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Authors: Annette Blair
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red grosgrain ribbon. A match for a sailor suit.
Shoes: We wore the same size, though she had a higher arch and me, a narrower foot, but at least 80 percent of our considerable shoe collections would fit us both. She wore my tan and black vintage Diors, and I squeaked, drooled, lusted, and slipped my feet into her 1920s Maud Frizon navy Mary Janes with white piping and squash heels. “I’d kill for these,” I said, trying not to wince at the horrific statement. We should be going to an amusement park. We’d dressed more for fun than—
“Boss, you look like somebody walked on your grave.”
How had I let this turn into playing dress-up? “Let’s go before Werner comes looking for us.”
“I like your car,” she said getting in a few minutes later. “Did I say that last night? It’s awfully pretty in daylight.”
“Thanks. You look gorgeous,” I said as I drove.
“I’m looking forward to meeting your customers,” she said, “after we see your cute detective.”
“Werner’s not exactly mine.”
“Don’t tell him that. He never stopped talking about you while he made breakfast.”
“Really? Did he tell you what I called him in third grade, in front of the whole school?”
“He did, as if he was proud of you. He said it was the making of him. He said Nick used to be yours, like since junior high. He stressed the past tense.”
As I turned into the station parking lot, I had a sick feeling we were going to be stressing the past a lot this morning.
Twelve
Good design is a renaissance attitude that combines technology, cognitive science, human need, and beauty to produce something that the world didn’t know it was missing.
—PAOLA ANTONELLI
I stopped Isobel in the parking lot. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone, okay?”
“What could happen?”
“Well, I hope, nothing,” I said. “But just know that I wanted you to have a good night’s sleep, so there was no point in playing what-if last night.”
Isobel frowned. “Okaaay.”
I took her arm. “Let’s go. I’m here for you.”
“You’re scaring the cotton batting out of me.”
“Sorry.”
Werner, rising from the chair at his desk when we went into his office, looked like he went twenty rounds with Bigfoot.
“Tut, tut, tut, Detective,” I said. “Your face is a forest of greens and blues.”
Isobel commiserated with him. “But that’s an especially great shade of teal,” she said.
“Thanks, both of you, I think. I ran into a steel fist then a curvaceous yet surprisingly lean, mean, feisty machine.” He furrowed his brows. “You think I look ghastly? Not handsome or studly?”
I chuckled. “Your eye looks ghastly. The rest of you is . . . passable.”
“Stop. I might die of embarrassment.” He came from around his desk and took my arm.
“Miss York,” he said, turning to Isobel. “Please take a seat, and somebody will be right with you. I need to chide our saucy Ms. Cutler, where no one will hear us, if you get my drift.”
Isobel’s eyes twinkled as she sat, but she bit her lip as if she remembered our parking lot conversation.
Two men passed us on our way out of Werner’s office, a suave, buff, leader type wearing a navy pinstripe wool silk Armani with a cream silk shirt and an emerald silk tie. Behind him followed a man with rusty hair, shorter, broader, but appearing full of his own worth, his tan suit of good quality but made by a less prestigious designer. I looked back at him twice, before Werner urged me forward. Something about him intrigued me. Together, they went into Werner’s office, and Rusty shut the door behind them, like he was in charge.
I did a double take, wondering why Werner would let two strangers close themselves in with—“Those guys just went into your office. Don’t you care?”
“Sure I do.”
“But Isobel’s in there. Maybe one is the fake-voiced bully who kept calling the shop terrorizing me and asking for her.”
“You didn’t say your caller terrorized
Shoes: We wore the same size, though she had a higher arch and me, a narrower foot, but at least 80 percent of our considerable shoe collections would fit us both. She wore my tan and black vintage Diors, and I squeaked, drooled, lusted, and slipped my feet into her 1920s Maud Frizon navy Mary Janes with white piping and squash heels. “I’d kill for these,” I said, trying not to wince at the horrific statement. We should be going to an amusement park. We’d dressed more for fun than—
“Boss, you look like somebody walked on your grave.”
How had I let this turn into playing dress-up? “Let’s go before Werner comes looking for us.”
“I like your car,” she said getting in a few minutes later. “Did I say that last night? It’s awfully pretty in daylight.”
“Thanks. You look gorgeous,” I said as I drove.
“I’m looking forward to meeting your customers,” she said, “after we see your cute detective.”
“Werner’s not exactly mine.”
“Don’t tell him that. He never stopped talking about you while he made breakfast.”
“Really? Did he tell you what I called him in third grade, in front of the whole school?”
“He did, as if he was proud of you. He said it was the making of him. He said Nick used to be yours, like since junior high. He stressed the past tense.”
As I turned into the station parking lot, I had a sick feeling we were going to be stressing the past a lot this morning.
Twelve
Good design is a renaissance attitude that combines technology, cognitive science, human need, and beauty to produce something that the world didn’t know it was missing.
—PAOLA ANTONELLI
I stopped Isobel in the parking lot. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone, okay?”
“What could happen?”
“Well, I hope, nothing,” I said. “But just know that I wanted you to have a good night’s sleep, so there was no point in playing what-if last night.”
Isobel frowned. “Okaaay.”
I took her arm. “Let’s go. I’m here for you.”
“You’re scaring the cotton batting out of me.”
“Sorry.”
Werner, rising from the chair at his desk when we went into his office, looked like he went twenty rounds with Bigfoot.
“Tut, tut, tut, Detective,” I said. “Your face is a forest of greens and blues.”
Isobel commiserated with him. “But that’s an especially great shade of teal,” she said.
“Thanks, both of you, I think. I ran into a steel fist then a curvaceous yet surprisingly lean, mean, feisty machine.” He furrowed his brows. “You think I look ghastly? Not handsome or studly?”
I chuckled. “Your eye looks ghastly. The rest of you is . . . passable.”
“Stop. I might die of embarrassment.” He came from around his desk and took my arm.
“Miss York,” he said, turning to Isobel. “Please take a seat, and somebody will be right with you. I need to chide our saucy Ms. Cutler, where no one will hear us, if you get my drift.”
Isobel’s eyes twinkled as she sat, but she bit her lip as if she remembered our parking lot conversation.
Two men passed us on our way out of Werner’s office, a suave, buff, leader type wearing a navy pinstripe wool silk Armani with a cream silk shirt and an emerald silk tie. Behind him followed a man with rusty hair, shorter, broader, but appearing full of his own worth, his tan suit of good quality but made by a less prestigious designer. I looked back at him twice, before Werner urged me forward. Something about him intrigued me. Together, they went into Werner’s office, and Rusty shut the door behind them, like he was in charge.
I did a double take, wondering why Werner would let two strangers close themselves in with—“Those guys just went into your office. Don’t you care?”
“Sure I do.”
“But Isobel’s in there. Maybe one is the fake-voiced bully who kept calling the shop terrorizing me and asking for her.”
“You didn’t say your caller terrorized
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