Design for Murder (Murder She Wrote, Book 45)
Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher, Renée Paley-Bain
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In the newest in the USA Today bestselling mystery series, Jessica Fletcher visits New York City during fashion week, only to discover someone has rather fatal designs...
Jessica is in Manhattan to attend the debut of a new designer. Formerly Sandy Black of Cabot Cove, the young man has reinvented himself as Xandr Ebon, and is introducing his evening wear collection to the public and—more important—to the industry's powers-that-be: the stylists, the magazine editors, the buyers, and the wealthy clientele who can make or break him. At the show, the glitz and glamour are dazzling until a young model—a novice, taking her first walk down the runway—shockingly collapses and dies. Natural causes? Perhaps. But when another model is found dead, a famous cover girl and darling of the paparazzi, the fashion world gets nervous.
Two models. Two deaths. Their only connection? Xandr Ebon. Jessica's crime-solving instincts are put to the test as she sorts through the egos, the conflicts of interest, the spiteful accusations, and the secrets, all the while keeping an amorous detective at arm's length. But she'll have to dig deep to uncover a killer. A designer's career is on the line. And another model could perish in a New York minute.
excuses to escape. I enjoyed time spent with Grady and Donna, whose contribution to the fashion show had been enthusiastically acknowledged by Philip Gould, who introduced me to his wife, Linda. She was a head taller than her husband, heavily made up, and very thin. Although close to my age, she was obviously a devotee to plastic surgery with a forehead so smooth it limited the facial expressions she was able to form. I wondered if having a husband surrounded by beautiful models motivated her to
easy as long as you stay north of Fourteenth Street, where the even-numbered streets run east, the odd-numbered streets run west, and the avenues alternate north and south. The exception is Broadway, a winding cow path in the days when the Dutch ruled New Amsterdam. It still wanders at an odd angle. New York’s outer reaches are not as well plotted out, and only those who live in those environs can claim enough familiarity to find their way from one place to the next. I don’t qualify. When I
ideas. That makes me feel—well, it makes me feel comfortable, right at home, if you get my drift.” “I, uh—yes, I think I do, and I’m pleased that you feel that way. You said on the phone that you thought that Rowena Roth’s death might have been murder. Or were you referring to Latavia Moore? Or maybe both?” “I’ll get around to that in a minute. You know what I did?” “I haven’t the slightest idea.” “I bought a couple of your books and started reading them.” “That was very good of you.” “Not
“I’ve been fortunate to be in the right place to help out at times, and I’ve made a number of lucky guesses.” “I think it’s a lot more than that. So I’m seeing you as a partner of sorts.” “A partner in solving a murder?” “Yeah. Right. If you insist.” “That’s the only way I’ll partner with you.” He looked at me for a long moment. “Okay. I get the message.” “I appreciate that.” “Look, let’s start over. You’ve been doing your own investigation into Ms. Roth’s death. Am I right?” I stifled a
becomes a “fact” thanks to the reasoning that if enough people say it, it must be true. Having been a victim of that kind of scandal-mongering in the past, I’m highly suspect of hearsay. At the same time, being human, I’m as susceptible as the next person to interesting “news,” and there have been times when a rumor actually did turn out to be factual. Ann Milburn and Philip Gould? Well, I would withhold judgment for now. Gould was a married man, albeit to a wife who didn’t seem to be enjoying