Page 29 of The Bridesmaid
‘Let’s just give her the key,’ she says. ‘Holly, I’m trusting you to tell us, if there’s anything in that panel of use to our investigation.’
‘I want Simone’s killer caught a lot more than you do,’ I tell her.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes widen in annoyance, but Ortiz nods. ‘All right then. We can give you some cover. Probably stop people using the elevators for a few minutes. Any longer than that, the hotel is going to start asking questions.’
I nod, hoping I’ve got this right. ‘I’ll be as fast as I can.’
‘Good, because we have another issue,’ says Ortiz. ‘Adrianna Kensington has scheduled some kind of dress fitting here today. Things are going to get crazy with security on the ground floor.’ She hesitates. ‘We need to get you in and out before Adrianna and her bridesmaids arrive.’
‘How long do we have?’
‘Under an hour.’ Ortiz removes a large battered phone from her pocket, and taps a few buttons. ‘But I’m guessing a few might show up early. All the bridesmaids seem to be involved in the logistics of the wedding,’ she adds. ‘Mark Li sent me a picture from Georgia Kensington’s PR file.’ She holds out her battered police-issue cell, to display a photo of four impossibly beautiful women, draped around Adrianna Kensington.
‘These pictures sold for seven figures,’ adds Ortiz. ‘Enough to staff my entire department for a year.’
The bridesmaids wear magenta dresses, each a slightly differentstyle. Custom-made, I assume, by some very important designer I know nothing about. My eyes fix on a tall, black-haired woman, so thin her arms are like broomsticks. She has a fifties vintage look, with front-rolled hair, and a morose expression.
‘Is that the cinematographer who makes those controversial movies?’ I point.
‘Silky Eversfield.’ Fitzwilliam nods.
I look closer and read aloud: ‘Silky:Languid, artistic, intellectual.Why is there a handwritten comment over her picture?’
‘Georgia Kensington’s PR notes,’ explains Fitzwilliam. ‘They’re all annotated, if you look past the crack on Ortiz’s screen.’
I zoom in. Petra Morka, an artform in strong androgenous beauty, with a supermodel glare, gets:couture, older female, dynamic. Georgia Kensington’s pose is awkward, and her smile forced, beneath the words:Career-woman, professional, reliable.
Fitzwilliam points to a girl with a round freckled face and orange hair. ‘That’s Ophelia Mills-Herd. She’s an interior designer. But I think Adrianna also gets her to do make-up.’ Bright orange hair, and neon stylized make-up gives her bland features more impact than they might otherwise deserve. Georgia has scrawled an arrow, noting:High energy,music-lover; creative.
‘Ophelia is the only one whose smile looks real.’ I say. ‘And is it my imagination, or are all of them leaning away from Petra Morka?’
‘Maybe,’ says Ortiz. ‘All Adrianna’s bridesmaids went to the same school. Could be old rivalries.’
‘Half of the New York elite send their kids to that boarding school,’ Fitzwilliam adds. ‘It’s known for turning out successful young ladies. I can imagine that to be cut-throat. Petra Morka and Simone Waters are older. Would have been … maybe fourteen andeighteen respectively when Ophelia, Silky, and half-sisters Georgia and Adrianna started school, aged seven.’
‘Boarding school starts agedseven?’ I look between the faces of the women, trying to imagine them as tiny girls, being sent away from home, to be groomed for New York high society. They certainly look the part now.
I take in the array of perfect faces. Could any of these polished womenreallyhave kidnapped Adrianna and murdered Simone? At first glance, it seems impossible to imagine. But as I look closer at their rictus-grins – unsmiling eyes fixed coldly on the camera – my perspective shifts. It suddenly seems very possible indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
HOLLY
Fitzwilliam and Ortiz escort me to the glistening bank of near-silent elevators at the heart of the lobby, and do a great job of flashing their badges.
We wait for the disgruntled hotel guests to exit.
‘You’re sure you know which elevator you need?’ asks Ortiz, watching them leave.
I nod. ‘I think so.’ I’m remembering one of Simone’s many lectures on expected decorum.
‘I don’t agree with it,’ I had told her. ‘Acting like someone I’m not. If people judge me badly, that’s their problem.’
‘And also yours, Holly.’ She’d looked at me with her intense gaze. ‘Understanding different cultures isn’t the same as faking.’
Ortiz is looking at me expectantly. ‘Simone liked to pass on the etiquette she learned at school,’ I explain. ‘Elevators factored in.’
‘I take it the lessons didn’t stick,’ says Fitzwilliam, staring down a youth trying to double back toward the elevators. ‘Etiquette is not your strong suit.’
