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Authors: Annette Blair
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finally stepped to the rail beside him, and Gian turned to face her, raising his glasses at the same time.
When she screamed, I wished I could make out more than the partial silhouette of a man whose glasses reflected the sun, obliterating his face.
“It is you!” she said, stepping back. “How can you afford all this? Are you skimming off the top?”
He gave her a rather sick smile. “What do you care? I know your dirty little secret. A call girl.” He chuckled. “I always wanted something priceless to hold over the old boy.”
“He won’t believe you. Not about me. But he will believe my boss when she tells him about you.”
“Madam C?” He scoffed. “Oh, she’s a reliable source.”
I wished I knew the name of the call girl. Maybe I should have been treating my potential intern less like a friend and more like a suspect—not that a call girl would automatically be a suspect, except that the two of them were talking blackmail.
Logically speaking, I should probably have treated Isobel more formally, like an employee, though yesterday’s threatening morning caller practically put a target on her back, so protecting her made sense.
“Isn’t this the bomb?” Isobel asked, no longer on the boat—if she had ever been on the boat—but in my dressing room doorway looking gorgeous in my two-tone empire dress with a pencil skirt.
“Oh, did you pass out?” she asked as she helped me up.
“Guess I didn’t eat enough breakfast.” I slipped my free arm in the sleeve of her sailor dress, buttoned the top, and smoothed the fitted skirt on my hips.
She stood back and nodded. “You look splendid.”
Who are you, Isobel York? I wondered. If you are Isobel York.
The girl on the sailboat seemed better suited to being a call girl than a model and fashion designer, though supposedly Isobel only modeled for Madame Robear to put herself through fashion design school. Good call, because she had fashionista written all over her. What had Brandy gotten me into this time?
I should keep it on a business level between us until the case was solved, I thought, but I’d look like a jerk if I backed away from this friendly dress trade. What would it hurt if Isobel and I wore each other’s clothes for one day? I could back away bit by bit after. Turn myself into the boss and her into the intern.
Piece of cake.
“Wanna trade handbags, too?” she asked, clapping her hands.
Uh . . . “Sure.” Man, she was riding for a fall. I really didn’t want her to have to view the body at the morgue.
We traded box bags by Will Hardy, or Wilardy, as he often signed them. I chose a white swirl-pearl hatboxshaped Lucite bag with two handles that tilted toward each other after a twist and turn and met at the center top.
She fell for my caramel-colored Lucite, maker unknown, shaped like a man’s lunchbox, circa 1950s, all the way to its single handle.
Despite my short, weird sail on San Francisco Bay, I admitted to a bad case of purse envy. Having found a kindred fashionista in Isobel, I worried more by the minute about her reaction to yesterday’s events. The dead girl must be her twin. That also could have been her twin on the boat. Giselle Trouble York. Too bad Gian hadn’t used her real name.
When Isobel went back into my bathroom, I texted Werner. “Be there soon. Find Isobel’s twin.”
His reply came too fast. “I think we have her.”
Scrap. I put more play in our preparation by opening my hat closet, putting off the inevitable, and yes, letting her know, albeit subtly, that I’d be there for her. So much for treating her like a suspect.
Already, I was going against my vow to put distance between us. True, I’m a pushover, though I can only be pushed so far.
Isobel lost her breath when she saw my hat closet and approached it like the Sistine Chapel. Shh. Sacred place.
She chose a sienna skullcap with a tan-flowered black band. Perfect with her dress. I found a natural sisal straw hat with a short brim and a
When she screamed, I wished I could make out more than the partial silhouette of a man whose glasses reflected the sun, obliterating his face.
“It is you!” she said, stepping back. “How can you afford all this? Are you skimming off the top?”
He gave her a rather sick smile. “What do you care? I know your dirty little secret. A call girl.” He chuckled. “I always wanted something priceless to hold over the old boy.”
“He won’t believe you. Not about me. But he will believe my boss when she tells him about you.”
“Madam C?” He scoffed. “Oh, she’s a reliable source.”
I wished I knew the name of the call girl. Maybe I should have been treating my potential intern less like a friend and more like a suspect—not that a call girl would automatically be a suspect, except that the two of them were talking blackmail.
Logically speaking, I should probably have treated Isobel more formally, like an employee, though yesterday’s threatening morning caller practically put a target on her back, so protecting her made sense.
“Isn’t this the bomb?” Isobel asked, no longer on the boat—if she had ever been on the boat—but in my dressing room doorway looking gorgeous in my two-tone empire dress with a pencil skirt.
“Oh, did you pass out?” she asked as she helped me up.
“Guess I didn’t eat enough breakfast.” I slipped my free arm in the sleeve of her sailor dress, buttoned the top, and smoothed the fitted skirt on my hips.
She stood back and nodded. “You look splendid.”
Who are you, Isobel York? I wondered. If you are Isobel York.
The girl on the sailboat seemed better suited to being a call girl than a model and fashion designer, though supposedly Isobel only modeled for Madame Robear to put herself through fashion design school. Good call, because she had fashionista written all over her. What had Brandy gotten me into this time?
I should keep it on a business level between us until the case was solved, I thought, but I’d look like a jerk if I backed away from this friendly dress trade. What would it hurt if Isobel and I wore each other’s clothes for one day? I could back away bit by bit after. Turn myself into the boss and her into the intern.
Piece of cake.
“Wanna trade handbags, too?” she asked, clapping her hands.
Uh . . . “Sure.” Man, she was riding for a fall. I really didn’t want her to have to view the body at the morgue.
We traded box bags by Will Hardy, or Wilardy, as he often signed them. I chose a white swirl-pearl hatboxshaped Lucite bag with two handles that tilted toward each other after a twist and turn and met at the center top.
She fell for my caramel-colored Lucite, maker unknown, shaped like a man’s lunchbox, circa 1950s, all the way to its single handle.
Despite my short, weird sail on San Francisco Bay, I admitted to a bad case of purse envy. Having found a kindred fashionista in Isobel, I worried more by the minute about her reaction to yesterday’s events. The dead girl must be her twin. That also could have been her twin on the boat. Giselle Trouble York. Too bad Gian hadn’t used her real name.
When Isobel went back into my bathroom, I texted Werner. “Be there soon. Find Isobel’s twin.”
His reply came too fast. “I think we have her.”
Scrap. I put more play in our preparation by opening my hat closet, putting off the inevitable, and yes, letting her know, albeit subtly, that I’d be there for her. So much for treating her like a suspect.
Already, I was going against my vow to put distance between us. True, I’m a pushover, though I can only be pushed so far.
Isobel lost her breath when she saw my hat closet and approached it like the Sistine Chapel. Shh. Sacred place.
She chose a sienna skullcap with a tan-flowered black band. Perfect with her dress. I found a natural sisal straw hat with a short brim and a
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