mat.”
“My hero!” I snapped, trying without success to herd them out the door. “My point is that these shoes sold retail for eight hundred ninety-five dollars but I got them at a vintage shop in the Village for two hundred dollars.”
“Mystic Village?” Nick asked.
“No, dinosaur brain. Greenwich Village, New York.”
He picked up a one-piece, bell-bottom playsuit. “Psychedelic orange? You? A famous designer? Bought this?”
“Faline is the famous designer. I’m her head assistant. But that’s not the point.”
I picked up the Day-Glo orange playsuit and held it to my heart. “ This was my mother’s. I kept her clothes after she died, and now they’re vintage. Then I bought more vintage. Fiona helped me get everything preserved.”
Nick raised a brow. “Preserved . . . until?”
“Hell if I know.”
Werner looked interested. “So you’d sell them cheap, because they’re secondhand?”
Sell them? “No, the laws of supply and demand apply especially well to quality vintage. The fewer number of designer outfits or accessories made, the more valuable they become. These shoes are a recent Blahnik design. I could have bought them uptown for full price, so they’re a bad example.”
“But besides you,” Nick said. “Who buys vintage, honestly?”
“Vintage is hot. All the rage in New York. Old is new again. Remember that old Mark Twain quote? ‘Clothes make the man’ (or woman). ‘Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”
“Naked people? Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nick said. “I like naked people . . . of the female persuasion.”
Lytton looked thoughtful for a minute and shook his head. “Nope. Nope, I think you’re wrong. Naked women within my society definitely influence me. I’d like to be influenced more often, as a matter of fact.”
“Pervert.”
“Go for it; I’ve been called worse.” He wiped his eyes once more, the sympathy hound.
“What did you want to talk to Aunt Fiona about?” I asked Werner. “I could give her a message.”
He shook his head. “I was in the area talking to your neighbors, so I thought I’d stop in, rather than call. I’ll call her later.”
“If it’s about my sister, you can tell me.”
“No, I can only discuss Fiona’s client with Fiona.”
I shivered. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”
Eleven
Fashion anticipates, and elegance is a state of mind . . . a mirror of the time in which we live, a translation of the future, and should never be static.—OLEG CASSINI By accident on purpose, or so it seemed, both men followed me into Fiona’s house. Frankly—and this is weird because of this new sixth sense I’m trying on for size—I think neither of them wanted to leave the other alone with me. Now maybe I’m full of myself. I often am. But I was feeling a major pissing contest coming on, and I had no intention of getting downwind of either of them. It was only a hunch, mind you, but men were such easy reads. Not too many brain cells to muck up the works.
I turned on them. “Why are you following me?”
Werner stopped and Nick inched around him. “We’re protecting you,” Nick said.
“We’re law enforcement officers.”
“Oh, so you know that you’re both on the same side?”
They pretended they didn’t catch my “tone” and followed me to the box with the litter of kittens, where they visibly relaxed.
“What?” I said. “You think you can take them?”
Okay, so I couldn’t help myself. I’d worked in an industry ruled by men and a rare few big female cats. The rest of us were perceived as Barbies: right shape but nothing between the ears. I could be a formidable biotch for fun, sport, or sheer survival. I’d won the gold in a particularly “cutting” triathlon once. Earned me a place with the cats. My signature talent: ball blasting, gonad gutting, cojon clipping; you get the picture. Sure, I’d toned it down for Mystic, but I got the power, baby. I handed Nick the kitten and
“My hero!” I snapped, trying without success to herd them out the door. “My point is that these shoes sold retail for eight hundred ninety-five dollars but I got them at a vintage shop in the Village for two hundred dollars.”
“Mystic Village?” Nick asked.
“No, dinosaur brain. Greenwich Village, New York.”
He picked up a one-piece, bell-bottom playsuit. “Psychedelic orange? You? A famous designer? Bought this?”
“Faline is the famous designer. I’m her head assistant. But that’s not the point.”
I picked up the Day-Glo orange playsuit and held it to my heart. “ This was my mother’s. I kept her clothes after she died, and now they’re vintage. Then I bought more vintage. Fiona helped me get everything preserved.”
Nick raised a brow. “Preserved . . . until?”
“Hell if I know.”
Werner looked interested. “So you’d sell them cheap, because they’re secondhand?”
Sell them? “No, the laws of supply and demand apply especially well to quality vintage. The fewer number of designer outfits or accessories made, the more valuable they become. These shoes are a recent Blahnik design. I could have bought them uptown for full price, so they’re a bad example.”
“But besides you,” Nick said. “Who buys vintage, honestly?”
“Vintage is hot. All the rage in New York. Old is new again. Remember that old Mark Twain quote? ‘Clothes make the man’ (or woman). ‘Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”
“Naked people? Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nick said. “I like naked people . . . of the female persuasion.”
Lytton looked thoughtful for a minute and shook his head. “Nope. Nope, I think you’re wrong. Naked women within my society definitely influence me. I’d like to be influenced more often, as a matter of fact.”
“Pervert.”
“Go for it; I’ve been called worse.” He wiped his eyes once more, the sympathy hound.
“What did you want to talk to Aunt Fiona about?” I asked Werner. “I could give her a message.”
He shook his head. “I was in the area talking to your neighbors, so I thought I’d stop in, rather than call. I’ll call her later.”
“If it’s about my sister, you can tell me.”
“No, I can only discuss Fiona’s client with Fiona.”
I shivered. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”
Eleven
Fashion anticipates, and elegance is a state of mind . . . a mirror of the time in which we live, a translation of the future, and should never be static.—OLEG CASSINI By accident on purpose, or so it seemed, both men followed me into Fiona’s house. Frankly—and this is weird because of this new sixth sense I’m trying on for size—I think neither of them wanted to leave the other alone with me. Now maybe I’m full of myself. I often am. But I was feeling a major pissing contest coming on, and I had no intention of getting downwind of either of them. It was only a hunch, mind you, but men were such easy reads. Not too many brain cells to muck up the works.
I turned on them. “Why are you following me?”
Werner stopped and Nick inched around him. “We’re protecting you,” Nick said.
“We’re law enforcement officers.”
“Oh, so you know that you’re both on the same side?”
They pretended they didn’t catch my “tone” and followed me to the box with the litter of kittens, where they visibly relaxed.
“What?” I said. “You think you can take them?”
Okay, so I couldn’t help myself. I’d worked in an industry ruled by men and a rare few big female cats. The rest of us were perceived as Barbies: right shape but nothing between the ears. I could be a formidable biotch for fun, sport, or sheer survival. I’d won the gold in a particularly “cutting” triathlon once. Earned me a place with the cats. My signature talent: ball blasting, gonad gutting, cojon clipping; you get the picture. Sure, I’d toned it down for Mystic, but I got the power, baby. I handed Nick the kitten and
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