But when Bree told her she was looking into Frances Duchaine on behalf of a very wealthy client, the detective immediately agreed to see her. They arranged to meet at the Lombard Lamp on the southeast corner of Central Park around five.
Six blocks south of the park, Bree realized she was approaching Duchaine’s flagship store. Since she was wearing her nicest blue suit with a cream-colored blouse and a fine red and gold silk scarf she’d bought in Paris, she decided to go in for a look.
The store oozed elegance, Bree had to admit, with its black marble floors, gold walls, and black marble spiral staircases with polished bronze railings. There were three floors altogether. The ground level featured Duchaine-designed accessories: purses, jewelry, scarves, hats, gloves, and shoes. Bree noticed that there were fewer shoppers than she would have expected for a famous store like this.
Many of the salesclerks, men and women wearing all white, were standing around chatting or looking at their phones. Bree walked by them without arousing their interest and climbed to the second floor, which was devoted to Duchaine’s ready-to-wear business and leisure fashions.
There were a handful of shoppers browsing the aisles there, but no one seemed to be buying much. She had not seen a customer at a cash register yet.
The third floor featured Duchaine’s evening wear, from daring black cocktail dresses to sequined ball gowns. There was no one there other than a pale, freckled clerk in her twenties who marched up to Bree, gave her a forced smile, and asked if she was on the correct floor.
Bree got the subtext, smiled sweetly, and glanced at the girl’s name tag. “Marjorie, I’ve been invited to a dinner at the White House in a couple of months,” Bree said. “I’m looking for an appropriate gown to wear. If you don’t mind.”
Marjorie seemed so shocked by this that she didn’t know what to do or say for a moment. Then she nodded and said, “Of course. What an honor for you, Ms …”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bree said, walking past her to a rack of gowns. She ignored the lower-priced items and went straight to the most elegant and ornate dresses, the ones that reeked of cash.
Apparently realizing that she might be in for a decent commission, Marjorie bustled over and said, “There are three or four there that would look beautiful on you.”
“You think?” Bree said, pausing at a black one that featured a plunging neckline and intricate brocade across the bodice.
“That’s almost one of a kind,” Marjorie said. “Frances had only ten made.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think it will fit me.”
“It might. But I can check the computer and see if we have a larger size somewhere.”
Bree made a noncommittal noise and went to another dress, this one with an Indian influence. “Not many customers here today. I’m surprised,” she said.
She glanced at the clerk, who pursed her lips. “Yes, well,” Marjorie said. “The economy’s a little off, and it is shoulder season.”
Cocking her head, Bree said, “Shoulder season?”
“Too late for winter, too early for summer. Give it a week or two and we’ll be slammed again.”
That did not sound right to Bree. New York had more than enough wealthy women who traveled to different climates and could afford to shop at Duchaine even in an economic downturn.
So what was going on?
Bree glanced at her watch and realized she needed to head to Central Park. She turned away from the gowns to find Marjorie looking at her expectantly.
“None you want to try on?”
“Afraid not,” Bree said. “Nothing that screams White House, anyway. And now I must be going. I have a meeting at five.”
The clerk’s face fell in a way that told Bree it had been a while since someone wandered in off the street looking to spend thousands on a gown. Marjorie stood aside, saying, “Where else are you looking, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was thinking Chanel, Saint Laurent, and Tess Jackson if I have enough time before my flight back to Atlanta,” Bree said.
“I hear that a lot,” the clerk said. “Everyone’s going back to Tess.”
“That’s unfortunate for you, Marjorie,” Bree said and left.
CHAPTER 18
AS BREE HURRIED NORTH, she kept thinking that the shine seemed to have gone off Frances Duchaine’s name; the brand was no longer attracting flocks of customers eager to open their purses or wallets for anything that had the famous FD logo on it.
When had that happened? For years, all you heard about was the Duchaine brand getting bigger, broader, deeper.
Bree crossed West Fifty-Ninth and started up the sidewalk along East Drive toward the Lombard Lamp, making a mental note to get in touch with some of the financial analysts that covered Duchaine’s companies.
When Bree reached the meeting place, she noticed a short woman who appeared to be very pregnant leaning against the ornate lamp.
“My cousin Pablo, he raves about you, Chief Stone,” she said, reaching out to shake Bree’s hand. “He says Metro PD is lost without you.”
“Pablo has always flattered me, Detective Salazar.”
Salazar laughed. “Call me Rosella, and yes, Pablo is an expert at flattery. Shall we walk?”
“If you’re okay with it?”
“The doctors tell me I need to,” Salazar said, pitching a plastic water bottle into a trash can. “I’ve got gestational diabetes and they said a little exercise every day will help lower my numbers.”
“How far along are you?”
“Almost eight months,” the detective said, smiling. “It’s going to be a boy this time. I told the ob-gyn not to tell me if it was a boy or a girl, but I can feel it. A brother to my little Elaina. You got kids?”
“Three stepchildren who I love to pieces.”
“You’re married to Dr. Cross, right?”
Bree nodded as they walked into the park. “Last time I looked.”
“I heard him lecture when I took a class at Quantico a few years back.”
“He’s a talker.”
Salazar laughed. “He is. And it’s fascinating how his mind works.”
“There’s no one like him,” Bree said. “So, tell me what you think about Duchaine.”
Detective Salazar said, “You really don’t know who you’re working for, huh?”
“All I was told was that the client has very deep pockets and wants us to follow the trail wherever it goes.”
“To find out what?”
“I don’t know,” Bree admitted. “I’m just supposed to listen to my instincts based on information I was given about Frances Duchaine.”
“What kind of info?”
Bree hesitated, then decided she needed an ally. “Some financials, some personal info, press clippings, and some information about a few run-ins with the law she’s squirmed out of, including a civil suit in North Carolina filed by three young wannabe models—two females, one male—that was dismissed and sealed.”
“Of course it was,” Salazar said. “That has Frances Duchaine written all over it.”
Over the next hour, they walked north through Central Park as Bree listened closely to the detective’s take on the fashion icon. Salazar said that she’d known of no complaints against Duchaine whatsoever until four years ago when a young woman who said her name was Molly contacted the vice squad, where Salazar was working at the time. Molly said she had been lured from North Carolina to New York by Duchaine’s representatives with promises that she would be considered for modeling jobs.