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

by Diane Vallere

  Back inside, I went to the darkroom and pulled my old chemistry set from the baker’s rack. A giant spider, startled by the sudden activity, sprung to life from the pile of photos. I screamed, jumped backward, banged my hip on the corner of the counter behind me, and screamed again. I didn’t know where the spider had disappeared to, so I had to be quick.

  The last time I used this chemistry set was when I was ten. Although my dad had high hopes of me following in his scientific footsteps, I’d traded the lure of the beaker and microscope for the mall at an early age, and the only chemicals I was interested in were the ones that promised to straighten my curly hair. The chemistry set had been shelved and forgotten. But now that I knew I was sharing space with at least one spider who could move very quickly, I was no longer interested in hanging around waiting for him to come back with friends. I swatted at the box with a broom handle as a warning to any other bugs living inside, and when nothing appeared, carried it upstairs.

  On the second floor of the house, my bedroom sat to the right, the bathroom sat directly in front of me, and my sister’s old room was to my left. I’d had the notion to convert it to a closet a few months ago, lining the perimeter with cheap white floor to ceiling bookcases that housed off-season shoes, handbags, scarves, and jewelry. A rolling rod had been pushed to the back wall. It held two dozen sleeveless dresses that wouldn’t see the light of day until sometime in May.

  I set the microscope on the desk and found a clean glass slide. With the tweezers that came with the set, I pinched a small amount of ash from the eye shadow compact and placed it on the glass. The glass went under the microscope, and I put my eye on the lens. Mixed with purple granules that could only be residue eye shadow were lots of gray stringy things and a long golden thread with a black stripe down the center.

  I twisted around and scanned the clothes on the rack. A red sheath dress by the end of the rack had a torn hem. I pulled at a loose thread until it snapped off, and I set that on a new slide. The color was different, but the texture was similar to the gray stringy things. I found an empty beaker in the box and dropped the red thread in, and then ran downstairs for the grill lighter that I used to ignite the wicks in burned down candles. Back upstairs, I lit the red thread and watched it curl up and then dissolve into ash. I put the ash on the slide and looked at that.

  It was pretty darn close to the gray stringy things.

  So, the gray stringy things were threads. Then what was the golden rod with the black core? I had a hunch.

  When Eddie had evened out my hair, he’d suggested that I donate what I chopped off to a wigmaker. It sounded like a good idea, the kind of thing I’d like to be thought of as doing. So I put my chopped off ponytails in a one gallon plastic bag and left it on the sink.

  The other thing I’m thought of as doing is procrastinating, which is why the bag of my hair was still where I’d left it. I pulled a strand out of the bag and carried it to my desk. I knew what I wanted to see when I looked at it under the microscope.

  It was the same structure as the golden thread. Which meant it wasn’t a thread. It was a strand of hair. Golden hair.

  A quick Google search told me that dark hair that’s been chemically treated maintains its original color at the center. So the golden strand with the dark core came from a not-natural blond.

  Clive wasn’t a natural blonde. Dante had made a comment about his hair color before the runway show.

  I went back into the house and called my dad in California. We weren’t the sort of family to talk every day, but I’d learned to balance my I’m-involved-in-a-murder-investigation-again calls with questions about house maintenance so he and my mom wouldn’t worry too much about me. To them, I’d been frozen in time around ten years old. My older sister had been the one with babysitting jobs and child-in-charge responsibilities. I’d never been trusted with anything, not because I couldn’t handle it, but because, to them, I’d always be “the kid.” A shrink would probably theorize that the sense of never having grown up was why it had been so important for me to buy this particular house. I couldn’t really disagree, which was why I never started therapy.

  “Hi Dad, it’s the kid,” I said.

  “Hey, kid, what’s up? Everything okay in the ol’ PA?” he asked. He’d started speaking in rhyme since moving to California. I attributed it to the side effect of all that constant sun.

  “I have a science question for you. Would a brown hair and a blonde hair look the same under a microscope?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you mean no, or did you just say ‘nope’ because it rhymed with ‘microscope?’”

  He chuckled into the phone, and then his tone turned from playful to scientist. “You have to consider different factors. Is the hair color treated? If so, how long ago? Environment plays a factor too, as does genetics. And then consider what people put on their hair: gel, mousse, hair spray—”

  I wanted information, but I could already see that this could go on for a while so I cut him off. “I’m looking at a hair under a microscope. At least I think it’s a hair. It’s long and gold but it has a black core.”

  “Where’d you get the microscope?”

  “It’s the one you gave me for my tenth birthday.” I paused for a second, wondering if he would be impressed. My next thought was about why he’d kept it all these years. Maybe this was the very moment he’d been waiting for.

  “Did you check the hair against a control group?”

  “I looked at one of my own hairs under the microscope. It’s the same texture but it’s dark all the way through.”

  “What’s your conclusion?”

  “I think they’re both human hairs, but the gold one was dyed.”

  “Does that information tell you anything?”

  “It sure does. Thanks for helping me, Dad, but I have to go.”

  “Hey kid?” His tone shifted from scientist back to dad. “How come you didn’t want to play with the chemistry set when I bought it for you?”

  It only took a second to answer. “Because maybe I had to grow up before I saw the value in figuring things out on my own.”

  29

  After assuring my dad that I wasn’t in trouble, I called Amanda’s studio. No answer. I called her cell. No answer. I called Detective Loncar, who I had reprogrammed from “Fuzz” to “Partner?”

  “Loncar,” he answered.

  “Detective, hi, it’s Samantha Kidd. I have more information to show you.”

  “I’m at the station.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I grabbed the photos and placed the hair samples in a plastic bag in my handbag. I didn’t pack my childhood microscope. There was something about the Fisher-Price logo that might have made Loncar take me less seriously.

  I parked in a visitor space. Even though this wasn’t the first time I’d gone to the police station to provide information, the idea of walking in still made me nervous.

  Once inside, I checked in with the desk sergeant. He dialed an extension and mumbled something into the receiver. Seconds later Loncar came to the lobby to greet me. I followed him over the freshly-mopped-yet-not-really-clean linoleum tile floor, through a door marked Questioning, to his office. He sat behind the worn wooden desk and I lowered myself into the worn vinyl chair facing him. Since the last time I’d been here, a plastic bowl filled with individually wrapped sour balls sat on the corner of his desk. He caught me looking at them.

  “Take one if you want. They’re sugar free. My wife’s on some kind of health kick and everything I like is off limits.”

  “No, thank you.” I stared at the sour balls. Something about them bothered me.

  He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bag of carrot sticks. “Sugar free candy and carrot sticks. This is my life.”

  “Did you know if you chop up carrots and boil them with a chicken and salt and pepper you get soup?” I asked.

  “I thought you didn’t cook,” he said.

  I changed
the subject.

  “Do you think it’s strange that I keep getting involved in criminal investigations around Ribbon?”

  He looked surprised, but not taken aback. “It’s not how the rest of the residents live,” he said.

  “That’s not what I mean. Does it indicate some kind of personality flaw?”

  “That you like to figure things out? No.” He uncrossed his arms and folded his hands on top of his desk. “I have a daughter around your age. You two”—he paused— “have some things in common. Then again, in some ways you couldn’t be more different.” He leaned back. “Are you close to your family?”

  It was a good question. Living in the house where I’d grown up made me feel close to my family, but truth was, our lives were separate.

  “We Kidds are an independent lot. We’re like gypsies.”

  “I don’t know many gypsies who move back to the town where they grew up in order to ground themselves.”

  Darn that Detective Loncar, he had a point. “When my parents told me they were moving to California and selling the house, I realized that this was the last place I’d lived where I felt like I belonged to something. Now they’re living their life and I’m trying to live mine.”

  “If you got into trouble—real trouble—would you turn to them for help?”

  “I like to think if I needed them, they’d be there for me.”

  “Five years ago my daughter was engaged and had a good job. Now she’s pregnant and alone. She won’t talk about who the father is. She won’t talk about why she broke things off. She’s back in touch with her ex, but I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy. Besides, he’s moved on. She acts like my wife and I are going to punish her for making bad decisions.”

  “Are you?”

  “She’s our daughter. We want her to be happy.” He stared out the window for a few seconds. “So you like to figure things out. What do you have for me?”

  Back to business. “That fire in the trash can in front of my house. I think it was set by Clive Barrington.”

  “Is that an accusation or a fact?”

  “Back up for a second,” I said, considering the scientific approach of my dad. I pulled the envelope of ash out from my handbag and set it on Loncar’s desk. “Inside that envelope is a sample of hair that I found in the bottom of the trash bin from my driveway. I analyzed it and determined that it’s been dyed blond. That is a fact. Clive Barrington has highlights, which would look the same as dark hair that’s been lightened. That is also a fact. So I came to the conclusion that Clive may have been the person to set the fire.”

  Loncar took the envelope. “That is a good piece of deduction, Ms. Kidd. There’s only one problem with your theory.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Clive Barrington is in Tahiti.”

  “When did he leave Ribbon?”

  “Yesterday. He’s on a photo shoot. He checked in with us before he left because he knew he was part of an open investigation.”

  How very considerate of him.

  “What if he checked in with you to make sure you knew he had an alibi, and then he arranged for more fires while he was gone? Wouldn’t that throw you off his scent?”

  “Would that be the scent of burnt toast?” he asked.

  “Burnt crumpets is more like it,” I said, even though I don’t think he really expected an answer.

  “Ms. Kidd, I appreciate that you brought this information to me, but answer this. How would Mr. Barrington’s hair have gotten into the trash can if he wasn’t at the scene?”

  “Maybe it was his trash can.”

  Loncar leaned back. For the first time since we’d met, the buttons on his shirt did not strain over his belly.

  “So let me understand,” I said. “You’re not even considering Clive as a suspect in your investigation?”

  “Ms. Kidd, do I need to remind you that there has been no body? There have been no reported deaths. My only role in this is to help Inspector Gigger find an arsonist before somebody dies. We’ve had four fires so far and nobody’s been injured. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Nobody’s been injured except me.”

  “You weren’t injured in a fire.”

  “So the attack on me is being considered separate from the arsons? Even though everything is Amanda-centric?”

  “Unless you can provide additional information about that attack, I’m afraid we don’t have any leads to work with.”

  A red button lit on Loncar’s phone. He held his hand in a “hold on a minute” gesture and answered. He told the person on the other end that he was finishing up now. He hung up and caught me trying to read the incoming call number upside down.

  “Ms. Kidd, this job isn’t all hotlines and anonymous tips. Sometimes a phone call is just a phone call.”

  “So that wasn’t related to our case?”

  He crossed his arms again. “You got anything else for me?”

  “Nope.”

  He stood and I followed suit. “Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll share your findings with Ichabod.” He cracked a smile.

  Loncar followed me out of his office. I stopped at the exit doors. “You never did tell me what you found out about Santangelo Toma,” I said.

  “Goodbye, Ms. Kidd.”

  I drove to Warehouse Five. Detective Loncar might have thought he was doing me a favor by ignoring my question, but as far as favors went, that favor was up there with gifting me a bag of brussel sprouts for my birthday.

  I parked by the front lobby doors of the warehouse and went inside. If I’d expected someone to stop me, they didn’t. There was nobody at the information desk, and most of the doors to the studios were shut. I wandered down the hallway and tried a few of the knobs. They were locked.

  When I returned to the lobby, I spotted a man on a ladder. He was taking measurements from the ceiling down. He called them down to another man who stood by the window. The man on the floor wore white gloves. Sketches and paintings of a woman’s figure were propped along the base of the room. Something about the sketches felt familiar. I stepped closer. The man on the ladder twisted around and yelled at me.

  “Hey, you! You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said. “The building’s closed for an installation.”

  I ignored his warning and stepped closer to the nearest painting. The image was of the back of a naked woman. Her hands were behind her, over her backside. The most striking thing about her was her silver hair.

  “Who did these paintings and sketches?” I asked the man.

  “One of the residents. We rotate the front gallery each month so everybody gets equal exposure.”

  “But there was a fashion show here last week and this whole front gallery was empty except for a couple of mannequins.”

  “Yeah, funny how things work out. This guy raised the biggest stink about that show and now he gets the front lobby the month before the holidays.”

  “These are by Santangelo Toma, aren’t they?” I asked. The man nodded. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Sure. He’s in his studio. Third door down on the right.”

  I thanked him and followed his directions. Like the rest of the hallway, the door to Santangelo’s studio was closed. I tapped a few times and then tried the knob. It opened easily. Inside I found the artist sitting on a stool, staring at a half finished canvas.

  Smudges of charcoal were on his fingers and cheek. His clothes looked rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. Red suspenders were clipped to his loose-fitting trousers, over a stained waffle-weave long john top. His pork pie hat rested on the floor on top of a pair of shoes. His feet were bare.

  Despite the cold temperature outside, the studio was warm. A small space heater was plugged into an outlet in the corner. A low table next to it held brushes and paints, a glass of cloudy water, and an assortment of oil pencils.

  “Santangelo,” I said, making my presence known.

  He was startled. He crossed the room and pulled a tarp over the p
ainting, but it was too late. I already knew who it was, and I knew what he’d done.

  “That’s Harper, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t make her do it. What’s it to you?”

  “You wanted the fashion people to be kicked out of the warehouse. You started a petition to get rid of Amanda. Explain to me how Harper being your model factored into that equation? If you got your wish and Amanda was evicted, you wouldn’t have had access to Harper.”

  “She didn’t want to be a part of that life anymore. She told me. I’m the only one who knew she was going to leave town.”

  “She told you she was going to Mexico?”

  “She said she was going away. She felt bad because my paintings weren’t finished. It was her idea for me to use the mannequins.”

  Instinctively, I turned and faced the part of the building where the installation was taking place. The woman’s figure in the silver wig. That’s why the silver wig was in the trash can the night Dante and I had come back. The image in the painting wasn’t Harper; it was a mannequin.

  I turned back and stepped closer to Santangelo. I put one hand out on his forearm. “The night of the fire, you took one of the mannequins, didn’t you? From the lobby. You brought it in here.”

  “Amanda Ries’ show made it so I couldn’t concentrate. The only good thing that came out of it was meeting Harper. She said she liked the way I painted her. Real. Not like the fashion magazines. Not all airbrushed and Photoshopped. She said when it was all over, that’s how she wanted to be remembered. But then everything got crazy and she left.”

  “What do you mean, everything got crazy?”

  “That photographer went after her. He wouldn’t leave her alone. On her all the time, saying her career would be over if she didn’t sleep with him. She couldn’t take the pressure.”

  The Harper I knew was just a young sixteen year old girl on the edge of cracking. I’d seen it in her eyes. The demands of her job, the ill-fitting garments, the way she’d been treated more like an object than a person. She’d been too young to know how to deal with the demands of the industry and she’d fled.