Haute Couture and Death Read online

  Haute Couture and Death

  Fleming Investigations Cozy Mysteries: Nine

  Kobo Edition

  © Patti Larsen 2022

  Find out more about me at

  http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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  Kobo Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Chapter One

  You know how sometimes you wish you could go back and do things differently? That if you try hard enough, you can just mentally rewrite the past, so you don’t have to cringe at yourself for the things you did, the circumstances you lived, the mistakes you made that wake you up in the middle of the night at random intervals for no good reason whatsoever?

  That was my struggle as I settled back into the leather seat of the limousine, the driver already pulling away from the arrival terminal at LaGuardia. The bustle of taxis and people seemed surreal on the other side of the tinted glass, my driver’s professional and cheerful greeting as I exited the gate and acknowledged my name on the paper he held quickly evolving into my luggage deposited in the trunk and my person offered an open door to the empty backseat for just me, myself and I.

  A far cry from the way I’d left New York six years ago, certainly, still angry and lugging the remains of my shattered life after my live-in boyfriend of over five years tore my world apart. I barely remembered the numb and anxious following days after I’d caught Ryan Richards and his blonde of the moment in my bed, all topped off with the cherry of awful that had been my mom’s call, telling me Grandmother Iris had passed away.

  There had been a time I wasn’t sure I’d make it past those moments. I’d never told anyone, but the grief and shame and bitter regret I’d wasted all that time on someone who didn’t love me, losing someone who did while I neglected the life I’d rejected in my small hometown, lingered still like an old injury not quite healed and prodded by odd weather. But it hadn’t really hit me, that I had issues to sort out, until I found myself in that limo, heading for the heart of Manhattan in a return that I didn’t know I’d been dreading until I did it.

  Never mind my exodus from New York and subsequent takeover of my inheritance had turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I could admit that now as the limo carried me through Brooklyn to the East River, the white, blue and yellow tile of the tunnel doing nothing to wash away the oppressive feeling seeming to carry me back in time so when the car emerged on the island, I caught my breath in a hitch of surprise at the weight of memory pressing down on me.

  Despite everything I’d done, all I’d become when that limo surfaced and headed for the Garment District, I was Fee Fleming, proud owner of a useless Bachelor of Arts gone to waste as I drifted from job to job without any idea what I wanted to do. Oh, and jilted girlfriend. Yup, loved living that all over again.

  So, you’d be wondering then why I even came back to New York, knowing what you know and likely anticipating this kind of reaction. Because how stupid was I to purposely place myself in a position where I could rehash the past to the point, I found myself shrinking down in the limo’s back seat like the driver would find out at any second that I wasn’t supposed to be there, that someone made a mistake and I’d be dumped unceremoniously on a side street with my possessions and heartbreak and nothing else.

  Except that wasn’t the case. Speaking of cases… the only person who could have brought me back to confront who I’d been? Had called me two days ago and asked for my help. Arranged my flight (first class, thanks for that), hotel and spending money, above and beyond my fee, in order to convince me to take her case.

  And who, you ask, could make me say yes? None other than Vivian French, of course. While we had a long spell where enemy was the best term we could use for one another, that had all dissolved, fallen away, replaced by the friendship we’d first had before the tragedy that broke us apart, grown the last few years into real connection.

  Maybe I felt like I owed her one. Vivian hadn’t exactly had the easiest life. Oh, sure, she had money and looks and a successful business back home, but the real Vivian, the hurt and frightened girl I used to know, earned everything she had a million times over.

  And yes, I almost said no. Until the bullying duo of Lucy Fleming and Daisy Bruce caught wind.

  “Fee, you have to go.” Mom plied my newly pregnant self with chocolate chip cookies while Daisy blinked those giant, gray eyes of hers in breathless enthusiasm.

  “Vivian needs you,” she’d said, heart in her gaze, where it always sat.

  But it was my darling husband who nailed the final spike in the coffin of my guilt.

  “Fee,” Crew had said, those blue eyes so kind. “It has to be important. She never asks for anything.”

  That was the clincher, really, my own heart thudding painfully in my chest as the limo turned off 34th onto 8th, heading into the Garment District. Because Crew was right. Vivian never asked for anything, even when I knew (now, at least) she’d endured far more than anyone should have and did it all alone. So, how could I say no? Besides, things at home were still up in the air, the ongoing investigation into most of the small businesses thanks to the O’Shea affair meaning Reading was the quietest it had been since I’d moved home six years ago. Hard to run a tourist town when the bulk of offerings were closed for business. While I had no doubt once the legal system had its way we’d be up and running again (at least, if Olivia Walker had anything to say about it), but it was still hard and rather depressing to walk the streets of Reading and see all of those storefronts shuttered, especially in early May when tourism was supposed to be ramping up.

  The driver opened my door, nodding to me with a crooked smile, tipping his black hat. “Your luggage will be at the Nordingham, ma’am,” he said with a strong Brooklyn accent. He handed me a card, Manny Denado on the front, Denado Limousine Service in gold lettering embossed above, and the name and address of my hotel on the back. “You need anything, Ms. Fleming, please give me a call.”

  While part of me worried about leaving my belongings with the driver, I let him carry on. Not that I was used to being treated like someone important, especially in this city. I paused on the sidewalk, looking up at the plain, stone building before me, the glass entry welcoming me to the address matching the one Vivian sent for her studio. I took the elevator to the third floor, still uneasy and trying to shake it, unsuccessful even as the ding of the mechanism alerted me, I’d arrived at my destination.

  Two doors down the rather grungy hallway, I paused one last time outside Studio C and pulled myself together. I was here for Vivian, not to relive or rehash my unhappy memories. She needed me, was footing the bill. The least I could do was be a good friend, a professional, and do what she needed me to do. Because I was Fiona Fleming, private investigator, and half owner of Fleming Investigations, blissfully married to the man of my dreams, two months pregnant with my first child, successful, happy and with the career I always wanted.

  So, why then did I feel like a failure standing there? I clenched my teeth against that sensation and shoved it aside. Work would make it better. Focusing on the job, the case, would erase all the old self-doubt, right? I just needed to get at it. As fast and efficiently as possible. So, I could get out of New York City. And maybe never, ever come back again.

  Old angst still knotting m
y stomach, I squared my shoulders and opened the door.

  To a beaming smile on the face of a beautiful older woman who immediately rushed to my side and hugged me.

  “Fiona,” Grace Fiore said. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

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  Chapter Two

  I hugged Grace back with real enthusiasm, the designer’s six-foot-plus stature bending around me like a tall, lean willow tree, though her hug, as always, held an iron-like strength that belied her slim figure. Light green eyes flashed her joy as she gently detached to the jangle of her wrist bangles, always elegant and today no different in her black suit and cream shell cut to make her appear even taller if that was possible.

  “I love your hair!” When we’d first met, Grace’s shoulder-length hair had been black, a bit harsh on her pale skin but the now shining silver locks she boasted in a chic bob tucked under the hollow of her jawline suited her perfectly.

  Grace touched her shimmering do with a laugh and a nose-wrinkle, full mouth smiling a wry agreement. “I gave in to age,” she sighed, tossing her hands, flash of sunlight through the far window catching on the multitude of diamonds she wore. Nothing blatant or gaudy, mind you, that wasn’t Grace Fiore. But enough bling to catch attention and hold it, as if her presence itself wasn’t enough. “Fee, darling, never get old!”

  I shook my head at her, grinning back. “If you’re what old looks like,” I said, “I’m all in.”

  Grace cupped my face in her hands, ignoring the activity going on behind her, as did I, kissing my cheek ever so gently. “I’m so very happy for you,” she said. “That adorable man of yours is going to make a wonderful father.” So, Vivian had told her? “And you, my very dear Fiona, the most incredible of mothers.”

  “I hope so.” I pressed one hand to my tummy, under my navel, where the barest bit of roundness had just started. Yes, I was aware at nine-ish weeks the bean was maybe the size of a cherry, but I felt her in there all the same.

  Him. It. Them. Ahem. Way too early to know, really. So, why did my heart tell me I was having a girl?

  “I have no doubt,” Grace said, linking her arm through mine and turning to face the interior of the busy studio. Only then did I take in the hardwood floors, the towering ceilings and massive banks of windows, tall stacks of fabric and large wooden tables with various patterns, pieces and machines scattered about while a tall blonde stood in the sunlight on a pedestal, half-dressed in part of a garment that was likely going to end up a dress at some point. I caught a glimpse of Vivian behind one of the tables, talking with who had to be an assistant as the young woman nodded before heading for the waiting model. “You and my dear Vivian are the strongest women I’ve ever met, Fiona. I foretell powerful young women in your near future.”

  So, Grace thought a girl too, huh? “Either that,” I said with real nervousness I hid with a chuckle, “or I’ll be saddled with myself. And it will serve me right.” Mom would never say so, but raising redheaded Flemings wasn’t the easiest thing in the world.

  “I have the most delightful designs planned,” Grace gushed as she led me deeper into the studio space. “I can’t wait to see my new little precious dressed in Auntie Grace’s pieces.”

  Well, I’d have the most haute couture kid on the block, so there was that. “How’s Viv doing?”

  I hadn’t meant to dampen the mood, though I succeeded, Grace’s smile falling away before she sighed softly and released me, expression now fixed with a kind and careful smile. “I’m so happy you’re here for a visit,” she repeated before looking up and waving, voice rising in volume as she did. “I must go, Vivian, but I’ll see you later.”

  A visit, huh? She hugged me once more before hurrying off, her phone out, a call already underway before she exited through the door. I turned back, wondering why Vivian hadn’t told her mentor and old friend and boss why I was really here, to find the Queen of Wheat herself approaching.

  And did a double-take. Hopefully, it didn’t show on my face, though I was sure it had to have because in all honesty? I’d never seen Vivian so drawn out and frazzled in the entire time I’d known her. And I’d seen her in some seriously strenuous and unhappy circumstances, physical and emotional. The Vivian French I knew could carry off discomfort and conflict with a grace that rivaled, well, Grace herself. Always icy cool, confident and in control of herself, Vivian’s steady presence used to make me jealous and irritated at her level of disdain. Only to discover that façade of poised perfection hid a truly lovely person who’d been hurt too many times to trust just anyone.

  This Vivian French? Had a strained look on her face that erased all those years of contained character, pale blue eyes a little red around the edges, smudge of mascara under one almost as shocking as the coffee stain on the front of her beige button-up. The loose bun she’d created was a far cry from her always impeccable hairstyle, thin strands wavering in static rebellion around her cheeks and brushing her collar, a line of worry embedded deeply between her perfect eyebrows. Okay, so she hadn’t let everything go, though when she reached me and stopped in front of me, I noted the dullness of her normally dewy skin and how thin she’d become since I’d seen her last.

  Yes, Vivian was always slim, but the way her collarbone stuck out had me wanting to drag her out to a street vendor and buy her a hotdog.

  “Fee,” Vivian said, voice cracking in the middle. She stopped, moisture rimming her eyes before she lunged for me and hugged me so hard I lost my breath. “Thank you for coming.”

  I hugged her back after a moment, feeling her trembling, waiting for her to let go before I did. It took a long time, far longer than I expected, though when she did release me, she managed one of her trademarked smiles of cool composure that had me even more worried, frankly.

  “Grace looks great,” I said for lack of something better.

  “She does,” Vivian nodded, touching her hair as though suddenly self-conscious about her own appearance. That was the last thing I’d wanted and fought a wince. “She’s been a blessing and I’m grateful for her guidance.”

  “Cool studio,” I said, looking around, trying to lighten the mood a little. “You’re finally doing it, Vivian. That’s awesome.” She’d told me only a year and a half ago about her plans to move ahead with designing, showed me some of her sketches after our little combined disaster at a weekend retreat while I recovered from an unfortunate illness. She’d been tentative, unsure, almost girlish in her need for approval, and I’d been happy to lay there and listen to her gush about her creations, liking the change in her.

  But if this Vivian was the result of that decision? Now I wasn’t so sure.

  “This way.” Vivian led me past the stack of fabric bolts, my eyes skimming over lengths of lace and faux fur, feathers and leather and what looked like silk in various colors before she opened a frosted glass door and ushered me inside. Her office was a disaster, very unlike her pristine white retreat in Reading, her managerial skills for the French’s Handmade Bakery empire she’d expanded into various states clearly far different than the ones she used here in New York.

  This dichotomy of the woman I thought I knew and the one who shoved aside a block of sample fabrics to give me somewhere to sit down in the piles of boxes, patterns and discarded coffee cups had me wondering if my Vivian had been somehow overtaken by an alien pod person.

  She sighed as she perched on the side of her overloaded desk, hands clasped in her lap, fingernails short and without paint for the first time since I’d met her, full lips barely glossed. Her flowing brown pants seemed less a fashion choice and more one of comfort, not a piece of jewelry in sight solidifying my assessment that Vivian didn’t need me. She needed to reassess her life choices.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, voice soft and low, echoing with stress while she fidgeted a little, not looking up to meet my eyes, fingers twining together in her lap before releasing only to begin their winding again. “I didn’t know who else to trust.”


  I leaned forward, heart hurting for her, reaching for one of her hands with mine. “I’m here, Viv,” I said, just as softly. She finally did look up, one tear escaping her eye to trickle down her cheek. She’d never seemed so vulnerable, and my Momma Bear instincts kicked in. Blame it on my mother’s training, pregnancy or my Fleming sense of justice and protectiveness, but whatever the case, I was suddenly glad I came to New York. “Tell me who I need to kill.”

  She laughed at that, wiping the tear away, a real smile beaming at me before it faded, sadness returning in a rush. “I missed you, Fee,” she whispered. “I know Daisy’s your best friend and we had so many years lost, but…” Vivian hesitated before shrugging. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Um, wow. She could have pushed me out of the chair with a gentle nudge. “Viv,” I said, choking on her name.

  “It’s all right,” she said then, brusque and retreating from me, so that much of her was still intact. “I want you to know I really appreciate your help.” She stood before I could respond, circling her desk to retrieve her phone and a small, white envelope, hesitating on the other side as if still considering her options. “Someone has been messaging me,” she said at last. “Threatening me.” Vivian looked up again, face drawn and tired as if she’d finally given in to her choice to ask me to come, to ask for help. “I need it to stop.”

  I nodded immediately, jaw jumping while anger rose to replace my surprise. “Me, too,” I said. “Show me.” And no, it wasn’t lost on me I could very well have looked into this from Reading, of course, I could have. But when Vivian sagged a little, her relief clear on her normally composed face, I knew saying no would have shattered her. Because it wasn’t just help Vivian needed, was it? I was a friend she could count on when those were few and far between in her life. When I hadn’t been that for her when her brother died.