“Vivienne Kowalski,” she reads aloud, then gasps like she’s just opened the best Christmas present of her life. “She’s been lying about her identity?”
A commotion near the coat check door sends us both jumping like guilty teenagers caught raiding their parents’ liquor cabinet. I quickly toss the license back into Vivienne’s purple handbag while Peyton and I execute the world’s most elegant boot-scoot out of the coat check area and back into the holiday madness.
The Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular has clearly hit its stride. The champagne is working its magic on the usually uptight crowd, singing Christmas carols with sports-bar-level enthusiasm, swaying to the music like gilded trees in a very expensive breeze.
Cricket and Rookie come tearing past us with Jolly Beary hanging on for dear life.
I told you not to eat those cookies off the ground!Cricket scolds as they streak by.You spooked the entire catering staff! And now your rear end can explode at any moment!
They were just sitting there looking lonely!Rookie protests, his tail wagging so hard that Jolly Bear bounceslike he’s riding a furry mechanical bull.I was providing a public service! Someone had to save them from getting stepped on!
“Let’s look up Vivienne Kowalski,” I say, pulling out my phone with the laser focus of a woman who might have to clean up after her dog soon.
Peyton produces her own phone, and we huddle together, planning our next move.
Within moments, we’ve found an article from a fashion industry magazine that makes for fascinating reading.
“Vivienne used to work for an entire slew of famous designers,” Peyton reads aloud, scrolling through the information. “Margot Beaumont, Viktor Darchand, Celestine Noir...”
I nod, studying the accompanying photos. “Yes, she did. And do you notice something about all of these designs?”
Peyton wrinkles her nose like she’s just smelled something unfortunate. “They look like zombie chic? Very dark, very dramatic, very... dead?”
“Exactly,” I say, my excitement building. “Peyton, I’ve seen some of these exact pieces in Vivienne’s shop. I don’t think she’s as original as she wants everyone to believe.”
Peyton sniffs with disdain. We all know she was raised on cashmere and crystal. “So what? Doesn’t all velour look dark and depressing? There’s not a lot you can do with that particular fabric.”
I shake my head. “I think you’re wrong. Look at these ruffles, these bizarre wing-like sleeves—these are all signature elements that Vivienne was priding herself on at the trunk show. I bet Seraphina had enough dirt to destroy her entire career, and I bet that’s why?—”
Peyton elbows me in the ribs with enough force torearrange my internal organs, and I look up to see a vision in velvet moving toward us.
But not just any vision—Vivienne herself is gliding across the ballroom toward the most elaborate Christmas display I’ve ever seen outside of a professional theme park. Santa’s Workshop rises before us like something from a dream or a nightmare, constructed entirely of gingerbread, chocolate, and enough sugar to put an entire kindergarten class into hyperactive orbit.
The workshop is complete with working conveyor belts made of candy canes, chocolate machinery that actually moves, and cookie elves arranged in a way that suggests they’re hard at work creating toys. It’s simultaneously impressive and slightly disturbing.
“Let’s go,” I whisper to Peyton, and we make our way toward the sugary wonderland, casually approaching as if we definitely aren’t about to accuse someone of murder next to a chocolate assembly line.
Vivienne is examining the workshop with interest, which means she’s either genuinely impressed by confectionery architecture or looking for an escape route.
“Vivienne,” I say, approaching with a smile that probably looks more predatory than friendly. “This is quite the masterpiece, isn’t it?”
She turns with that European charm and laughs. “It’s quite the spectacle.”
The crowd seems to ease around us and I take that as a sign from the universe to dive into the deep end with this woman.
“Vivienne, would you mind if we asked you a few questions—about lingerie?”
She gives a knowing nod.I knew these young women would become desperate to please the men in their lives eventually. And that’s where I come in—taking their money, hand over fist.
She wishes.
Okay, fine. I wish it were true, too. Killion really did seem to appreciate that number I showed him the other day.
“We’ve been doing some research,” Peyton says, cutting straight to the point with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “About design origins and creative inspiration.”
“How fascinating,” Vivienne replies, but there’s something in her voice that suggests she finds it anything but fascinating.
I pull up the article on my phone. “Particularly about designers who worked for Margot Beaumont before her unfortunate accident.”
