Play Dead (26 page)

Tears filled the killer's eyes. I don't want to kill this one. I really don't want to. He was an innocent victim in all this.

But maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was to blame. And maybe his death could finally lead to peace. Maybe his death would be a good thing in the long run. The innocent die all the time. Sacrifices must be made. Occasionally, the ends do justify the means. That was just the way of the world.

That argument was not very convincing.

The time had come. Without warning, the killer silently jammed the steel instrument of death into the helpless victim. Blood came pouring out in large doses, doses larger than the killer had expected. The dark red liquid seeped onto the floor, staining everything in its path.

It all ends so quickly, the killer thought, watching as Death claimed yet another life before its time.

The killer stood and turned toward the accomplice. The accomplice remained huddled in the shadows, watching with horrified eyes. 'Clean up the remains,' the killer said coolly. 'Make it fast.'

'Do I have to?'

'Yes. Now hurry.'

The accomplice had taken less than two steps when the door behind them flew open.

Both the killer and the accomplice gasped and spun around. A very young child peeked her head through the doorway. The little girl did not get a very good look at the room, but she saw blood. Lots of blood. Her scream pierced the silent room.

'Mommy! Mommy!'

'Get out of here, Gloria! Get out of here now!'

Chapter
14

'Serita shimmers "minerally gorgeous" in this silver formal gown with a wide gold belt around her waist. The belt comes off for a more funsy look. Notice the dipping back . . .'

Serita spun to show the audience her stunning back. From behind the curtain, Laura watched her friend. A sign over the runway read: Be your own SVENGALI! Our new find: Mr Benito Spencer!

The well-known SV logo of Svengali adorned both ends of the sign. The ballroom at the New York Nikko Hotel was packed with some of the biggest names in fashion. Laura had arranged front-row seating for the most important critics, and tonight, the Palladium would throw a party for Mr Benito Spencer. Svengali's marketing department had been hard at work, making sure that the company's first show in nearly five months had plenty of positive publicity surrounding it.

Serita walked to the end of the runway, made a final turn, and headed back. No doubt about it, Laura thought, Serita was the best in the business. She thrived on the runway like an actress on the stage. With her back straight, her whole being giving off an aura of sophistication and elegance, Serita could make Hawaiian hula shirts look in vogue. And yet, Serita allowed the audience to peek under the unruffled facade and see that she was no mere mannequin, that she was real and having fun up there.

With one last look of total composure Serita made her grand exit. Once off stage, her cool expression changed completely.

'Out of my way,' Serita hissed as her casual runway stroll turned into a Carl Lewis-type sprint. On her way to the dressing room, her hands were busy working at unhooking the zippers. Four helpers raced after her. One managed to change Serita's earrings while she was still moving. Another touched on makeup. When Serita reached the dressing room (actually, part of the hotel's kitchen), the third helper slipped off the silver high-heeled shoes and replaced them with black shoes with a somewhat lower heel. Helper number four slid a white blouse over Serita's shoulders. Wild-eyed, Serita stood and dashed back toward the runway entrance with yet another helper trailing her with a pearl necklace. Serita stopped and rolled her eyes at Laura as the pearls were wrapped around her swanlike neck.

'I hate this,' she whispered toward Laura.

'Who are you kidding?' Laura asked. 'You love it.'

'True.'

Forty seconds after Serita had exited the runway wearing a silver formal gown with a gold belt, she stepped on again wearing a navy business suit complete with leather tie.

'Doesn't Serita look smart in the latest . . .'

'They love you!' exclaimed an assistant standing next to Benito Spencer. Spencer silenced his assistant with a sharp glare. He took a drag on his cigarette with enough intensity to inhale a tennis ball through a straw.

Laura turned and smiled reassuringly at her latest designer, Benito Spencer (his real name was Larry Schwartz). He was a thin-faced, long-haired twenty-three-year-old who had to know that today would decide his fashion future. The critics out in the audience, ordinary folks who just happened to have accumulated an enormous amount of power in the fashion world, would make or break Benito Spencer. Tomorrow morning, Benito would be the 'newest fashion genius' or a 'washed-up no-talent.' Despite all the publicity, that decision would be made by these critics, many of whom had never been able to achieve their own dream of finding a sponsor and having their own show like Benito. For Svengali, today was merely a small financial gamble. For Benito, it was much more.

The young designer stubbed out the cigarette and fidgeted with a dress, searching for some way to keep himself busy. Laura truly wished Benito the best. He was a sensitive man who she believed had tremendous talent. She was confident he would do well today.

Laura so used to look forward to the thrill of introducing a new talent to the fashion world. For weeks she would work on promoting new lines with the passion of a sculptor in front of a fresh piece of marble. She would stay late at the office and go over every detail of the presentation until everything was absolutely perfect. And when it was completed, when she could finally step back and look at the fruits of her long hours of labor, joy and a sense of fulfillment would fill her. But work no longer gave her such feelings. Now, life held no emotions like happiness, affection, passion. Now, life meant merely survival. It was an alternative to death -- a welcome or unwelcome alternative, she could not say. Svengali was the life-preserver she clung to in her sea of despair. Work, like life, had become just a way of passing time, an occasional distraction from reality.

But work had never been like that before. She remembered the joy of preparing her previous fashion presentation when David was still alive. The show had taken place a few days before she and David had taken off for Australia -- a lifetime ago. Every night during that long week, Laura had stayed in the Svengali office until nearly midnight. A few nights before the show at the Beverly Hills Hotel, she sat alone in her office going over the show's seating. The seating was a crucial element in a good fashion show. If you snubbed a major critic and forgot to put him or her in one of the front rows, the presentation would flop no matter how good the designs were.

She had been working at her desk, her head lowered over the list of fashion magazines that would be attending. She knew the critic from Vogue was having a small tiff with the one from Mademoiselle so it would not pay to seat them next to one another. And the critic from . . .

Laura stopped. Though she knew the office was deserted, she felt eyes on her. She slowly raised her head toward the door.

'Hi,' David said softly.

She looked at him. There were tears nestled into the corners of his eyes. 'How long have you been standing there?' she asked.

'About five minutes.'

'Are you okay?'

He nodded. 'I'm fine. I just wanted to surprise you.' 'What's wrong, David?'

He smiled now. 'Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.' 'You're crying.'

'Just tearing, Laura.'

'Why?'

He shrugged, moved into the room, and embraced her. 'What can I tell you? I came in to surprise you. You've been working so hard lately and I thought a little break would be fun.'

'You thought right,' Laura added.

'Anyway, I came up to the door. You were sitting there at work and . . . I don't know. I just love watching you. I love watching the way your head tilts when you're reading. I love the way you smile when you're thinking of a new idea. I love the way you brush back your hair with your finger. I even love the way your leg shakes. So I was watching you, mesmerized, and I was thinking about how beautiful you are and about how much I love you and all . . .'

Laura kissed him. 'You are the sweetest -- '

'Don't you start, too,' David interrupted. 'Only so much corny stuff I can handle at one time.'

'I love you, David. I will love you forever.'

'This Svengali Special by Benito Spencer is perfect for the woman on the go. It can be worn with or without the jacket . . .'

Why had it all been cruelly snatched away from her?

The faces of the important critics in the front row blurred into one large mass of fleshy tones. More than two weeks had passed since Laura had confronted and made up with her mother, two weeks where Laura had done her best to bury herself in the preparation for this show. But still the conversation with her mother kept pricking at her mind with tiny needles. Her mother was hiding something, Laura was sure of it. Her mother was hiding something about David.

But what could it be? Could there have been something in David's past that he had kept from her? And if he had, how would Laura's mother know about it? And why wouldn't her mother say what it was? What could have happened to David that would explain all the peculiar happenings . . . ?

Murder.

Laura's thoughts jerked wildly. She tried to push the thought away, but it remained anchored in her mind. T.C., Aunt Judy, her father -- they were all acting so strangely . . .

Murder.

. . . as if they suspected something . . .

In the background the Svengali announcer: 'You're sure to be a hit in this red ensemble . . .'

A half a million dollars was missing. $500,000. People would do crazy things for that kind of money. Cheat. Swindle. Deceive. Rob. Mug. Kidnap.

Murder.

Laura replayed her conversation with Richard Corsel at the bank.

'Your husband had me transfer the money to Switzerland.'

'When?'

'Please, I can't say.'

Why was Corsel so damn protective about telling her when? Unless . . . So many questions about David's death hounded her. He had drowned in the rough waters of the Pacific Ocean.

Drowned? David?

It didn't make any sense. She had listened to all their talk about the ocean's dangerous currents, but the excuse rang hollow in her ears. Rough currents or no rough currents, David was an excellent and careful swimmer. He would have checked the currents and tides before diving in. David may have been unpredictable but he never took foolish risks, especially when it concerned his health.

And a man like that drowned?

Murder.

The walls around her seemed to whisper that word. $500,000 was missing, disappearing within a few days of David's death. Coincidence or . . . ?

Murder.

And maybe T.C. and the others suspected the same thing. That would explain their strange behavior toward her. Were they trying to protect her from the truth? Is that the reason T.C. didn't approve of her strong-arm approach to handling Corsel at the bank? Had the devastation of David's death blinded her to the truth?

'The final ensemble is an innovative evening gown . . .'

Laura sat down. The Nikko Hotel and the fashion show evaporated from her mind, dissolving into the sounds of a distant background. Was she going crazy, or, for the first time, were events starting to make sense? Almost four months had painfully crawled by since David's death and Laura still could not accept it. People like David just don't up and die, her mind told her. It just doesn't happen. Not to David . . .

David, what happened to you? What did they do to you?

The fashion show finally came to an end. Serita moved toward Laura and sat down. 'I think it went well.'

Laura nodded.

Serita recognized the now-familiar blank expression on Laura's face, but now there was something more in her friend's glazed look. 'Uh-oh, what now?'

Laura turned to her. 'Something's not right, Serita.' 'What do you mean?'

Before she could answer, one of Benito Spencer's helpers tapped Laura on the shoulder. 'Telephone call for you.'

'Take a message,' Laura said.

'It's a Mr Richard Corsel from some bank in Boston. He says it's urgent.'

Gloria gently dried off her face with a gray towel she grabbed from the rack. Interesting how Gloria's bathroom had been done all in gray. Her parents' was red. Laura's blue. The downstairs one yellow. Yet Gloria's was gray. She wondered if it had been an omen.

Well, not anymore.

She finished drying and draped the towel over the rack. She turned back toward the mirror, using her hands as a sort of comb in her thick blond hair. She studied her reflection for a moment and decided she had never looked or felt better. In fact, she felt so well that despite Dr Harris's protest, Gloria had cancelled the rest of her sessions. She no longer needed psychiatric help. Love was her cure from now on.

Gloria moved back into her bedroom, stepped over her two suitcases and headed down the stairs. When she reached the entrance to the den, she hesitated for a moment before going in.