwaist dress with a
white-and-turquoise apron. Her assistant, Nellie, took notes while Debbie Ann
talked nonstop.

I walked onto their set. "Hello,
ladies. I apologize for interrupting, but I've come to beg a favor."

Nellie squinted at me through her glasses.
"Wow, that's the shortest dress I've ever seen, except for in the
magazines."

I pasted a smile on my face. "This
length is all the rage in London, Nellie. For the first time in memory, London,
not Paris, is setting the trends. Isn't it groovy?"

"Um, no," Nellie said, nose in
the air. "I wouldn't wear it, especially in this office, where you might
catch the attention of a killer."

Debbie Ann piped up before I could set
Nellie straight. "Nellie is right, Bebe. A dress that short might be
popular in London, and I admit I've seen it here in New York, but I don't think
the trend will last. Women will not embrace the idea of showing as much leg as
a prostitute."

Heat burned my face.

Debbie Ann went on: "Frankly, I'm
surprised to see you here, Bebe. Aren't you frightened, working for someone the
police consider their chief suspect in Suzie Wexford's murder?"

I opened my mouth, but she was quicker.
"I think the entire affair is a horrid reflection on our company. The two
of them should never have been dating. Office romances rarely end well, except
for the amazing instances when the man actually marries the woman. Obviously
the two had a falling-out—perhaps Suzie demanded an engagement—and Mr. Williams
lost his temper in a deadly way. I admit, I was taken in by the man, charming
and attractive as he is. But a little birdie told me that a replacement for Mr.
Williams is on his way. We must hope the man arrives swiftly, before any damage
can be done to my show's ratings."

Debbie Ann paused for breath, and Nellie
broke in.

"I'm so very happy Mr. Williams never showed any
personal attraction for me," she said.

Every Homemaker's Friend opened her mouth,
but this time I cut her off. "Debbie Ann, who told you Mr. Williams is
going to be replaced? And what makes the two of you so certain that he killed
Suzie Wexford?"

Nellie rolled her eyes.

Debbie Ann focused a stern gaze on me.
"Bebe, I hope you haven't been blinded by a handsome face. Do not permit
yourself to be alone with him under any circumstances."

Outnumbered, I decided to play along.
"All right, I won't," I said, fingers crossed behind my back.
"But, Debbie Ann, you still haven't told me who the 'little birdie'
is."

"That's because I know how to keep a
secret. All I'll say is that when Mr. Williams killed Suzie, I had to make sure
my position and reputation would be protected. Otherwise I would have to
entertain offers from other studios that would want me to broadcast live from
their facilities."

Translation: Her agent told her. Was it
true? Would Bradley's uncle really send in a replacement? God, please not that
awful Drew, Bradley's cousin and competitor, whom I'd met last month. I
dismissed the thought from my mind, deciding it was pure gossip, and Bradley
had nothing to worry about.

Debbie Ann glanced at her watch. "I'm
glad you came to visit, but I have only an hour before my show starts,
so—"

"I'll go. I really came up to see if
you had any food to spare for a secretary who missed lunch." And now
wished she'd suffered in silence.

"Bebe!" Debbie Ann exclaimed, her
tone one of severe disapproval. "One should never skip a meal; it's simply
not good for your body. I thought you were going to take my suggestion and pack
a tuna sandwich, an apple, and a Thermos of milk for lunch every day. What
happened?"

"I've been busy, and—"

"That's no excuse for bad
nutrition." She went to the refrigerator and began pulling out the makings
for a sandwich.

"Oh, no, Debbie Ann, please. One of
those apples and, um, a glass of milk would be fine, thank you. I'm going to
have a big dinner. Honest." I wanted to be nice to her, despite her
lecturing and her feelings about Bradley. After all, her husband had committed
suicide, and then she lost her only son in Korea.

Debbie Ann sighed theatrically. "All
right, it's your health, your future." She meticulously washed an apple,
scrubbing it so hard I thought all the skin would fall off, poured me a glass
of milk, and gave them to me.

"I really do appreciate this. It won't
happen again."