The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty by Amanda Filipacchi Page B

head in my hands, thinking of hat for green outfit. I’ve hardly been at this for two minutes when the phone rings. I should have turned off the ringer. Forgot to.
    It’s Jack, saying he just got word from the forensic handwriting expert that Gabriel’s letter is authentic.
    I take this in. Jack then says there’s a special way the killer could sneak in a weapon on the evening of Strad’s death, even if I frisk everyone. And he describes the way.
    After we hang up, the “way” haunts me.
    I call for a meeting; I must discuss the way.
    We meet for dinner at Penelope’s place on the Upper East Side. We bring sandwiches.
    Before we’ve even unwrapped them, I’m anxious and hence can’t delay getting on topic: “It has been brought to my attention by one of you that women can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a tampon, and that the weapon can easily be accessed, especially when the woman goes to the bathroom.”
    “Typical that a man should think of this,” Penelope mutters, looking at her shoes.
    Jack seems taken aback by her guess, but doesn’t deny it. “I’m a cop! That’s why I thought of it. Not because I’m a man.”
    Georgia says to me, “Men can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a suppository. Don’t tell me you’re going to explore our crevices.”
    “I can’t be explored,” Penelope says softly, still gazing at her shoes.
    Lily looks apprehensive as well.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell them. “I’m not going to explore anyone. I just want you to wear pants, that’s all.”
    “You mean so we can’t whip it out in the middle of dinner?” snaps Georgia.
    I nod and can’t help laughing. “Everyone will wear pants, and everyone will get frisked, over their clothes, when they enter my apartment as well as every time they come out of the bathroom. In addition, Jack kindly offered to get me a metal detector.”
    NIGHTMARES WAKE ME in the middle of Tuesday night, less than three days before the dinner. Being a costume designer, I’m very aware of the nooks and crannies in clothing that can be used to hide a weapon, especially a tiny weapon such as a jugular-slashing razor blade. My fear is that the frisking and metal detecting won’t be enough, that something will be missed. I need a backup plan, a more extreme safety measure I can resort to if necessary. After some thinking, I come up with one that is not ideal because it would make us seem strange in Strad’s eyes, and we would hate for his opinion of Lily to be tarnished by something we do. So I will not use this extreme safety measure if I can help it, though it calms me knowing it will be at my disposal if I need it.

Chapter Nine
    T hat evening, we’re all sitting around in one of the TV studio’s large dressing rooms, waiting to be interviewed live in about an hour.
    Penelope breaks the silence with: “I got the result from my handwriting specialist. She said the same thing as Jack’s guy—that her analysis concluded that it was highly probable that Gabriel wrote the letter. She said that ‘highly probable’ is the official term used and means 99 percent certain, and that that’s pretty much as certain as it gets.”
    We all nod quietly, not surprised.
    We perk up a bit when Peter Marrick comes in to greet us. Oddly, he seems more nervous than we are. But very charming nevertheless. He has the hiccups.
    “I’m so happy to meet you,” he tells us. “It’s an honor to have a group like yours on my show.”
    We stand there, saying thank you and looking at him like dummies while he hiccups. We’re a bit starstruck.
    “I really admire what you do,” he goes on. “I so wish I could be creative. But . . . let’s save that for the show.”
    He chats with us a little more, asks if we have everything we need, then says he has to go to makeup.
    Just as he’s about to leave, still hiccupping, Georgia says, “Do you need help with that hiccup?”
    “I may be open to