It wasn’t so much that I didn’t trust Nick, but that I had to see with my own eyes to process the information. I flipped a few pages back, and a few pages forward, and then held the book upside down and shook it so anything tucked between the pages would fall. Nothing did. The most recent entry was for today, slightly before the time Nick and I had arrived at the chapel. The page before that one had been removed.
Wedding guestbooks are often bound with a saddle stitch which lends them an heirloom quality. This one was no different. When the page was torn from the book, the corresponding half of that sheet of paper remained behind. The same thing happened when you ripped a page out of a composition book, which I’d learned when I was going through my Harriet the Spy phase at ten years old. I always knew Harriet the Spy was a good influence.
I lay the book down and flipped through the pages a few more times and then shook the book again. Two pieces of paper were loose. I pinched the edges of each and slowly tugged so they stuck out from the even edges of the still-bound pages. Taking extra care not to damage the binding, I located the loose page and slowly found the spot where the corresponding half would be. One was the page before today’s page. No surprise. Nick had already told me that page was missing.
What surprised me was the other missing page. The one in front of the one we wanted. Based on what we knew, I found it suspicious enough that one page had been removed. But two? What else had been in that book?
When I finished examining the guestbook, I closed the cover and sat on the bed next to it. “I know you took a risk to get that and as far as I’m concerned, it was a good idea. We’ll figure out a way to get it back to the chapel.”
Nick lowered himself next to me. “You just figured out that a second page was removed from the book, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“That never occurred to me.”
“It doesn’t matter. We don’t know what was on the first page or if it has anything to do with the second page. It doesn’t matter if we find out something, only if we find out something relative to the problem we’re trying to solve.” I was so busy trying to figure out our next move that I didn’t realize Nick was staring at me. “What?” I asked.
“You don’t usually talk like that around me,” he said.
“I know you don’t like this part of my life. I try to keep it hidden as much as I can.”
“Kidd, I like every part of your life.”
“Yes, but you have your things, and I have my things, and I know that, and it’s probably best if it stays that way.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know. I probably learned it from a Go-Go’s song.”
“Yes, I have my ‘things’ as you put it. And yes, you have your ‘things.’ But I want to build a life with you and that means accepting everything about you. Not just accepting it. Cherishing it.” He brushed a strand of my dark hair away from my face. “You accepted when my dad moved in with me. You accepted the truth about my family and my business. You put your life on the line. You have to believe I’d do the same thing for you if it came to that.”
“You have,” I said. “You’ve been there for me more than once. You saved my life with a shoe. Remember? Just like Prince Charming.”
“I don’t remember Cinderella being in an interrogation room when Prince Charming showed up with the glass slipper.”
“You know what I mean.” I shifted my position on the bed to face him. “Nick, I figure things out because I can. When things don’t fit, I keep on working at them until they do. It’s like one of those standardized tests, where you stare at pictures to find a pattern. I love those things.”
“Nobody loves standardized tests.”
“I do. You know when I moved back to Ribbon I had a hard time, right?” He nodded. “I was like a bull, just plowing ahead into every crazy situation. I didn’t even know enough to be afraid half the time. But that’s because even though my personal life was a mess, I could concentrate on the other problems. I knew something didn’t fit, and I knew if I studied the situation long enough, I’d figure it out.”
“Is it possible we could solve this whole interest in crime by getting you a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle?”
“Too easy.”
Monday morning, I woke to my alarm. We’d spent the balance of last night with adult activities that kept us in the same bed before taking a joint shower, ending up in the other bed for round two, and snuggling up to sleep.
What I didn’t tell Nick was that I had a plan. Lydia and Chryssinda were lingerie models, and I was going to spend the next three days at the lingerie fair. While Nick helped Marc with whatever details had to be attended to, I’d see what I could find out about the two models’ lives. With the perfectly sound cover story of representing Tradava, I’d have unrestricted snooping access to their world. If they had friends, I’d make them my friends. If they had enemies, I’d find them, too.
I dressed in a strapless pink top and long, narrow pencil skirt, added a collarless black blazer, and black sandals that laced up to mid-calf. Despite the weather report of highs in the eighties, it was hard to predict the climate of the convention center. I doubted it would be cold since the models would be in barely any clothes. But still, layers felt appropriate.
By now, I had the Deuce down to a science. I left The Left Bank, arrived at the Bellagio, and climbed aboard the double-decker bus a few minutes later. In record time, I was back at Flush Casino. A couple of elevator rides and a brief check-in at Registration and I was ready to go.
Entering a convention center in full-trade show mode is something like discovering the underwater city of Naboo. Once through the doors, there was a whole world that outsiders knew nothing about. Over five hundred thousand square feet of convention center space had been divided into booths with elaborate pipe-and-drape configurations. This being a show for the intimate apparel industry, platforms for models, changing areas, secluded screening rooms, and displays of raw materials to be ordered for private label production were necessary, as was a back-corner runway for trend presentations.
In addition to the vendor booths and sales representatives, models in underwear walked about, loosely covered in long, open robes. One might have thought the proximity to showgirls on the Vegas strip would desensitize me to the presence of mostly-naked women. It did not. What it did was make me:
There’s only so much one can expect from a fiancé.
I consulted my agenda. My first appointment was with Joey Cheeks, a new-to-me designer whose collection appeared interesting for Tradava’s client base. I found his location on my convention center map (Blue section), checked it against a giant blown-up floor plan by the front wall, and headed that way. I passed two models in cotton panties and cropped T-shirts. One T-shirt said, “Taken.” The other said, “I’m with her.”
There was something familiar about their T-shirts, and it took me a moment to realize they were similar in style to Lydia’s “Marry Rich: Pending” one. As the models passed me, I turned around. Both women had #GetCheeky printed across their fannies.
The memory of Lydia’s body on the sidewalk came back to me. I’d recognized her from her T-shirt and veil, but there had been something printed across her panties as well. It was going to be hard to give the designer the proper level of professionalism with that memory burned into my brain.
That turned out not to matter. As I got closer to Joey Cheeks’ booth, I heard a male voice addressing his staff.
“I went to great lengths to get publicity for the collection. Six months from now our panties are going to be on every ass in the country.”
“I guess it takes an ass to dress an ass,” said a voice next to me. I turned and saw the two models who’d passed me earlier. The other one giggled.
I inched closer to the booth and strained to hear the conversation inside. “But Lydia isn’t here yet,” said a woman with a New York accent.
The man swore. “This is exactly what happens when models get famous. They think they can live by their own rules. Was it an ‘I’m running late’ excuse or a ‘you’ll get me when you get me’ excuse?”
“Neither. Nobody’s heard from her.”
The man cursed again. “I can’t believe I signed her for a two-year exclusive contract. Teresa, call the lawyers. Tell them to find me a loophole. Lydia is out.”
“What about today? I doubt I’ll find a fill-in model on such short notice. Not with Lydia’s portfolio. She’s the hottest model at the show.”
“I can’t build an empire with irresponsible models and employees. Call the agency.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Two thoughts jabbed my brain like index fingers of a five-year-old who just discovered an unattended piano. One had to do with Lydia’s recent and possibly yet-to-hit-the-news demise. The other included words like “suspect” and “motive.”
My head hurt with dueling thoughts. Just as I pulled out my cell phone to call the police, the soft pink curtain pulled open and a man with a shiny black pompadour, long sideburns, and chrome aviator sunglasses glared at me.
“This is a private booth,” he snarled. “If you so much as think about using what you know from spying on me, I’ll call security and have you tossed from the trade show.”
There was no mistaking the voice as that of the speaker who’d complained about Lydia’s absense. What I didn’t know was what he expected me to do.