Death by Diamonds Read Online Free Page A

died.”
    “Funeral arrangements, you mean?”
    “They’re not releasing the b—her—until the investigation is finished. Uh, no, not instructions for her funeral. I haven’t been able to bring myself to read those instructions yet.”
    I was confused. “But she left instructions for after she died? When did she take the time to do that?”
    “They’re dated two weeks ago. Weird, I know.”
    So had Dom been suicidal? Suspicious? What?
    Kyle cleared his throat, the sound of a man who’s trying to deny emotion. “These instructions have to do with her vintage clothes,” Dom’s son said. “She wants—wanted—the collection to raise money for charity during a big fashion show produced while she’s still in the news and that you should arrange the show. She left a list of causes for you to split the proceeds among, but she suggested that you hold the show there in Mystic to pull in collectors from Newport, Rhode Island, Boston, and New York City. You can invite anyone you want. Can I count on you, Aunt Mad?”
    Oh, great, play the aunt card in front of Werner. Okay, so Kyle had been twelve when I was nineteen, but time should have erased our age difference, and it would have, if he wasn’t asking for a favor. A big favor.
    “Of course, Kyle.” But I’d sure like to see Dominique’s instructions, I thought.
    “Good. Thanks. After the fashion show, I have permission to sell her collection at a private auction, if I want to, and I’m not sure that I do. Mom included a list of the people she wanted you to invite to both events, but you get first pick of the vintage clothes you want before you host an auction, if there is one.”
    “I’m overwhelmed.” No fooling.
    “Anyway, I’m allowed to sell them all except for a dress she wanted you to have, and don’t worry, Aunt Mad, I’m sure I’ll find it, eventually.”
    Werner glanced at the dress box delivered that morning, as did I, then we glanced at each other.
    I shrugged. Could be a different dress, right?
    “Kyle, it sounds as though your mother knew she was going to die.”
    The phone went dead.
    Seven
    The energy of imagination, deliberation, and invention, which fall into a natural rhythm totally one’s own, maintained by innate discipline and a keen sense of pleasure—these are the ingredients of style. And all who have it share one thing: originality.
    —DIANA VREELAND
    I’d say one thing for Dominique, given her elaborate after-death plans. She was an original. The sudden silence of the phone going dead left us stunned and staring at the silent thing as the first customer of the day arrived. A redhead. A gorgeous redhead, as bundled up and unidentifiable as the Wings delivery man.
    She held her head upright and walked like a runway model. Female perfection, she displayed, in an all-encompassing red Valentino cape, a colorful Hermè’s scarf that seemed to celebrate warm colors, and a pair of eighties Manolo boots, white with red heels. And she carried a retro white bunny muff.
    The Lady in Red looked out of place at this end of Connecticut, even in a shop as upscale as mine.
    Wandering my fashion nooks, aimlessly, from Mad as a Hatter to Little Black Dress Lane, she threw an occasional glance our way, peeking over her rose-colored glasses. Not prescription, then, and were they an intentional metaphor?
    When I looked back at Werner, I set the tips of my fingers beneath his chin to raise his jaw.
    “You got a little drool on your chin.”
    He firmed his lips and stuck his hands in the pockets of his Mickey Spillane trench coat.
    “Listen,” he said, purposely turning his back on the Lady in Red. “You’d tell me if you were in trouble, right, Mad?”
    Now he was using my nickname? Lytton was letting honest concern dislocate his polite, if feigned, indifference.
    “I’ve lost a good friend,” I said, “but I’m not in trouble.” That I know of. Yet. My cell phone rang, again. And, again, it was Kyle, so I grabbed the bag with the