The reception for the Institute for Haute Couture was at a swanky restaurant in Chelsea with low lights, polished cement, and an open bar. It was stuffed to the gills with beautiful people in one-of-a-kind dresses, white-gloved waiters wielding untouched appetizer trays, and quite possibly every hair product in the tristate area. My town car let me out in front of the restaurant at the precise time as Emerson’s let her out and even though a grimace would totally throw off the incredible vibe of my gold-threaded vintage Versace, I couldn’t help it when I saw her.
Emerson strode past me, her beaded clutch almost taking me out as she did. Nicolette, hurrying behind as usual, shot me a small, apologetic smile before she yanked open the door for Emerson. They walked into the restaurant and melted into the crowd; I stepped in and there was an audible gasp.
Scanning the room, I could see why.
Aside from the waiters, the place was a morbid sea of black. Black dresses, black suits, black hair décor that masqueraded as vintage. My gold dress stood out like a shiny beacon and I smiled, accepting my glory while Emerson glowered in the crowd, her drink practically evaporating from the waves of heat that rolled off her.
The energy in the restaurant was low, most people not knowing whether they should mourn or celebrate. Half a drink in, Jason Forbes took a makeshift stage and made a touching—if quick—toast to Reginald’s life and career then a muted introduction of the contest, Emerson, and me. Directly afterward, the heavy appetizers—and the murmured gossip—started. I carried around a canapé and a glass of champagne and flitted from group to group, head cocked, lips in a serene yet friendly smile, ears open.
I heard that Reginald had offed himself because Felipe was going home to a mystery wife he had back in Brazil. I heard the suicide was due to a fashion line Reginald was hired for that nosedived, taking the entire company with it. I heard that it was drugs, alcohol, carbohydrates. But when I heard that Reginald hadn’t committed suicide at all, I stopped walking.
A model I knew as Bea was talking, her greasy-plate lips stained a weird glossy orange as she held court.
I edged my way in, gushed appropriately, and Bea pulled me into the conversation.
“My boyfriend,” she said, flapping enormous baby-girl lashes. “He is interested in so many things, so he volunteers at the city morgue.”
The woman next to me nudged me in the ribs with a bony elbow and mouthed the words “community service.”
Bea shot her a death glance and kept going. “Adam had to stand by and watch the coroner start the autography.”
“Autopsy,” I corrected, taking a burning swallow of champagne.
“Right. They started the preliminary thing and the coroner talks into a tape recorder. Adam heard him say that the . . . the,” Bea said, and made a motion around her neck. “The rings on Reginald’s neck were not conducted to a death by hanging.”
“They weren’t conducive to a hanging?”
Bea turned her enormous eyes on me and nodded. “You heard that, too?”
I had to physically control myself from rolling my eyes.
“Anyway,” Bea went on, “he said that it looked like Reginald was dead before he could hang himself.”
The other women in the circle shivered appropriately but I stepped forward. “How did he die, then?”
Bea’s tiny bird shoulders rose. “And did he hang himself before or after?”
I handed Bea my champagne glass and beat a hasty retreat—at least I tried to, before coming face to face with Emerson.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” she said, her eyes raking over me. “Need to rush off and rip a few seams?”
My one-track mind went from checking out Reginald’s not-suicide to wishing Emerson was the one swinging from the rafters.
I stopped there.
“Hey, Em,” I said, closing the distance between us—and thankful my gag reflex had disappeared along with my soul. “What were you doing this morning?”
She cocked an anemic eyebrow that let me know she suspected something. “I was with you.”
“Before that.”
She whipped away from me. “Why do you ask?”
I sized Emerson up. If Bea was right—and I couldn’t put much stock in that, as she was boobs over brains—and Reginald’s death wasn’t a suicide, could someone like Emerson be responsible?
I shrugged. “Just curious.”
Emerson crossed her arms in front of her chest—or attempted to, as her horrid interpretation of sleeves swallowed her up—and flared her nostrils. “Nicolette and I were working at the apartment.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to determine if there was something in her voice, her stare that would indicate absolute guilt. I like to think my super-vampire sense would make me particularly good at reading a breather’s emotions, but no.
“Stop staring at me.”
“Ms. LaShay!” I felt an arm snake through mine before I heard Jason Forbes’s deep voice—but not before I saw Emerson’s face tighten, her eyes sharp as naked swords.
“I was hoping to catch you. I see you and Ms. Hawk are getting acquainted.”
I put on my most dazzling smile and nodded. “We certainly are.”
Jason pitched his head toward mine, his lips just brushing my ear. “I’d like to talk to you about one of your designs.”
I kept grinning, enjoying Emerson’s pallor.
It was at the precise moment that Jason put his hand on my arm that I saw Emerson lurch forward, in the most melodramatic fall I’d seen in lifetimes. I watched the deep, red zinfandel swish from her bowl glass, up, up, up and out, and then I felt the liquid seeping through my dress, dripping over my collarbone, droplets slipping down through my décolletage.
And then all hell broke loose.
I forgot that Jason Forbes was within wetting distance and screamed, “You bitch! You did that on purpose!”
A slick grin rushed across Emerson’s lips before her expression snapped into one of mock apology and horror. “Oh, dear, oh! I’m such a klutz. Please, do send me the dry-cleaning bill.”
People had started to circle now, looking sadly at my spoiled dress—few things moved fashionistas like wounded couture.
“If you were worth anything as a designer, you’d know that you don’t dry-clean hand-dyed, vintage Versace.”
Emerson cocked her head, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Are you sure that’s Versace? I think you may have been taken, sweetie. I did the full Versace catalog when I was there,” she said, her voice rising on Versace. “And I really don’t recall seeing that particular number in their annals.”
I’m usually known for keeping my cool. But tonight, my cool was wrapped around Emerson Hawk’s scraggly neck. Before I realized it we were in a full-on girl-fight, complete with hair pulling and feline scowls. Had my entire life and fashion career not been on the line, I would have gone full-on Lestat on her ass and left picking subpar designer out of my teeth.
“I swear to God I’m going to murder you!” I growled.
“With what?” Emerson wrinkled her nose. “Your polyester excuse for couture or one of your gag-worthy designs?”
“Ladies, ladies, ladies!”
I felt strong arms snaking around my waist and suddenly I was off the ground, being pulled backward. I craned my neck to see who my savior/new attackee was and harrumphed when I realized it was Pike. I had expected Jason, but found him standing a few feet away, grinning like someone was about to inflate the ring and fill it with mud. I was so flabbergasted and annoyed that I wasn’t even able to take the time to appreciate being wrapped in Pike’s arms, or how devastatingly handsome he looked in a slim-fitting deconstructed tuxedo, his hair half slicked, half I-just-rolled-out-of-bed sexy.
He yanked me a good ten feet from Emerson and her weapon of couture destruction but I could still see the sick smile on her face and my rage boiled again.
“Put me down!” I said between clenched teeth. “I’m going to rip her throat out. I don’t care if she’s your girlfriend.”
Pike dropped me with a thump. “My girlfriend?”
I waved at the air. “Ex, whatever. She ruined my dress. On purpose. She’s a snarky little snake in the grass.”
“Shh, shh, shh. Nina, relax. She is a—what did you call her? Snaky snark? She’s that, which is why you’re not going to let her get you tossed out of this competition.”
The anger in my gut was slowly, barely, starting to pull back. I glanced at Pike’s earnest expression and then back over my shoulder at Emerson, who was being led toward the back patio, leaning on some poor waiter as if she’d been actually wounded.
Three more minutes and she would have been.
The tone in the restaurant went from high piano notes and polite laughter to throaty “did you see those two go at it?” whispers and averted eyes.
Pike handed me a glass of soda water and a thick cloth napkin. I dabbed at my dress delicately, each wine-soaked dab stabbing at my patience a little more. I cut my eyes out toward the patio where someone was trying to engage Emerson in conversation, but she looked up, locked my gaze, and offered a slick, ugly smile.
“Game on, bitch,” I muttered under my breath.
“What was that?” Pike asked.
“Nothing.”
“So, why did you think Emerson was my girlfriend?”
I tossed down my now wine-soaked napkin, something like ruined-man resignation floating over me. “Because that’s what she told me.”
Pike kind of grinned and crossed his arms in front of his chest, the motion pushing aside the collar of his shirt just enough for me to see a smooth, tanned length of neck and collarbone. I could see the beginnings of a thick black tattoo and I had to clench my jaws—and my knees—to keep from examining it closer. “And did that make you mad?”
His eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that shot adrenaline and hormones throughout my body—dead or not. I licked my lips and tossed a length of slick black hair over my shoulder. “Do you want it to make me mad?”
Pike shrugged, took a long pull on the beer I didn’t know he was holding. “Nah, I just didn’t want you to feel bad.”
I blinked my confusion. Was he just a terrible flirt . . . or really that dense?
His eyes dropped to my dress. “You should probably get out of that dress.”
Another zing pinballed throughout my body. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad flirt after all.
“There’s a dry cleaner about a block down. Ask for Mrs. Cho; she can get out anything.” Pike turned on his heel and left me standing, wet, confused, and annoyed in the center of the party.
I left shortly after, grumbling the whole cab ride home and doing that odd, legs apart, my-dress-is-soaked-and-chafing kind of walk. All I wanted was to pull on my cozy cashmere sweat suit (terry cloth is so passé) and sink my teeth into a still-warm blood bag. And that’s what I would have done, if that stupid blackbird—he was taunting me, I was sure of it—hadn’t been pacing on the front stoop.
I paused and glared down at the thing, waving my hands but keeping my distance. “Shooo! Shooo! You shouldn’t be walking anyway. Fly you little bastard!”
The thing paused, cocked its disease-infested head and spread its wings wide as if it understood me.
Nina LaShay: bird whisperer.
Then it snapped those wings against its little bird body and glared.
I chanced a swift kick and a sprint when a damp bugle bead started to dig into my flesh. I felt the flap of the blackbird’s wings and snapped the door shut on its protesting scowl.
“I warned you!” I screamed, pressing my face up against the glass in the door. The bird fluttered down to the stoop again, unharmed but, I thought, with a murderous look in its eye.
I was going to have to hire an exterminator.