Chapter Three Adrianna
Chapter Three
ADRIANNA
I’ve dressed down for the occasion. My usual high-shouldered blazer swapped out for an unstructured black jacket, over a loose silk cami with swinging pearl necklace, and a casual little peplum skirt in a light blush.
I’ve traded my heels for a pair of black velvet wedges.
Overall, the effect is casual – Hollywood starlet headed out for lunch.
Now I’m here I wonder if I should have made more of an effort.
I let my gaze sweep the sugary constructions. Candy colors and glittering gold Rococo flourishes. I’m disappointed.
‘The brief was dark Versailles,’ I say, taking in the various decorations. The sugarcraft roses and golden swirls. ‘This is more like … Disney or something.’ I point to a frosted gold twist.
The patissière – a glossy-haired brunette in an apron – looks devastated. She plucks out her phone, and scrolls.
‘We designed those elements based on the cornice in the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles Palace,’ she says, hopefully, showing me a picture. ‘It’s actually an exact replica. We had the molds made especially.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Yeah. I guess, but …’ I take in more cakes. ‘I wanted kind of the vibe of Versailles, rather than just a copy of the interior. It’s a Kensington wedding,’ I add. ‘Think, dark glamour. Sophistication. Decadence. We own nightclubs.’
I’m fully aware I might seem picky to some, but like my father says, you want to be a special kind of person, you need special kinds of standards. And like my father, I have perfect faith in my visions. Even though he might not appreciate that about me just now.
The patissière nods in that way I’m used to people doing.
Mark – my fiancé – isn’t used to this yet.
People agreeing with things that regular people might feel are unreasonable.
He would likely be gushing with praise. Speaking of which.
I check my watch: 6.30 a.m. Where is Mark?
He is never late. Memories of yesterday bubble up. The body. Cops.
We agreed to try and put it behind us but …
I pull out my cell. Unable to help myself, I quickly check the news.
Nothing nothing nothing. Dad’s injunction has worked. No one is allowed to report on what happened.
When the police piled into the ballroom of the Plaza, you could tell they were completely overwhelmed. None of them were prepared to see what had happened to my bridesmaid.
They asked a lot of questions about who arrived at the Plaza and when.
‘You’re telling me you’re not getting married at the Plaza today?’ asked a young policeman who was obviously completely out of his depth.
‘I’m not getting married today, or at the Plaza,’ I said exasperatedly. ‘This is a demo,’ I explained to him patiently for the second time. ‘The planner has set it up so my fiancé and I can get an idea of how the wedding breakfast will look.’
His colleague kept looking around at the mirrors and tables.
‘You had the New York Plaza hotel recarpeted in white,’ she said finally. ‘For a demo of your wedding?’
‘Are you going to find who did this?’ I demanded.
They exchanged glances.
The young police officer cleared his throat. ‘Here’s the thing, ma’am,’ he said, emphasizing the ma’am pointedly. ‘Your bridesmaid. She died in a very strange way. And you don’t seem all that upset, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘I’ve been raised to keep my feelings in check,’ I told him icily. ‘Not to mention I don’t know her all that well.’
‘Excuse me, Miss Kensington.’ His female colleague spoke up. ‘But you’re trying to tell me, you didn’t know the lady who was going to be bridesmaid at your wedding?’
‘What in the hell is all this?’ The silence of my non-reply was broken by a familiar voice.
I looked up with waves of relief, to see my father’s short and stocky frame bowling across the white-carpeted floor at speed.
He was wearing the Brioni suit, which my half-sister and I think makes him look like a Russian oligarch.
Thinning brown hair combed back, and light-brown eyes bulging in fury.
‘Hey! You!’ My father closed in on the policeman, finger-pointing. ‘You don’t talk to my daughter. You talk to me.’
The young policeman visibly bristled, standing a little taller.
Likely he’d already seen my father on a ‘Most Wealthy’ list and formed an opinion of him.
Men do one of two things when confronted with the legendary Leopold Kensington: fight or fawn.
The policeman looked like he was going for fight. It wouldn’t last long.
‘Excuse me, sir —’ he began, in a bored kind of drawl, adopting an alpha-male, shoulders back stance.
‘You don’t excuse me sir, nothing,’ interjected my father. ‘I grew up on the Lower East Side, watching you clowns take pay-backs from mobsters who put bricks through our windows. I got absolutely no time for New York cops. Or any kind of cops for that matter.’
The officer was stunned into momentary silence.
My father often has this effect. When I was a little girl, he used to let me sit in on the board meetings for his nightclub empire.
I’ve literally seen him make grown men cry.
Dad changed his name from Kolowski to Kensington when he married my mom, alienating his Polish father in the process.
A lot of people are shocked at how much second-generation immigrant grit he retains beneath the glamorous retitling.
‘Mr Kensington,’ the female officer tried. ‘We’re examining a very brutal … very strange murder.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know, Columbo. I’ve seen the goddamn pictures. What I want to know is what you’re doing to stop the press getting ahold of this, less than a week before my daughter’s wedding?’
The police lady’s mouth opened and shut. ‘You have … pictures … of the crime scene?’ She was looking around, trying to fit this with the reality of having only just arrived on the scene herself.
‘Sure I do. My daughter, Adrianna, has a problem, she calls me. I told her, send pictures. And from what I saw, we have a serious problem keeping this out of the media.’
‘I’m afraid it’s your daughter who has a problem,’ The policeman had regrouped, but wasn’t restored to his former bravado. ‘From the remains. The way they were … arranged in a bridal dress. It looks as though someone means your daughter harm. A stalker, or …’
‘Call the newspapers!’ yelled Dad, making everyone except me jump. ‘Howdy-Doodie here has solved the case. We all know Adrianna has a deranged stalker, genius. You knuckleheads in the NYPD have been failing to catch him for three years.’
My phone beeps, interrupting my thoughts. A message lands. From Mark:
Got held up. Choose without me. See you for dinner.
My initial gut response is hot fury. How dare he stand me up by text, when we’re choosing our wedding cake? Then I remember. Mark is busy finding someone to investigate the crime scene who isn’t NYPD. Like my dad says, you want the best, you pay for it.
I scroll through my image files, selecting a few choice snaps I had taken of myself by a very specialist photographer last week. I zero in on two, where the silk underwear reveals more than it should. I text an accompanying message:
Did you get an independent opinion on the crime scene?
Then attach two of the more risqué pictures and press send.
He texts back in seconds. Two smiling faces.
Yes.
I hate his use of emojis, but I have our whole married life to cure him of it. The important thing, right now, is the wedding is going ahead.