Page 42 of 2045 Clementine Lane: Catherine

There’s no flicker of surprise, no instant wariness. It would seem Miss O’Neill was expecting us.

Suzanne steps back and holds open the door.

Before Sade steps through, I catch her by the arm. “Scout the two blocks either side of here. I want a layout of the surrounding land uses. Businesses.”

She doesn’t question my command or point out that we have no need for that information. She nods once and peels off, her steps long and brisk as she starts down the street. It would have been better to have at least one female present, but Mani doesn’t have the emotional maturity to take orders from me without his pride taking a hit. And filing three LAPD officers into the Dressmaker is going to raise Suzanne O’Neill’s hackles even more.

“We apologize for the intrusion,” I say, speaking to her for the first time.

“It’s no problem.” She waves us over to a sofa covered in pink brushed velvet. “Water? Whiskey? Smoke?” Slipping out a thin silver cigarette case, she removes a cigarette and lights it.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Mani replies.

Suzanne takes a deep drag from her cigarette and exhales it in rings, her face tilted towards the lofted ceiling.

“I’ll take a smoke.” It’s not technically allowed, or legal, to smoke within the building, but I have the sense to know that the show of humanity will go a long way with Miss O’Neill.

She smiles at me, allowing the first untrained emotion through, and passes me the silver cigarette case and matching lighter. I take my time removing a cigarette, lighting it, and returning both the case and lighter to Suzanne while Mani begins the interview.

“Miss O’Neill, we’re investigating the homicide of a female victim, Elizabeth York. Her body was found in MacArthur Park on the morning of June twelfth.”

Suzanne nods and takes another long drag from her cigarette. Although her expression doesn’t change, I sense her sadness. “Yeah, I heard. Antoinette called me.”

“You were friendly with the victim?”

“Oh sure. Lizzie and I go way back. Six years now.” She waves a hand, indicating the space around her. “She and Toni were the ones who first helped me set up shop.”

“You made her dresses?”

“I did.”

As Suzanne explains the details of her relationship with Lizzie, I look around the interior of the business. On the red brick wall above the sofa, a bright neon pink sign with the Dressmaker’s logo—dressmaker scissors with a bow, plunging through an anatomical heart—flashes. The velvet pink sofa is tempered by a thick, white throw rug under our feet. Beyond that, I make out glossy concrete floors.

Opposite where we sit, a huge table occupies the room, two sewing machines sitting idly on top, variousfabrics and works-in-progress lying flat beside them. At the back of the room, a wine fridge filled with what looks like gold champagne bottles has been custom fitted beneath a black, granite countertop. To the right of that, a wrought-iron, spiral staircase disappears upstairs.

Headless tailor’s mannequins bedecked in dazzling gowns of various lengths and colors surround us, forming a silent audience that makes me shift with inexplicable discomfort.

“Lizzie and I were friends,” Suzanne is saying when I turn my attention back to the conversation, “but I wouldn’t say we were close. Not like she and Toni were close. Not like Cat and I are close.”

“You’re friends with Catherine Beauchamp?” The question pops out of my mouth before I can regulate it, but I keep my face neutral.

The amused look on Suzanne’s face tells me she’s not deceived. “Yeah. Best friends since she came on the scene, all beat up and drugged out.” She sits on the coffee table in front of us. “Antoinette helped her get clean. I put the fear of Jesus in her by sharing my life story. You know the one,” she smiles directly at me, “about the little girl with no daddy and a junkie mama.”

I flick my cigarette into the ashtray on the small table by the sofa. “I’ve heard it before,” I tell her.

Mani, pitying me, or, maybe, pitying both of us, pushes on. “Do you work exclusively for the Antoinette Rupetta Escort Agency?”

“No, I do not. As investors in my business, I give them priority. Always.” She shrugs. “But I have dozens of other clients on my list, even a few celebrities.”

“Could you tell us about the hidden lining in Elizabeth’s dress?” Mani asks.

“It would be man,” Suzanne laughs, “suspicious of any woman’s clothing with pockets.”

“Do all of your dresses have that feature?”

“Most. But all of Antoinette’s and the girls’ do.”

“Why?”

---