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In chapter six of Catwalk Killer, soignée sleuth Bonnie Nash has been relegated to the déclassé Standing Only section at the Natan Arpel fashion show. It’s an outrage she quickly corrects. See what happens next.

Catwalk Killer—CHAPTER SIX.

I glanced down at the catwalk and to my amazement, it had been transformed into a Japanese bridge, just like the one on Natan’s invitation. The runway was gradually built up and formed an arc in the center. It was festooned with garlands of red and yellow roses. Two giant black screens, emblazoned with Japanese floral designs stretched across the foot of the runway. A narrow space was left open in the center for the models to enter and exit.

Natan wasn’t the hottest fashion designer for nothing. His shows were some of the most imaginative and elaborate on the fashion show circuit. And always perfection — the most sumptuous fabrics, the most luscious colors, the most exquisite models.

Other designers get lost in trends. They push hot pants and transparent blouses, worn only by hookers, rock stars, and 12-year-olds with mothers in therapy. They strut models who look like heroin addicts, girls who shave their heads, blanket themselves with tattoos, or puncture their body parts with piercings.

Not Natan.

The fashion whistle was tooting when the ushers began filling in the seats. I raced down the steps and grabbed one that was front row and center. Across the runway real estate mogul and fashion show regular Donald Trump was schmoozing it up with rock star Roco. Eva and Suzi were not talking to each other on my left.

Suddenly the floodlights shot on, bathing the runway in sunny yellow. Soon, the pavilion was reverberating with traditional Japanese music. Shana, the hottest international supermodel, opened the show in a flowing, jade-green kimono, her long blond tresses hidden under an elaborate black upsweep. Natan sent out one masterpiece after another, keeping to his Japanese theme, but still presenting styles contemporary women would lust over, especially when they were knocked off and relieved of sticker shock.

As the final gowns glided down the catwalk, I glanced at my run-of-show. There were 76 ensembles in the collection, and not one had missed his impeccable mark. I wrote “WOW” in my notebook. I wouldn’t have trouble remembering this.

When I looked up again, the models were sweeping on to the runway for the finale, forming two lines for Natan to walk through. And then he appeared on the catwalk with Shana on his arm. She was wearing an ivory silk satin bridal gown, dotted with red and yellow roses.

Most fashion designers stand timidly at the head of the runway, flash tentative smiles and wave meekly. Natan marched right up to the photographer’s deck, kissing each model as he passed, then he paused and took a Baryshnikov-sized bow before turning and heading back down the catwalk.

The traditional Japanese music had given way to a thudding contemporary beat. Natan and Shana were standing at the highest point of the Japanese bridge when he kissed her on both cheeks. I was so close I could see her radiant smile and her scarlet lips forming the word, “congratulations.”

And then, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Natan was collapsing on the catwalk. He grabbed the side of the bridge, but it wouldn’t hold him. His legs buckled. He tumbled down, crashing to the catwalk floor.

“Ohmagod!” a woman behind me screamed.

Shana’s beautiful face was a mask of fear and anguish.

It took the technicians in the sound booth a few minutes to catch up to the events in the Gertrude Pavilion. And in those seconds pandemonium broke out. The security guards jumped onto the runway. Three circled around Natan’s lifeless body. The others positioned themselves at the head and foot of the catwalk.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they seemed to be trying to calm the crowd, which had spilled into the narrow aisles. That’s 1, 400 people trying to escape a room that under the best of circumstances is a claustrophobic’s nightmare.

Nobody was moving, except the standing “guests.” Some of them were jumping from the top of the bleachers onto the tent floor. Others, realizing that was the quickest way out, pushed up the aisles against those who were shoving their way down.

Finally, the music stopped and a voice filtered through the sound system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s no need to panic. (Doesn’t everyone know that word alone twists people into a pretzel of fear?) Please, file slowly out of the auditorium. There are exits at the head and the foot of the runway. Those seated in sections A, B or C exit toward the front. Sections D, E and F, use the exit at the foot of the runway.”

Several security guards were pushing the giant screens out of the way and ushering people out through the rear exit. But most of the room was a clog of immobility.

I was smack in the middle. Normally, from a front-row perch, you can jump on the runway and work your way to the front or rear of the pavilion. But the Japanese bridge prevented that. So, I just stood here, the crowd swirling around me like tidal pools smashing against the ocean jetties.

Merde! Double merde!

Then I realized that if the runway was built up and I couldn’t go over it, maybe I could go under it. I crouched down, and sure enough, I spied an opening.

I was alone. In the dark, I crawled to the highest point, which was at the center of the runway. I could sit there fairly comfortably, hugging my knees to my chest. The thundering above — nearly three thousand footsteps — was deafening. I put my fingers in my ears to muffle the sound.

Strangely, as I sat there in the dark, I felt my heartbeat returning almost to normal and for the first time since his crumbling body crashed to the catwalk floor, I thought about Natan. I remember thinking that unless they’d moved him, he was still lying innate, directly over my head.

Then an optimistic thought flashed into my mind. It was possible that he just collapsed from exhaustion. Fashion designers are notorious for waiting until the last nanosecond to finish their collections. I’m always reading about all-nighters they pull in the weeks before a show.

And there’s always Murphette’s Law of fashion shows — everything that can go wrong, does. Fabrics are held up in customs. Shoes are delivered in the wrong size. Models arrive late from a previous show or not at all because they’ve gained a pound, partied too hard, or found a hotter gig. Yes, I thought hopefully, Natan might have been beyond fatigue when he collapsed on the Japanese bridge.

The thundering footsteps were quieting down. I knew this was the moment I should make my escape from the dark tunnel under the runway. But instead, I just sat there, trapped in perpetual rewind.

I saw Natan walk across the Japanese bridge, bow dramatically in front of the photographers, turn, climb again to the top of the bridge, kiss Shana, and… collapse. Bow, turn, kiss, and collapse. Bow, turn, kiss, collapse.

I was in a daze again, heart thumping madly. But my eyes were acclimated to the dark. I glanced around trying to erase the macabre tape looping through my brain. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.

A shadowy figure under the runway was crawling directly towards me on his stomach, like a marine on the beach in Normandy in a late-night TV movie.

A bolt of panic shot from my head to my toes. He was getting closer. I could taste the metallic tang of fear.