Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4)
Page 22
I jumped down and found a pair of scissors under the dust-coated register. After cutting a long strip of faux zebra fur and throwing it over my shoulder, I sliced off two more strips and wrapped them around each fist. I climbed back on the footstool, punched the bigger pieces of remaining glass to the floor, and threw the larger piece of fur over the bottom of the sill. I fed my head, arms, and shoulders through the opening and fumbled with the flashlight with my fur-wrapped hands. It dropped to the floor and landed on the pile of glass. The light flickered a few times, and then went out.
I leveraged myself against the opposite side of the window with my zebra paws, but the opening of the window was doing direct battle with the size of my hips. My feet lost touch with the footstool as I wriggled, trying to fit through.
“Just what the heck do you think you’re doing up there?” said a muffled voice behind me.
There was little I could do in my Pooh Bear–like pose, other than kick my legs in an effort to reconnect with the footstool.
“Ken? Is that you? Can you help me?” I called. “I’m stuck.”
“Hold on.”
Positioned as I was, halfway through a broken window four feet above the ground, I didn’t really see that I had much choice and considered saying as much, but I bit my tongue. I only hoped Ken was a quick thinker, because the pressure of the windowsill against my midsection was creating an impending need for a bathroom.
The locked door swung open. I heard a click of a switch, and seconds later the secret room was flooded with light. I shut my eyes immediately, too late. I was temporarily blinded and still stuck in the window. Things were not improving.
As my vision cleared I realized the man who stepped into the room in front of me was a stranger. His light brown hair was cut short and parted on the side. He wore a white turtleneck and a navy-blue cotton peacoat over khaki trousers and white sneakers, and looked as if he’d just returned from an afternoon on his yacht. It was bad enough to be caught dangling through a window, even if it was my window, but worse because it seemed I was on the verge of making a very bad first impression.
“Do you think you can fit through the window if I pull you?”
“I don’t—maybe.”
“‘Maybe’ might not be good enough. You could get stuck more than you already are.”
“I can push her from behind,” said Ken’s muffled voice from, well, behind.
“Nobody’s pushing anything!” I said. “You, pull. I’m almost through.”
The stranger stepped in front of me and paused for a second before grabbing my zebra-wrapped hands. My center of gravity had shifted, more of me through the window than not, and I knew there was no going back. As the stranger pulled, my hips popped through the opening and I fell on top of him, knocking him to the floor next to the chalk outline of a body.
Suddenly, I knew why Uncle Marius had divided off this portion of the store.
I didn’t know if Thank you or I’m sorry was the more appropriate response to knocking someone into the scene of a ten-year-old homicide, so I said nothing. For the second time that day I stood up and dusted myself off, then unwrapped the fur from my right hand and offered it to the stranger to help him stand. He ignored the offer and stood up on his own.
“You’re on private property,” he said.
“Actually, you’re on private property, if we’re going to get into specifics, but considering you just rescued me from a tight spot I’m willing to look the other way,” I said. I didn’t know if he’d seen the outline of the body or not, but at the moment I wanted out of that room.
He took a step closer and looked down at me. I wasn’t used to men looking down at me, since I was five foot nine, but he did. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing on my father’s property?”
I stepped backward. “Who’s your father?” I asked.
“Vic McMichael.”
“Who?”
At that moment Ken burst through the door. His blazer flapped open, the crest on his breast pocket partially hidden under the lapel. “You should have called to tell me you were coming here,” he said to the stranger.
“Which one of you is going to tell me what is going on?” I demanded.
The stranger looked between Ken and me. “Who are you again?” he asked.
“Poly Monroe,” I answered and held out my hand for the second time. This time he shook it.
“Vaughn McMichael.” The intensity that I’d seen in his features moments ago melted into an expression that was just shy of a smile. His eyes, a mixture of green flecked with gold, held my own for a second longer than felt comfortable, but I fought the urge to look away. His handshake was firm enough to mean business, but the softness of his hand cocooned my own. I returned the pressure of the handshake equally. I didn’t know why, but I sensed that Vaughn McMichael wasn’t sure what to make of my presence. As we shook hands, a roll of pink-and-white gingham fell from the table behind him and landed on the floor. It rolled halfway across the room and came to a stop by Ken’s foot.
Vaughn dropped my hand and looked at Ken. “Sorry if I jumped the gun. Take your time. I’ll be in touch.” He turned around and left through the wooden door that had kept us from being inside the hidden room.
I followed him out of the store, keeping a few steps behind and watching to see where he headed. He approached the black sedan that had been idling in the adjacent parking lot, tapped twice on the back window, and the door opened up. Before he got inside he turned around and looked directly at me. I went back into the store as the car pulled away.
“What was that all about?” I asked Ken.
“That, my friend, was the son of the man who owns half of San Ladrón.”
“How did he get in? And why was he here? And why did he say that I was on private property, and that his father owned the store?”
Ken ignored my questions. “Come with me.” We walked to the front of the store and Ken unlocked the door from the inside. Again the metal fence kept us prisoners inside the store. In the distance, I heard the rapid-fire rhythm of a jackhammer against asphalt.
Ken cursed. He led me out the back door, around the block, and back in front of Land of a Thousand Fabrics. “See that?” he pointed to the vacant building on the left of the store. “Mr. McMichael owns that.”
“So?”
“See that?” He pointed to the building on the right of the store. “Mr. McMichael owns that, too.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“See that?” Ken continued, ignoring me. “And that? And that?” he said, pointing to various buildings around the fabric store. “He owns them all. In fact, there’s only one building on this street he doesn’t own. Care to guess which one?”
“Okay, so he’s interested in buying the fabric store. Why did his son act like he already owns it?”
Ken pulled a folder out from the bottom of the clipboard and balanced it on the back of a metro bench next to us. He flipped through a few sheets of paper until he reached a piece of thick stationery with a monogram on the top. MCM, it said, just like the license plate.
“When Mr. McMichael heard you’d inherited the store, he made an offer. A generous offer. I know you’re only here through the weekend, so I took the liberty of drawing up the paperwork.”
Ken was either the most efficient real estate agent I’d ever met, or I was being rushed into making a decision. Not one to be bullied, I crossed my arms and dug in for answers.
“What does Mr. McMichael plan to do with the store? Is he connected to the fashion industry? Does he even like fabric? Can he tell the difference between wool challis and gabardine? Did he know Uncle Marius and Aunt Millie? Or my parents? Does he know my parents? Has he talked to them about this?”
Ken signed. “Are you going to stop for a breath? Poly, this is business. He’s not asking for your hand in marriage. Mr. McMichael is a developer, and this property is worth a lot to him. He can’t do anything with the rest of the block unless he has this one location.”
“Ho
w does he know I own it?”
“It’s public knowledge. Besides, this isn’t the first offer Mr. McMichael has made on the property.”
“So Uncle Marius wouldn’t sell to him?”
“Apparently not.”
I looked across the street at the bird-poop-stained façade. “Then maybe I shouldn’t sell, either.”
“Don’t be stupid. What are you going to do—give up your job in Los Angeles and move to San Ladrón?” He stepped back and scanned my outfit, from boots to turtleneck. “No offense, but you don’t seem like the small-town type.”
“I probably don’t seem like the type to make a rash decision, either. Give me the night to think it over.”
Ken folded the letter into thirds along already-established creases and handed it to me. “Mr. McMichael has brought a lot of jobs to the city by the properties he’s developed. This would be no different. Consider that along with his offer. It’s not all about you, but it’s partially about you. That money might give you a chance to quit producing pageant dresses and do something real with your life.”
I had a choice. Defend my crappy job with the steady paycheck or admit that I wanted to do something more with my life. I did neither. Instead, I folded the paper in half again, and tucked it into the back pocket of my dusty jeans.
“The keys?” I asked.
Ken removed three keys from his full key ring and dropped them into my open palm. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Noon?”
“Sure,” I answered.
“Poly, just because your uncle got caught up in what the store meant to him doesn’t mean you have to get caught up in it, too. Do the sensible thing.” Ken turned away and unlocked his shiny black Lexus by remote. He drove away seconds after getting into it and left me standing on the sidewalk, staring after him.
I watched him drive away. Maybe Ken was right. Maybe the sensible thing was to sign away the store and go home. It had been ten years since I’d last been in San Ladrón, and it had changed a lot in that time. I looked up at the façade of Land of a Thousand Fabrics. To the right of it was an antiques store that specialized in Polynesian collectibles. To the left was another antiques store divided into cubicles of stuff left over from a hundred different garage sales. I didn’t remember either of those stores being there the last time I was here. I looked up and down the street, at a hardware store, a salon, and a gas station. The only thing I remembered from this vantage point was the traffic light at the intersection of San Ladrón and Bonita Avenue.
I walked down the block to the meter where I’d parked my own car, a semiautomatic yellow VW Bug from the early eighties. I’d bought it with the first thousand dollars I’d made at To The Nines. Even though Los Angeles was filled with people driving perfectly maintained luxury cars, I liked everything about the one I owned: the ecru leather interior, the chrome handles, the small round gearshift.
But at the moment, there was something new about my car, something I definitely didn’t like. The cluster of colored wires dangling from the steering column.
About the Author
After close to two decades working for a top luxury retailer, Diane Vallere traded fashion accessories for accessories to murder. Diane started her own detective agency at age ten and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since. Sign up for her newsletter for contests, free stories, and more here.
Also by Diane Vallere
(Links for Kindle)
Style & Error Mysteries
Designer Dirty Laundry
Buyer, Beware
The Brim Reaper
Mad for Mod Mysteries
“Midnight Ice” Prequel Novella
Other People’s Baggage
Pillow Stalk
That Touch of Ink
With Vics You Get Eggroll
(coming April 2015)
Material Witness Mysteries
Suede to Rest
Crushed Velvet
(coming August 2015)
Costume Shop Mystery Series
(coming December 2015)
Table of Contents
Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series. 4
Dedication. 6
1. 7
2. 10
3. 13
4. 16
5. 20
6. 24
7. 29
8. 32
9. 36
10. 41
11. 46
12. 51
13. 56
14. 60
15. 64
16. 68
17. 72
18. 75
19. 80
20. 83
21. 88
22. 92
23. 97
24. 101
25. 105
26. 107
27. 110
28. 114
29. 118
30. 125
31. 130
32. 133
33. 136
About the Author. 146
Also by Diane Vallere. 147