Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Cut

Shops had been closed, sales had slumped, and the company was on shaky ground. And now this murder. Gran couldn’t help but feel there was more to the murder than a simple lovers’ tiff. Rumors had been flying around all day that now that her son was dead, Mama Flake was moving in and finalizing her takeover attempt. She’d been spotted in town, even before the murder, staying at the Hampton Cove Star, which was highly suspect to say the least. Then again, Ma Flake was old. She was ninety-eight, and wheelchair bound, so it was hardly feasible she would have held the knife that killed her only son.

Furthermore, after the bad blood that had existed between herself and her son, she’d become persona non grata at Chateau Leonidas and hadn’t been allowed to set foot inside the premises. At least not until today. So even if she’d wanted to murder her son, she wouldn’t have had the chance.

Still, Gran felt there were loose ends attached to this case, and had already placed a strongly worded phone call to her own son Alec, telling him not to put all his eggs in one basket but to give the investigation another chance.

So great was her concern that when she arrived home after her shift, instead of plunking down in front of the TV to watch Jeopardy! , she hunkered down at the kitchen table to do some more digging into the family Flake.

Her daughter Marge, when arriving home from the library, watched her with a curious eye. “What’s going on with you, Ma? No Jeopardy! today?”

“Murder investigation,” she grunted curtly.

“Not the Flake case? Terrible business, that. I loved the man’s designs.”

This had Gran look up in surprise. “You liked Flake’s designs?”

“Yeah, loved them. I have several Leonidas Flakes upstairs. Of course I only wear them on special occasions.”

“What’s this about special occasions, hon?” asked Tex, coming into the kitchen to grab something from the fridge.

“Leonidas Flake. Remember him?”

“Oh, of course. Terrible business. I have several Flake suits upstairs.”

“You have Flake suits?” asked Gran. “But they cost a fortune.”

“Oh, no,” said Marge. “He has his haute couture line, of course, and those pieces are priceless, but he has his prêt-à-porter line and he did a collaboration with the Gap a couple of years ago, and those were very reasonably priced.”

“Very reasonably priced,” Tex agreed as he took a barbecued chicken wing from the fridge and gave it a tentative nibble.

“Leonidas Flake and the Gap? Well, what do you know?” said Gran.

“Lots of designers pull stunts like that,” said Marge. “Stella McCartney did a line for H&M a couple of years ago, and I heard Vera Wang might team up with Costco next year. If they want to survive, these high-end fashion brands need to find a fresh clientele. They can’t go on like they used to, and only sell the high-priced stuff in their flagship stores on Fifth Avenue or whatever. It’s called the democratization of fashion and Leonidas Flake was all for it.”

“The opportunity for the common man and woman to wear haute couture is a chance you don’t want to miss, Vesta,” said Tex, waving the chicken wing.

Gran felt like grabbing the chicken wing and shoving it down Tex’s throat, but she restrained herself with a powerful effort. For some reason her son-in-law always brought out the worst in her, even though by all accounts he was a great guy, and she couldn’t have wished Marge a better husband.

“I’ve been looking into this Flake,” she said, “and all his business decisions the last couple of years have been sound. Extremely sound, in fact. His worst period seems to have been the early eighties, when he was on the verge of collapse. The big turnaround for him came about thirty years ago—not coincidentally the year he met Gabriel Crier.”

“Leo Flake always called Gabe Crier his good-luck charm,” said Marge.

Gran goggled at her daughter. “How come you know so much about Flake? I never even heard of the guy before today.”

Marge shrugged. “I guess I like to read about fashion,” she said, suddenly displaying a slight blush.

“Your daughter has quite the passion for fashion,” Tex quipped. “In fact if she hadn’t found a job at the library she would have gone into designing, isn’t that right, darling?”

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s a little hobby of mine,” said Marge. “And I wouldn’t mind designing a few pieces from time to time.”

“Well, why don’t you?” said Tex. “You never know where it will take you.”

“Oh, but I’m not a designer, darling.”

“I’m not saying you are and I’m not saying you aren’t. I’m just saying give it a shot.”

“Oh, darling,” said Marge, and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck. “Look at you being all supportive.”

“That’s because I love you, my sweet, and I want you to be happy.”

Kissing ensued, and Gran rolled her eyes. “So this Gabriel guy is the real genius behind Flake’s success?” she asked, trying to get the lovebirds back on track.

“Well, no, the real genius has always been Leo Flake,” said Marge. “But even a genius can have a lesser period. And that lesser period threatened to derail his career, until he met Gabe, and that’s when the magic returned.”

“Huh,” said Gran. “Interesting. So by all rights Gabe should be the one to take over the company now that his boyfriend is dead.”

“Yeah, but that will never happen,” said Tex. “Because Gabe is a murderer. And murderers don’t run companies, do they?” He was talking to Gran as if she were a toddler, and she had to bite back a scathing retort or two.

“Yeah, tough to run a company from prison,” she said.

“Too bad,” said Marge. “With Leonora in charge things don’t look too good. She’s very old-fashioned, and has been dying to return to the old way of doing business: only high-end fashion and only selling through a few well-chosen flagship stores. So no more Leonidas Flake for me, I’m afraid.”

“Design your own dresses, darling,” said Tex. “And a few tuxes for me, while you’re at it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Marge.

“No, I’m telling you you could.”

“Oh, darling, no.”

“Yes, darling, yes.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Gran groaned, and took her phone and walked out of the house, through the backyard, through the hole in the hedge, into Odelia’s backyard, and then into the house through the sliding glass door.

She plunked herself down at the kitchen table and was gratified to find that Odelia was out so she had the place to herself. Sometimes that was exactly what a person needed: some peace and quiet to hear oneself think.

And she’d been sitting there for a couple of minutes, her Wi-Fi switched over to Odelia’s network, when Harriet hopped up onto the high stool next to hers and gave her a plaintive look.

“Gran,” she said. “Have you seen Max and Dooley?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Gran. “Why? Are they missing?”

“I guess they are,” said Harriet. “First they went on strike, and then they disappeared.”

“They should have been home by now,” grumbled Brutus, taking up position on the stool to Gran’s other side.

“They’re probably in town or in the park,” said Gran distractedly while she read through Gabe Crier’s Wikipedia page again.

“I guess they are,” said Harriet dubiously.

It was actually the first time that Harriet had expressed concern about Max, and the realization made Gran sit up. “So what makes you think they’re in trouble?”

“I’m not sure,” said Harriet. “Just a bad feeling I have.”

“Yeah, I have a bad feeling, too,” said Brutus.