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

by Diane Vallere

  I collected my thoughts for a few seconds, while fragmented memories of my nine years at Bentley’s filtered through my mind. “You took a chance on hiring me, and I learned more working for you than any other time in my life—at least until I moved back to Ribbon.”

  “Yes, I imagine three homicide investigations can do that to a girl,” she smiled. “Samantha, do you remember the year I hired you?”

  I nodded.

  “You didn’t know everything there was to know about being a buyer. In fact, you didn’t know much about being a buyer at all. But you had a certain skill set: creative and analytical. You watched the other buyers. And you learned fast. By the time you resigned, you were the person other buyers watched.”

  “It’s just that—now—something is holding me back. The job at Tradava didn’t work out, and then the job at Heist didn’t last, and, well, something’s got to give.”

  “You wanted to leave Bentley’s. Coming back here isn’t going to give you any satisfaction. You thrive when there are problems to be solved. You already know how to solve the problems of retail. Three month projections, overstocked inventory, assorting a department, making advertising choices. You need to apply that same analytical thinking that served you as a buyer to your own life.”

  “Do you think it’s that easy?”

  “Nothing good in life is easy. But people do things so they can grow. If you haven’t grown from this move, then you haven’t figured out why you went there to begin with.” She leaned back. “Let me ask you this: why did you want to work at Tradava?”

  “I was in Ribbon, my parents were moving, and Patrick found me sitting in the parking lot with my cat. We talked for five minutes and we clicked. It felt like a sign.”

  “Patrick was a genius and he would have made a good mentor, but you were overqualified for the job. If that had worked out, you would have asked for your old job back a year ago.”

  She slid the top drawer of her desk open and pulled out a red business card that said Retrofit Magazine. “A friend of mine is starting up her own magazine. She’s looking for a fashion director, someone who can recognize trends and work independently. We’re not talking comfortable little job, here, Samantha, we’re talking international travel for Fashion Week. Discovering new talent. Getting in on the ground floor of something new. ” She tapped the card on the desk. “You could do this if you wanted.”

  She held out the card. This was it. This was the opportunity I wanted. I took it.

  “Thank you, Marcia,” I said.

  She held her hands up. “Don’t thank me. I have no say on whether or not you get the job. There’s probably a hundred fashion bloggers out there who would sell off half of their closet for this opportunity. If you want it, you’re going to have to go for it. And I mean that literally—she’s going to need to see what you can do.”

  “Anybody who would sell off half of their closet for this opportunity should rethink the clothes they’ve been hoarding all these years.”

  “That’s why I’m giving you the card.”

  We caught up on industry gossip before she headed to a meeting and I left. I had driven over two hours for a thirty minute meeting that restored my self-confidence and recharged my core values. I left Bentley’s feeling more inspired than I had twenty-four hours ago, and more resolute that my decision to leave had been the right one.

  It was a little after two. Traffic would become an issue by three, although there really was no good time to drive in Manhattan. Still, I couldn’t resist a quick trip to Figaro for an afternoon chocolate soufflé. I mean, it’s important to recognize the really special things in life. And it was right around the corner.

  I walked to the corner of 57th and Broadway and hopped out at the light. Figaro was a small European restaurant nestled in the middle of an otherwise residential street. A chalkboard out front listed the specials. It was the only indication that an eatery resided below street level. The chocolate soufflés were legendary to those in the know, and took twenty minutes to rise. The hostess led me to a window table, where I placed my order without looking at the menu.

  Eleven minutes into the wait, I saw a familiar person walking down the opposite side of the street.

  What was Nick doing in New York City?

  He crossed to my side of the street. I picked up my handbag, coat, and scarf and asked the hostess where the restroom was. I gave him five minutes to get past Figaro before coming out.

  When I left the restroom, he was being seated.

  I glanced at my table. My soufflé sat, alone, next to my water glass. The soufflé was already starting to fall.

  Crap. The only reason I knew about this restaurant was because Nick and I used to have business dinners here during Market Week.

  My options were limited. I ducked behind a ficus tree and leaned forward, flagging down the hostess. She didn’t look at me until after I resorted to “Pssssst!”

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  I kept my voice low. “I have a sudden emergency and I have to leave. That’s my soufflé on the table over there.” I pointed. Nick looked up and I ducked back behind the tree again. “Can I get it wrapped up to go?” I whispered.

  “There’s no way to transfer it from the clay pot to the takeout container. Plus, they have to be eaten right away,” she said.

  “Do what you can. It’s an emergency.” I pulled a twenty dollar bill from my wallet and thrust it at her. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  The fallen soufflé was gone by the time I returned to Ribbon. I’d like to say that it helped me feel better, but it didn’t. The only thing it accomplished was making my skirt feel tight in the waist.

  17

  I pulled into my driveway at six thirty. My spontaneous tell-me-why-I’m-fabulous trip had taken over three hours thanks to my chocolate soufflé-and-Nick surprise, but a particular clarity often follows a quenched chocolate craving. I’d been able to focus on the matters at hand while driving. And, as I’d come to organize them while sitting in traffic, the matters at hand were as follows:

  1.Get job

  2.Find out who’s out to get Amanda and why I was attacked in the process

  3. Buy Logan one of those As Seen on TV cat toys

  4a. Analyze feelings about Nick and

  4b. Determine how they pertain to feelings about Dante

  5. Start exercise regime!

  During the last twenty minutes of traffic I’d taken time to rank them in order of importance.

  I didn’t know if I would be coming home to company or not. My self-confidence detour through New York had left me with a feeling of independence and a clarity of purpose I’d sorely needed to find. I hadn’t called Dante to check in. It wasn’t until my car was safely parked in my garage that it occurred to me that he hadn’t checked in with me either.

  There was a note taped to the TV. Samantha, photos are in the darkroom. I leave it up to you to review and share with your detective friend.

  I filled Logan’s water dish and shook a few extra cat kibbles into his bowl. He buried his face in his food as soon as I set it down. I left him alone in the kitchen, figuring we’d have time to catch up later.

  I jogged down the stairs and went into the darkroom. The room, originally designed to be little more than a large storage closet, was lined on the right with built-in counter tops that wrapped around to the back wall. Basins of liquid sat next to each other along the counter. Light bulbs were suspended above them from cords that were duct taped to the wall to keep them out of the way.

  The left hand side of the small closet was filled with metal baker’s racks that held cast off games, toys, and empty glass bottles that my dad had at one time planned to use for his homemade beer and wine. An old scuba suit hung from the corner of one fixture. The mask, snorkel, and flippers sat in a pile on the floor.

  I approached the right side of the room. Hanging above the basins of liquid was a length of twine, strung from wall to wall like a clothes line. Small black binder c
lips secured 8x10 photos from the crime scene onto the twine. I scanned the lot of them, wondering what, if anything, I’d notice.

  I spotted the silver wig in the fourth picture. The wig Harper had worn.

  The composition of the photo caught the corner of the warehouse. I glanced at the preceding photos and saw what Dante had done. He had started with his back to the building and taken the first picture, and then snapped additional pictures as he slowly turned around. In an aerial view of the lot, his pictures would make up one o’clock, three o’clock, nine, and eleven. The photo with the wig was at nine. The wig was on the ground next to a somewhat rusted tin trash can.

  Since being involved in a homicide when I first moved to Ribbon, I’d tried to make up for what I lacked in common sense when it came to crime scenes. I read Forensics for Dummies and watched Adam-12 marathons when I was alone. It was no citizen’s police academy, but it was something. It made me think that, if a crime had been committed at this warehouse days ago, the police would have searched through the trash to look for clues.

  Which meant the trash overflowing from this particular can was new.

  Which told me that someone from the fashion show had returned to Warehouse Five after the fire and thrown the wig out.

  The real question was, why?

  I started back at the beginning and followed the narrative. They told a story that continued around the perimeter of the building to the other side of the lot where I’d been. A few photos included me, approaching the Dumpster. The last one was me, turned around, yelling for Dante. After that, he must have let the camera dangle from his neck when he ran to where I was.

  If I hadn’t yelled for him, he might have crept closer. He might have photographed evidence of whatever—or whoever—I’d seen by the Dumpster. He might have seen it too.

  It occurred to me that whoever started the fire had taken a big chance in doing so while we were on the property. They could have been spotted. So either the fire had been for our benefit, or someone had been trying to destroy evidence before we discovered it. Had that someone been watching us the entire time we were there?

  It would take a remote detonator to start a fire from a distance. How far of a distance, I didn’t know. But assuming the arsonist had been watching me approach the Dumpster, there was a chance that he didn’t know about Dante, who had been on the other side of the building. That meant the arsonist didn’t know about the existence of the photos.

  Suddenly, it seemed very important that I set up a meeting with Detective Loncar.

  I unclipped the photos and carried them upstairs. The mailman had delivered my auto insurance documents last week, and I slid them out of the envelope and replaced them with the pictures. I called Loncar. It was seven thirty, and I wondered briefly if his wife ever questioned his off-hour phone activity.

  When he answered, I identified myself. “Detective Loncar, this is Samantha Kidd. I know you weren’t really expecting to hear from me, but I have some information I need to give you.”

  “Ms. Kidd, I’m about to sit down to dinner. Can this wait until tomorrow?”

  “Okay, sure,” I said. “I’ll come to your office. What time?”

  There was a pause. “What’s this information in reference to?”

  “The Warehouse Five explosion last night. I have pictures that I think you should see, unless you’d rather I take them to Inspector Gigger—”

  “Where’d you get these pictures?”

  There was no way to skirt the issue and expect the detective to take me seriously, but I didn’t want to drag Dante into anything he shouldn’t be a part of. “The pictures are legitimate. Anything more will have to wait until we meet.”

  He made a noise that might have been accompanied by a shake of the head or an eyeroll. “Ms. Kidd, where are you?”

  “At my house.”

  “Same address?”

  “Same address.”

  “Hold on.” I heard muffled sound, as if he was holding his hand over the receiver. Seconds later he returned. “You planning on going out any time soon?”

  “No.”

  “I’m on my way.” He disconnected.

  * * *

  By the time Loncar arrived, I had the photos scattered around the living room. They started on the gray sofa and worked their way around the floor to the black and white armchairs that sat in front of the blue tweed curtains. The last few were on the chrome and glass coffee table, resting on top of the latest book on Halston. There was probably a more standard way to assemble them, but I wanted Loncar to see the photos in the same order I had.

  “Hi, Detective. Come on in,” I said after greeting him at the door.

  He leaned into my house and looked around first, and then wiped his feet on the Welcome mat and crossed the threshold.

  The last time Detective Loncar had been inside of my house was the day he’d taken me to the police station for suspicion of murdering my boss. I liked to think we’d come a long way since then. Maybe I should have picked up some champagne to celebrate.

  “I’m sorry to pull you away from your family time and your dinner.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “No, this could probably have waited—”

  “My wife made meatloaf. The last three times she made it, it was still raw in the middle. There’s not enough ketchup in the world to save raw meatloaf.”

  Considering my culinary skills (or rather the lack thereof), I filed that bit of info away for future reference. Who knew ketchup was part of the meatloaf serving process?

  He looked at the photos strewn around the room. “So, what do you have?” he asked.

  In the thirteen minutes after hanging up with Loncar and determining the layout of the photos, I decided to tell him where the pictures had come from. I’d started looking into this whole thing because I’d been attacked, but after seeing a body part in the Dumpster, I knew that attack was minor compared to whatever was going on.

  “Remember the photographer I introduced you to last night? Dante Lestes?” Loncar nodded. “He took these pictures while we were there.”

  “You didn’t mention these last night.”

  “Dante was on the other side of the warehouse. I didn’t know what he was doing over there. He ran around to my side when I saw the fire—and the leg—and the—”

  “Explosion. I remember your statement.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown coat and looked at the layout of photos.

  “Start here,” I said, and led him to the first photo. I stood back and watched him move from one to the next, occasionally looking back. When he reached the photo of the trash can by the back door, he picked it up and looked at the back left corner.

  “Look at the—”

  He cut me off with a hand held palm side out. I bit my bottom lip and waited for him to say something.

  He pulled his cell phone out, thumbed the screen, and held it up to his head. “Yo, chief. Remember those photos from the fire at the warehouse last week? Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Find me the one on the north side of the building and check if there was any trash in the bin. They did? Where’s it now?”

  I stepped forward and opened my eyes wide like I wanted him to tell me what was going on. He turned his back to me. “Uh-huh. Good. Yep. Tomorrow.” He hung up.

  “Ms. Kidd, tell me what made you notice this particular photo.”

  “Well, there shouldn’t be any trash in the bin, right? Your guys would have emptied whatever was in there the day after the fire. So why’s it full? I could understand maybe a couple of paper cups or something, but full? That tells me that someone was there after the fire. Someone who had enough to throw out that they filled that trash can.”

  He nodded.

  “And then there’s the wig,” I added.

  “The wig?”

  “Right there, that silver thing on the ground. That’s the wig Harper wore in the fashion show the night of the fire. What’s it doing in the trash now? Why wasn’t it there two days ago
? Who threw it away?”

  “Harper wore the silver wig? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I was there. I saw it. Detective, I think somebody’s been back to Warehouse Five. I think last night’s fire was about destroying evidence.”

  He picked up the photos from the black and white chair closest to the door and sank into it. “Ms. Kidd, we looked in the Dumpster after you left last night. We didn’t find evidence of a body. The Dumpster contents were pretty much destroyed by the time the fire was out.” He set the stack of photos on the coffee table. “We did find one thing on the ground by the edge of the property.”

  “What?”

  “A key card to the warehouse. Photo ID on it says it belongs to Santangelo Toma.”

  18

  “Santangelo Toma is an artist who rents space inside Warehouse Five,” I said.

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Just that he didn’t like how Amanda’s team took over the warehouse. He said he hadn’t been able to concentrate since they started setting everything up and he couldn’t wait until the show was over. He called it a circus and was unhappy about the whole setup.”

  Loncar leaned forward. “How unhappy? Are we talking annoyed or angry?”

  “He filed a complaint with the building management but they ignored him. Apparently the money Amanda’s show was expected to pull in far outweighed the rent of any of the other tenants, so his complaints fell on deaf ears.”

  “Was he the only one who complained?”

  “I think so. He said he started a petition to get her kicked out of the warehouse, but nobody wanted to sign it. Tiny arranged for the rest of the tenants to see the show. Ribbon isn’t the biggest town in the world, and most of them were excited about the idea that a major fashion show was going to take place where they worked.”

  “She excluded him?”

  “No, he tore up the tickets and threw them back at her. But he was there. I saw him go backstage before the show. It’s on the video. Do you want to see?”

  Detective Loncar glanced at the ancient VCR. “I’ve got my own copy. Thanks.” He picked up the stack of photos and tapped the edge along the glass coffee table. “Did you have any personal beef with Mr. Toma?”