Death by Diamonds Read Online Free Page B

boxed dress in it, walked to the dressing rooms, where Eve and Werner followed, and I set my cell phone down so we could listen while my customer could not.
    I, however, stood in the doorway to keep an eye on both the shop and the Lady in Red.
    “Sorry, Aunt Mad, for cutting you off like that.”
    “What happened?” I asked.
    “People are calling and knocking at the door. Some of them brought maids carrying casseroles, but I told Higgins to send them away. I’m not receiving guests until seven tonight.
    “Higgins said they’re coming to offer their condolences, but they seem more like vultures who want to pick at the gristle surrounding Mom’s death. Frankly, the whole thing’s freaking me out.”
    “What can I do to help?” I asked.
    “I don’t suppose you feel like coming to stay for a couple of days, like before seven tonight? I can’t wade through this catty Broadway love/hate gossip suck, alone, and I can’t trust any of Mom’s . . . whatever they are.”
    Parasites, I thought. “Why can’t you?”
    “I should think that would be obvious, but that’s like the last thing she told me. Don’t trust the—well—the people who’ve leeched her dry. Damn, Dad’s here. I can hear his voice. Higgins likes him. He’s gonna let the jerk in, I know it.”
    Now, that’s bad, I thought. Greedy, bitter Ian DeLong, Dominique’s philandering ex-husband, is the biggest scavenger of them all. His favorite form of self-flattery was a line I could hit him for. In referring to Dom’s celebrity status, he would say, “She wouldn’t be a DeLong, if it wasn’t for me.”
    As if his name had anything to do with her success.
    As her business partner, Ian owned half of Dominique, a circumstance that not even a dirty divorce had been able to erase. And it was entirely possible that he was about to inherit the other half of DeLong Ltd. jewelry, perfume, and accessory design interests, not to mention Dom’s highly popular tell-all books turned movies.
    “Can you wait in the den, Dad?” Kyle swore beneath his breath. “You’re the executor, did you know?”
    I straightened and took my gaze from the shop. “What? Kyle, who were you talking to just now?”
    “You. You’re the executor. Of Mom’s will. You, Aunt Mad. You knew, right?”
    Son of a slip stitch. “No, I did not know.”
    Kyle made a tsking sound. “You should see the instructions she left for you on that score. And I’m talking musical score here.”
    I pinched the top of my nose to stop my throbbing brain swell. Dominique hadn’t been kidding when she said, “Tag, you’re it.” I sighed. I needed to go. I wanted to go. For Dom. For her son. “Give me a few hours to get the shop in order. I’ll try to be there by seven, but I can’t guarantee I’ll make it.” I looked at my watch. “Well, nearly ten hours. Maybe.”
    “Call me when you’re on your way. I’ll send a car. And thanks, Aunt—”
    “Kyle. Drop the ‘aunt.’ Call me Mad. You’ve caught up with me. We’re both the same age now.”
    His chuckle eased the ache in my chest, for both our sakes.
    Everything would be okay, I told myself, though it wouldn’t, really. Dead was dead. His mother. My friend.
    Dead . . . forever.
    Eight
    “Style” is an expression of individualism mixed with charisma. Fashion is something that comes after style.
    —JOHN FAIRCHILD
    I snapped my phone shut, slipped it in my suit pocket, and turned to Werner. “As you heard, I’ll be going to New York. I just have to see if Aunt Fiona is available to run the shop.”
    “Good thing she went into semiretirement,” Eve said.
    I shrugged. “Sometimes I think she did that for me, to help me with the shop.”
    Eve tilted her head. “I think she did it for your father.”
    I chuckled. “Detective, thank you for your patience and understanding this morning.”
    He tipped his nonexistent hat, left the dressing room, and went to the door, without so much as a glance toward my unusual customer in red,