A Custom Fit Crime by Melissa Bourbon Page A

habit of doing in-memoriams. It’s about what’s hot and exciting in the city now .”
    Midori hadn’t simmered down. She stared at Lindy as if she could send laser beams right through her.
    Jeanette sat motionless, looking from one person to the next, her lip quivering. “Beaulieu’s dead and you’re all talking about the article. That’s not . . . not . . . it’s just not respectful of the dead.”
    Jeanette’s voice trembled, her emotions just on the surface. “She’s right,” Midori said. “You’re right,” she said to Jeanette, patting her hand.
    “You’re right, of course,” Lindy said, “but the rest of the world doesn’t stop because one designer died, as heartless as that sounds. If I can get an article out of this, I’m going to try.”
    In unison, the models’ spines seemed to crackle and they lifted their chins in attention. “So we’ll still get to model? Will there still be a photo shoot?” Esmeralda asked, looking at Quinton. “We flew out here for Michel, but if he’s dead, will we still be part of the shoot?”
    “I’ll photograph whoever she tells me to,” he said, notching his thumb toward Lindy.
    Madison, one of the Dallas beauties, spoke up. “We’re Midori’s models. She makes her samples for us , so you’re not getting in them.”
    Esmeralda faced Madison, her lips tight and her left eye twitching slightly. “Too late.”
    Madison placed her hands on the table, palms down. “What do you mean, too late?”
    Esmeralda held her gaze. “I mean, we already tried them on.”
    “What?” This time Midori jumped up, her eyes blazing.
    Esmeralda was fearless, and no petite designer was going to faze her. “She let us in,” the girl said, pointing to me.
    “What!” Now I jumped up, swinging around to face Esmeralda. “I gave you permission to look at Beaulieu’s garments, not to look at, and certainly not to try on, Midori’s designs.”
    She shrugged, clearly unconcerned with little details like that. “We’re stuck here now, and we want to be paid and we want to be in the magazine.” If she’d stood up and jammed her hands on her hips, she would have come across as a petulant five-year-old. Not what she’d been going for, I’m sure.
    Midori leaned over the table, her voice laced with venom. “Those are my designs. You had no right.”
    “They’re crappy, anyway,” Esmeralda said.
    “They didn’t even fit,” Barbi said. She gestured to a heavy silk dress lying haphazardly over the gold velvet sofa in the adjacent parlor. “All that uneven weight and that one back at the shop with the beading. They’re too heavy.”
    Midori seethed. Any second, steam would start pouring from her nostrils. “I don’t tell you how to walk the runway. How dare you tell me how to design clothing?”
    Barbi stared her down, clearly not realizing—or not caring—that criticizing a designer’s work did not earn brownie points. She got up and in two seconds was across the room, her hands on the silk dress.
    Madison picked up the attack for Midori, careening toward Barbi, plowing into her arms so she couldn’t take hold of the dress. “You are only here because of Beaulieu, and he’s dead. His clothes aren’t going to be showcased—”
    Esmeralda flung her arm out, pointing at Lindy. “Didn’t you hear her? They might kill the story and none of the clothes will get to be showcased, but if they don’t kill the story, we want a chance to do what we were brought here to do.”
    Zoe, the other Dallas model, leaned back in her chair. “It doesn’t matter what we want. They’re going to make the decision,” she said, lifting her chin toward me and then toward Midori. She and Madison leaned their heads together and she added in a harsh whisper, “But Midori made her samples based on us wearing them, so they shouldn’t even bother.”
    Oh boy, this could get ugly. Being caught in the middle of a throw-down between the beautiful people wasn’t high on my list of things