FIFTEEN

I found Madame, just as Joy promised, hiding in the corridor between our favorite pair of faux-marble columns.

“. . . and the last thing you’re going to do,” Alicia Bower’s voice warned from somewhere nearby, “is enter this party dressed like that.”

“Who is Alicia arguing with?” I whispered in Madame’s ear.

She put a finger to her lips. “Maya Lansing. The Sister who had her launch canceled.”

Stepping closer, I saw Alicia Bower standing just inside the cloakroom. Still wearing her dripping trench, she seemed oblivious to the small puddles forming at her feet. Her attention was riveted on the woman going toe to toe with her.

Honed and toned, the Health and Fitness diva looked like a Latina Annie Lennox with a body so sculpted she could have been carved from seamless marble. Given Maya Lansing’s cocoa-brown complexion (compared to Alicia’s chalky-vanilla coloring) and her spiky platinum hair (to Alicia’s dark flapper cut), the two might have been photo negatives of each other if it weren’t for their vast differences in build. Ounce for ounce, the whole thing struck me as a real David and Goliath showdown, a single-shot espresso versus King Kong Depth Charge—especially with the six-inch Lady Gaga heel-less platforms on Maya’s toes.

In the first few seconds, I couldn’t see why Alicia objected to Maya’s outfit. Okay, the skirt was daring—a swath of black silk slit all the way up both sides to show off the woman’s long, muscular legs. But the form-fitting bodice of Chantilly lace appeared conservative enough with its high neckline. Even the sleeves were long, covering part of her hands.

Then it hit me with a silent gasp. The skirt wasn’t the issue. Everything above it was: the bodice, the neckline, even the sleeves of “Chantilly lace” were no more than a trompe l’oeil of elaborately applied body paint!

“Very daring,” Madame whispered, almost admiringly. “Reminds me of Josephine Baker in Princess Tam-Tam.”

“Who?”

“The Gaga of the thirties, dear. When I was a little girl in Paris, her half-nude dance was all the rage.” Madame gave a little shake.

“Okay,” I said. “Other than the Tam-Tam dance, what did I miss?”

“Now let’s see . . .” Madame began. “Alicia ran out to the Garden for some reason. When she came back in, she saw Maya coming off the elevator with an escort and demanded they have a word in private.”

Maya came in with an escort. I glanced around. “Where’s the escort?”

“She sent him into the party.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No, just a glimpse from the back—a dark suit with some sort of naval cap on his head.”

“Naval? Like the U.S. Navy?”

“I didn’t see. There were other late arrivals in the elevator, and he disappeared in the crowd.”

I filed that away. “What happened next?”

“Maya turned on Alicia, accusing her of undermining her product launch. Alicia retorted that Maya’s diet shakes and fat-burning pills were twenty years out of date for the market and Aphrodite agreed. Then Maya accused Alicia of not knowing what she was talking about because Maya was the one who’d built a worldwide fitness following on the curve of her oh-so-perfect butt—”

“Leave now, Maya!” Alicia’s voice was suddenly louder. “You should not be here.”

“I’m on the guest list, and I intend to show my support for my fellow Sister.”

“Don’t even try that crap with me. You wore that ridiculous getup to ruin my launch and embarrass us all. You’re pathetic!”

“Not even close,” Maya replied with surprising calm. “And I’ll tell you who’s pathetic and why . . .” She fired off a series of missteps Alicia supposedly made while bringing her Mocha Magic to market, and the biggest problem, in Maya’s view, was the “chosen spokeswoman for the product.”

“I don’t understand you,” Alicia said.

“Just answer me one question,” Maya demanded. “What is this Mocha Magic Coffee powder, anyway?”

The question appeared to rattle Alicia. Her vampiric pallor faded to specter white. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not a food or wine. It’s not a spice,” Maya challenged. “Your sex juice is the kind of lifestyle product that belongs in my Health and Fitness temple.”

“Are you mad? Mocha Magic is my creation!”

“You came up with the stuff, and that’s great. But who would do a better job of selling your product for the enrichment of Aphrodite and our entire community? Me”—Maya ran her French-tipped fingers along her body as if she were displaying the grand prize on The Price Is Right—“or a shriveled old harpy like you?”

“I’d like to strangle you with my bare hands!”

“Go for it.”

Body stiffening with rage, Alicia appeared ready to lunge at Maya when I interrupted them. I hadn’t meant to. One of my shoulders was flush against the fiberglass column, and I’d leaned forward enough to tip the thing over.

Ka-BOOM!

Woops. The column looked solid, but marble it wasn’t. (I could almost hear Tucker’s voice: Stagecraft, Clare, stagecraft!) The pillar hit the floor, then bounced and rolled, thundering along the mock stone until it reached the end of its electric cord. That’s when the fluorescent light inside exploded with an oh-so-subtle flash.

In the silence that followed, Madame sighed. “It appears the jig is up.”

Alicia and Maya were now gawking at us.

“Clare?” Alicia rasped. “Madame Dubois?”

“Friends of yours, Bower?” Maya snapped. “I can mess them up, too—starting with the little waitress.” She strode toward me, Gaga platforms clomping like Frankenstein footwear.

Wonderful. I hadn’t been in a real girl-fight for ages. Too late now. Like Tucker tried to warn Nancy, this was one exciting town, but when the coaster went south, it was time to hold on.

Standing my ground, I balled my hands and sent Maya the hardest stare in my arsenal. Yeah, she was bigger, but I was more balanced, and in my experience, with just the right push all giants fell.

Suddenly, the fitness queen halted. Noting the look in my eyes, she put French tips to slim hips, then altered her target.

“Who’s the old bag?”

“Be careful, my dear,” Madame replied with rapier charm. “When it comes to bags, vintage purses have great value. Shoddier things are bound for the trash.”

“Why, you old—”

Maya stepped forward, but so did I, right in front of Madame. “Leave her out of this or I’ll hurt you.”

“Ladies! That’s quite enough!”

I turned my head to find Patrice Stone hustling toward us, shoes purposefully snapping. Trailing close behind were two women in their twenties with pixie haircuts. Like dutiful acolytes, they hung on Patrice’s heels, then stopped and stepped back the moment Patrice grabbed Maya’s arm and swung her around.

“What are you trying to pull?”

“I just came to show my support.” Maya’s tone was innocent, yet her gaze was icier than my budini staircase. “Has Aphrodite read my memo yet? Seen my demo analysis? Any decision?”

“This is hardly the time—”

“This is the perfect time,” Maya insisted. “Right before I make my entrance and steal the show. Do we have a deal?”

Patrice’s jaw was tight. “Aphrodite thinks an infomercial is a good idea, and she actually believes you would be a lucrative spokesperson for the Mocha Magic Coffee.”

“Aphrodite rules!” Maya’s expression went from anxious to triumphant.

“What?” Alicia cried. “Are your both crazy! There is no way this steroid-shilling witch is going to represent my product, or cut into my profits!”

“I’m not finished!” Patrice added, turning quickly to Alicia. “I am totally against Maya’s proposal for a number of reasons.”

Maya tossed her spiky head. “But you’re not in charge, Patrice. Not yet, anyway. Aphrodite is.”

“Maybe so,” Patrice said, “but our boss changes her mind like the wind changes direction. Tomorrow she’ll have forgotten your memo, and nobody is going to remind her. Least of all me.”

“She may act flighty and eccentric, but you and I both know Aphrodite manipulates us into competing. She wants us to tear each other to pieces, trying to outdo each other. The harder we go at it, the wealthier she gets.” Maya’s frown flipped into a cajoling smile. “Come on, Patrice, we can work together on this. Alicia’s product, my salesmanship—we can all become rich!”

But Patrice shook her head. “Listen to me: I’ve been Aphrodite’s right hand for a long time now. What I say carries enough weight to make a difference to her, and you aren’t getting near the Mocha Magic.”

“Yes!” Alicia clapped her hands. “Oh, thank you, Patrice!”

“Now, Maya, I think you’d better go.”

“Oh, I’ll go. I’ll go right into that launch party and prove to you and Aphrodite that I can sell more of that stupid sex potion than ten Alicia Bowers.”

Maya whirled, with astounding grace (given her extreme footwear), and strode down the hall like a platinum-plumed peacock.

I hated to admit it, but Aphrodite wasn’t wrong. Maya’s poise, stature, and attention-grabbing presence were impossible to deny, which meant her power to sell would be, too. But the woman was obviously hard-to-handle trouble, and that could spell disaster for any growing corporation. As she vanished into the party, Patrice tried to calm Alicia.

“She’s being ridiculous. Just try to ignore her.”

“You could have taken her off the guest list!”

“Maya is still a Sister, Alicia, at least for now.”

“But she’ll ruin everything! Tomorrow Maya’s going to be the story, not my product—”

“Hey, don’t forget, we have a publicity machine of our own,” Patrice reminded her. “I’ll make sure any captions under photos of Maya mention Mocha Magic Coffee.”

If that was supposed to calm Alicia, it failed to. She looked ready to cry, then kill. But Patrice was finished discussing the matter. She turned to Madame.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’m not!” The speaker’s voice sounded amused. It came from one of the two young acolytes who’d rushed here with Patrice. I’d almost forgotten about the girls.

On first glance, they looked related. Both were average height (giving them several inches on me). Both were brunettes with identical Audrey Hepburn–esque pixie cuts, boldly painted with port wine highlights. Even their dresses were similar, with girlish cap sleeves and sixties-style kaleidoscopic prints. The way the two glanced at each other, they appeared tight. Both had delicate features, but one of the girls was Caucasian, the other Chinese.

“You’re Daphne, aren’t you?” I said, meeting the pretty, leaf-green eyes of the Caucasian girl.

“Yes.” She extended her hand. “Daphne Krupa.”

This was the same young woman who’d come out of the Garden earlier to fetch Patrice for her presentation. Her chili-pepper red cat glasses, which matched her opaque stockings, were off her nose now and hooked onto her dress’s square neckline.

I introduced myself. “So you work for Patrice?”

“No,” Patrice clarified. “For the past few years, Daphne’s worked as the personal assistant of Sherri Sellars, who governs our Love and Relationship Temple.”

“Our Luuuuuv Doc,” Daphne sang, then grinned. “That’s Sherri’s call sign on LA radio.”

“Nice to meet you, Daphne,” I said, and introduced Madame.

“Nice to meet you both, too. Just don’t call me Daffy, okay?” she said with a laugh.

“This is my new assistant.” Patrice gestured to the second girl. Her face was round and smooth, her eyes chocolate-covered almonds, her lips slick with a pretty gloss that matched her sheer, plum stockings. She extended her hand. The shake was surprisingly firm.

“Susan Chu,” the girl said.

“And don’t call her Sue,” Daphne warned.

Susan rolled her eyes. “Sue Chu sounds ridiculous, don’t you agree?”

“Sue-Chu! Gesundheit!” The two young women chanted it together, like it was a very old joke.

“Both names sound pretty to me,” I said.

Susan smiled. “Daphne and I are the glorified gofers for all of Aphrodite’s Sisters this week. If you have any problems, just ask us to help.”

“That’s very nice of you . . .”

“Well,” Patrice said, “now that the show’s over . . .”

“It was a show, wasn’t it?” Daphne said, eyes sparkling. Clearly, she wanted to keep dishing.

Susan giggled. “When it comes to Maya, it’s more than show. That woman is a twenty-four-seven three-ring circus.”

“And Susan knows of what she speaks,” Daphne added.

“Really,” I said, “and why is that?”

Susan shrugged. “During my first year with our community, I worked for Maya.”

“Yeah, and Maya made Susan work out with her, too, didn’t she?” Daphne teased.

Susan gave a mock shudder. “Let’s not relive the horror . . .”

Madame touched my arm. The escort, she whispered in my ear.

Oh yes! “Would either of you happen to know anything about Maya’s escort tonight?”

Susan made a face. “You mean the captain?”

“Captain?” I said. “He’s a military man?”

Daphne and Susan laughed. “Oh, funny! . . . No, no! . . . Wow, not even close!”

“Herbie Lansing is an independent film producer,” Patrice levelly informed us.

“That silly cap is for show,” Susan explained. “He belongs to a sailing club on Long Island and swans around pretending he’s a yachtsman to impress potential clients and investors, but really all he owns is a little Chris-Craft—”

“Okay!” Patrice sent a pointed glance toward the two young women. Enough dirty laundry in public. “Let’s all get back to the party . . .” She looked ready to say something more, but as she reached into the tiny pouch on her belt, her face froze in horror. “Ohmigod!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you in some kind of pain?”

“I lost my smartphone!”

Automatically, we all looked on the ground, but there was no sign of it.

Patrice groaned. “I remember setting it down on the Garden podium. But the rain started before I finished my speech, and I got caught up in herding everyone inside. It must still be out there!”

“Won’t your device be ruined?” Madame asked.

“No, the podium has a shelf. It should be perfectly dry under there, but I’ve got to find it. My whole life is in that thing!”

“I’ll get it,” Susan offered.

“No, it’s my fault,” Patrice insisted. “You all go back to the party.”

Alicia touched her arm. “Do you have a trench?”

“No.” Patrice shook her head. “I didn’t think we’d get rain.”

“Take my Burberry. It has a hood.” Alicia handed over the still-damp coat. “Do you want an umbrella, too? There are several from guests in the cloakroom stand.”

“The wind’s blowing too hard,” Patrice said. “And there’s a canopy over the stage area.”

“Just be careful out there—the floor is slippery.” Alicia turned to us. “If you’ll all excuse me, I need a moment to freshen up.”

As Alicia made a beeline toward the ladies lounge, Patrice slipped on the pearl-gray trench, hurried to the Garden’s doors, and flipped up the hood. The dark rectangle of glass served as a stark backdrop for her light-colored figure—the perfect subject for a pen-and-ink. Maybe that’s why I stared at her image so long, or maybe on some level I felt a premonition.

Patrice cracked the door and a chilly gust swept down the corridor. The damp air swirled around my stocking-covered legs, sending shivers through me as she stepped outside.

The wind was still strong, but the steady rain was easing, its tattoo decelerating with a promise that waiting it out would be worth it. Beneath the narrow awning, Patrice lingered, watching drops turn to drizzle.

“Clare?” Madame called. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.”

Turning to go, I stole one last glimpse of the desolate image: Patrice Stone, arms folded, waiting for the wind to die.