she assumed because he was always sending Yoni? Did something happen there? Or did he just hate remembering the hours sweeping threads?
Laura knew the Mardi dress. It was silk chiffon. Sleeveless. It had a full-circle skirt with a raw edge carefully fringed by hand, making it difficult to knock off exactly. What could have been wrong with it that would have made Jeremy go to the factory? Hems like a snowdrift, he had said. Circle skirts were very difficult to hem, but the previous spring, 40th street had produced a Margaret dress with the same skirt—no problem. When the TOP arrived, it looked perfect and was approved.
Laura sat on the bus, volleying between the problem with the Mardi dress and Jeremy’s longstanding hatred of the factory floor. Or, what she assumed was a longstanding hatred. What had changed?
Unlike the police, she believed him. If he said he was at the factory, he was.
Maybe, if she could show Cangemi he was there, Jeremy would have an alibi, and he’d be back at work in no time.
Problem solved.
CHAPTER 7.
The bus from Rikers took forever. By the time Laura got to work, her fingers were frozen, and she was concerned about telling everyone of her trip to the Bronx. She wasn’t the leader of the team. She had no authority. No one respected her in that way, yet she had been asked to pull them together.
The easiest thing would be to tell Carmella what Jeremy wanted and let her blab it all over the office. But that wouldn’t assert her authority. As a matter of fact, it would assert Carmella’s access to the truth, and Carmella was a notorious liar of convenience. If Laura was going to live up to Jeremy’s expectations, she would have to tell everyone what he wanted, in person.
Renee sat at the reception desk, fielding a fully lit phone bank with aplomb. At twenty-two, she had perspective, poise, and a body perfect enough to fit-model in a pinch.
“No, his publicist isn’t answering any questions about the case,” she said into the phone, while waving at Laura. “You can contact his lawyer if you need any information.” She rolled her eyes. “No ma’am, we’re not giving away any clothes. Thank you.” She hung up.
“Sounds like fun,” Laura said.
Renee shrugged. “People are always looking for the silver lining in someone else’s trouble.”
“Hey, you have a TOP come in from Ketchum last night, maybe yesterday afternoon?”
She checked her log. “Didn’t sign for anything.”
“Can I look on your rack?”
“Of course.” She seemed unflustered by Laura’s questioning her ability to sign in the TOP.
Laura went behind Renee’s desk, past a fake wall. Renee kept the samples and packages there, after emailing the person for whom the package or sample was addressed. Nothing was supposed to be back there more than twenty-four hours.
Laura flicked through the rack three times. No Mardi dress. She checked once more. Nothing. It had to be somewhere. If Jeremy saw it that night, it may have arrived late and gone without a signature. He must have left it on the reception desk, where it was found by the person it was addressed to. That would likely be Yoni, who first had to check the trims before Laura or the sample makers checked the construction and measurements. Laura headed back to her area.
Carmella fell into step with her as she came from the restroom. “I have a thing with this gown,” she said without a greeting. “The Amanda. We’re doing crochet beading. You know someone, from school maybe, who can do this?”
“Yeah, I have someone, but she’s expensive.”
“Call her in.” Carmella plopped her bag on her desk. “We’ll spend a dead woman’s money.”
Tony, the other patternmaker—or modelmaker, as his Corsican blood demanded he name it—returned from lunch just as she arrived at her table. He put on his white jacket, flattened his comb-over, then tested the snap of his scissors, the slap of his oaktag, and the sharpness of his number twos. His cheeks
Laura knew the Mardi dress. It was silk chiffon. Sleeveless. It had a full-circle skirt with a raw edge carefully fringed by hand, making it difficult to knock off exactly. What could have been wrong with it that would have made Jeremy go to the factory? Hems like a snowdrift, he had said. Circle skirts were very difficult to hem, but the previous spring, 40th street had produced a Margaret dress with the same skirt—no problem. When the TOP arrived, it looked perfect and was approved.
Laura sat on the bus, volleying between the problem with the Mardi dress and Jeremy’s longstanding hatred of the factory floor. Or, what she assumed was a longstanding hatred. What had changed?
Unlike the police, she believed him. If he said he was at the factory, he was.
Maybe, if she could show Cangemi he was there, Jeremy would have an alibi, and he’d be back at work in no time.
Problem solved.
CHAPTER 7.
The bus from Rikers took forever. By the time Laura got to work, her fingers were frozen, and she was concerned about telling everyone of her trip to the Bronx. She wasn’t the leader of the team. She had no authority. No one respected her in that way, yet she had been asked to pull them together.
The easiest thing would be to tell Carmella what Jeremy wanted and let her blab it all over the office. But that wouldn’t assert her authority. As a matter of fact, it would assert Carmella’s access to the truth, and Carmella was a notorious liar of convenience. If Laura was going to live up to Jeremy’s expectations, she would have to tell everyone what he wanted, in person.
Renee sat at the reception desk, fielding a fully lit phone bank with aplomb. At twenty-two, she had perspective, poise, and a body perfect enough to fit-model in a pinch.
“No, his publicist isn’t answering any questions about the case,” she said into the phone, while waving at Laura. “You can contact his lawyer if you need any information.” She rolled her eyes. “No ma’am, we’re not giving away any clothes. Thank you.” She hung up.
“Sounds like fun,” Laura said.
Renee shrugged. “People are always looking for the silver lining in someone else’s trouble.”
“Hey, you have a TOP come in from Ketchum last night, maybe yesterday afternoon?”
She checked her log. “Didn’t sign for anything.”
“Can I look on your rack?”
“Of course.” She seemed unflustered by Laura’s questioning her ability to sign in the TOP.
Laura went behind Renee’s desk, past a fake wall. Renee kept the samples and packages there, after emailing the person for whom the package or sample was addressed. Nothing was supposed to be back there more than twenty-four hours.
Laura flicked through the rack three times. No Mardi dress. She checked once more. Nothing. It had to be somewhere. If Jeremy saw it that night, it may have arrived late and gone without a signature. He must have left it on the reception desk, where it was found by the person it was addressed to. That would likely be Yoni, who first had to check the trims before Laura or the sample makers checked the construction and measurements. Laura headed back to her area.
Carmella fell into step with her as she came from the restroom. “I have a thing with this gown,” she said without a greeting. “The Amanda. We’re doing crochet beading. You know someone, from school maybe, who can do this?”
“Yeah, I have someone, but she’s expensive.”
“Call her in.” Carmella plopped her bag on her desk. “We’ll spend a dead woman’s money.”
Tony, the other patternmaker—or modelmaker, as his Corsican blood demanded he name it—returned from lunch just as she arrived at her table. He put on his white jacket, flattened his comb-over, then tested the snap of his scissors, the slap of his oaktag, and the sharpness of his number twos. His cheeks
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