Everyone in the room—Roman, the boutique manager, the head seamstress, and her two young assistants—turned and stared stiffly at me like a tableau of dummies at Madame Tussauds. The House of Fen had just turned into the House of Wax.
Say something, I told myself, but I wasn’t sure what, until my mind flashed on an image of Matt’s frightened-to-death face in Interview Room B.
“Breanne, listen to me,” I said. “I’m here to help.”
The wax dummies moved. Every last head turned from me to Breanne.
She glanced at them. “Leave us, please.”
Just like that, the entourage flowed out the door.
Now her eyes were back on me. “Close it, Clare.”
With a deep breath I shut the door, and we faced each other.
One hundred years ago, when Versace’s boutique was still a town house and Teddy Roosevelt was dedicating the old police station down on Charles Street, the residents of Fifth Avenue didn’t think much about Greenwich Village. When they thought of it at all, it was a distant outpost, where servants lived and the lower classes did their shopping. The Village was quite the opposite these days, with its high-end real estate and chic eateries, but you wouldn’t think so the way Breanne was looking me up and down.
“What are you wearing?”
“Cut the crap, Breanne. I didn’t come to Fifth Avenue for a runway cat walk. I’m here because Matt’s worried to death about your safety. I thought he was going to stroke out last night. When that girl was shot, he thought it was meant for you. He believes someone wants to—”
“Stop.” She held up her hand. “I know what Matt believes.”
“From your tone, I’m guessing you think he’s overreacting?”
“Of course.”
“Well then...” I crossed my arms. “I guess we’re both humoring him today.”
Breanne fell silent. One expensively waxed-and-plucked eyebrow arched as she considered my words. “I suppose you’re right then, Clare, if that’s how you feel.”
“It’s not that I think Matt’s completely crazy,” I clarified. “There might be something to his worries. But mostly I think he’s overwrought. So why don’t you and I just make the best of it? I’ll hang out with you today, and you let me know if you see or hear anything suspicious. Deal?”
Breanne pursed her bee-stung lips. “All right. I suppose we could try to get along. I mean, seeing as you’re Joy’s mother.”
“Brilliant, Breanne. Good attitude.”
She rolled her eyes. “Look. I’m under a great deal of stress this week. I really don’t need your attitude, either.”
Touché. “You’re right... I’m sorry.”
Breanne appeared to be readying for a retort, but my apology seemed to disarm her. She regarded me again with a puzzled face. “You really are here to help?”
“Yes. I really am. For instance...” I took a step closer, pointed to the printout in her hand. “Who do you know that would be so nasty as to send a fake e-mail to ruin your final fitting?”
Breanne shook her head. “My e-mail box is password-protected. No one has access, not even my assistant.”
“Do you trust your assistant?”
“Yes, of course. Terri’s been with me four years. She has a bright future at Trend and knows it. I’m promoting her in a few months—after things settle down and I can start interviewing for a new girl.”
“Any rivalries in your office that have turned ugly lately?”
“My people are trustworthy, Clare.”
She dismissively waved her French-tipped fingers. But I found the answer far too pat. I could also see that she was getting uncomfortable.
“Let me ask you something else then. I noticed a man in front of the boutique. He’s a big guy, probably in his fifties, has an ex-boxer’s sort of build. Short brown crew cut, crooked nose, wears off-the-rack suits. Do you know anyone with that description?”
“Clare, really.” Breanne folded her arms. “Does that sound like someone I would know?”
“Well, do yourself a favor, okay? Keep an eye out for a man like that. If you see him loitering around your apartment building, for instance, or shadowing your movements, please let Matt or me know, all right?”
Breanne shifted her gaze, appearing impatient, but at least she didn’t argue. “Yes. Fine. Anything else?”
“What’s your schedule today?”
She checked her slim, jeweled timepiece. “Roman and I already ate a bite of lunch. We’ll be going back to the office after I’m done here. I’ve got meetings all afternoon. Matt’s picking me up for cocktails and dinner around seven, right after my six o’clock meeting with Nunzio. He’s my last appointment at the office today.”
“Nunzio? The Italian sculptor?”
“Yes, he’s flying in from Rome, staying at the Mandarin.” She checked her watch again. “He should have arrived last night, although I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“He’s designing your rings, isn’t he? Matt mentioned it.”
Nunzio was also lending Breanne Lover’s Spring, a gold-plated metal sculpture that actually functioned as a tiered tabletop champagne fountain. The one-of-a-kind piece had been famously lent to two royal couples for their weddings. After that, aristocrats all over Europe clamored to borrow it. As far as I knew, it had never been displayed in the United States.
I still didn’t know how Breanne managed to convince Nunzio to lend it to her, but it was going to be a spectacular centerpiece for my coffee and dessert station. Chills ran though me when I thought of the presentation Janelle and I had planned around that amazing piece of art.
It was also an extremely valuable opportunity for publicity, not only for the Village Blend but for my friend Janelle Babcock, a gifted pastry chef who was just launching her new catering business. The entire tablescape was going to be photographed and appear in a splashy Trend spread—apparently as part of a bigger profile on Nunzio—and both Janelle and I were going be credited in the caption along with our businesses.
“Yes, Nunzio is a genius,” Bree said. “I couldn’t be more pleased with his wedding ring design. I’ve only seen sketches and a digital photo, but he’ll be bringing the actual rings to our meeting at six today. We’re featuring them in the magazine.”
I tapped my chin, thinking Bree’s day over. “If Matt’s going to be picking you up at your office, then I’ll stay with you till he comes. That’ll make him happy,” I added quickly before Breanne could protest. “We’re humoring your groom, remember?”
Breanne sighed, her expression close to an aggrieved grimace. “So you’re coming back to the office with me?”
“Yes.”
Another sigh. Then she looked me up and down again. “You can’t wear that to my office, Clare. We have advertisers and VIPs coming through all the time. We have an image, you understand?”
“But I’m not part of your staff, so why would—”
Breanne wasn’t listening. In three long strides, she moved around me, opened the fitting room door. “Adele! Would you come in here?”
The boutique manager was a small-boned, stylish woman, a head shorter than Bree and probably ten years older. Her short, cinnamon-brown hair was cut into a meticulously layered style, and her pinstriped suit, the color of raw salmon, was accessorized with a shimmering opalescent scarf that perfectly matched her sheer blouse and designer eyewear.
“Please find this woman something to wear,” Bree said, then lowered her voice. “Keep it under seven.”
“Thousand?” Adele asked quietly.
“Hundred,” Breanne whispered.