Lauren's Designs (15 page)

*****

She waited until after breakfast to tell Nella and Dani about the vicious sabotage. With the air-conditioner going all night, she had cleared out some of the reek from her bedroom, but a steward would have to be summoned to remove the sodden mess and clean up the carpet. She ordered breakfast to be served in the suite, preferring to keep the models as unflustered as possible, and well away from prying eyes that might note their reactions. While she was waiting, she dressed in the suit she had worn to Mike’s cabin the night before, let her hair fall in its natural soft waves to her shoulders—she didn’t think she could endure a single pin or clasp—and then went to rouse Nella and Dani.

Dani at once noticed the faint redolence of wine. “Had a little party last night, Ms. Rose?” she gibed.

Lauren went to the door of her bedroom, opened it, and pointed. Both girls crowded forward to look, gasped, and turned stricken faces toward her.

“Who did it?” Nella gasped.

“Someone who got a key from somewhere, or who was let in.” Lauren said slowly. “Did either of you let anyone in last night?”

“I left the door open for the doctor,” Nella wailed. “It’s all my fault.” She gulped. “But I don’t see why he would want to ruin our show,” she added wretchedly.

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Lauren told her. “But an open door was an invitation to anyone to enter.” She squared her shoulders. “Not to worry—as our English friends say, I think I can handle it.”

“What are we going to do?” demanded Dani.

Lauren felt a wave of gratitude at that partisan “we.”

“We’ve still got all the clothes the troupe are going to wear for their act. Thank God, they needed them last night to iron out some problem in their presentation. That means there’s enough costumes for us to do some sort of modified showing. The great dress is safe.” That was the way they had referred to the jewel of Lauren’s collection, the velvet, sequin, and chiffon creation that Lauren believed was the most beautiful gown she had ever designed. It was certainly the most original.

“Will you make an announcement about the sabotage?” Dani asked.

“I haven’t gotten that far,” Lauren admitted. “I’ve been awake half the night thinking what sort of presentation I can make with two-thirds of the clothes gone. We’ve got shoes and accessories, but what they’ll fit in with, I’m still trying to work out.”

Nella said surprisingly, “I think it was that Mr. Masen. He hates you, Ms. Rose.”

Lauren and Dani stared at the tall woman in surprise.

“You could be right,” Dani said. “Look at how the rat has acted. Can you pin it on him, Lauren?”

It was the first time Dani had ever called her anything but “Ms. Rose” and Lauren felt supported by the friendship. She said honestly, “I’m not sure I could prove it, and the hassle of making charges like that against a rat like Herbert might spoil our image. Let’s just go into the show looking like brave little soldiers who are facing the challenge as best they can, eh? That ought to win us some support.”

The models nodded dubiously. The saboteur’s action had been a shrewd blow against them as well as against Lauren, and they were angry and resentful.

They ate a good breakfast, which relieved Lauren of one of her fears. The models had taken it well, with a spirited resolve to beat the underhanded attacker at his rotten game. As soon as they had finished, Lauren shepherded them to the rehearsal room and briefly explained the problem to the troupe. They didn’t say much, although the little they did say was too colorful to repeat. At least Lauren had a wonderful sense that their loyalty and total support were hers.

As she was leaving to consult with the steward about the removal and boxing up of the clothes—they might conceivably be needed as evidence—Nella said hesitantly, “Remember your color sketches of all the new collection, Lauren? She looked embarrassed as they stared at her. “You know, you told us you were carrying a portfolio, in case any client asked to see some of the designs with a view to buying . . .”

“Yes, I’ve got the portfolio in my briefcase. When I found out we’d drawn last place in the program lineup, I didn’t think I’d have time to discuss it with any prospective buyers. Why do you ask?”

“I thought we might put the sketches up on easels or something, and that would show everybody just what that rat Masen spoiled.”

Lauren considered quickly. “I’ll get them, unless—” Oh, God, Herbert knew about the sketches. Had he got at
them
too? She went on calmly, not wishing to disturb her team any more than they already were, “I’ll check them while I’m in the cabin. Go on with your rehearsal, gang. I’ll be back in a flash with snacks.”

They’ve forgotten me already, Lauren thought as she heard the faint beat of music behind the locked door. It was good to see their dedication to her show. Lauren knew that even if everything didn’t turn out, at least she’d made some real friends who meant more than any lounge full of wealthy patrons. Then she caught herself up. What kind of naïve idiot was she? You’re a businesswoman, Rose, she told herself. Now you’d better prove it, for everyone’s sake.

The steward, when he came, was properly horrified at the mess some vandal had made of Madame’s clothing. He said it must be reported to the purser, and possibly even to the captain. Lauren explained about her showing that afternoon, barely five hours away. The man’s concern was comforting, and, after telling her he would ask the purser to send someone down to her rooms at once, he left, pushing the ruined collection before him.

Lauren waited for the officer in the sitting room. When he came, Maida Hass was with him, and Reb Crowell. Maida, her expression concerned and helpful, asked the expected questions.

“I can’t be sure who did it,” Lauren confessed. “I was out of the cabin until almost midnight and the models were asleep in their own cabin. Whoever did it worked quietly.”

“And had a key or access,” added the reporter.

“That idea worries me,” the cruise director confessed. “The Line—”

“I can assure you,” Lauren said quickly. “I am convinced no member of the staff would supply entrance to any unauthorized person.” She hesitated. “There is a good chance that my husband’s friend, Mr. Herbert Masen, got a key from one of the models the first day out. She wouldn’t have suspected anything, since he is, actually, a shareholder in my business, September Song.”

“Do you intend bringing charges, Mrs. Rose?” asked the officer quietly.

Lauren shook her head. “No. At this point, that sort of fuss would detract from my presentation and cause an unpleasant situation without solving anything.”

“You intend going on with the show?” Reb asked incredulously. “I thought your costumes were ruined.”

Lauren looked around at the three people in her cabin. Every face was friendly, interested. “May I trust you not to say anything about all this until after the show today?”

They nodded, and the reporter grinned. “I told you I’d mention your name, Mrs. Rose, and I sure will, but not until you’ve made your comeback. Just how do you plan to put on a show with no costumes?”

Lauren smiled. “That’s the break I got. Not all the costumes were on the rack. About one third of them were in a small room we requested for secret rehearsals. You see I got an idea . . .” And she told them about the dance troupe and the special presentation. “By the most wonderful stroke of luck, Mr. Derek Strange needed the costumes I’d assigned for their performance, and he and Tony called for them last night. They’re safe. Right now the troupe is working on details with my models and we’re going to put on a show.”

Lauren was surprised and almost in tears when the three people clapped heartily.

Maida said firmly. “I think you’re right about not making trouble before the show, but I do think an announcement could be made just before we start this afternoon. Think of the suspense! I’ll handle that part.”

The officer smiled and shook her hand. “You’re showing splendid spirit, Mrs. Rose, if I may be permitted to say so. Courage and restraint.” He shook his head. “My own impulse would be to knock the fellow sideways.” Lauren laughed and mimed a punch.

Reb grinned at her. “Feisty, aren’t you? What a story this is going to make. Don’t worry, I’ll hold it until after the show. In the meantime, if it’s not illegal or unethical, I’d like to wish you the best of luck, Lauren.” He too shook her hand.

When they had left, Lauren wasted no time returning to the room where the rehearsal was going on. She ordered sandwiches and beer and coffee to be sent in, and stood guard by the door to take in the trolley herself when it arrived.

The rehearsal was going well. It seemed that the sabotage had brought the determination and creative skill of the dancers to a high point. Even Nella and Dani were being helpful, offering sensible and practical advice, demonstrating the model’s walk and postures so Tony could mime them. He did so with such gusto and wit that even Nella was soon chuckling and Dani didn’t seem offended at his sly little jokes about her profession. Lauren, dispensing food and drink, could hardly believe the feeling of comradeship they were all sharing. And gradually a presentation was emerging that combined the best of a formal fashion showing with some delightful comedy and graceful, costume-flattering dances. Lauren wondered if she dared breathe a sigh of relief yet, and then superstitiously crossed her fingers.

During the few minutes when Derek was not rehearsing, Lauren told him about the colored sketches of her whole new collection, safe in her briefcase. He was very interested and advised her to them on display.

“It’s proof, if any is needed, that you did have a terrific collection. And the sketches will show what it looked like. I’d be willing to wager you might even get some takers—or buyers, or clients, or whatever you high-fashion types call it.” He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. “What we need here is visibility. Taping them on the walls of the lounge wouldn’t do. So where?”

Lauren tried to think of something original and couldn’t. She hadn’t enough assistants to have them parade with the large, colorful sketches.

Derek gave a sound of triumph. “Got it, I think. What are the runways made of?”

“Wood, usually.”

“How high are they—off the ground, I mean? About four feet?”

“Something like that,” guessed Lauren, who’d never thought about it before.

“Then we’ll tape the designs on the sides of the runway, so everyone can see them and can’t tear or deface them without all the rest of the people in the row witnessing the act. Tell Maida Hass before the show. I know they close the lounge for an hour before a presentation to be sure everything’s clean and shipshape.”

“You do have a fund of knowledge,” Lauren teased, delighted at his suggestion. “I’ll take the sketches to Maida right away. That is, if you think you can spare me from this rehearsal?” She chuckled.

“We’ll manage,” Derek said.

Maida was more than willing to help in any way possible. She promised to have the sketches taped up around the runway. “If I can tear myself away from them long enough to have it done,” she admitted, drooling over the brilliant, colorful drawings.

Lauren returned to her cabin, feeling breathless and frightened and full of gratitude all at the same time. Her phone was ringing as she unlocked the door. She swung it closed behind her and ran to catch the call.

It was Mike Landrill.

“I need to see you, Lauren.”

“My showing is in a couple of hours, Mike. May I see you afterward?” Lauren was surprised that she had breath to answer him, so fiercely was her heart pounding in her breast.

There was a little pause. “What’s wrong?” Mike asked softly.

“You mean you haven’t heard? Ship security must be tighter than I suspected, or else Herbert’s ashamed to boast that he ruined my collection,” Lauren said. She hadn’t intended to tell anyone. She wasn’t even aware that the words were there until she heard them herself.

And then she heard him say, in that deep dark voice that so excited her. “Stay there. I’ll be right down.”

Is that what I wanted? She asked herself. Then she ran into her cabin and checked her makeup and brushed her hair until it gleamed and shone like white gold.

She hardly had time to return to the sitting room before there was an imperative knock on the door and Mike entered. His nostrils flared at the pervasive smell of wine.

“What happened?”

Lauren told him. His face became stone-hard. “What have you done about it?”

“The cruise director knows. So do the judges, by now—Reb Crowell was here. I’ve asked them all to say nothing until after the showing this—”

“Showing?” Mike interrupted. “What will you show?”

Lauren explained about the clothes the troupe had taken away.

“So some of your lovely designs were saved,” Mike said slowly. “And, being you, of course you’re going ahead with what’s left. Well, I congratulate you. And no, I won’t talk about it, or break Masen’s neck as I should do. Was Carlos de Sevile in on it?”

Lauren shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t even seen Herbert today, much less accused him. And I may not ever do that. I’m just tired of the whole chintzy mess. The dancers and my models have been so good, so supportive. I feel blessed just knowing how fine some people are.”

Mike looked at her intently. “No raging desire for blood? No revengeful counterplans? I’m getting to know you under fire, Lauren. What’s that academic handle—Professor Emeritus? You know it means a title won in the heat of battle? I’m going to call you Lauren, Designer Emeritus.”