Page 2 of The Devil Wears Orange
His eyes are steady on me, watching my face with such intensity that finally, I grasp what Favreau is alluding to. All day while I was being interrogated by the other two officers, they had been watching me, listening to my stories, searching out inconsistencies in my answers, and compiling information on me. The two detectives were merely useless decoys. I should have kept my mouth shut, but no, I just had to nervously babble away. I fear my answers make me look guilty, and if I didn’t know the truth, I’d believe in my own guilt, too. I swipe a finger along my sweaty brow then press it over my twitching eye as the gravity of what is happening smacks me. I’ve seen enoughDatelineepisodes to know I’m the prime suspect.
“Well?” Favreau says, and snaps me out of my head.
“I am not in financial trouble to the point that I would steal a painting,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is ridiculous. Why don’t you gather fingerprints from the car?”
Favreau clears his throat without answering. I notice the change in his demeanor as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“You don’t have anything, do you?” Now it’s my turn to be in control. “One of the men sprayed the car with something. It destroyed all DNA evidence... so that means you have nothing onme.” The moment I say this, I resent the smugness in my voice, yet I unequivocally repudiate his accusation.
“They are not finished with the car. I’m sure they’ll find something.”
Or perhaps Favreau’s people will fabricate evidence against me. It’s happened to others. What’s so special about me that the same thing won’t happen? I turn back to my horrific image in the mirror. It was only three days ago that I landed in the city to cover Paris Fashion Week for my magazine, staying at the luxurious Ritz. My schedule was inundated with shows and dinners and parties, so how did I end up in jail accused of pulling off an art heist? I may be a lot of things, but I, Charlotte Milton, am not a thief.
Chapter 2
The Day Before
Among the crowded venueat the Grand Palais, I catch the odious scent of a vlogger’s perfume. They must have unloaded the entire bottle. Normally, my olfactory receptors aren’t this good – sommelier was never in the cards for me despite all the drinking – but something has my senses running wild. I’m pregnant! But that would mean I had sex recently, so that’s out of the question.
Harriet leads Anne and me into the crowd, passing photographers sandwiched against the back wall, gliding past acquaintances, stopping to air-kiss those we haven’t seen since Milan Fashion Week days earlier. Standing at 6’2”, Harriet acts as a beacon for us as we trail behind, following the path shecuts. Now all I have to do is chase that trail to my front-row seat without getting trampled on, stepped on, pushed, or–
“Charlotte,” calls a squeaky voice.
–stalked.
“Charlotte,” the woman says again as she catches up and taps me on the shoulder.
I turn and stare into the face of my former assistant, Jane, whom I haven’t seen since her Etsy store blew up and required all of her time. I liked her designs, even purchased a few items – pillow covers, totes and a child’s knapsack for some future child I thought I’d have by now. “Hello, Jane.”
“Charlotte, I tried to reach you all week.”
Nodding my head with an apologetic smile, I say, “Yes, I’m sorry. You remember how chaotic Paris Fashion Week can get. We’ll catch up in New York.” I continue towards my seat.
“Would you do me a favor?” blurts Jane.
Over my shoulder, I casually tell her, “Of course. I’ll call you when I get back to New York and–”
“–Remember you said if I ever, ever,everneeded anything, I could come to you?”
Damn it!Idoremember. If it weren’t for Jane, I wouldn’t be sitting in the front row at House of Firth as editor-in-chief ofCatwalk Style Magazine. Back when Jane was my assistant, someone leaked information to a rival magazine. All roads led to me, but Jane gathered the necessary intel to prove a fashion editor, gunning for my job, tried to frame me. The editor was fired immediately, with Harriet hired as her replacement. A weird sort of happy ending.
Returning to where Jane stands, I sigh, “Yes, of course, Jane. Anything.”
Jane beams and clasps her hands together like a winner on a game show. Even her freckles seem to dance up and down. Eyebrows lifted high, they disappear under bangs. “Fantastic. I’llmeet you tomorrow before the Lumière show with an outfit for you to wear. A reporter fromOn The Runway TVwill be there, poised to ask who you’re wearing. It’ll be a great plug for me. Thank you so much.” Jane throws her arms around me. Sweet thing that she is, Jane doesn’t fit into the cutthroat fashion industry.
“What exactly am I wearing?” I ask, untangling myself.
“It’s a surprise,” Jane says then flies off to another friendly face.
This favor for Jane will undoubtedly cost me, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, I take my reserved seat between Anne and Harriet in the front row. Being the most prestigious fashion magazine has many benefits, and I accept them all with ease. Janelle Monae takes her place a few seats from me and nods in recognition. She was the cover ofCatwalka few months back. In no time, a small crowd forms around the actress-singer.
Covertly, I pull at the Spanx at my waist, a large Hermès Birkin bag on my lap for cover. The fact that my boss, Pierre Papineau, owner of Papineau Publishing, arrives today for our magazine’s event that evening had me so frazzled when I dressed in my signature black, I paid no attention to the discomfort.
Pierre. Without disclosing any details, he said there’s something important he wishes to discuss, and this has me all jumpy. For all I know, I could be up for the editor-in-chief opening at Pierre’s news magazine, which has traditionally been held by men. While it would be a lateral move, I’d love to shatter that glass ceiling. But, Pierre’s concern is the bottom line, and maintaining journalistic integrity at the magazine means I’ve had to push back on advertisers. I’m not one to fall into line. And Pierre Papineau knows this.
Restless, I survey the Palais’ celestial glass dome, an imposing work of architecture and grandeur. Pulling out my phone, I snap a picture, run it through a filter, and simultaneously post it onmy socials to give my 500,000 plus followers a hint of what’s to come. I live-posted the first two days of Fashion Week, in my sometimes cute and sometimes witty self in a finite number of characters. Still, how many times can I say something is #ToDieFor?
An excited squeal emanates from the women directly behind me. To some, I’m edging towards celebrity status, but I’d be the first to shy away from such nonsense, though I do like to tell people that my first word was “Gucci.” It makes for an entertaining anecdote, better than boring them with a detailed account of how this Columbia journalism graduate fell into the world of fashion (much to the disappointment of my ethics professor) and eventually landed my present job at the magazine. Or how, under my leadership, the struggling magazine was pulled out of the red and revived. I strapped that defibrillator on and shocked the glossy pages onto the coffee tables of the twenty to forty-something crowd and onto the lips of every designer and Hollywood starlet. It’s been a long, arduous road, and for a few years I suffered under abusive bosses. Now, when I’m invited totheparty, or when I’m lauded for raising a young designer from obscurity, or when my social media blows up for something as frivolous as dating a famous TV star, I feel I’ve earned respect.So go ahead,I’d like to tell the awestruck fans behind me,gush away.After all, everyone could use a little adoration from time to time.
