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

by Diane Vallere

  “Then do what you said you were coming here to do.” She disappeared into the back room.

  Dante stepped closer to me. I looked up at him, my knuckles turning white as I clutched the robe shut. “Thanks for the heads up. I thought you were going to be lugging in a bunch of equipment?”

  “I said ‘equipment.’ I never said ‘a bunch.’” He glanced down at my white knuckles. “I know you’re cold, but you’re going to have to relax for the photos.”

  “Fine. Tell Amanda to turn up the heat.”

  He slipped his hand inside the collar of the robe, bent down, and kissed the side of my neck. Cold was no longer an issue.

  I stepped back. “Let’s do this.”

  One hour and seventeen costume changes later, I was back in my turtleneck, skirt, and boots. Dante had used one large overhead light as a spot above me. I rested in a chair opposite Amanda’s desk while he packed it up.

  “I’m curious,” Amanda said. “Why do you use film when you could go digital?”

  “Film captures reality,” Dante said. “It takes more than a point and click mentality to get the shot. You know those Hollywood glamour photos from the thirties and forties? Film. One overhead light, just like we used here. The light defines the angles of the face. No need for retouching. You might want to consider it for your catalog.”

  “You’re not going to touch these up?” I asked in a panic.

  “I’ll use a white pencil to bring out the highlights. I won’t need more than that.”

  I found an empty hanger and re-hung the red robe. It had served as my between-outfits costume, keeping the secret that I couldn’t close most of Amanda’s samples. Amanda glanced at me and stood up. “Can I talk to Sam alone for a second?”

  “Sure.” I gave Dante an I-don’t-know-what-this-is-about look. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, saluted us, and then left.

  As soon as the door was shut, she held out her hand. “I’d like those letters back,” she said.

  “I don’t have them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “You left them on your desk the day that you showed them to me. I hid behind the screen when Oscar showed up, and when I came out, they were gone.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oscar took them? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I thought maybe you had the foresight to put them away before you let him in. If you didn’t, then I think it’s safe to assume that he took them. You didn’t think anything when they were missing?”

  “I thought you took them.” Her eyes were wide with fear. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

  “Amanda, he only has a copy. Tell the police. They have the originals, right?”

  “What are the police going to do?”

  “They’ll ask him about them. That’ll keep you from being involved. Let Detective Loncar do his job,” I finished.

  Amanda shooed me out of her studio and I found Dante waiting by the Corvette. “You were pretty good in there,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t do that to me again.”

  “What? I thought you’d like having a chance to examine the samples up close. I can’t think of anything closer than getting you inside them.”

  “In case you didn’t notice, I didn’t entirely fit inside them,” I said, remembering the strapless red gown that didn’t zip up the back. Thanks to Dante’s suggestion that I step in as model, Amanda had gotten an unexpected peek at my underwear. Hard to maintain your post-breakup class around the maybe-former girlfriend when she knows your panties have a bow in the back.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you lunch to make up for it.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m going to skip lunch. Too much to do. You should get back to the darkroom to develop the film.”

  He slung his bag over one shoulder and tipped his head. “Just because the red gown didn’t zip up over your hips doesn’t mean you have to give up food,” he said.

  “You think the fact that I didn’t fit in a sample sized dress is going to make me give up food? You have a lot to learn about me.”

  “I guess I do.”

  I zipped up my coat. The air was cold and wet, like the gas around a fresh tray of ice cubes when you first pull them out of the freezer. I stopped by my car, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I held it in for a few seconds and then exhaled. The crispness invigorated me. I’d always loved the first cold snaps of the season, the promise of impending flurries, and the beauty of a fresh blanket of white snow when it covered the streets and yards.

  A series of clicks sounded. I opened my eyes and found Dante with camera in hand. I threw my own hand up in front of my face. “What are you doing? The photo shoot is over.”

  “Just thought I deserved something for my hard work.”

  “I think you got that something when my kimono opened up.”

  “I didn’t look,” he said. He kept a straight face and I almost believed him.

  I unlocked the car and tossed my bag on the passenger side seat. “I have a client coming this afternoon and I don’t want any distractions.”

  “A distraction, huh? I was wondering how you compartmentalized me.”

  “I don’t compartmentalize people,” I said. Real classy, I thought. That’s the equivalent to did not/did too in the fourth grade playground.

  Dante folded his arms on the top of the Corvette and leaned on them. The black leather of his motorcycle jacket tightened around his muscles. A blast of wind tossed my hair around my face. Dante’s jet-black Elvis-style barely moved, except for the strands that dusted his forehead.

  “Samantha, I don’t judge you for who you are, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see who you are. You put people in boxes to keep them separate from each other. It’s like you’re protecting your relationships so they’re there when you need them. Friends go here,” he stood up straight and pantomimed something on his left side. “Bad guys go here,” he pantomimed to his right. “I don’t know where you tried to file your last boyfriend. I don’t even know if he’s still in the picture.” He walked around the Corvette and stopped when he was facing me. He reached a hand out and tugged on the collar of my coat. “I’m waiting to see where you file me.”

  “Dante, I can’t offer you anything other than what we have right now,” I said.

  He picked up my hand and pressed my fingers to his lips. “You’ll tell me when you figure things out?”

  “I’ll tell you when I figure things out.”

  He nodded and put his equipment in the Corvette. I got into my car, backed out of Amanda’s driveway, and left. As I reached the corner, I glanced in the rear view mirror. Dante was still standing by the Corvette, watching me drive away. I turned right at the corner, turned right again at the Stop Sign, and pulled over into the red zone.

  I wasn’t anywhere close to figuring things out.

  Since leaving Dante’s apartment yesterday morning, I’d gone to New York, reconnected with my boss, talked my way into a job opportunity, and established a working relationship with Detective Loncar. These were all people who served a purpose. Was Dante right? Did I compartmentalize the people in my life so they’d be there when I needed them?

  I didn’t like how that sounded. Even if, for the first time since leaving New York, I felt like I had something to focus on. If not for the arsons, things would have been looking good. Why? Because I’d pushed thoughts of Dante and of Nick out of my mind for twenty-four hours and focused on me? Or because I had temporarily surrounded myself with people who could offer me a boost when I sorely needed it?

  That’s it. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who used her friends. I thought back to Molly Diers’ desperation this morning. She was counting on me to make things a little better when she had to face her ex and his new young girlfriend. I could do that. Starting now—right now—I was going to do something for someone else—for her.

  Work history notwithstanding, Tradava was as good a place as any to start building Molly’s new wardrobe. I
went in a side door, past the juniors department, straight to the coffee counter. I found Eddie on the top rung of a six-foot-tall ladder, a hot glue gun in one hand and a fist full of glue sticks in the other.

  As visual director for the store, Eddie was in charge of the various displays that showcased designers, trends, and colors. Most people didn’t recognize the effort that went into maintaining the newness of a store that had been around for several decades.

  A row of white mannequins, clothed in ensembles of red, orange, and winter white, lined the wall usually occupied by a display of chocolates. I adopted a pose at the end of the row and stood still. Eddie climbed down the ladder and stood back, assessing the work he’d finished. He turned around and scanned the row of mannequins. When he got to me, he shook his head. Glue dribbled from the glue gun and left a trail down the side of his paint-stained jeans.

  “If you’re trying to get lost in a crowd, you might want to find a different crowd.”

  “You’re saying I’m not mannequin material?” I asked. I put a hand on the arm of the mannequin next to me and she rocked dangerously to the left.

  “Dude!” Eddie said. He shoved the glue gun into his pocket, raced forward, and caught her. “These mannequins cost a grand a piece.”

  “For real?”

  “New mannequins are either fiberglass or plastic and they are the definition of cheap. I’m trying to maintain a tiny shred of nostalgia in an ever changing world of hot pants and prom dresses.”

  Suddenly he hopped on his left foot and kicked his right foot like there was a mouse in his pant leg. He made a woop woop woop sound like Curly from The Three Stooges and hopped in a circle. The cord from the glue gun wrapped around his leg. Now tangled, he lost his balance and fell forward. His hands connected with the mannequin on the end and knocked her over. Her arm popped off, slid out of the sleeve, and landed on the ground. The plaster broke by her elbow but the arm didn’t fall off. I yanked the cord to the glue gun out of the wall.

  “You’re supposed to unplug it when it’s not in use,” I said. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

  He picked the plaster arm from the floor. There was a half inch space between the components that had broken, and in the middle was a steel rod.

  “Another one bites the dust,” he said.

  “Why didn’t it fall apart?”

  “There’s a steel frame inside the plaster.”

  “Can you shoot a bunch of hot glue in the middle and squeeze it shut?”

  “I wish. When these old ones break, they have to be destroyed. There’s too much chance of them cracking more and causing an accident around customers.”

  “So you’re going to send her off to the mannequin graveyard?’

  “Worse. Broken mannequins have to be destroyed. Security arranges a pick up with a special trash removal company. And I can’t yell at anybody over this one because it was my fault.” He suddenly looked at me. I held my hands up in front of my waist palm-side out.

  “Don’t even think about blaming this on me.”

  His shoulders fell, dejected. He pulled the large black radio off of his belt. “Walt, this is Eddie. I got a broken mannequin on one, by the coffee shop. Nothing dangerous, but it’s one of the old ones. It’s gonna have to be burned.”

  My head snapped up. “Why do you have to burn it?”

  He waved me silent and held the radio up to his mouth again. “Not the whole thing. Broken arm. Sure, I might have another lying around. I’ll put it behind the coffee counter. Get it when you’re ready.” He hooked the radio back to his belt.

  “Why do you have to burn them?”

  “You see how big this thing is? Imagine how much space it would take up in the trash. And like I said, they’re expensive. The iron framework inside can be recycled, but the plaster has to be burned off, and then the iron has to cool and be professionally cleaned before the company can start over. We get back like a tenth of the price of the mannequin, but it’s something.”

  “Who burns them?”

  “I don’t know. Some company with a big incinerator. What do you care?”

  I chewed on my lip. “I have to call Loncar. I think somebody might have been burning a mannequin in the Dumpster behind Warehouse Five.”

  22

  “You said these mannequins were made of plaster. What else are they made of?” I asked.

  “Horse hair and cotton fibers to make it stronger.”

  That’s exactly what I’d started to suspect. I didn’t know much about the flammability of plaster, but when you added in the content of cotton fibers, you had something that would burn. And if someone burned a plaster mannequin leg, the only thing left would be the steel rods inside.

  I called Loncar. “Detective, remember how I saw a leg in the Dumpster at Warehouse Five? But you found no evidence that a person was there at all? And how Ichabod—I mean, Inspector Gigger—didn’t believe me?”

  There was a sound on the other end of the phone like a chuckle.

  “But turns out, Gigger was right.” I said. “There wasn’t a person in the Dumpster. There was a mannequin leg. Maybe not a whole mannequin, but a part of one. If you can come to my house tonight, we can go over my theory in more detail. I have an appointment at four that should last an hour and I have to focus on that first. And I have to write an article, but I can work on that after you leave. So, seven? Can you come then?”

  “Fine,” he repeated. “See you tonight.”

  * * *

  Molly Diers’ car was in my driveway when I returned home. I pulled in behind her minivan, backed out, and pulled up next to the mailbox. After wrestling with the merchandise I’d bought at Tradava after I called Loncar, I shut the door with my hip and headed toward the house. Molly was on my front porch with two boys. Logan sat inside the big picture window staring out, and one of the two boys was propped up against the windowsill staring in. The other boy sat on the swing next to Molly, his head buried in a book.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I was late picking the boys up from school and didn’t have time to take them home.” Her eyes cut to the packages draped over my arm. “Are those for me?”

  “A couple of last minute items,” I said. “Why are you waiting outside? You must be freezing.”

  “They wouldn’t stop bothering each other in the car. The rule was they could get out if they didn’t talk.”

  I looked at the one with the book and the one antagonizing Logan. They looked angelic enough. If Molly could deal with her two boys sitting in the background while she tried on clothes, then I was going to deal with the situation. I threw the bags over my left arm and unlocked the front door.

  “Follow me,” I said to Molly.

  “Is she a witch?” the non-book reading boy asked. “She has a black cat.”

  “She’s not a witch, dummy,” said the boy reading the book. “She’s probably a pagan.”

  “Joseph!” Molly said. “You take that back.”

  “I take it back,” Joseph said. “Maybe she is a witch.”

  I carried the shopping bags down the steps last. Not-Joseph sat on a folding chair, swinging his legs above the exposed cement floor. Joseph set his book down on the chair next to his brother and wandered to the bookcases against the back wall.

  “Molly, are you sure you still want to do this today?” I asked.

  “I told you this morning. I need a dress for this weekend and I’m running out of time.”

  “But if you’re busy keeping track of the boys—”

  “Do you have any puzzles? They love puzzles. Any kind of puzzles.”

  I scrounged around and came up with two unsolved Rubik’s cubes. Within thirty seconds the only sound was the click of plastic against plastic.

  First crisis averted.

  “Today is about determining what shapes look good on you and what you like. We might not agree on everything. I’ll give you an honest opinion, but ultimately it’s your money, so you have to feel good about spending it,” I said. It wa
s the same speech I gave every client. I had a feeling Molly would take it more seriously than most.

  “I can’t believe this is my life. I used to know about stuff like this and now I’m paying you to make sure I don’t walk out of here looking like a fool,” she said. “The things we do for family.”

  I hung the shopping bags on an empty rolling rack and tore the plastic down from the hangers. I handed the first round of clothes to Molly and lowered my voice.

  “Remember those matches you dropped the other day? Is there anything else you can tell me about the guy who gave them to you?”

  Her lips curled into a frown. “Why do you keep asking about him? He was a nobody.”

  “You kept the matches, which meant something,”

  “Yeah, it meant I wanted to light some candles in my apartment.” She grabbed the black dress in my hand and turned away.

  “Molly, don’t sell yourself short. You’re a beautiful woman and when we’re done here, everybody is going to see it.”

  She looked at me for a second and her expression softened. “He told me I reminded him of a model he used to work with,” she said. “It was just a line that a creep in a bar probably uses on every woman who walks in, but I liked the way it sounded.”

  “It’s the accent,” I said. “Makes everything sound good.”

  “What accent?”

  I narrowed my eyes and looked at her. Something didn’t make sense. She took the clothes and undergarments that I held out to her and carried them to the darkroom that I’d indicated for her fitting room. A moment later, the door opened back up and she came out, her face bright red. Behind her was Dante.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Molly. “You surprised me as much as I surprised you.”

  Molly looked at him and then me. “Was that part of the plan—send me into a dark closet with a sexy man?”

  “Nope. Not part of the plan.” I glared at Dante, and then turned back to face her. “This is Dante. He’s a photographer. He sometimes uses that room to develop photos.”

  Behind me, Joseph spoke. “That’s probably where she casts her spells.”

  “Mom! Don’t go in there!” Not-Joseph cried out.