I CAN'T DO THIS,” CARMELA WHISPERED TO AVA.

  “What?” said Ava as she struggled into her long, silver dress. “You mean you can't change in front of all these people?” The modesty curtain of two nights ago had not been hung this evening.

  “No,” said Carmela. “I mean all of this.” She swept her hand around to indicate the frenzy of models, fitters, assistants, hairstylists, and makeup artists that were jammed into the second-floor studio. “I'm not right for this. I'm simply not a model.”

  “Don't be silly, cher, you look fantastic,” soothed Ava. She reached out, gave a gentle tug on the neckline of Carmela's dress, pulling it a tiny bit lower, revealing a little more cleavage. “You look fresh and beautiful and very, very stylish in that dress.” “And I'm short,” said Carmela. “Shorter than all these . . . these giraffes.”

  “Just slip into that pair of four-inch stilettos, darlin' and you'll be right up there with the tall girls.”

  “Not sure I can walk in them,” worried Carmela. She stared at the teetery sandals she'd been given and made a face.

  “You'll do fine,” Ava assured her.

  “Ladies?” asked a harried male voice. “Everything okay?” Chadron, flanked by his fitter, Krisi, and another assistant, was carefully scrutinizing Carmela and Ava.

  “Couldn't be better,” Ava told him. “We're just waiting for hair and makeup.”

  “Juan can take this one now,” said Krisi, barely looking at the two women. She reached out, gave a hard yank on the bodice of Carmela's dress. “Your neckline needs to be much lower.” Then she grabbed Carmela's elbow and propelled her toward one of the makeup tables.

  “Really,” said Carmela, “just slap on a little lipstick and mascara, and I'll be good to go.”

  Krisi plopped Carmela down in front of a mirror surrounded by incandescent light bulbs. “This one needs special attention,” she instructed the makeup artist as she caromed away.

  Juan Caldera, twenty and bronzed-skin gorgeous, raised his carefully plucked brows in twin arcs and studied Carmela. “Hmm, I see what she means.” He cocked his head as his eyes continued to scan Carmela's face like a laser beam. “Good bone structure and I simply adore those interesting blue-gray eyes of yours. But why don't we try to bring out your brows a little more. And maybe do something about that slightly yellow cast under your eyes.”Carmela peered anxiously into the mirror. “I have yellow under my eyes?” Her worried reflection stared back.

  Juan pursed his cupid-shaped lips and met her eyes in the mirror. “Not a lot, nothing a little schmear of green corrector can't fix.”

  “I usually just smooth on a little foundation,” said Carmela, as he spun her chair around. “Then go with some blusher.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Juan as he squeezed five different shades of liquid foundation into the palm of his hand. “But tonight we're going to make you stage ready.” He took a fat, flat brush, daubed at his palette, blending and customizing a shade just for Carmela. “Trust me, sweetie, you're going to love this.”

  “I LOVE IT!” CARMELA EXCLAIMED FIFTEEN minutes later. She stared into the mirror, not believing it was really her staring back.

  “Told you,” sang Juan.

  “What did you do?” marveled Carmela. “Better yet, can I take you home with me?”

  “We just needed to pop your brows and cheekbones,” said Juan. “And smooth out your skin tone and add some lush color to your lips. I used a plum-colored stain, but a rich berry color would have worked just as well. You have very good lips, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Carmela. “I mean thank you for everything.” Krisi was back at her elbow now, plucking at the neckline of her dress, being irritating once again. “This is really great!”

  “Come on,” insisted Krisi. “Try to get over yourself. The show starts in twenty minutes, and we still have to do something with your hair. You certainly can't walk the runway with your hair looking like a plucked chicken!”

  “I thought I looked pretty good,” said Carmela. She decided she was definitely walking better in her four-inch heels now. Probably had something to do with her newly discovered cheekbones and lush lips.

  Krisi rolled her eyes as she plunked Carmela down into the hairstylist's chair. “Do something,” she implored Latsis Sevan. “You're the master. You're the one who gets paid the big bucks.”

  Latsis, skinny, olive-skinned, and barely thirty, held up a lush piece of blond hair. “We do piezes, no?”

  “No,” said Carmela.

  Ignoring her, Latsis quickly back-combed the hair on the top of Carmela's head, clipped in the piece, and smoothed it over. “Nize,” he said.

  Carmela cocked her head, gazed in the mirror. Not bad. The extra hair did give her a somewhat glammed-up fashion-model look. Hmm.

  “Put in me-ore, yez?”

  “You have an interesting accent,” said Carmela, still amazed at her ever-evolving appearance.

  “Yez, ma'am,” Latsis answered as he worked quickly to pin in a second piece.

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “Heah and there,” answered Latsis. “I lif in diffront countries.”

  “South America?”

  “Once or twize. Central Yoo-rope, too.”

  “Great,” said Carmela, giving up. She watched as Latsis Sevan pinned in two more hairpieces and a row of braids.

  When he was finished, Latsis stood back and smiled at her. “Like Jez-ca Seempson, no?” “No,” said Carmela, studying herself. “Well. . . maybe.”

  “Now your headpiece.”

  Carmela sat entranced as Latsis twirled a grapevine around her greatly enhanced locks, tucked the ends in delicately, then wove in two opera-length strands of pink pearls. As the piece de resistance, Latsis added tiny sprigs of purple and green grapes.

  “Complete!” he announced.

  Carmela swiveled her head, testing her ability to move. Not too bad.

  As if reading her thoughts, Latsis Sevan warned, “Keep head up. No lookeeng down!”

  “Right,” said Carmela, rising up out of the chair, feeling slightly transported. As though she couldn't possibly be this exotic, ethereal creature that stared back at her from the mirror.

  “OH MY LORD!” EXCLAIMED AVA. “YOU LOOK SO beautiful I barely recognized you! I mean . . . well, you've always been beautiful, cher, it's just that you look extra amazing tonight. Like a real model!”

  “Thank you, Ava,” said Carmela, giving an instinctive bob of her head. Then, when she felt things begin to shift on top, straightened up again.

  “And your posture's so ramrod straight,” raved Ava. “You're really feelin' it, huh? Really getting into it?”

  “You know,” said Carmela. “I just might be.”

  They paused at the top of the stairs, where Krisi was stationed. Wearing a headset so she could communicate directly with the runway, she was lining up the models, getting them ready to head down the circular stairway, then out onto the runway.”You. Carmela person,” Krisi hissed. “Go!” She gave Carmela a nudge, looked as though she would have preferred to boot her down the stairs.

  Carmela descended the circular staircase, trying not to let her heels catch on the carpet, listening as the insistent beat of the music increased in volume with each step she took.

  Finally she was standing behind the backdrop of fabric. Chadron held up a hand, indicating for her to wait. Angelique stood next to him, holding a clipboard, looking petulant and unhappy.

  “Don't screw up!” Angelique hissed at Carmela.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Carmela whispered back, suddenly determined to go out there and knock everybody's socks off. Then, as a model slipped back through the curtain and headed upstairs, Chadron gave her the high sign. Go!

  A flash of lightning and a roll of thunder greeted Carmela as she stepped out onto the runway. Pumpkin luminaries lit the way; underfoot were the stars and moons she'd painted. And directly out there, in the dim light of the atelier, over one hundred faces were focused entirely on her.

  Spotlights blazing, fog rolling, Carmela strutted her way down the runway, lifting her knees the way Ava had coached her, pretending that she was walking a straight line. The skirt of her dress flounced and swished, her shoulders swayed, she thrust her hips forward and leaned back slightly.

  A deafening cheer rose from the audience. She ventured a quick glance down and saw the enthusiastic faces of Baby, Tandy, and Gabby in the audience. She grinned, continued her bump-and-glide strut. Reaching the end of the runway, Carmela dropped her right shoulder, put her left hand on her hip, slid to a stop, and posed. And there, directly in front of her, was Shamus staring up at her. His eyes shone as he applauded wildly and called out her name. She caught his eye briefly, noted that Glory was sitting alongside him, looking grim-faced and determined.

  Yes, she thought to herself. And don't I look good? Maybe even better than good.

  Then it was time for her return walk, gliding, moving carefully because now was not the time for a major mishap. The back curtain with its projection of the Theatre de la Vampyr drew closer, and then Carmela was ducking through it, finished for now.

  “Wonderful,” said Chadron, motioning her out of the way, so Yasmin could take her turn. Ava waited to go on after her.

  “Shamus is out there,” Carmela whispered to Ava.

  “I know,” Ava whispered back. “He came clomping in like Frankenstein with that cast on his foot. What a putz, huh?”

  Carmela would have loved to wait and watch Ava, but she had to hustle back upstairs and change.

  Then, barely five minutes later, she was back downstairs, moving to the thump-bump of the music, gliding down the runway in her second dress of the evening, feeling that she wasn't doing so badly after all.

  Krisi met her at the top of the stairs. “There's been a change. Chadron's added a couple more pieces to the show, and you're going to wear one of them.”

  “Who me? No, no way.”

  “Yes, you,” said Krisi, spinning her around.

  “What if it doesn't fit?” protested Carmela.

  “We'll make it fit,” snapped Krisi. “Besides, the fabric's got a touch of Lycra, so it'll stretch. Hopefully a lot.” She propelled Carmela into a far corner where a full rack of clothes was parked. “The sleeveless chiffon with the stand-up collar. He wasn't going to show it at all, but now he's changed his mind, so hurry up and get into it.” Krisi barked her orders even as she unzipped the back of Carmela's dress and pushed her behind the rack of clothes.

  “But I—” protested Carmela.

  “This one,” said Krisi. “There's a shawl that goes with it, too. I'll run get it.”

  “Listen,” said Carmela, “I really don't think—”

  But Krisi had already disappeared.

  Reluctantly, Carmela shucked out of her short blue tunic and reached for the gown Krisi had indicated. It was a beautiful piece. Gray silk chiffon dotted with free-form daubs of pink, peach, and white that looked like they had been hand-painted onto the fabric.

  But as Carmela pulled the dress off its velvet hanger, she saw a fluttering piece of paper attached to the metal clothes rack. It had one word printed on it: “Amber.”

  Whoa.

  I'm supposed to wear this dress? thought Carmela. A dress that had been intended for Amber? This was weird. Beyond weird. In fact, seeing Amber's name on the sign almost felt like an unlucky omen to Carmela.

  “Krisi?” she called out tentatively. Then peered out from behind the rack and looked around. Nobody there. She supposed they were all downstairs watching the show from the wings.

  Carmela blew out air as she stood there holding the dress. Now what? she wondered. And answered herself. Stop being a ninny, and just put it on. She'd surprised herself thus far by actually having quite a bit of fun. So this wasn't the time to start screwing things up. This wasn't worth getting all bent out of shape over.

  “Carmela?” called a male voice. “I've got your shawl.”Carmela finished shimmying into the gown, then came out from behind the rack of clothes to find Gordon van Hees standing there. He looked harried and distracted.

  “Come on, come on,” Gordon urged. “Turn around and let me zip you up. They're all waiting downstairs.”

  She complied, then turned around to face him. “Do I look okay? There isn't a mirror here ...”

  “Nice,” said Gordon in a perfunctory tone. “Lovely.” He made a few quick adjustments. “Now hold still.”

  Carmela complied as Gordon draped a matching silver-gray shawl around her shoulders.

  “Perfect,” he told her.

  The shawl felt warm and almost tickly. Carmela reached up and fingered the material. It was amazingly soft and luxurious. “This is very elegant,” she said. “What kind of. . . ?”

  “Qiviut,” said Gordon. “A type of musk ox down. Very rare, very expensive.”

  Carmela gave a halfhearted smile. Something had just pinged deep inside her brain. The confidence she'd felt flowing through her for most of the evening seemed to be slowly ebbing away.

  Now what's wrong? Carmela asked herself. Why was she suddenly weirding out like this?

  “Head forward a bit,” Gordon instructed her, “so I can adjust the back of this stand-up collar.”

  While Gordon reached both arms around her, fussing at the back of her neck, Carmela found herself staring down at a large pair of dressmaker's shears that hung from a blue ribbon around his neck.

  “Almost got it,” mumbled Gordon.

  They were stainless steel, with jagged edges. Serrated edges, Carmela thought to herself. In fact, they looked almost like animal teeth. Then the tickle of the downy-soft shawl against her bare skin nudged something deeper inside Carmela's brain.

  A rare type of fur or fiber. . . could it have been this qiviut down? And serrated scissors could probably wreak terrible damage on human flesh! Would look just like teeth marks. Oh no ... !

  Chapter 26

  CARMELA reached up and tentatively touched the shawl. “This fiber . . . the qiviut or musk ox. It's . . .”

  “Yes?” said Gordon. His voice sounded icy, cautious.

  Carmela knew something had changed between them big-time. Gordon van Hees was suddenly no longer the hale and hearty, hand-kissing, good-natured fellow of a day or two ago. Now he was staring at her as though she had just peered into the depths of his soul.

  “I'd better get downstairs,” Carmela told him. She was shaking but tried not to show it.

  Gordon grabbed her arm and held her in a viselike grip. “Just a minute. I'm not sure this is going to work after all.” He fished a headset from his jacket pocket one-handed, clicked it on, spoke into the tiny microphone. “Chadron? This last number's not working at all. You heard me. Just go ahead and finish the show with whoever's down there.” He clicked off before Chadron could reply.”Let me go,” said Carmela, trying to pull away from his grip.

  “I told him not to drag this outfit out,” muttered Gordon between clenched teeth. “I warned him.”

  “I said let me go!” Carmela tried to wrench her arm away again, but Gordon held fast.

  Then he lifted his eyes to stare at her. “I think you and I are going to have a little chat.”

  “Not necessary,” said Carmela. “In fact, I really—”

  “Shut up!” screamed Gordon. He grabbed the shawl, let it slip farther down around Carmela's shoulders, then cinched it tight and yanked her toward him. Her arms successfully pinned against her sides, Carmela fell forward, off balance, and could do nothing more than launch a verbal protest as Gordon towed her out of the studio and down the hall into his office.

  “Stop it!” she screamed. “Let me go! Ava! Chadron! Anybody!” But the music was so loud, the applause so thunderous, that no one could hear Carmela's shrieks for help.

  “Sit down.” Gordon shoved her roughly into a dark green club chair. “Let me think!”

  “You killed her, didn't you?” said Carmela, so angry now she was shaking. “You killed Amber.”

  “Shut up,” said Gordon. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He slid the top drawer of his desk open and pulled out a pistol. It was dull gray, short and ugly.

  Carmela shut up.

  Gordon's hard eyes stared at her. “What a little snoop you are. Wouldn't give up, would you?”

  She lifted her chin, met his gaze. “There's no way you're going to get away with this.”

  “You're a strange girl, too,” he muttered to himself, as if going over something in his own mind. “Why would you even care about a little twit like Amber?” “Somebody had to,” said Carmela, almost to herself.

  Gordon stared at her with fiendish eyes. “But it was all so perfect,” he hissed. Almost absently he fingered the steel shears strung around his neck. “The teeth marks, the animal hairs, the silly white dove. All pointing to Giovanni.”

  “Or Santino,” said Carmela.

  Gordon favored her with a smile that was shark like in its ferocity. “That would have been fine, too. Just A-okay with me. Didn't matter who took the fall. They both knew Amber, both were a little overprotective of her. Perfect suspects, really.”

  “You're crazy,” said Carmela. She stated it flatly; there was obviously no arguing over it.

  “I just didn't count on you being such an incredible pest! Gordon's voice had continued to rise until he screamed the last two words at her. Then he suddenly sprang to his feet and grabbed a leather attaché that sat on a nearby credenza. He opened another office drawer, grabbed a pack of papers. In his frenzy, he seemed to have almost forgotten about Carmela, until she shifted in her chair.

  He grabbed for his gun, pointed it directly at her. “Let's go,” he growled.

  “Where?” she asked.

  He gestured toward the door. “Out.”

  Carmela stood up, trying not to let her knees shake so much. “I should change,” she said. She was suddenly aware of the strange sounds Gordon was making in the back of his throat. A sort of. . . growl!

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22