“Wow,” I said in a mild and humorous tone. “He’s in a mood.”
Crispin spun in surprise then barked a quick laugh. “Isn’t he?” He mopped at his upper lip and forehead with a lovely, embroidered handkerchief he then returned to his inside jacket pocket, sighing. “Some days nothing goes right, Ms. Fleming.”
“Why do you put up with that?” I shook my head. “Seriously.”
Crispin shrugged and smiled, a real one this time, no artful salesman behind it, just genuine amusement. “It comes with the territory,” he said. “Creative types are so high strung.”
If he said so. “Does it happen often?” I pointed at the back of the van and the closed doors as he arched his eyebrows in question. “The wrong fabrics arriving like that?”
Crispin’s nervousness returned in a flicker before his salesman finally returned. “Rarely,” he said, “but mistakes happen. I’m only human. If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Fleming. I have some staff to chew out.”
“One more question, please?” He paused while climbing behind the wheel of the van, hand on the door to close it. “You were at Vivian’s studio the night of the murder. What brought you there?”
He frowned a little. “The staff who were supposed to pick up the refuse fabric for recycling were behind and I was in the neighborhood, but there was nothing there when I arrived, so I left. If that’s everything, Ms. Fleming?” He pulled the door shut and drove off down the side alley to the next street, leaving me frowning to myself.
Did I have my times mixed up? Or maybe he’d missed the bag altogether. Still, he had a valid reason to be there, so I chose to drop it for the time being and go after my next target.
Had a bit of redhead steam on, too, truth be told, witnessing Worth’s nastiness giving me something to sink my teeth into. And considering the mood I was in? He’d better just look out.
Except, the moment I set foot in his large studio, walls covered in giant photographs of models in his clothes, he took one look at me and pointed at the door, charging forward in my direction with a scowl and that shout at the ready.
“Out!” He practically shoved me back across the threshold.
“I need to ask you about Leelaine Rue,” I said.
“Whatever that gutter trash said about me, she lied,” he snarled. “Now beat it!” He slammed the door in my face, the sound of him locking it making my fury bubble to the surface.
I’m not proud to say I kicked a bag of trash next to his door, hurting my toe in the process, so much I hopped and swore myself, knowing my stupid complexion was blotchy and ugly from the excess emotion but not giving a flying fig at the moment. It took me stomping two blocks to a coffee shop and a heavy hit of espresso before I was able to calm down and make a plan.
Oh, he knew what was up, make no mistake. Because two of the giant images in his studio? Were of Leelaine. So, he had history with her, at the very least, and I had zero doubt a jerk like him wouldn’t hesitate to undermine another designer just to elevate himself. And Margot had gotten her information from somewhere, right? If Leelaine had lied, however, if she’d been feeding Vivian’s designs to Margot and not Wells, there was a possibility the young model had killed the blogger to cover it up and fingered Wells to distract me from the truth.
“Ms. Fleming.” I looked up from my latte, the espresso’s gentler sister chasing the hit of caffeine with a soft glow (no judging, the baby didn’t mind), to find Yelena David standing at my table. I blinked in surprise to find her there, especially when she sat hesitantly across from me, pale and uncomfortable, before speaking again. “I saw you at Wells’s studio. You’re looking for information.”
I nodded. “Do you have something for me, Ms. David?”
She paused before reaching into the large, black bag over her shoulder, pulling out a file folder she pushed toward me. “Proof,” she said.
Wait, what? That Wells killed Margot? Why wouldn’t she take this to the police? But when I opened the folder, I found myself frowning over amateur images, photographs of young men and women in a variety of outfits, none of which screamed murder to me. When I looked up again, confused, Yelena sighed softly.
“Wells has been stealing designs from new creators for his entire career,” she said, “and Margot and I were about to release the proof of that.”
Oh. Well, now. Apparently, this file folder was about murder after all.
“How did he get away with it?” I flipped through them again, admiring a lot of the designs compared to the getups Wells seemed to prefer.
Yelena sat back, clutching her bag to her, staring out the window into the New York morning and the people rushing by. “He paid them off,” she said, “or discredited them publicly. He’s a fraud and a hack and he’s been getting away with appropriating other people’s creations for ages. Including Margot’s, Ms. Fleming. He’s the reason she didn’t make it as a designer, and it crushed her. Turned her against the industry and the process of creation. She’s been tearing down others ever since. But she could never actually prove what Wells did. Until recently. She assembled that.” She pointed at the file in my hands. “Until we actually started putting pieces together, getting statements, photographic proof…” she blew out a breath. “It was easy for him to brush off allegations because he changed the designs just enough it looked like a coincidence. Or he’d hire the people he stole from, promise them jobs and fame, only to fire them for no reason after claiming their designs were his IP because they’d signed a contract and were working for him at the time. He’s a complete monster, but he’s not stupid.”
Wow. At least now I understood Margot’s vitriol, even if I didn’t approve of it. “You were going to expose him?”
Yelena nodded sadly. “We felt like we finally had enough to ruin him for good. And then Margot died. The night before the post was supposed to go live.”
Well, that smacked of motive, didn’t it? “Why didn’t you post it anyway?”
“Because Margot had it on her computer,” Yelena said, “and the cops took it. So, I couldn’t. And honestly, I lost the heart to, Ms. Fleming. Especially if he killed her to cover up what he’s been doing all this time.”
I kind of couldn’t blame her, though my temper would have taken me the other way. She must have realized where my mind was because she leaned in, hands clasped in front of her.
“I know, I should fight for her. But Margot was the fighter and now I’m wondering if it got her killed. And if it’s worth dying over. It’s just clothes.” She let out a bitter laugh. “I think I’m done.”
“Thank you for bringing this to me.” I closed the folder. “Can I ask what you were doing at the studio that night? And before you try to say you weren’t I have video footage of you entering the alley and exiting the other end.”
She let out a soft breath. “Margot told me she was breaking in that night, that she was on another story that was going to blow everything else we’d learned out of the water. But there was no sign of her when I got there. I was trying to stop her, Ms. Fleming. Margot was growing more and more cynical and angry as time went on. I was worried she’d get caught and arrested. I had no idea she’d be murdered.” She met my eyes with her serious dark ones. “Did your friend kill mine?”
I shook my head. “Trust me, Vivian French is a lot of things, but she’s not a killer.” I tapped the tabletop with one finger as the caffeine kicked in, prompting another question. “Did you know Wells was stealing Vivian’s designs?” No need to bring Leelaine into this yet, though I thought about it.
Yelena pointed at the folder again. “Last page.” I flipped to it, found two photographs of her patterns and sketches.
“Why would he risk going after someone like Vivian?” It didn’t make sense to me. “Her mentor is Grace Fiore. You’d think he’d steer well clear of someone so high profile.”
“I think he’s been slipping lately,” Yelena said, voice flat. “Getting cocky. Whatever the reason, we had him.” She paused, swallowed. “Margot did.”
I tried to reach out and squeeze her hand, but she pulled back abruptly, hugging herself, so I backed off. “Did you show Detective Doyle?”
Her headshake preceded her standing abruptly. “Tell him whatever you want. I’m out of it now.”
“Yelena, before you go.” She paused one last moment, nodded a little. “What can you tell me about Bentley York?”
Her face twisted in confusion. “Nothing,” she said. “He’s nobody.” She cleared her throat when her voice cracked, so authentic I had no reason to think she was lying. “Take care, Ms. Fleming. I hope you get justice for Margot. I just don’t have the energy anymore.”
I watched her go, feeling terrible for her, the file under my hands muddying my investigation despite her good intentions. I was sure Bentley had more to do with all this than Vivian believed, trusting Grace’s worry, though even Yelena seemed to think he wasn’t someone of note. That threw a wrench in any tenuous theories I might have, despite the fact he had ties to the man whose wrongdoing I held in my grasp.
At least now I had real reason to think Wells Worth might be a killer as well as a bully.
Time to find out if he was both.
***