Diane Vallere - Style & Error 00.5 - Just Kidding
Page 1
JUST KIDDING
A Samantha Kidd | Style & Error Short Story
By Diane Vallere
www.polyesterpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.
No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2012 Diane Vallere
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9849653-8-0
Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series
“…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
“A captivating new mystery voice, 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
“Overall, an impressive cozy mystery from a promising author.”
-Mystery Tribune
In the beginning, there were shoes…
It wasn’t the sort of thing I usually did, but the temptation was too great.
There weren’t many people on the street at this hour, only a few trucks and taxis scattered around the street, and a few strangers getting their first cup of coffee like me. It was April in New York. Not a particularly pretty April, either. Dirty wet streets and an assortment of sidewalk grates dictated my morning attire: a pair of magenta yoga pants and a grey cashmere sweatshirt. My long brown hair was in ponytails under a faded Louis Vuitton bucket hat I’d bought from a street fair in Paris. It was a far cry from a fashion statement, but considering it was six-thirty in the morning, I figured nobody would notice. I was looking forward to spring: spring weather, spring fashion, spring shoes. Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to the shoes on the side of the street.
Really, I was just being helpful.
A stack of pristine white boxes sat on the curb. The top box had fallen off the stack and lay on its side. One shoe had fallen out from between layers of milky white tissue paper printed with the words Put Spring in Your Step in opaque white letters. The shoe itself was beautiful. It was a black strappy sandal with a delicate white leather poppy on the front. Tiny black beads of jet crystal were sewn to the inside of the flower. The sock lining was charcoal with a white pinstripe. The whimsical combination of patterns–pinstripe and poppy, put a smile on my face. I picked up the errant shoe with one hand and the box with another and nestled the shoe back between the tissue paper. It was the right thing to do.
If I didn’t do it, it might get ruined. It might get dirty. It might get—
It was my size.
I balanced on my left foot and my right out of my own black New Balance sneaker. With a peek over each shoulder, I determined I was alone. The few other people on the street either were homeless or in need of their morning caffeine fix like me. Besides, it was New York City. Nobody really cared what I did as long as I didn’t interfere with them. And if I did, we’d exchange a bunch of curse words and a couple of lewd gestures and go off on our merry ways.
I peeled my white sock off and slipped the sandal on my cold foot.
“What are you doing back there?” said a deep male voice.
I pulled the shoe off my foot and jammed it into the box, then turned to face the voice. A tall man stood by the side of the van. He had curly brown hair, a straight nose that put me in mind of Greek statues, and a row of teeth the color of sun-bleached linens. If my hand hadn’t been caught in the footwear cookie jar I might have relaxed and flirted a bit.
“I was just trying to…put spring in my step.” I finished lamely.
“You should take them,” he said.
“No! Here,” I said, holding the shoes out to him. When he made no move to take the box, I put the lid back on and set the shoes on top of the stack. The lid didn’t close properly because I hadn’t put the shoe back properly. There was nothing proper about the whole scene. Balancing on one foot while the other avoided contact with the dirty streets of New York during shoe market was the cherry on top of the improper sundae. “I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted to try them on.”
“Seriously, nobody’ll notice they’re gone.” He moved forward and picked up the box, fixed the tissue paper over the shoes, and closed the lid the way it should have been done the first time. “It’ll be our secret.” He extended the box to me.
I pushed it away. “I can’t. That’s somebody’s livelihood. It’s like stealing from,” I glanced down at the lid of the box, “Nick Taylor.”
Oh my God.
Nick Taylor was my two o’clock appointment. I’m the designer shoe buyer for Bentley’s department store, and my reason for being on the dirty streets of New York at six forty-five in the morning, aside from getting my coffee, and an unexpected dose of embarrassment, was to walk the path of my market schedule so I’d know how to get to each appointment later today. I pride myself on my professionalism and my punctuality. I’m a bit of a planner, that way. “Don’t tell anybody, okay?” I said to the stock guy.
“Don’t tell anybody what? You didn’t do anything to tell,” he said. He slammed the back doors of the van and turned a lock. His windbreaker was caught in the hinges, yanking him backward when he tried to turn away. The jacket opened up and revealed a faded Rocky Balboa T-shirt.
“Thanks,” I said, and hopped away from him so I could put my sock and sneaker back on and get out of there.
“Mr. Taylor will be out in a minute,” said the college-age receptionist.
“Thank you.” I wandered past the young woman to the wall of footwear that introduced me to the designer’s latest collection. The right foot of the strappy flower sandal with the white poppy on the front was perched on the wall just below hip level. I hadn’t had the chance to fully appreciate it before I’d been interrupted by the cute stock guy early that morning. I turned the sample over in my hand and ran my fingertips over the molded leather that comprised the flower, then jiggled the shoe to make the tiny jet beads move. The pinstriped sock lining was decorated with an embroidered white label: Nick Taylor. I turned the shoe over. The sole was painted the palest shade of whisper pink. No doubt the color would wear off during the first wearing, but it didn’t matter. The man was a genius. Even if he was now—I checked my cell phone for the time—fourteen minutes late for our appointment.
He was handsome in an older James Coburn kind of way, but youthfulness projected from his crinkling eyes and dimpled cheeks. As if he sensed I was watching him, he looked up at me. I smiled, hoping he’d realize that his last appointment had run into my time. He said something to the people in front of him, it sounded like Italian. Then he stood and walked over to me.
“Mr. Taylor? I’m Samantha Kidd. With Bentley’s department store,” I said, and held out my hand. He sandwiched it between his own instead of shaking it.
“Ah, yes. You had a two o’clock. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
I waved my hand toward the wall of samples. “No problem,” I lied, because it was a problem because it would now put me behind for my next two appointments but I wanted to be polite. I’d call the others to explain when I had a chance. “I’ve been admiring your collection.”
He looked at the shoe in my hand. “You already have found a favorite?”
“I’m afraid I have.” I leaned in closer. “I’m a sample size. Do you mind if I try it on?”
“Be my guest,” he answered.
I slipped the sample on and, for the second time that day, admired how well it fit, how pretty it looked on my foot, and how desperately I wanted to own it. I moved to a mirrored wall and stood sideways, staring at my reflection. I’d chosen a black and white houndstooth jacket and matching pencil skirt, black turtleneck, and ropes of pearls for today. My patent leather pumps completed my outfit, but not as well as the sandal.
Being a sample size and a shoe buyer had its perks and its drawbacks. I could easily slip on the samples, see how they looked and felt. Pre-market pedicures were a given. Fishnet stockings or tights were not. On a sixty-five degree day like today, another buyer probably would have worn pants, but the dirty streets of New York had stained too many hems in recent weeks.
I admired the shoe. Let’s see, it’s a sample, so it won’t deliver to Bentley’s for nine months, so that puts it at January. But there will be snow on the ground! Dirty, grey slush on the streets. Piles of sludge pushed to the side, accented with ditched sodas and the odd yellow color that I’d rather not think about. I’ll be lucky to get through the month in my Moon Boots.
“Ethical and great legs too? That’s almost too good to be true.” The voice behind me was familiar. Not familiar in an I-Just-Asked-You-If-It-Was-Okay-To-Try-This-On way, but in an I-Heard-That-Voice-This-Morning way.
This was not happening.
I turned toward the voice, knowing before I turned that it was the stock guy. Only it wasn’t.
Sure, it was the guy, but his unruly hair had been tamed with a styling product that kept it shiny and in place. His Rocky T-shirt had been traded for an olive green suit. His teeth were still gleaming white and his eyes were still the color of root beer barrels. They crinkled in the corners just like the white haired man.
“Let me guess. Samantha Kidd, from Bentley’s?” He walked toward me and held out his hand. I shook it, feeling rather stupid as I stood there with one foot in my own black patent pump and the other in the same sandal I’d been busted trying on this morning on the street.
“I’m Nick Taylor,” he supplied.
“But—” I looked for the older man who I’d spoken to earlier.
“That’s my dad. He helps me out during market week.” He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “You better watch out. He’s a softie for a pretty girl with a sample size foot.” The old man waved while my face grew hot.
Our market appointment was a challenge of my focus. One by one, Nick showed me the sample collection. I took notes on my line sheet, flipped through the leather swatches every once in awhile, and pulled the samples of the styles I thought Bentley’s should carry. My boss, Marcia, stopped in halfway through the appointment to review my assortment. She agreed that the flower sandal was the highlight of the showroom and encouraged me to advertise it in our spring catalog. I lost track of time and finished later than I’d expected.
“Do you have plans for dinner tonight?” Nick asked unexpectedly. “Or can I treat you, since you’re in New York for market?”
“I live in New York. Don’t you?” I answered while packing spreadsheets, highlighter, pencil, and camera back into my oversized fuchsia leather handbag.
“No, I live in Pennsylvania. I drove in this morning.”
“I grew up in Pennsylvania,” I said.
“What part?”
“Ribbon. How about you?”
“I know Ribbon well,” he said, not answering my question. “So, since you’re the hot shot New Yorker, maybe you should offer to take me to dinner tonight.”
“But I’m the buyer,” I said without thinking. Not thinking before speaking is a character flaw, if you must know. I rank it behind defensiveness and in front of paranoia, and not just because that’s the alphabetical order.
“Are you saying that my taking you to dinner could influence the size of the order you write for my collection?” Nick asked. His white teeth flashed a smile.
“No. Absolutely not. Besides, I already have plans,” I answered. With my cat, I added internally. The last thing I wanted was for word to get out that my buying decisions had anything to do with dinner, free shoes, or root-beer colored eyes that crinkled in the corners. I was determined to be one of the best buyers at Bentley’s, and I knew it took a taste level, a willingness to take risks, and a solid understanding of profitability. I had a reputation for being driven, company-loyal, and a team player. Getting along with my vendors would help, but there was a line not to be crossed.
“That’s too bad for me, I think.”
“Maybe next time,” I said. And judging from the way everyone else was dressed, the warm feeling inside wasn’t because they’d turned up the heat.
I finished my second to last appointment in half an hour, putting me only twenty-minutes late. If I caught a cab instead of walking like I’d originally planned, I could almost get to my last appointment on time. Only it was not quite five o’clock, which meant it was taxi shift change. Four checkered cabs drove past me, three yelling in an assortment of languages I didn’t speak. Unfortunately I understood the fourth. I started to walk in the direction of 52nd street, occasionally turning around to see if the taxi scenario had improved. Finally, I flagged one after walking a block and a half. It almost wasn’t worth it.
“Fifty-second between Broadway and Eighth,” I said.
“That’s a cheap fare,” he said back to me, not starting the meter, not pulling away from the curb.
“Listen. I’m late for an appointment and the only way I can be close to getting there on time is if you drive me,” I said.
“It’s not worth my while. I’d hafta go around the block, double back, miss the rest of the people getting off work and going out of the city.”
“How much is it going to take to get you to start your meter and drive?” I finally asked, assessing the few bills in my wallet. He named his price. “Fine. Just go.” He pulled away with a lead foot, body-slamming me into the torn blue vinyl backseat.
When we reached my destination, I handed him a twenty. “Give me five back,” I said, annoyed that I was paying fifteen dollars for a trip that should have cost me four. Not surprisingly, he claimed not to have change.
I slammed the door. Hard. He pulled away and the spinning wheels sent black water onto my shoes and ankles. I trudged through the showroom door and signed the guest book. The man behind the desk spun the book around and directed me to the tenth floor.
I bypassed three people standing by the elevator wells and jabbed the up button. I would have taken the stairs, but ten floors? Not gonna happen. We piled into the elevator and stopped on floors three, four, and
seven. By the time the doors opened on ten, I shot out of there like a canon.
“Hi, I’m Samantha Kidd from Bentley’s. I’m here to see Miss Holly?”
“Miss Holly isn’t here anymore. She had to leave.”
“But I have an appointment at five,” I said.
“Yes, you did. But it’s five seventeen.”
“No it’s not.” I pulled my cell phone out of my handbag and checked the display. Damn it. “It’s five fifteen. That’s only fifteen minutes,” I said.
“She’ll be back if you care to wait, but she was going to SoHo so it will be awhile.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t try to call me.”
“She tried to call your office but your assistant didn’t answer.” She pulled her shoulders up and dropped them in a what’s a girl to do? manner. “If you don’t want to wait, we can reschedule you for tomorrow morning, but it will have to be early. Eight o’clock?”
I didn’t bother telling her that, outside of trudging the streets of New York for my coffee, I was so not a morning person. Because, honestly, it was my own darn fault.
No it wasn’t. It was Nick Taylor’s fault.
I’d been on time, on schedule the whole day. It wasn’t until I’d gotten to his showroom that I’d fallen behind. And he knew that I had appointments to keep. He knew that … or did he? I hadn’t told him that I’d only scheduled an hour and a half with him. I hadn’t even asked if I could make a couple of phone calls to tell my other two appointments that I was running late. The consummate professional? Yeah right. I had no one to blame but myself.
“Fine, eight o’clock. I’ll be here. You’ll have coffee, right?”
The good news: my day finished early. Early enough that I could swing by the dry cleaners and get the clothes I’d dropped off on Monday. The bad news: I’d spent my last twenty on the cab fare that took me to 52nd so I was going to have to schlep my clothes on the subway. It was eight blocks to the dry cleaners. I had enough time that I could get there before they closed, if at least two of the lights went in my favor and the dry cleaner didn’t close seven minutes early like they did the last time I tried to get an outfit out of hock. I powered through the intersection. A left-turning cab driver shouted something at me and I replied with a couple of gestures I’d rather my mom didn’t see. My heel caught in a grate and I fell into a brownish-black puddle that smelled like Pepsi. My black and white houndstooth skirt turned an unfortunate shade of disgusting.