I can’t believe those annoying but harmless messages were from someone who’d dothis.
“I’ll come with you,” Polly offers, a note in his voice making it clear he won’t accept an argument, and Calla gives him a grateful grimace.
Spears slides the note into a bag, and then puts the empty box into another one. He peels off his gloves next, saying, “We’ll go do that now, if it’s okay with you, and then I’d like to visit your building and see if any of your neighbors saw anything this morning.” He hesitates. “Will you be staying at your apartment?—”
“No.”
It’s a chorus of voices, and if I wasn’t swamped with bad adrenaline and fear, I’d smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
GRIFF
“Phil can stay with me.There’s room for you too, if you want,” I tell Calla, and she manages a smile.
“That’s sweet, thank you, but I’ll stay here. Polly and I can share for a few days, and then I’ll have the room to myself. Or this will be over, and Phil and I will go home.” She shoots a hopeful look at Spears, who makes a noncommittal sound and starts packing all the ziplock baggies into his backpack.
I lay a hand on Phil’s knee and say, just loud enough for him to hear despite the headphones, “I’ll be right back. I want to talk to Spears,” and when he nods, I stand.
Butch immediately comes to curl up in the space I vacated, and I go join the detective.
“Could I see that note?” I murmur.
His lips tighten, then pull into a grimace. “Yes, but… are you sure you want to right now? It might be better to wait until I interview Phil on Monday, when you’re both feeling less vulnerable.”
I shake my head. “I’d rather know.” He hesitates, and I add, “I won’t overreact or fall apart. I was a Marine.”
That doesn’t look like it makes him feel better, but he sighs and reluctantly passes me the bag with the note in it. “Don’t take it out.”
My eyes are already on the neat handwriting, a chill skating down my spine.
Dear Phil,
How could you? Just because you designed some pretty dresses doesn’t give you the right to tear down the style of mature women. Margaret Haywood is an icon to all of us, and you’re stabbing at the heart of what makes us feel beautiful.
People like you are all that’s wrong with the fashion world. So maybe you shouldn’t be in it.
No longer a fan,
Mary
I read it three times before looking back at Spears. “That’s a death threat,” I whisper. The implication of a knife in a doll with Phil’s face was pretty clear, but it’s different to see it in actual words.
Spears nods. “We’re going to treat it that way. Can you shed some light on what she said? Any ideas about why she might think Phil’s”—he takes the note back and glances at it—“‘tearing down the style of mature women’? And Margaret Haywood—is that the actress? Or someone with the same name?”
I shake my head, but to clear it, not in a negative. “It’s the actress. She’s a client of mine, and Phil’s designing a dress for her. That’s how we met. But the rest of it is bullshit.”
“It usually is,” he agrees, putting the note in his backpack with everything else. He pulls out a small stack of business cards and hands them to me. “There should be enough for everyone here. If anyone thinks of anything, or if you see or hear anything that might be relevant, please call me.” He raises his voice a little on the last sentence, and a murmur of agreement runs through Phil’s friends. “I have everyone’s contact details. I’ll be in touch to set up interview times, but expect it to be Monday.”
I glance back over my shoulder at Phil, who has his eyes closed and is clinging to Vivi with both hands again. She’s been an absolute angel this afternoon, quiet and cuddly just like he needs. She’s earned treats tonight… and maybe a new bow.
“Monday’s a good idea.” I’m not sure how much time Phil’s going to need to be verbal again, but I’ll make sure he gets it.
“Ms. Gardner, if you’re ready?”
Calla looks over from where she’s talking to Blaise, Polly, and Jordan. “Yes. We’re going to the showroom first, right?”
“If that’s okay.”
