Fashion Trend
Claudine Villiers ate an early dinner at a local restaurant on Sunday night and hurried home to her Tribeca loft. No sooner did she take off her coat and kick off her heels than she reached for the remote to turn on her television.
"Good! I haven't missed anything," she said after glancing at her Chanel watch.
It was an important night for Hollywood's elite: the annual presentation of the Oscars.
"Another night for a bunch of insecure actors to tell themselves they're doing a great job."
Actually, Claudine did not care one way or the other who won the major honors. In fact, she had no idea who was even nominated. She never went to the movies and only turned on her television to watch the news on CNN—except for one night a year when she tuned in to see the red-carpet coverage before the Academy Awards began.
Desi Santos and Bethia Holby, both stars of popular morning talk shows, hosted the pre-awards event. Joline Romero, a former Broadway ingénue who was about to star in her first full-length motion picture, had the honor of interviewing the celebrities as they entered the Dolby Theatre. Once the hosts were announced and had the opportunity to welcome the viewing audience and express how delighted they were to be a part of the star-studded event, the first of many commercial breaks was aired.
Claudine took advantage of the so-called "brief word from our sponsors" to go to her wine bar and take out a bottle of chilled chardonnay. With a glass in one hand and the open bottle in the other, she returned to her television in time to catch the end of Apple's ad for its latest iPhone.
"Enough with the bullshit already!" she yelled at her TV set as the hosts droned on and on about the nominees for best picture. "Get to the red carpet already."
As though in response to her command, the camera switched to Joline Romero who was standing beside Emma Stone. After a few inquiries about Ms. Stone's latest starring role, Joline asked the question that was foremost on Claudine's mind.
"And who are you wearing tonight?"
"Not one of my designs," Claudine grumbled, punctuating her sentence with a long drink of chardonnay.
"Versace," the La La Land Oscar-winning actress replied.
Emma Stone was followed by several other Hollywood luminaries including Reese Witherspoon, Sandra Bullock, Octavia Spencer, Laura Dern, Halle Berry, Margot Robbie, Saoirse Ronan, Jennifer Hudson and Nicole Kidman. Each was asked the name of the designer whose creation they wore that evening. The answers, for the most part, matched those given in previous years: Valentino, Dior, Gucci, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, Alexander McQueen and Louis Vuitton. There were also two newcomers to the Oscar fashion scene; one of them once worked for Donna Karan and the other for Karl Lagerfeld before going out on their own. One name was notably absent from the list: Claudine (a one-word brand that did not include the designer's surname).
"I can't believe it! Not a single actress, singer, director or set designer wore one of my dresses!" she exclaimed as she watched the credits roll after the conclusion of the pre-Oscar show.
Unlike previous years, she did not turn off her TV after the red-carpet coverage. Instead, she watched the awards show in its entirety, hoping to see a Claudine gown on a nominee who had not been interviewed by Joline Romero, a presenter or even someone sitting in the audience. To her great disappointment, there was not a single one of her gowns to be seen at the Dolby Theater.
"Hollywood people!" she cried and polished off the last of the chardonnay. "What do they know about fashion?"
When the marathon show came to an end at last after the winner of the Oscar for best picture was announced, she shut off the TV and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.
"What a colossal waste of time that was! It's not like the old days when Billy Crystal hosted the Oscars and one out of seven dresses on the red carpet was mine."
Despondent over her career's downward trajectory, she put the dirty glass in the sink and the empty bottle in the recycling bin and headed for bed.
* * *
Claudine woke early the following morning, despite having slept badly the night before. If she did not have a nine o'clock meeting with Werner Griscom, the key investor in her company, she would have taken the day off.
"Good morning, Miss Villiers," the perky young receptionist chirped as the designer got off the elevator on the thirtieth floor of the prestigious Manhattan office building.
"Has Mr. Griscom arrived yet?"
"Yes. He's waiting for you in the conference room."
"Werner!" she said, putting on a false smile as she entered the room. "How are the wife and kids?"
"Fine, thanks," he responded out of politeness and then got to the heart of the matter at hand. "I watched the Oscars last night."
The smile immediately faded from Claudine's face.
"It was disappointing. I know."
"Not as disappointing as this quarter's sales. They're down another twenty percent."
"I'm working on a new collection that I hope to show during Fashion Week in September."
"That's five months away. By then, sales may be much lower."
"Perhaps if we did more advertising," the designer suggested.
"I don't want to throw good money after bad," Werner declared gruffly. "No. I have another idea. I've had discussions with Walmart and Kohl's. Both are interested in having a designer line of women's business wear. Walmart will buy in greater volume whereas Kohl's will pay a higher per unit price, so I haven't decided yet which deal to take."
"You can't be serious!" Claudine exclaimed, offended by the idea. "My brand has always been associated with haute couture. I don't design for housewives who shop at Walmart!"
"It's time to come down off your high horse, Claudine. Your clothes aren't selling. Walmart is the second largest retailer in the nation after Amazon. Your name will almost guarantee the success of a line of reasonably priced suits, blouses and dresses geared to the average working woman: the secretary, the teacher and those in lower-level management positions."
"I can't believe you're actually giving me this advice. Such a move would be career suicide."
"When you're running a business, you can't let your pride get in the way, If you don't accept one of these two offers, in another year or so, you'll be reduced to shopping at Walmart yourself."
Once Werner left, Claudine ran to the sanctuary of her private office, passing by Carson Scarratt, her assistant, without a reply to the young man's greeting and slammed the door behind her. Those employees who worked closely with the designer knew that at times she could be difficult. She was a perfectionist and often demanded the impossible of those around her. So, when they saw her storm into her office, they steered clear.
"Walmart!" she groaned, on the brink of tears. "Once Jackie Onassis, Barbra Streisand, Liz Taylor and Princess Diana wore my dresses. Now. I'm supposed to make clothes for Nellie Nobody from Hoboken! I can't do it! I WON'T do it! There must be some other way to save my company. If only I could get someone in the public eye to wear my creations. Someone classy like Michelle Obama. Classy, hell, at this point, I'd settle for one of the Kardashians, just as long as my brand got a boost."
To calm herself, she unlocked her top desk drawer and took out a sketchbook. The well-worn cardboard cover and the faded price tag of under two dollars attested to its age. Only twenty-two of the hundred sheets were used, and all showed multiple variations of the same outfit.
"This was to be my dress," she said, slowly turning the pages to view the gradual progression of the design. "The highlight of my career. My pièce de résistance."
Forcing herself to put Werner's proposed business deal out of her mind, she turned to a blank page in her book, picked up a pencil and began to draw. She had made dozens of changes to the design over the years, some major, others minor. One thing never varied: the color. It would be blue, and not just any blue. It had to be just the right shade to match her eyes.
More than three and a half hours after the designer entered her private office, there was a knock on her door.
"I'm busy!" she called out.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," Carson apologized. "But your uncle said it's important."
"My uncle? Why is he calling me?"
"I don't know. But he's on line one."
"Hello," Claudine said, putting the receiver to her ear.
"Kiki,"—it was a nickname her aunt had given her when she was a child—"it's me, Uncle Fred. I'm afraid I've got bad news."
Claudine was beginning to wonder if anyone, anywhere, had good news these days.
"It's your Aunt Ginny. She ... she passed away last night."
"I didn't even know she was sick."
"No one did. Yesterday, she was fine. We went to church in the morning and out to lunch afterward, just like we always do on Sundays. Then, about ten o'clock in the evening, as we were watching the Oscars, she had a massive heart attack and died on the way to the hospital."
"Are you at home?" Claudine asked, fighting back the sorrow that threatened to engulf her.
"Yes."
"I'll be there as soon as possible."
She closed the sketchbook, tossed it in the desk drawer and locked it.
"There's been a death in the family," she informed Carson. "I'll have to be out of the office for a few days. You can reach me on my cell but only if it's an emergency."
After stopping by her apartment to pack an overnight bag, she was on her way to Brooklyn. When the driver pulled up in front of her aunt and uncle's bungalow-style home, the feeling of nostalgia mixed with guilt overwhelmed her. Claudine's father was killed in Vietnam, leaving his widow to raise their daughter alone. Virginia (Ginny) Dewing, her younger sister, had no children of her own, so she often assumed the role of second mother to the child.
While Mom was working two jobs to pay the bills, it was Aunt Ginny who helped me with my homework. She taught me how to roller skate and ride a bike, how to cook and how to sew. She was the one who took me to Coney Island during the summer to ride the Cyclone or swim in the ocean.
Uncle Fred, who had seemed such a large, vibrant man to a little girl, now looked shrunken and old, and his eyes were red from crying.
"I'm so glad to see you," he said, hugging her tightly.
"I'm sorry I didn't visit more often. I ...."
"Nonsense! You're a busy woman. Ginny knew that. God, she was proud of you! She pasted every magazine and newspaper article she could find about you in her scrapbooks."
"She was more of a parent to me than my own mother was."
"Your mother was a good woman, and she loved you very much. But when your father was killed, a part of her died, too."
"Have you eaten anything today?" Claudine inquired.
"No. I wasn't hungry."
"I'll make you an egg sandwich. You need to keep up your strength."
The designer watched as her uncle ate.
The poor man! she thought with heartfelt compassion. He and my aunt married right after graduating high school. All those years they've been together. How will he get along without her?
An hour later, Claudine was just making a fresh pot of coffee when the phone rang.
"I'll get it," she offered.
It was the mortician calling to let Fred know he had picked up the body from the morgue.
"When would be a convenient time to discuss the arrangements?" he asked the widower.
"Sometime tomorrow, I suppose."
"Would nine o'clock be okay with you?"
"Yes."
"I'll go with you," Claudine volunteered.
"Would you, Kiki? I really don't think I can handle all these details on my own."
When they arrived at the funeral home, Claudine took charge. She selected the casket—the most expensive one available. She picked out the prayer cards, the music and the viewing times and decided what information was to be included in the obituary.
"That takes care of everything," the mortician announced and then turned to Fred and said, in his most professional voice, "We usually require a deposit at this time."
"How much?" Claudine asked, reaching into her handbag for her checkbook.
"No," her uncle objected. "I can't let you ...."
"I insist on paying for the whole thing: the funeral, the headstone and the burial plot."
"That won't be necessary. Ginny and I purchased a double plot several years ago."
"Then I'll pay for the rest. It's the least I can do for the woman who helped raise me."
"There's one other matter," the mortician said as the bereaved rose to leave. "You'll need to provide her with something to wear."
"Of course. I'll see that you get an appropriate outfit before the first viewing."
Once they were back at the bungalow, Uncle Fred seemed restless. He paced the floor, mumbling to himself. To distract him, Claudine suggested he go to his wife's closet and pick out a dress. He returned ten minutes later.
"Will this do?" he asked, holding up a shapeless sheath in a nauseating shade of olive green.
"Where on earth did Aunt Ginny get that thing?"
"Walmart. It's practically brand new. She only wore it once, to Christmas Eve church services."
"My aunt is not going to spend the rest of eternity in that ghastly dress!"
"I suppose I can go to the mall and buy her a new one."
"No," Claudine decided on the spur of the moment. "I'll make her one."
"But the first viewing is the day after tomorrow."
"Then I'll work fast."
Normally, when designing a dress for someone, she took careful measurements; but since Ginny Dewing was at the funeral parlor being embalmed, precise measurements were out of the question. Instead, she examined her aunt's bras and underpants to judge her size. Since the lower part of the dress would be concealed beneath the bottom half of the casket, she concentrated her efforts on the bodice and sleeves.
Claudine relied on an entire pot of coffee to keep her awake throughout the night as she worked. She chose ivory-colored silk, which she trimmed with pale lavender lace. Once the sleeves were sewn in place, she embroidered the bodice with hundreds of tiny violets. Lastly, as the sun was coming up the following morning, she sewed on dozens of tiny purple beads.
Now, after I get some sleep, I can sew the bottom onto the dress. Then I'll add a zipper in the back, and I'll be done.
"I'm no expert on ladies' fashions," Fred said when he saw the completed dress, "but I really like that gown. It's much nicer than the one Ginny wore when we got married. She would've loved it!"
"I should have made her a nice dress while she was still alive," Claudine sobbed.
"Don't do that to yourself. She wouldn't have wanted you to feel bad."
Usually, people make two observations at funerals. The first is that the departed looks so peaceful, as though he or she is only sleeping. The second is that the floral arrangements are lovely. At Virginia Dewing's funeral, however, all the mourners could talk about was the dress.
"It's absolutely exquisite!" one of Claudine's old school friends said after offering her condolences.
Then, when no one was looking, the former fashion photographer snapped a photo of the outfit with her cell phone and sent a copy of the image to the editor of Harper's Bazaar.
* * *
For more than a month, Claudine avoided speaking to Werner Griscom, who kept badgering her about the Walmart/Kohl's deal, by using the death in the family excuse.
I can't keep putting him off, she thought. I'll have to talk to him eventually.
As she walked through her atelier one morning—a rather presumptuous name for a fashion house that might soon be making clothes for Walmart—and saw everyone diligently working on her new collection, she felt pride swell in her heart. Figuratively speaking, she had given birth to the business, had nursed it along in its infancy and endured its growing pains. Now, like the parent of a terminally ill child, she would do anything to keep it alive.
When she sought the seclusion of her private office that day, it was not in anger but in doleful acquiescence. She went to her desk, unlocked the drawer, removed the sketchbook and began to draw. Soon tears slid down her cheeks and fell onto the paper.
I lost my father, my mother and my aunt. I can't lose my business, too. It's all I have left. And if it means swallowing my pride and making clothes for Walmart, then ....
She heard the phone ring, and moments later her intercom buzzed.
"I told you I didn't want to be disturbed!" she said.
"I'm sorry, but it's Minerva," Carson informed her. "She says she has to speak to you."
It was a well-known name not only in America but around the world, as well. Like Cher, Madonna, Beyoncé and Claudine herself, Minerva needed no surname. The singer/dancer/actress was a superstar and a fashion icon.
"Hello. This is Claudine. How can I help you?"
"I've just been reading the article about you in this month's Harper's ..."
What article? Claudine wondered. I'm not aware of any article. Has Werner told them about the Walmart deal?
"And," Minerva continued, "well, you see, my mother is dying of cancer. The doctors say she can go any day now."
"I'm so sorry to hear that. I just lost someone dear to me."
"I know. Your Aunt Virginia Dewing. It was in the article."
It WAS?
"When I saw the photograph of your aunt wearing the dress you made for her ..."
WHAT? How in hell did the magazine get a photograph of my aunt?
"I'd like you to design a dress for my mother to wear ... after she's gone."
Claudine was momentarily speechless.
"I ... I don't know," she finally replied. "I never intended for my aunt's dress to ...."
"Please!" Minerva sobbed. "It will be the last time I'll ever see my mother. I want her to look as beautiful as possible. I don't care how much it will cost. I'll pay any price you ask."
Claudine hated to admit that she felt a spark of hope at that moment. She was repulsed by the idea of taking advantage of a grieving daughter; but at the same time, she wondered if by designing a dress for a dead woman, she might be able to put off the inevitable deal with Walmart a while longer.
"All right. I'll need your mother's measurements. And if you can tell me a little bit about her likes and dislikes, I can personalize the dress."
The designer pushed aside her sketchbook and began taking notes on her day planner. When the list of the dying woman's favorite things was completed, the phone call came to an end. She then pressed the intercom button.
I'm in deep shit now, Carson thought.
"Yes, Miss Villiers?" he answered.
"Send a boy to the magazine stand down on the corner to pick up the latest issue of Harper's Bazaar, and if they don't have it, tell him to go to every stand and bookstore in the city until he finds a copy."
"Yes, Miss Villiers. I'll get right on that."
"Oh, and, Carson?"
Oh, no! Here it comes.
"Good job putting that call through."
The assistant smiled. It was a simple statement, but it amounted to high praise coming from her.
* * *
Once word got out that Claudine was designing a dress for Minerva's mother to be buried in, it spread rapidly. The small article in Harper's about Virginia Dewing's dress was only the first mention of this rather bizarre line of specialty clothing. Soon, there were much larger pieces in Elle, Vogue, Marie Claire, Glamour and InStyle. Tongue-in-cheek titles like "Going Out in Style" and "Haute Couture for the Hereafter" caught readers' attention; and the opinion pieces "Funeral Fashion With a High Price Tag" and "Big Dollars in Death Dresses" questioned whether designing for the deceased would set a new fashion trend.
Although Minerva did not permit photographers or reporters to attend her mother's private service, she did allow the dress to be photographed on a mannequin beforehand. The rose gold satin gown trimmed with seed pearls and rose gold sequins was stunning and, according to Minerva, "well worth every penny I paid for it."
More orders for custom funeral attire came in, and sales increased dramatically.
"Congratulations!" Werner said at his next meeting with Claudine. "You found a new niche in the fashion industry. Good job! Needless to say, a deal with Walmart or Kohl's is no longer necessary."
"Don't get me wrong. I'm glad the company is doing well, but I'm not exactly overjoyed at being called the Designer to the Dead! It makes me feel like a ghoul."
"Ghoul or not, you stand to make a great deal of money."
By the time the Dolby Theatre rolled out the red carpet again for the annual presentation of the Oscars, Claudine was one of the highest-grossing designers in the fashion industry, despite not having created a single new gown since her aunt passed away—not for women who were still breathing, anyway. Although she had not expected to hear her name mentioned during the Oscar pre-show, she turned on her television anyway.
It's always good to see what the other designers are up to.
She was amazed when approximately one out of three celebrities claimed to be wearing "vintage Claudine" gowns.
And to think I was seriously considering saying "yes" to the Walmart deal!
Seeing her old designs being worn by Jennifer Lopez, Sophia Vergara, Angelina Jolie, Viola Davis and Meryl Streep brought back memories of past collections. The experience was akin to a recording artist listening to his greatest hits album. Then she thought about the dress she made for the late wife of the governor of California. The woman had died on December 21, and her husband held the funeral on Christmas Eve. As per the governor's request for a holiday dress, Claudine had designed a red velvet gown with green holly leaf appliqués and intricate white snowflakes embroidered on it.
"I have to admit," she said, taking a sip of her chardonnay. "I haven't lost my touch. That gown was every bit as beautiful as the vintage ones being worn to this year's Oscars."
* * *
Two weeks after the Academy Awards aired, society columns were abuzz with the latest news out of Washington. Alyssa Drayton, the president's daughter and only child, announced her engagement to one of the young Kennedys—yes, those Kennedys. Since her father had been inaugurated the previous year, he would most likely still be in office—barring impeachment or assassination—when the couple took their vows.
Americans, especially the Democrats, were thrilled at the prospect of a White House wedding. Many had watched William marry Kate and Harry tie the knot with Meghan, and some still remembered Charles and Diana's fairy tale wedding at St. Paul's Cathedral. Now they would have a "royal wedding" of their own. Not long after the engagement was announced, the merchandising began. Everything from T-shirts and bride and groom dolls to special edition magazines and collector's plates flooded the market. Cake decorators from across the country vied for the honor of making the wedding cake, and top recording artists hoped to perform at the reception.
What came as a complete surprise was the choice of designer chosen to create the bridal gown.
"You want me to design your daughter's wedding dress?" Claudine asked with disbelief when the first lady personally phoned her with the request. "You do know what I've been doing lately, don't you?"
"Yes. You've been designing custom funeral clothing. Quite frankly, my daughter has always been a little ... strange. She went through this whole gothic phase when we were still living in New Jersey, and I don't think she's ever gotten completely over it."
"I see. And who better to design a gown for a gothic girl than the Designer to the Dead?"
"Oh, but I think your dresses are lovely. I'm sure you're more than capable of designing a normal wedding dress. After all, we don't want Alyssa walking down the aisle dressed like Morticia Addams."
Just as Claudine had reluctantly agreed to design a burial dress for Minerva's mother in hopes of avoiding the Walmart deal, she now chose to design a wedding dress for the president's daughter, hoping her career would branch off in a different direction. She was tired of seeing her designs on corpses and longed to have them seen on the Paris runways again.
Working with Alyssa Drayton proved to be more difficult than she had imagined. The girl had definite ideas about what she wanted, all of which her mother vetoed.
"It's my wedding, not hers!" the pampered twenty-two-year-old cried.
"I know that. But you have to remember that your father is the president. It's not appropriate for you to look as though you were going to a Halloween party."
"Stop thinking of me as a bride, and think of me as one of your corpses."
"Have you seen any of my recent dresses?" Claudine asked defensively. "They're not at all morbid. Those dresses are dignified, stylish and even romantic."
"And you take into consideration the deceased's likes and dislikes. If my mother insists I wear a white or off-white dress, then I want black roses embroidered on the bodice."
"You talk to your mother. If she agrees, I'll do it."
A spoiled only child, Alyssa naturally got her way.
* * *
The following June, the Secret Service, the metropolitan police and FBI agents were out in full force throughout the capital. Celebrities and foreign dignitaries arrived with their own bodyguards in case of a terrorist attack. Claudine had received an invitation to the wedding, but she decided to watch it on television instead of attending in person.
Although the wedding ceremony was to take place at two o'clock, televised coverage of the event began at nine in the morning. As she pushed the power button on her remote, the designer idly wondered if there would be a red carpet set out in front of the White House to welcome the guests.
"I can just see it now," she laughed. "Some Hollywood ingénue will ask the vice president's rather obese wife, 'Who are you wearing?'"
Although Anderson Cooper, who was covering the wedding for CNN, announced the attendees' identities as they arrived—TV audiences more easily recognized film stars than politicians—there were no interviews. In fact, Anderson was broadcasting from a specially designated press area, along with his colleagues from the networks and other cable news stations.
While she waited for the bride to make her entrance down the grand staircase—which, ironically, was carpeted in red-—Claudine kept busy by embroidering blue forget-me-nots (how appropriate!) onto a pale gray bodice that she was designing for the late wife of a popular country-western singer.
There's one good thing about designing for the dead, she thought. They never complain.
She could not say the same thing for the president's daughter. That girl had been a nightmare to work with. Nothing seemed to please her. The sleeves were too short, the collar too high, the embroidered flowers too small, the waistline too baggy or the lace trim too itchy. But Alyssa, the first lady and even President Drayton claimed that the finished gown was stunning. The high-necked, long-sleeved Victorian-style dress was old-fashioned and romantic, yet it made the tattooed and pierced first daughter look sophisticated and elegant.
If that dress doesn't wow people and result in more orders for bridalwear, I'll ...
No sooner did the audience view switch from the exterior to the interior of the White House than the organ music began. The camera was pointed directly at the staircase as "Here Comes the Bride" played. The dainty white shoes were seen first. A moment later, Claudine saw the hem of the gown. She held her breath in anticipation, waiting for the rest of her creation to appear. Alyssa held her bouquet just below her waist so that everyone could see the elaborately embellished bodice of her dress.
After allowing his daughter to be alone in the spotlight for several minutes, the president stepped forward, took her arm and escorted her out to the rose garden where the minister waited to perform the ceremony. As they approached the makeshift altar, the smile faded from Alyssa's face.
I wonder if she's having second thoughts.
The organ music came to an end when the president and his daughter took their positions beside the bridegroom and the best man—another young Kennedy.
"Dearly beloved ...," the minister began.
Alyssa's hand suddenly rose to her neckline.
I hope the lace doesn't still irritate her skin, the designer thought. I softened it so that it wouldn't itch.
"... we are gathered here today, in the presence of God, to join this man and this woman ...."
Alyssa dropped her bouquet, and her second hand rose to assist the first in tugging at the high neck of the dress.
"... in holy matri—"
The minister looked up from his bible and saw that the bride was in distress.
"Are you all right, child?" he asked with concern.
The girl's reply was unintelligible, nothing more than guttural sounds. When she collapsed at her father's feet, there was pandemonium in the rose garden. The president, the groom and the first lady were all at Alyssa's side.
"She's not breathing!" her mother screamed.
"Get those damned cameras turned off!" the vice president yelled to the Secret Service agent in charge of security.
The television screen turned blue for several seconds before a camera in CNN's newsroom went live. Don Lemon sat at the news desk, trying to keep the audience informed about what was going on at the White House.
"Do you have anything more you can tell us, Anderson?" he asked his fellow TV journalist.
"No one has made a statement yet," Cooper replied from the White House press room, where all representatives of the media were corralled after Alyssa Drayton's collapse. "There is speculation here, although there has been no official confirmation, that the president's daughter had an allergic reaction and might have gone into anaphylactic shock. It appeared just before she passed out that she was having difficulty breathing. She was frantically pulling at the neckline of her dress."
More than three hours later, an official bulletin was broadcast. The president's daughter was dead.
* * *
The autopsy revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Alyssa had been a healthy twenty-two-year-old woman, and yet she had died. A full tox screen was performed, and the nation waited for the results. When they came back negative, the grieving president demanded answers.
"Something killed my little girl!" he cried. "Could it have been some new poison that leaves no trace? I wouldn't put anything past those damned terrorists—or the Republicans, for that matter!"
While the doctors and scientists searched for answers, social media was rife with rumors of conspiracy. Many groups were blamed: the Russians, ISIS, the Taliban, the Mafia, Neo-Nazis, the KKK and key members of the Republican Party.
Then a teenage girl from Cleveland, Ohio, who aspired to be the next Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King, posted her own theory on Facebook: "It was something in the dress she wore that killed her. That's why she was desperately trying to rip it off. It's got to be more than a coincidence that the person who designed it makes clothes for the dead."
Like most "fake news" on the Internet, this particular conspiracy theory spread rapidly. Soon, not only the tabloids but reputable news media were also commenting on the accusations. Claudine felt sick to her stomach when CNN's Erin Burnett reported that forensic experts were testing Alyssa Drayton's wedding gown for toxic substances.
As those suspected of murder can attest, an accusation, even when proven to be false later on, was as good as a conviction in the public mind. Once people heard that the wedding gown might have caused Alyssa's death, they refused to purchase Claudine's clothing. Oddly enough, even the custom-made dresses destined to be worn by those already deceased stopped selling.
"I suppose there's always Walmart," Claudine said to Werner Griscom when they discussed the latest sales figures at their next meeting.
"They're no longer interested. Neither is Kohl's. You can't blame them. They don't need the bad publicity."
"What do you suggest I do, then?"
"Under normal circumstances, I would have advised you to file for Chapter 11, but now I doubt it would do much good."
"Why not?"
"It might be seen as an admission of guilt. Besides, I don't think any form of reorganization can save your label at this point."
"The dress had nothing to do with Alyssa Drayton's death! That was just a crazy conspiracy theory those Facebook morons spread."
"The truth doesn't matter now; your brand is dead, I'm afraid. All you can do is give it a decent burial."
Werner picked up his briefcase and prepared to leave. He paused in the conference room doorway and turned to face his long-time business associate.
"I ought to tell you this before you hear it through the grapevine," he announced sheepishly.
"What is it?" she asked, expecting more bad news.
"I sold off all my stock in this company the day after Alyssa Drayton died."
"Oh, ye of little faith," the designer mumbled and then turned her back on him.
* * *
As she had done so often in the past, Claudine went to her private office and removed the sketchbook from the locked desk. This time, however, she made no revisions to the design. Instead, she tossed the unopened pad in her handbag and walked out of her office, not even bothering to shut the drawer.
"I'm leaving," she announced, as she walked past her assistant's desk.
"When will you be back?" Carson Scarratt asked.
He received no reply. And when the elevator doors closed behind his employer, he went back to updating his resume.
For the last time, Claudine worked through the night—not on a creation for a customer, but on the one she had designed for herself.
I've waited years to make this dress, she thought, pinning the seams together before sewing them.
When she saw her reflection in the full-length, trifold mirror, she was delighted with the finished product.
I always did look good in blue. And this shade compliments my eyes.
The 1910 musical entitled The Girl of My Dreams popularized the expression "all dressed up and no place to go." The sentiment was certainly true of Claudine Villiers one hundred and eleven years later. Still, despite her world crashing down around her, she wanted to look her best, so she fixed her hair and applied her makeup with care. Once her face and coiffure did justice to her outfit, she took a sheet of personalized stationery from the antique French provincial desk in her home office and wrote a note.
To whom it may concern, she began. It is my final wish to be buried in the blue dress I'm wearing.
Mrs. Rumsey, the cleaning lady who found both the body and the note, correctly assumed that the designer had intended to kill herself. What she did not know was that Claudine had planned to take a bottle of sleeping pills to accomplish that end.
However, the dress had other ideas. As Miss Villiers was putting the note on the bedside table, she felt the bodice of the dress tighten.
"What's going ...?"
She could not continue, for she could no longer speak. The constricting seams cut off her air. She tried to rip the dress from her body, but the fabric held strong. When her ribs were crushed and her lungs punctured, blood spurted from her mouth onto the bedspread, night table and bedroom walls—and, most disturbingly, down the front of her dress.
Three days later, Claudine Villiers, once dubbed the Designer to the Dead by the media, was herself laying on a mortician's worktable. In accordance with her last wishes, the fashion maven was buried in the blue dress that was to have been the crowning achievement of her career. Sadly, however, her Uncle Fred, her sole surviving relative, requested a closed-casket service. Thus, no one would ever get to see Claudine's pièce de resistance.
Sorry, Salem, but there's no way I want to spend eternity wearing this dress.
