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

by Diane Vallere

  I shivered. None of that was going to be easy.

  And on top of everything else, I’d promised Nancie photos.

  First, I pulled a carton of Neapolitan ice cream out of the freezer. It was slightly less than half full. I ate a scoop and called Amanda. Tiny answered

  “Hi, Tiny, this is Samantha.”

  “Sam, hey. It’s been a couple of days. How are you feeling?”

  I cringed. I really did prefer Samantha. “Better. The first couple of days were pretty painful, but the doctors said I’ll heal. Thanks for asking,” I added.

  “So the doctors gave you a clean bill of health? Which doctors? I’ll follow up with them.”

  I misunderstood her. “I didn’t accrue any major medical bills, but thanks for the offer.” The phone was silent. “Tiny?” I prompted.

  She laughed. “Medical bills, that’s funny.” She cleared her through and I realized the laughter had been forced for impact. “You were attacked outside of the warehouse where I showed my collection. We have no liability for accidents that take place in public areas.”

  “You thought I was going to sue you?”

  “Just try it. I doubt you’ll get far.” There was an awkward pause. “Listen. Sorry about the accusations. Things have been tense around here ever since the fire. First your attack, then the fire. It’s a never-ending stream of bad publicity. I’d give my right arm for some good press right now.”

  “You can’t honestly tell me that nobody from the media has contacted you about all of this. Somebody must have offered to run a puff piece in order to get an inside scoop.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t want a puff piece. I don’t want the fire to be the focus. This is a business. Amanda needs coverage that’s going to get us orders. Everything else is a distraction.”

  If I wasn’t mistaking, that knocking sound I heard was opportunity standing at my door. “I might be able to help you with that. I spoke to a contact in the industry earlier today and she’s interested in a feature on Amanda’s collection. Any chance you can talk her into giving me an exclusive?”

  20

  “What’s the feature?” Tiny asked.

  “Backstage at a runway show, glamour of fashion, the hype of a new designer, that sort of thing.”

  “She could really use something like that. Where will it be syndicated?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Tiny, somebody’s going to write about this sooner or later. Clive Barrington is bound to sell off his photos to the highest bidder. Amanda has a better chance of a fair story with me writing it than with a stranger. I can do the story based on my experiences prior to the show, but it’ll be best if I write about the whole thing, fire and all.”

  I let my words dangle in the air for a few seconds. It was harder to not fill the silence with words than it was to sleep on my side with a midsection full of bruises. Finally, she spoke.

  “Can you play ball with Clive?”

  “If you give me his number.

  She rattled off his digits and I wrote them on the side of the ice cream carton.

  “Be here in an hour. Oscar LeVay is due here for a meeting with Amanda. After that, you’re up.”

  “Oscar’s on his way? For what?”

  “See you soon.” I hung up and grabbed my handbag. No way was I going to pass up a chance to watch Amanda interact with Oscar. I still suspected that he’d taken the threatening letters from her desk, and I wanted to know why.

  I shrugged into my coat, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and whipped the front door open. Standing on my doorstep was Molly Diers.

  She wore the same olive green snorkel coat she’d worn the first day we met. A brown stain had been added to the front. On her legs were heathered gray sweatpants that ended in elasticized cuffs right above thick white socks and neon cross trainers.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had a last minute yoga class this morning. Did I miss my whole appointment?”

  In the mix of everything that had been happening—the arson, the date-not-date with Dante, the trip to New York, the potential new job, and the visit with Detective Loncar—I’d completely forgotten about Molly’s need for a makeover. Problem was, Molly was really in need.

  Really, really in need.

  “I’m sorry that you came all this way. Something came up and I have to leave. It’s an emergency.”

  “A fashion emergency? Bigger than me?”

  I looked her over again. “Can you come back this afternoon?”

  “The kids will be out of school at two forty-five. If I can come at four, I could focus more.”

  “Four. Sure.” The only thing I had planned for the day was to go to Amanda’s showroom and then come home and write an article for Nancie. I could do that in five hours, right? “Four o’clock. Meet me here and we’ll have another consultation.”

  “I don’t need another consultation, I need clothes. I thought you were going to have something for me to look at today. My ex-husband is coming in for his parents 50th anniversary and he’s bringing Lolita!”

  “His new girlfriend’s name is Lolita?”

  “It might as well be. I can’t see him like this.” She looked down at the green snorkel coat and picked at a clump of what appeared to be dried-on scrambled eggs.

  I did some mental calculation. Go to Amanda’s, stop by Tradava for some clothes for Molly, and then come home and write the article. It would be tight, but I could do it. And in the category of keeping myself busy so I didn’t think about Nick or Dante, it was just what the doctor would have ordered. If there’d been a doctor in this scenario.

  “I’ll have everything ready when you get here.”

  “Great. Thank you, Samantha. You really are a lifesaver,” she said. She pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. I wanted to spin her around and give her a push toward her car but that somehow felt too rude. Patiently, I stood on my porch and waited for her to put away the soiled Kleenex, pull a handful of flotsam out of her other pocket, and dig through it for her car keys. Two sourball candies wrapped in plastic and a pack of matches fell to the porch before she looped her finger through the key ring. I was afraid if she bent down to collect them she’d drop everything else in her hand.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, and stooped down. I closed a gloved hand around the candies and picked up the plain white matchbook with my other hand. “Do you smoke?” I asked.

  “No, why?”

  “I don’t see a lot of people with matchbooks these days.”

  “It’s a memento. The last time a stranger hit on me in a bar.”

  I put my hand on her upper arm and gently turned her around. “Molly, things will get better for you. I don’t know how long it’s been, but you’ll get back out there again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know how long you’ve been carrying around this packet of matches, but your confidence will come back. Before you know it, the night when a stranger hits on you will be one of many.”

  She turned back to face me. “It was this past Saturday night,” she said. She glanced at the matches. “He was a creep who was looking for a nude model. Do I look like model material?” She waved her hand up and down the length of her stained snorkel coat. “When my ex left me for a younger woman, I decided to teach my kids something about integrity. But please,” she paused, “do something about this.” She left me on the porch and drove away.

  I glanced down at the matches in my hand. It seemed pretty silly that such a small thing could give Molly Diers a confidence boost. It wasn’t the matches themselves, it was what they represented.

  I was about to toss them when I noticed something written on the inside. I flipped the package open and saw a phone number, followed by the letters C. B. I knew of a C. B. In fact, I knew of a C. B. who was just seedy enough to use a pickup line about models. I raced back inside and pulled the Neapolitan of ice cream out of the freezer. The number I�
�d written on the side matched.

  So Clive Barrington had given away a pack of matches after the fire at Amanda’s show. Did it mean something? I intended to find out. I called the number.

  “Clive Barrington,” he answered.

  “This is Samantha Kidd.”

  “Ah, love, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I was talking to one of my clients and she just so happened to have a pack of matches with your number on them.” I paused for effect. “It struck me as curious that you had a pack of matches on you and that you gave them away the day after the fire at Amanda’s show. Perhaps trying to rid yourself of evidence?”

  “I hardly think I’d write my name and number inside matches that were used to start a fire. Come on, love, I expected more from you.”

  And I’d expected less of him. “She said you asked her to model for you. Is that the best pickup line you have?”

  “I wouldn’t resort to using something so mundane. The models I shoot aren’t amateurs. Although I’d make an exception in your case. How about it, Ms. Kidd? Care to let me take artistic photographs of you?”

  “No thanks.” I hung up without saying goodbye. I tossed the matches on the counter and left. Even with the sidetracks of Molly’s appearance and the conversation with Clive, less than an hour had passed. I still hoped to arrive at Amanda’s before Oscar left.

  I’d have a better chance of getting film if I showed up with a photographer than if I asked permission first. There was only one way to turn.

  “Dante, this is Samantha. Meet me at Amanda’s showroom as soon as you can. Bring your photography equipment.” I left the address on his voicemail and disconnected. I nestled the phone into the cup holder next to the list I’d made yesterday while driving home from the Big Apple. “Get Job” was at the top. Stay focused, Samantha. This article is about getting paid, not about the investigation. And if—no, when—I got the job I’d celebrate by buying Logan that fancy cat toy. Productivity was my middle name.

  I parked in the driveway next to a shiny black sedan. It was the same car that had parked next to the Corvette the first day I came to Amanda’s studio. I followed the sidewalk to the front door and listened before knocking. The door was too thick. I bent down and crept under the front windows, and then peered into the corner.

  Oscar stood facing Amanda. Today he wore a navy blue three piece suit with a paisley necktie. “Thank you for understanding,” he said.

  “Had she mentioned that she was going to Mexico?” Amanda asked.

  “Harper was a loner. She didn’t have friends at the agency. The only person she listened to was her sister. If anything, I’d think the others were jealous of her rise. Perhaps that made things more difficult for her. Perhaps that’s why she left without telling anyone.”

  I strained to keep up with their conversation, plugging one finger into my right ear and pressing my left closer to the glass. The voices stopped. After a few seconds, the front door opened. Amanda looked at me standing under the window.

  “You’re early,” she said.

  “I was already on my way.”

  She leaned forward and looked at the patch of lawn where I’d been standing, and then turned around and went inside. I followed. “Have a seat. Oscar and I are finishing up.”

  Oscar wasn’t in the room, and I hardly suspected him of hiding behind the wicker screen like I’d done days before. “Where is he?” Just then, a toilet flushed. “Oh.”

  The tall man came out of the powder room. He saw me, and then looked at Amanda. “We’ve reached an understanding?” he asked her. She nodded. He lifted a wool cape from a peg on the wall and draped it around his massive shoulders. He his hat from a chair and tipped it my direction before putting it on and leaving.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “‘Okay’ is hardly the term I’d use.”

  “Is he still demanding payment?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And Tiny said I have to pay if I want to come out of this with my reputation intact.”

  “Where is Tiny? I expected her to be here.”

  “She’s at the bank. Nobody wants anything from me except for money.”

  I stepped forward and put my hand on her arm. “This article can help you with that. I don’t know how much Tiny told you, but I saw the collection at the showroom. I know the vibe you were going for. I’m a good person to make this happen because of that. If you’re interested, let me get a few shots around here. Your office, your inspiration boards, your samples. What didn’t make the runway show and why? That sort of thing.”

  She sipped her coffee and the silence ballooned. I waited her out. Finally, she set the mug down on her desk and crossed her arms. “This collection was inspired by Kaiju movies and outer space. Think Godzilla on the moon.”

  “But prior to this collection, you were known for classic silhouettes. You interned for Maries Paulson—”

  “Tiny doesn’t want me to talk about that collaboration.”

  “Why not?”

  “She says I have to make a name for myself, not rely on the names of people I worked for already.”

  I didn’t understand Tiny’s motivation. Amanda’s past collaborations and internships would separate her from a pack of recent design school graduates. Her experience would show that she had more than what you can teach in a classroom. Tiny sounded like she wanted to negate all of that. It seemed to me that Amanda didn’t need a business partner, she needed a publicist.

  “When you graduated from design school, your first solo collection was ice cream factory meets Ralph Lauren. Lilac turtlenecks and riding pants, pink satin ball skirts with fitted T-shirts and cropped boucle jackets, robin’s egg blue wool blazers with matching suede elbow patches. How do you go from that to Godzilla on the moon?” I waved my hand around the part of the showroom filled with racks of cast off garments.

  “My preppy stuff wasn’t getting me noticed. Tiny said I needed a Hail Mary. That’s what this collection was. A big risk that could have potentially changed everything. I had appointments with editors from all the major magazines lined up to view the samples after the show.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “No samples, no appointments.” She waved toward a rack. “These are new. Tiny pushed me to make a second set of samples to show the buyers who showed interest.” She stepped away from the fixture and looked over my shoulder. “Who are you?” she said suddenly.

  I turned around. Dante stood inside the room.

  “I’m the new photographer. Samantha asked me to meet her here.” He pulled a business card out from inside his leather jacket and handed it to her. She studied it for a couple of seconds and then stuffed it into her pocket.

  “Tiny didn’t say you were bringing a photographer,” she said to me.

  “Amanda, consider this a second chance to make that Hail Mary pass that Tiny talked about. I’m here. He’s here. We’ll take photos. You can use them to shop the collection to whomever you want.” I held my breath. Her eyes bounced back and forth between my left eye and my right, like she’d discovered that they were two different colors.

  “Your photographer isn’t prepared for a full-on photo shoot.”

  “I have everything I need in the car,” Dante said.

  Now her eyes bounced back and forth between him and me. “You’re not going to get a better chance than this one,” I said. “Especially one that won’t cost you an arm and a leg.”

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through her contacts. Before making a call, she looked up. “One model, one hour.”

  “I have a better idea,” Dante said. “Let Samantha try on the samples. Save you the money on a model and the time it would take for her to get here. You’ll be here the whole time, so you’ll see everything I see.”

  Before I had a chance to point out that I wasn’t exactly a model size, Dante pinched my arm. I didn’t know him well enough to know what he was thinking, but I hoped he had more of a plan than em
barrassing me with a split seam.

  “That’ll work,” Amanda finally said.

  “I’ll get my equipment,” he said. “Samantha, you want to help?”

  “Samantha can get undressed. I’ll help.” She pointed to the small scrim that I’d hid behind when Oscar LeVay had first stormed into the showroom. “Change behind that. Samples are on this rack. Considering the sizes, you might want to start with the kimonos.”

  I made a face at her behind her back, and then, when the front door closed, grabbed a garment and disappeared behind the scrim. Within seconds my motorcycle jacket, sweater, skirt, tights, and boots were on the floor and I was clothed in a thin red cotton robe. The showroom was colder than I would have liked, and as soon as Amanda and Dante returned, it would be obvious to everybody in the room.

  While Dante’s plan had the possibly intended goal of embarrassing me, it had also left me alone in Amanda’s showroom until they returned.

  First thing I did was look through her desk drawers for the threatening letters. With one hand holding the robe shut, I made slow progress. I needed both hands. I let go of the neckline and dug through her desk. Five pair of scissors, a couple of tape measures, a stack of sketch pads. Paper clips, Post-its, pencils and pens and highlighters. I was so absorbed in the search of her desk that I didn’t hear her come back inside.

  “Just what the heck do you think you’re doing?” Amanda asked.

  21

  Breakup Rule #6: Keep wearing good underwear.

  The red cotton robe flew open. Dante’s camera snapped several shots. I pulled the robe closed and glared at him.

  “I was looking for the letters,” I said.

  Amanda crossed the room and slammed her desk drawers shut. “You weren’t supposed to tell anybody about those,” she hissed. She looked at Dante, and then back at me.

  “I’m only trying to help.”