Dead is the New Black (14 page)

The coffin hovered over the grass like a spacecraft. Its details evoked a Victorian mansion, and the shine of the wood and silver handles suggested a sports car. She looked for a label, thinking some architect or designer must be licensing out coffin rights, and found none.

David beelined to Sheldon’s side at a line of mourners. Sheldon looked everything a distraught husband should. She considered approaching him—they knew each other, after all—then thought better of it. He had never seen her face before the killing, and she was pretty sure he didn’t need her condolences.

As more cars arrived, Laura stood near Carmella, hoping some of her graciousness would rub off, some habit that made the double and quadruple air-kiss seem as sincere as Carmella made it look. She wished for some level of comfort in her skin, some training she’d missed from her single-mother’s rent-controlled apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Carmella knew people Laura had only read about in the papers, and interjected herself in their whispering and gossip like a drop of chocolate in a marble cake mix. So complete was her integration into the crowd, that Laura soon found herself standing alone, hands in her coat pockets, wondering about silk fibers and the timing of a murder, and wondering if the police had as many questions as she did.

When a man came up to her, she jumped, and he laughed with perfect capped teeth. She had to take a second to recognize Pierre Sevion. His hair was a little thinner than the last time she’d seen him, and he had let the grey at the temples go without dye. He had on a black, four-button wool suit that was a half-inch short in the sleeves, as they had come down the Paris runways only a month before.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I recognize you.”

“You mentored my sister Ruby, at Parsons. We have the same hair.” Patently untrue. Laura’s hair had unenthusiastic waves no matter the weather, and Ruby had lustrous curls no matter what she did, or didn’t do, in the morning. They did, however, have the same wheaten color that didn’t require the help of a bottle. “We’re ten months apart, so we ended up in the same class.” She held out her hand for a shake. “Laura Carnegie, no relation to the guy with the music hall.”

“Very pleased. I remember you now. Yours was a sort of origami dress, I believe?” He referred to her fourth-year project at school, a rectangle of crisp gauze and a string that when folded a certain way was a dress, or a shirt, or a poncho. It was completely unsalable without an instruction manual, and she almost failed her thesis.

“I’m sorry to meet you again under such unpleasant circumstances,” Sevion said.

“Yeah. We’ll miss her,” Laura lied. Seeing Pierre’s quizzical look, she added, “I work at Jeremy St. James. I’m a patternmaker.”

“I heard that St. James is sick.”

Like a mother bear, she defended him, “I saw him this morning, and he looked fine.”

“I ask because, I’m sure you’ve heard, Sheldon Pomerantz is taking a controlling share of the company.”

“He can’t do that!”

“If Jeremy’s sick, he can. It’s in the contract.” That goddamn contract again.

“Well, I have first-hand knowledge. Jeremy’s fine. He’ll be at the bandshell on Friday for the show.”

“I’ll see him there, then.” Sevion smiled as if she’d just handed him an invitation he didn’t already have.

A woman with long, straight white hair tapped him on the shoulder and spoke to him in French. Their little side conversation went on forever, with Laura looking more and more like an idiot who didn’t want to let go of the company of Pierre Sevion, which was unexpectedly true today. She wanted to ask him about the dinner where Noë had cried and Carmella had turned into an evil jerk, but feared she would find no sly way into the conversation.

The woman with the straight hair looked eerily familiar. Laura couldn’t place her, but she was sure she had seen her before. In order to stop staring, Laura glanced around to look for someone else to talk to, but everyone was engaged and too far away. Sheldon, whom she had avoided, was receiving condolences from Carmella, who wasn’t afraid of anything social. Then, a short woman with a Midwestern hairdo and a suit that fit her top-heavy frame so well it could only be custom made put her arms around the lawyer. Carmella smiled at her, and the three spoke a few words before Mrs. Top Heavy strolled away with the designer.

Just when Laura thought she was going to get a polite “Excuse me,” Sevion turned back to her.

“Who is that?” she asked, pointing at Mrs. Top Heavy. Her pointing was rude for any number of reasons, but she was too curious to care.

“She owns that store in Brooklyn. The designer outlet…” He snapped his fingers in a way that made Laura imagine the name jumping from the tip of his tongue like a trained puppy.

The woman with the white hair spoke up in a thick eastern European accent, “Centennial. That’s Shonda Grovnitz.” Laura realized that standing on a hill was throwing her. The lady with the straight hair reached no higher than four-eleven, if that. She only carried herself as though she stood a foot taller.

Laura nodded as if she knew Shonda Grovnitz, which she didn’t. But everyone knew about Centennial, the big box designer outlet in Brooklyn. People who shopped at Centennial didn’t need fancy service or a superior shopping experience. People who shopped at Centennial needed clothes. Nice clothes. Clothes they could tell their friends about. Clothes they wanted people to believe they could afford, but couldn’t. Centennial bought overstock, damages, out-seasoned, and outlet-grade designer clothes and resold them to high school students, working mothers, and old ladies who bragged about a bargain before, or concurrent with, a label.

Shonda adjusted her scarf, a cashmere Hermès job that cost a pretty penny. But it was brown, and the absolute wrong shade of brown with the navy coat.

“This is my wife,” Sevion presented the lady with the straight white hair, “Hortensia.” Hortensia showed no sign of recognizing Laura. Just as Laura was about to ask where they might know each other, Sevion continued, “I’m glad Jeremy is well.”

“Totally. He gave me two pages of notes on the Friday show, and then talked to his lawyer about the bail hearing or whatever. Couldn’t shut him up, actually. He’s going to be at the show if they let him out and, if not, it’s going to be amazing anyway.” She knew she was babbling, so she was grateful when Sevion picked up the thread.

“You have spunk and loyalty. I like that in a designer.”

“I’m a patternmaker.”

“It was very nice to meet you, Miss Carnegie.” He held out his hand. She admired his charm and grace, and could see why he was Pierre Sevion, and she was just Laura With-a-fancy-last-name. He handed her a card before he left to join the crowd gathered around the coffin. Laura looked at it. It only contained his name, the name of his company, PSH Talent, and a phone number in orange on an apple green background. She didn’t know when she would have a reason to use it, but she put it in her pocket anyway.

The funeral was long on talking and short on excitement, with plenty of incense in the outside air. The priest spoke. People whispered and pretended to pay attention. Sheldon showed nothing of the man who had burst into her fitting the day before. She couldn’t bear to watch him break down. She tried to catch Carmella’s eye, but she was texting. Apparently, all the international flair in the world didn’t teach you manners.

Laura debated with herself, then realized there wouldn’t be another opportunity to do what she wanted to do. She ducked behind a tree and stared at her phone. She was sick of hearing about that contract and being in the dark about it.

Who would be at work today? Her mind wandered around the office. The showroom was next over, and the sales people might be in, but her distrust of the sales force in general brought her to the other side of the office, the side behind the big white doors. There was only Yoni.

Yoni was shrewd, ambitious, and a professional. She had also given Laura a good going-over when she had visited Jeremy the first time. But Laura knew it wasn’t personal. Suddenly, the only person in the office she could call was Yoni.

“Production,” Yoni said tersely, when she picked up.

“It’s Laura.”

“What can I do for you, Laura?” Yoni sounded bored already.

“Well, you know, I keep hearing about this contract between Jeremy and Gracie Pomerantz.”

“Yes?” Yoni’s voice took on a decidedly un-bored edge.

“But I’ve never seen it. Have you?”

“No.”

“Sheldon and his staff are here at the funeral.”

There was a long silence where she wondered if Yoni thought she was giving her a hard time. Then, Yoni said, “They wouldn’t just leave it lying around, you know.”

“No, I guess not.”

“They’re more careful than that, I hope. For their sake.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m being silly.” Laura glanced up and saw Detectives Cangemi and Samuelson approaching. Of course they came to a murder victim’s funeral. The TV said so.

“Take care,” Yoni said. “I’ll see you Monday.”

She cut the connection just as Cangemi and Samuelson came within range.

“Miss Carnegie, we wanted to ask you some questions.”

She looked at the man with Cangemi. “There’s a funeral going on, you know.”

“You’re not exactly participating,” Cangemi pointed out.

She wished she hadn’t ducked off to make that phone call. “Maybe I’ll throw myself on the coffin and rend my garments.”

“We’d wait around to see that. Wouldn’t we, Samuelson?”

“Yup.”

She looked around and decided that, while there was nothing to be gained by staying, a ride back to the city would be gained by going.

CHAPTER 15.

Laura rolled the paper cup of water in her palms, sipping it more from boredom than thirst. It had been offered as a substitute for the stale coffee in the precinct kitchen. She sat in a dark room before a video monitor. Cangemi’s cologne filled the tiny room. Was that normal for detectives? Cologne? She gave him a glance. His eyes were swollen, and his movements were slow and thoughtful, as if he were underwater. So, she figured it was last night’s scent. Good for him. Why should Carmella have all the fun?

He flipped on the monitor. It was a black and white shot taken from the ceiling. She recognized the compass rose from the lobby of her office building.

“Is that the time?” She pointed to a row of numbers at the bottom of the screen.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about that. I need you to help with some IDs.”

He rewound the tape to show a woman standing outside the elevator. The time stamp said 1:06 a.m. Laura recognized the woman as Gracie Pomerantz from her fur hat and coat, but the image was so vague and blurred, it could have been anyone. Gracie wiped her eyes frequently with a balled-up tissue.

“That’s Gracie,” Laura said. “She’s crying because… did you hear about the fight at Grotto?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged off what she had thought was a tasty nugget of information. “She had a fight with her husband the night before, too.”

“And you don’t think Sheldon did it?”

“No. We have four people putting him at an all-night poker game after the fight, and we don’t have tape of him in the lobby. It’s hard to kill someone when you’re not in the building. “

Onscreen, Gracie disappeared into the elevator. Cangemi fast-forwarded to 1:43 a.m. A man exited in a long, dark wool coat.

“That’s…” she paused, and he stopped the frame. “Jeremy or Chilly or I don’t know. Could be anyone.”

“We believe it’s your head of sales,” Cangemi said. “French guy.”

“Belgian.”

He let the video roll again, to 1:54 a.m. Gracie came back down, bedecked head to toe in fur. She stopped, paused, and went back into the elevator.

“It’s like she forgot about something,” Cangemi said.

“She’s wearing her hat wrong,” Laura noted. “She’s got it all jammed on her head. She must have been trying to cover puffy cry-eye or something.”

3:15 a.m. Another woman appeared in a short down bomber, high boots, and leggings. She recognized her from her outfit.

“That’s Carmella!”

“Yes.”

“What was she doing there at three in the morning?”

“We have her there for ten minutes. She used the bathroom. We can corroborate her at a party three blocks away that was so crowded the toilets overflowed. And we don’t usually suspect women in strangulations. It takes too much upper body strength.”

“What if it was a surprise?”

“No difference. Gracie Pomerantz was an older lady, but she was in excellent physical shape.”

Laura crossed her arms, highly annoyed. It was bullshit. All of it. Half the office was going to show up before eight, and Jeremy was going to be the one getting nailed up for it.

“Hey.” She pointed to the screen again. A man in his twenties, wearing a white tracksuit and sneakers, strolled into the lobby and leaned against a wall.

Cangemi stopped the tape. “This guy. You know him?”

“He was at the loft party. I saw him fighting with Carmella.”

“About what?”

“I couldn’t even hear myself scream in that place. No way I could hear what Carmella was fighting about half a room away. But she was pissed. Had her finger up in his face like she was telling him what’s what. No wait, I remember.” She scrunched her eyes together, trying to recall what Carmella had told her. “He was driving when she was crossing Eighth, and he almost hit her. That’s what she told me. Is he stalking her, or what?”