Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4)

by Diane Vallere

  “There are people who might say that’s withholding evidence.”

  “Yes, but none of those people are here, right?” I searched Dante’s face. “And I’ll give the pictures to Loncar. You don’t even know if there’s anything to show him. It’s not like you were back here taking pictures. You were on the other side of the building. Wouldn’t it be worse if you told him you had evidence and it turned out there was nothing there?”

  “I don’t think ‘worse’ is the word you want.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” he said.

  “So we’re agreed? We’ll see what’s on the film, and then we’ll turn it over to Loncar.”

  “You’re not going to make me take a pinky swear, are you?”

  “You think I’m the pinky swear type?”

  “The more I get to know you, the more sure I am that you’re a type all your own.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” I said.

  “Your choice.”

  Loncar pulled away from the group of firemen and rejoined us. “Ms. Kidd, I’m going to ask you a favor. Have Mr. Lestes drive you home.”

  “But my car’s been here for two days now.”

  “I understand. I can’t tell you to not to drive it home, but until we have a chance to go over the scene in daylight, I’d prefer you left it here.”

  This was a different side of Detective Loncar. In the past, we’d gone round and round, me proclaiming what I knew, him testing me to see if I was making up a story. There had been times we collaborated, and there had been times when I’d gone rogue and caught a killer in his backyard.

  This was the first time he had acted like I had some control over whether or not I’d grant his request. It might have been the effect of Gigger’s condescending attitude, or it might have been the late hour. Or maybe Loncar was warming to me.

  “Mr. Lestes, I think we have everything we need from you tonight.” He pulled two cards with contact info from his wallet and held them out.

  I waved the card off. “I still have the ones from the other investigations, thanks.”

  Dante took the card and slipped it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Loncar took down Dante’s contact info and walked away.

  “So now you have a choice,” Dante said. “Let me take you home, or ignore the detective’s request and drive yourself. What’s it going to be, Samantha?”

  15

  Breakup Rule #5: Try not to repeat broken rules.

  I woke up on the right side of the bed. The sheets were in a jumble, and Logan stared at me from the left.

  “Don’t judge,” I said. “Detective Loncar had a bad night. I thought doing what he asked was the upright citizen thing.”

  Logan meowed.

  I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. This was the second time Dante and I had spent a night under the same roof. Exhaustion and injuries kept me from engaging in any hanky panky, but judging from the state of the sheets, I’d either had a very restless night or I hadn’t slept alone.

  All things considered, I couldn’t help wonder what I was doing. After an eight year crush on Nick and nine months of sort-of dating, it didn’t feel like it was over. I closed my eyes and Logan climbed on my chest and lowered himself. He pushed his paws out in front of him, tickling the bottom of my chin. I turned my head to the left and he stretched out more. One of his claws scraped my jaw.

  “Ow!” I said. I rolled to my side and he scooted off and head-butted me. I freed a hand and ran it over his head, smoothing down the fur. He purred and curled himself into the nook created by my chest and my bent knees. I lowered my head to the pillow case and rested my arm loosely around him. “You’re being a very good cat through all of this,” I said.

  He lifted his head and opened one eye, blinked, and lay his head back down.

  “I don’t need Nick and I don’t need Dante, but I need you,” I said, and kissed him on top of his head. He purred.

  I dozed off again, waking to the sound of knuckles rapping against the doorframe.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Dante said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  I sat up in bed and immediately pulled the covers up to my chest when I realized I wasn’t wearing a bra under my pajamas. Dante smiled. “I’ll go out for coffee while you get dressed. It’s going to be a busy day.”

  I waited until I heard the front door close and the car engine start. I re-dressed in the sweater and jeans from last night and went to the kitchen. I ate a piece of cold pizza left over from Brothers.

  A strange sound came from the living room. It was the VCR I’d had since college, and I only used it when I found something that was important enough to tape. It sounded like it might be dying a slow death. I hit the eject button and a tape popped out. And I remembered what I had thought important enough to tape: the local cable channel who had planned to broadcast Amanda’s runway show.

  Not being skilled in the art of video enhancement, duplication, or transfer, pretty much the only thing I could do with the tape was watch it. So I did. I rewound the brittle twenty-year-old tape and crossed my fingers that it would stay in viewable condition long enough for me to check it out. I pressed play.

  The cable company hadn’t made much of an effort for Amanda. A camera had been set up at the end of the runway. I picked out Dante and me on the left side of the screen, and after scanning the rest of the patrons I found Clive on the right. Twenty-seven seconds in, I saw a man in a pork pie hat slip past the crowd and duck backstage.

  Santangelo Toma. Despite his very public refusal of the comped tickets he’d been at the show, he’d attended.

  When the lights dimmed and the loud Japanese pop music started, everything dissolved in darkness except for the runway. The graphics from the Godzilla movie were projected on the backdrop right above Amada’s name, and the first model walked out. She wore the China Chop wig that faded from red roots to orange to yellow ends, and she was dressed in the silver leather motorcycle jacket over a red pantsuit. She posed at the end of the runway, and turned. The intricate embroidery I remembered on the back of her jacket was distorted by the grainy quality of the video.

  Five models walked the runway before Harper appeared. Her wig was silver. The sleeves on her kimono dragged on the ground as she walked. I freeze-framed the video and stared at her face. Gone was the shy, nervous model who had asked for my help earlier. She looked confident, like she had a secret.

  From this angle I didn’t see the smoke behind her like I had at the live showing. I watched her work the kimono, and then it went up in flames. Someone in the audience screamed. The music was cut and the house lights went on. Harper struggled to get the kimono off. Nick appeared and tore it from her shoulders and she ran backstage. The kimono was left in a burning heap on the runway. The fire caught onto the trail of rose petals trail. Seconds later, the fire was everywhere: walls, ceiling, chairs, backdrop. Guests fled from their seats. Someone knocked the camera over and the video went to fuzz.

  The early reports on the news hadn’t shown any footage from the show, but if I was watching this much, then certainly Gigger and company had seen it too. I kept watching, hoping the image would return. Within seconds the screen defaulted to color bars, and then a message that said the programming had been interrupted. The counter on the VCR continued to advance, so I knew I’d gotten everything the cable channel had filmed.

  Rewind. Watch again. Rewind. Fiddle with the remote. Zoom. Rewind. After close scrutiny of the crowd, I picked out Eddie and a few others from Tradava. I never saw Tiny or Amanda, but it made sense that they were both backstage. Where I would have been if I hadn’t been let go the night before the show. I swung my legs to the front of the sofa and sat up straight.

  Nobody who worked at the show had been attacked. Not prior to me, not after me. Only me. Maybe the plan all along had been to set fire to Harper’s kimono and the warning was meant to keep
me from paying too much attention to what had been going on.

  I thought back to the day Harper had come to me about the ill-fitting garment. The sleeves had been long enough to drag on the ground, but when I’d first inquired about the need for alterations, Oscar had dismissed us, saying that Harper had specifically been chosen to wear that kimono. Now I knew why. Someone had planned for her kimono to catch fire. I interfered with that plan when Harper came to me and I ultimately went to Amanda. But Amanda couldn’t be the one responsible for destroying her own show. It didn’t fit. Which took me back to motivation. To create a stir? To gain publicity? To destroy the show? Or to get Harper?

  I dug my cell phone out of my handbag, tapped the screen to cue up my contacts, and flipped to the Fs. Under Fuzz, I found the detective’s number. I dialed.

  “Loncar,” he said.

  “Detective, this is Samantha Kidd.” I waited a beat, then forged ahead. “I’ve been reviewing footage of the runway show and I had a couple of questions.”

  “When you say you were reviewing footage of the runway show, what exactly do you mean?” he asked.

  “I set my VCR up to record the show.” The phone went silent, and I imagined Loncar cursing the day my parents put the house up for sale. “I figure you’ve seen this same footage. Maybe it would help to bounce theories off each other? Since we’re practically working together on this. I feel like we have an understanding.”

  “You might be confused about that.”

  “Did you check out the report of my attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know I’m the victim here. I’m just trying to figure out who assaulted me.”

  “What are your questions?”

  “Was anybody hurt in the fire?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know how the fire was started?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Ms. Kidd, I think we’ve tapped out the limits of our understanding.”

  “Wait!” I paused for a second. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “The way I see it, this has to do with either Amanda Ries, the designer, or Harper, the model who was wearing the kimono. For all I know, I wasn’t even supposed to be the target of the attack. I think I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “If it was about me, there would have been a second attack. I left the hospital and attended the show as a guest. I wasn’t a threat from out front. Since I left the show, I’ve visited Amanda, gone to the crime scene, and gone home. If someone was after me, they would have had ample opportunity to get me. Which means whoever attacked me accomplished what they set out to do.”

  “Where were you when you were attacked?”

  “I was on my way to my car. I was backstage, and then I walked past the food table to the exit. Nobody else was attacked, and nobody claims to have seen anything.”

  “Is that all you got?”

  I thought back to the fitting. “There’s something else. Harper—she’s the model in the kimono. Have you talked to her?”

  “We can’t reach her. She’s out of the country.”

  “Still? Isn’t that suspicious? That in the middle of the fire and the chaos, she managed to get out of there, get to an airport, and get to Mexico?”

  “I’m not at liberty to comment on Ms. Ashton’s role in the investigation.”

  “What about the kimono? Harper complained about the fit. Apparently, Amanda specifically picked that garment for her. Do you have somebody at the lab analyzing it for clues?”

  “Ms. Kidd, this is not a TV show. Besides, the samples were destroyed in the fire.”

  “Was anything else damaged?”

  “We’re looking at claims from Warehouse Five, the makeup people, and the designer. If we can’t link this crime to someone, Ms. Ries is going to pay out a pretty penny in insurance.”

  “Did anybody else lose property? Amanda’s show was in the main hall of the warehouse, but other artists show their work there. What about them?”

  “Outside of the fashion show, everything went untouched. If damages were sustained to anybody else on the property, they haven’t been filed.”

  16

  So the rest of the tenants of Warehouse Five hadn’t been impacted by the fire, but Amanda was at risk of losing everything. I hadn’t been expecting that. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Kidd.”

  Three fires at the same location: the one that was part of my attack, the runway show and now the Dumpster. It had to mean something, but what? What exactly did I know? Not much.

  Could Gigger be right that the movement I’d seen was a rat? I shuddered. No, if I suspected it was a rodent big enough to catch my attention across the parking lot, I never would have driven over to see it. Someone had been back there. Either the person who set the fire, or the person in the Dumpster. I shuddered again.

  Gigger might have assumed that I’d seen a rat, but Dante believed me. It was that belief that kept me focused on finding the truth. Last night, we’d been a team. Not the bumbling Keystone Cops type, but two people focused on finding answers. Already I could see that, when it came to investigation, Dante knew what he was doing. The cover story with Amanda, the camera with the infrared film, the wariness when giving a statement to Gigger all illustrated that. I could learn from him.

  Dante hadn’t chided me for the way I’d handled the police. He didn’t warn me away from danger. Ever since I’d found the evidence that he had a whole other life, one that had started long before he and I met, I wondered what else there was to get to know about him. But even that bothered me too. Was he just another mystery that I wanted to solve? And once I saw him as a real person, not a dangerous semi-stranger, would the attraction dissipate?

  I hoped I wasn’t that shallow.

  More and more, as questions about the fire and subsequently the job with Amanda came up, I questioned my involvement. There was a bigger personal issue here, one that transcended the investigation and the dangerous situations in the past. It was my ongoing need to find where I fit in.

  Giving up my job at Bentley’s New York and moving back to Ribbon had been intended to help me figure that out, but being back in the house where I’d grown up had had an unexpected side effect of grounding me somewhere in my childhood. Here I was, over a year into that move, and no closer to finding answers.

  I loved the city of Ribbon, with its pretzel factories and Pennsylvania Dutch restaurants. What I didn’t love was feeling like I’d somehow reverted back in time. In my professional life as a buyer, I’d known what I was doing. I had confidence in my abilities. And even though I knew I’d chosen to leave that job behind, it seemed I’d lost something of me in the process.

  I hummed the Japanese pop song that I suspected would be stuck in my head indefinitely and made a long-overdue phone call. Dante returned with the coffee a few minutes after I hung up.

  “What were your plans for developing that film?” I asked.

  “I’d like to get to it today, but first I need a darkroom.”

  “Take me to the crime scene so I can get my car. You can come back here. There’s a small room in the basement where my dad used to make wine. I’ll give you the keys and you can do whatever you need to do to set it up as your darkroom.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “I have some personal business to attend to.”

  Dante didn’t pry. I respected him a little more because of that. And even if he did ask, I wasn’t sure I’d tell him where I was going.

  Back to Bentley’s New York to talk to my former boss. Because a year was long enough to flounder while trying to figure things out on my own. Life didn’t seem to be headed the right direction and there was a very small chance that, I’d need to give up everything I thought I wanted in Ribbon and go back to the life I’d left behind.

  After we retriev
ed my car from Warehouse Five, Dante followed me back to my house. I showed him the darkroom and left him alone while I showered and changed into a black leather skirt, black tights, and black over-the-knee boots. I pulled on a red motorcycle jacket, grabbed my keys, and took off.

  Two and a half hours later, I pulled into a public parking lot across from Bentley’s New York and spent more on parking than I had on a pizza last night. The air was pungent with the mixture of Chinese food and cigarette smoke. I held my breath and jogged to the customer entrance on Broadway. Once inside, a determined perfume sampler added a spritz of the latest Estee Lauder fragrance to the olfactory mix.

  Good times.

  As if an autopilot program had been activated, I bypassed displays of new merchandise and hopped into the Up elevator. When I reached the fourteenth floor, I got out, climbed three steps, followed a long hallway, and turned left. My former boss’ office was the third on the right.

  “Knock, knock,” I said, lightly rapping my knuckles against the nameplate that read ‘Marcia Dann.’ Marcia looked up from her computer and smiled.

  “Well, hello, stranger,” she said. “Come on in.”

  “Do you mind if I shut the door?” I asked.

  “Go right ahead.” She didn’t seem surprised that I’d asked. “How’s life in the small town?”

  “I’ve found the simple life not so simple.” I smiled. “It would appear that I’m having a hard time transitioning from being a city mouse.”

  “Personally or professionally?”

  “Both.”

  “Have you talked to your parents about this?”

  “My parents told me to sell the house and move in with them until I figure things out.”

  “You’re not moving in with your parents. Life is about moving forward, not backward.”

  “So I guess you don’t think it would be wise for me to ask for my old job back?”

  She leaned back and tapped a soft pink sculptured nail on her desk. “You could have asked me that question over the phone. Why did you really drive a hundred and fifty miles to come see me?”