“You sure you can keep them focused?” he said. “Because this won’t work unless everyone stays on task.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He reached down, tipped my chin back, and stared at me for an uncomfortable couple of seconds. “This turned out to be a pretty good night,” he said. He turned and left.
Turns out, Eddie was right. Rarely do professionals move as quickly as beauticians who hear the phrase, “I need to look younger,” and the professionals I’d chosen from the back of the yellow pages were no exception. My brown hair had been highlighted and layered into a tumble of curls that hadn’t been allowed this kind of freedom in a decade. My blue-green eyes stood out against sun-kissed skin, the result of a week’s worth of spray-on tanning and bronzer to achieve a post-spring break glow. I traded foundation for tinted moisturizer, lipstick for lip-gloss, and fought my eyeliner habit. Cat bought me an I-FAD sweatshirt, laundered and dried a dozen times to give it a lived-in look. I drew the line at matching sweatpants, pairing the sweatshirt with a plaid, pleated skirt.
It was uncanny to look in the mirror and see a face that only slightly resembled my own. It was even more uncanny to spend the next week wandering the college campus. Surprisingly, that’s all it took. One week of surveillance to figure out what we needed to know to pull off our plan. The most uncanny part of all of it was that it worked.
After the theft, out hodge-podge team had regrouped at my house for a celebratory drink. It was close to two in the morning, but we were hyped up by the fact that we’d gotten away with thievery. Dante popped a bottle of champagne and we toasted our success. At least, Cat, Dante and I toasted our success. Eddie was upstairs getting the shoe polish off of his face.
I pulled the bundle out of my handbag and unwrapped it. A wooden Puccetti statue on permanent loan from the Philadelphia Museum of Art to I-FAD. It was one of the few known works by Milo Puccetti, a student of Brancusi. It had resided on the college campus for the past five years, and we’d managed to swipe it, all because of a contest in the newspaper.
“Who’s going to be in charge of Woody until the party?” Dante asked.
“Woody?” I asked.
Dante pointed toward the Puccetti. “Woody.”
Cat rolled her eyes. “You can’t call him ‘Woody.’”
“We can’t call him Puccetti,” Dante countered. “What do you suggest?”
“Allen. Get it? Woody Allen.” Cat said.
“What about Steve?” I asked.
“Steve?” they answered in unison.
“Woody Allen—Steve Allen. Steve.”
“We’re naming him? Can I get in on this?” asked Eddie, towel drying the side of his bleached blond hair.
“We went from Woody to Woody Allen to Steve Allen. Where do you want to go? Tag, you’re it. You seal the final name.”
Eddie repeated after me. “Woody … Woody Allen … Steve Allen ….” He dropped the towel and shot two fists in the air. “Steve McQueen!”
I dipped two fingers into my champagne glass and dabbed the base of the statue. “I hereby dub thee McQueen.”
We stared at him, all twenty-four inches of him. It was the figure of a well-sculpted man, and I know size doesn’t matter but his twenty-four inches were awe-inspiring. Now we just had to get it to Heist and present it to the judging committee. That was the last detail on our agenda, and it would happen tomorrow night at the Pilferer’s Ball, the store’s opening party.
Cat yawned. “Time for me to get home and go to bed. Dante, you want a ride?”
Dante looked at me. I was still wearing my college-girl outfit, and even though it was a unisex sweatshirt, it felt a little like he was seeing me in my underwear.
“Yes, Dante wants a ride,” I said.
Eddie walked down the stairs. He was back to his usual shade of surfer-dude with his towel-dried hair sticking up in all directions. He tossed the towel on the end of the sofa. “You’re leaving already? Don’t you want to keep celebrating? Did I miss something?”
And that’s when we heard the sirens.
Look for Buyer, Beware March 2013
More information at www.polyesterpress.com
Praise for Designer Dirty Laundry
“…the book is enriched by the author’s cleverly phrased prose and convincing characterization. The surprise ending will satisfy and delight many mystery fans.”
-Kirkus Reviews
“Combining fashion and fatalities, Diane Vallere pens a winning debut mystery. With a fascinating look behind the scenes at what makes a department store tick, DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY is a sleek and stylish read.”
-Ellen Byerrum, author of the Crime of Fashion mysteries
“In DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY, author Diane Vallere stitches together a seamless mystery. The story will have you on pins and needles. Samantha Kidd is a witty heroine that you will root for as she fashions a fresh stylish start in her hometown of Ribbon, Pennsylvania.”
-Avery Aames, Agatha Award winner of nationally bestselling A Cheese Shop Mystery series
“A sassy tale told with warmth and charm, Diane Vallere’s DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY shows that even the toughest crime is no match for a sleuth in fishnet stockings who knows her way around the designer department. A delightful debut.”
-Kris Neri, Lefty Award-nominated author of REVENGE FOR OLD TIMES’ SAKE
“Overall, an impressive cozy mystery from a promising author.”
-Mystery Tribune
“Vallere has stitched together haute couture and murder in a stylish mystery. Dirty Laundry has never been so engrossing!”
-Krista Davis, Author of The Domestic Diva Mysteries
Acknowledgments
A thank you goes out to everyone who supported me while writing this book: Amanda Spear Hartley, my first real critique partner. Thank you for getting it! Also to Kathy Whelan and Grace Topping for your valuable feedback. To the Chick Lit Writers of the World and the Stiletto Contest, for letting me know I was on the right track. To volunteer reader Richard Goodman, worth his weight in gold, Sergeant Derek Pacifico, for inspiring me with interrogation techniques, and editor Ramona deFelice Long, for incredible insights that made the story stronger.
To the Sisters in Crime Guppy chapter, for the ongoing support and cheerleading, especially Krista Davis and Daryl Wood Gerber. To Kris Neri, for calling this book funny, and to Ellen Byerrum, for calling it stylish.
To Gigi, for answering the questions I asked and for asking the ones I forgot about. And to Kendel, for a thousand and one things you helped with along the way, but most of all for your friendship. To my family for years—decades?—of support. And to Josh Hickman, for never acting like this was a big deal, which made it seem so much more doable.
About the author
Diane Vallere is a fashion industry veteran with a taste for murder. She started her own detective agency at age ten and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since.
You can find her at www.dianevallere.com
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