Her hair was a shimmering shoulder-length cut in four shades of blond. Her finger- and toenails had been lacquered recently, oxblood red, no chips. She looked like the sleeping princess in the fairy tale waiting for the prince to chop through the briars and kiss her awake. I read her toe tag. "Sara Needleman." "Positively ID'd by her personal assistant," said Claire. I knew Sara Needleman by her photographs in Vogue and W. She was a big-name clothing designer who made custom gowns for those who had thirty grand to throw down for a dress. I'd read in the Gazette that Needleman often did gangs of bridesmaids' dresses, each gown related in color but distinctly different in style, and that during the debutante season, Needleman's shop was in overdrive, designing for both the moms and the debs. Surely Sara Needleman knew the Baileys. Claire picked up her clipboard, said, "Here's what I've got. Ms. Needleman called her personal assistant, Toni Reynolds, at eight this morning complaining of abdominal cramps.
