Each item carried the Heist price tag. The first bag contained a black skirt suit not unlike the one Tan Cleavage had worn earlier that day. The second held a black zip front dress like Andi Holloway’s. The third contained a boxy menswear-styled black vest and matching trousers. Tony Simms didn’t have an active imagination. He also didn’t have any idea of how I wanted to dress. He was sucking the fun out of the clothing allowance one piece of dismal black apparel at a time. At least he got the sizes right.
The phone rang after I’d zipped up the pants and buttoned the vest over my bra. I flopped on to the sofa and answered.
“Are you alone?” Nick asked.
“Yes.”
“What are you wearing?”
This conversation was starting off better than I’d expected. “A pair of black pants and a vest.”
“Good. That means you’re not dressed up like a spy in a trench coat. That means you’re acting normal, at least for now.” His voice softened. “Now tell me about this thing at Heist.”
I filled him on everything that had happened since my e-mail last night: the contest, the murder, the visit from Tony Simms, and the partnership with Detective Loncar. I went into detail about my first day, how busy it was and how little I’d done that was handbag related. Actually, that wasn’t true. Most of what I’d done had been handbag related, and it had been related to Emily Hart’s murder too. Which meant if I kept doing what I was doing, I might find a motive.
“I don’t think I like this, and I definitely don’t like that I’m not there,” he said when I finished.
“What happened at the factory? Why won’t you be coming back as soon as you want?”
“The factory somehow ran out of the leathers I bought for my collection. They can’t tell me what went wrong; I placed the orders six months ago and they confirmed them, but now they’re short. I’m going to have to use these designs in another fabric, find another factory, or scrap the whole thing and start over. None of the options are very appealing.”
“So how long does that mean you’re going to be there?”
“Easily another month. Maybe more.”
I pouted into the phone and shoved my now-cold feet under the white afghan. A horn beeped out front, and I moved to the window to see who it was.
Dante was walking up my driveway, carrying a large box under one arm.
“Nick, I have to go.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Cat’s brother just showed up.”
“Does he know anything?”
“No, but like everyone else around here, he suspects something.”
“Be careful. And call me tomorrow morning before you leave for work. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I tossed the phone on the sofa after saying good-bye. It wasn’t until after I opened the door that I remembered the vest I was wearing over my black lace bra. One of the straps fell from my shoulder and dangled by my upper arm.
“First a schoolgirl, now Madonna. You don’t make it easy, Samantha,” he said.
I hooked my thumb into my bra strap, pulled it back up, and crossed my arms over my chest to hide the plunging neckline. “What are you doing here?”
“My sister sent me over with this.” He handed me the box. “She said you might need it for your new job. Something about bringing you back into this decade? I don’t remember the exact quote.”
“She was probably delirious at the time.” I took the box and turned. “Do you want to come inside?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you have a man in your life who is out of town, and I have a sick sister back at the house, and I think it’s better that we focus on those two things than how cute you look in your black lace bra.”
I pulled the afghan off the sofa and wrapped it around my shoulders like a superhero cape.
“Good night, Samantha.” He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. A hint of cinnamon lingered in the air. I turned my head slightly. He didn’t move away. I felt the bristle of his unshaven cheek dust my face.
I took a step backward and forced a smile. “Good night, Dante.”
He closed the space between us. My back was against the box. He tipped my chin up and looked me straight in the eyes.“I have to go out of town for a few days, but whatever you’re trying to hide, I’ll find out when I get back.”
The afghan fell from my shoulders. He looked over my body, turned around, and left.
14
I took a long shower after Dante left, washing and conditioning my hair three times and shaving my left leg twice. To say I was distracted was an understatement. For someone who liked to plan and anticipate everything, I never saw Dante coming.
I’d certainly dated during the nine years I lived in New York. My Saturday-night suitors had come in the form of Wall Street bankers, pastry chefs, and at least three deli counter employees who satisfied my need for cured lunch meats and provolone cheese. The problem with all of those dates was simple.
Nick Taylor.
From the minute I’d met Nick on a dirty, slushy street in New York City, him in a Rocky T-shirt and me in yoga clothes, ponytails, and a knockoff Vuitton bucket hat, I’d felt an electricity I had otherwise not known. Where other men had either fawned on me too soon or made other intentions clear, Nick kept me on my toes. Every time I thought I knew where I stood with him, he pulled the rug out from under my sample-sized feet.
It wasn’t until I gave up my job, moved to Ribbon, and left my career and connections behind that I learned he felt the attraction too. But discovering Nick’s interests exposed his warmhearted, protective nature. He was an old-fashioned guy, and part of me liked that, but another part of me needed to prove I could take care of myself. Only now, with him halfway around the world, it seemed I could use a guardian angel in a Rocky T-shirt. And even though I knew that, and I recognized I was treading dangerous waters, I liked the way it felt. I liked taking chances, and I didn’t know if Nick could deal with that side of me.
Dante, on the other hand, seemed to accept that side of me. From what I’d seen so far, he encouraged it.
I changed into pajamas and attended to the package Cat had sent over. A heavy ivory envelope was tucked under the satin ribbon that held the lid on. I pulled a piece of monogrammed stationary from the envelope.
It’s from last season, and that’s as vintage as I’ll let you go.—Cat
The box held a mint-blue knit dress and coordinating tweed topper with an oversized collar. Deeper in the box was a pair of black suede boots with three inch heels. Catnip, her store, was a designer outlet, and often last year’s looks were this year’s new arrivals. I’d loved this outfit from the first time I saw it in the pages of Vogue, but without a job the price had been too steep. It brought tears to my eyes to think Cat was thinking of me while I was shutting her out of my world. I punched her number into the phone to say thanks and arrange a time to visit.
“I love it. I’m going to wear it tomorrow.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes. Temporarily, thanks to you, I’ll be the height of style, give or take six months. How are you feeling?”
“Better. I’m going back to the store tomorrow.”
“How about dinner after?” I asked.
“Sure. Come over to the house. I can’t seem to shake Dante, but you don’t mind if he joins us, right? He makes a mean meatloaf.”
“Sure, that’s okay. But I might have to leave early,” I said, thinking about my nine o’clock phone call.
“Nick can call your cell phone,” she said, laughing.
“Okay, tomorrow night. I’ll be there around seven thirty.”
That phone call was going to prove a problem if Dante was still suspicious of my activities, but there wasn’t much I could do about it now. I hung my new outfit on the back of my bedroom door and curled up in bed.
When you’re trying to make a long-distance relationship work, you tend to fa
ll asleep with your cell phone. You never know when late-night texts will come through, and you want to catch every last one of them. That’s why I woke at four thirty, something buzzing next to my thigh.
I fished the glowing blue screen out from under the covers and rubbed my eyes until I could see clearly. The text message was from Nick. What is new work e-mail?
I replied.
Seconds later a second text appeared. Have idea.
The next morning there were two arrangements of flowers on my desk: the bronze callas from yesterday and a vase of flaming orangey-red Hawaiian stems. This time the card was inside an envelope. Thank you for last night.—DL. The Xs and Os were gone but it was charming how the detective had signed the card. Since he’d kept up his part of the bargain, I kept up mine and carried yesterday’s arrangement to Mallory’s office.
“I’m sharing the wealth,” I offered, and set the square vase on the corner of her desk. “How’s your workload look?”
“Okay. I came in early and finished off the Monday recaps. They’re in your inbox. I’m going to work on the Vongole order next.”
I glanced at the clock. “What time did you get here?”
“Don’t worry. I always get in early. I like having quiet time to get stuff done. Before the phone starts ringing.”
I was going to have to remember that Mallory had free reign of my office when I wasn’t around. If there was snooping to be done, and I mean snooping that wasn’t done by me, I’d have to cover my tracks.
I shrugged out of the tweed jacket, hung it on the back of my chair, and booted up my PC. My email was full of unread messages. Amongst the company announcements was one note from Nick.
Dear Samantha, You may remember working with my shoe collection while you were a buyer for Bentley’s NY. With my recent plans to expand the Nick Taylor collection, I am adding a limited edition collection of handbags to the fall line. Attached are the line sheets of the items. You always were a great partner in the development of my shoe collection; I am eager to hear your feedback. Regards, NT.
Well, what do you know. Nick was going undercover too.
I wrote a brief reply thanking him for thinking of me first and saying I would happily consider his collection of handbags. I finished with a few details about our current assortment, vaguely disguised information for him to have while running amok in Milan handbag factories.
“Mallory?” I called out. “Do you know what factory Vongole uses?
“They use two. Luta and Lussuria.”
“Why two?”
“Their basics are done at Luta, and their fashion is at Lussuria.”
“Got it.” I pecked at the keyboard, suggesting Nick visit these two factories, and clicked send.
For the next couple of hours I looked over files in Emily Hart’s—I mean my—office. Every time I’d been promoted in my past life—the successful life as a buyer for Bentley’s, not the recent past that had stalled out at Tradava—I’d taken the first day to acclimate myself with my predecessor’s information to get a sense of the job. To Mallory, or anyone else who might come along, what I was doing looked perfectly natural. And it’s a good thing, too, because Tan Cleavage from the executive meeting showed up unexpectedly in my office.
I was highlighting numbers on one of Mallory’s spreadsheets and comparing the information to a file of sell-through expectations I’d found on the computer. I wasn’t so much hoping to find a clue but to get a sense of the business. It felt natural having a job again, especially one I knew I could do. Homicide notwithstanding.
Tan Cleavage entered the office, acknowledged me with little more than a nod, and disappeared into Mallory’s office. I heard them talk in low voices.
When Cleavage left, it was with Mallory behind her. She paused in the doorway. “Is it okay with you if I take my lunch now?”
“Sure, fine.” I calculated the time on the clock and realized it was my turn to snoop. “I have a lunch date myself. I’ll probably be gone when you get back. Are you fine on your own this afternoon?”
Mallory’s eyes darted to the flowers, and Cleavage snickered in the hallway. “Of course.”
I called Eddie and left him a message that I was running late and would be there by one. Then I moved into Mallory’s office and jotted down her computer’s IP address. I returned to my desk and used a couple of tricks to find her on Heist’s network and connect to her drive. Now I could cruise her files without having to ask.
Under the guise of leaving behind additional information for her, I created a fake spreadsheet and printed it out, using Post-Its to instruct her on what I wanted. It was a dummy project, but it gave me another excuse to go through her desk.
Sitting on the corner was a red folder, labeled Orders to be Approved. I opened it and flipped through the papers. There were five outstanding orders to Vongole, totaling more than a million dollars at cost. Odder still was the note scribbled across the sheet of paper: Mallory, our Vongole inventory is too high. Don’t write any more orders until we sell through at least 30% of our current stock.
The note was signed EH.
15
Emily Hart had put the kibosh on future orders of Heist’s hottest handbag line and I wanted to know why. No, that’s not true. I could respect why she’d halted orders. What I wanted to know was why Belle DuChamp was writing and approving orders if the store really was in an overstocked position. Did this have something to do with Emily’s murder?
A million dollars’ worth of orders would translate into a hefty little paycheck for Andi Holloway, and a surplus of inventory would provide Belle DuChamp with a lucrative opportunity for sales above and beyond her forecasted goals. I still couldn’t see how Kyle Trent figured into this whole thing, but I was about to. Lunch with Eddie wasn’t the only thing on the agenda at Tradava.
I found Eddie at his desk like he said, but the half-empty carton of Chinese takeout that sat on the corner told me he hadn’t waited.
“I have to go to the fabric store today,” he said. “Last-minutes plans. I could’ve had lunch with you if you’d been on time, but not now.”
“What’s the project?”
“What?”
“What’s this last minute project?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because, like you said, you’re the competition. You shouldn’t even be in my office right now.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Sam, you can’t just waltz in here and expect me to tell you Tradava’s business plans now that you work for Heist.”
“I didn’t ask you to tell me business plans, and you know what? We never talked about business plans when I did work for Tradava. Why would I start now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s how you work?”
“Are you suggesting I don’t have any ethics?”
He put his hands up in front of him in a defensive manner. “I don’t know. When you first started at Tradava, you were in some serious shit and you trusted me. But ever since you got this job at Heist, you’re being private. Maybe you were using me before, when you were here at Tradava. I don’t know. But a lot of people are concerned that you’re on Belle’s team now. She signed a non-disclosure agreement stating she wasn’t going to recruit from Tradava, and then you showed up there.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Tradava hasn’t exactly made it known they want me on the payroll. You’re right, I trusted you, so you know I moved to Ribbon to work at Tradava. The reason I don’t work here has to do with the store, not with me.”
“Apparently that’s the reason they’re not able to legally go after her.”
“Because they don’t want me?”
“Not exactly. They just can’t clearly qualify why you no longer work here, and whether it was your decision or theirs.”
It was my turn to throw my hands up in disgust. “And this is the company you want to be loyal to? You should hear them talk over at Heist. They’re so passionate about what th
ey’re doing. Their executive meetings are like a think tank. They’re willing to listen to suggestions and try new ideas. They want to stay on the cutting edge. Tradava should be worried about them, but not because of me.”
I stood up and tugged the hem of my knit dress. “I thought we were friends, Eddie. But lately it sounds like my friends don’t want me to be successful.” I tucked my handbag under the crook of my arm and turned to leave.
He didn’t say a word until I got to the doorway. “Nice outfit. Where’d it come from?”
Bastard.
Eddie was right about one thing. It would have been highly unethical for me to masquerade around Tradava as a random stranger and find my way to Kyle Trent’s office. That’s why, when I found him sitting by the coffee bar on the first floor, I invited myself to join him.
“Is this seat taken?”
He looked up from the catalog he was reading. I could tell he recognized me but wasn’t sure why. I left my hand on the back of the tall barstool and pasted an I’m-not-threatening expression on my face. It took about eight seconds for recognition to hit. When it did, he closed the catalog and sat back on his stool. With an ever-so-slight shrug he indicated it was okay. Or possibly the shrug told me to go to hell. Sometimes shrugs are hard to read.
I gingerly perched atop the blue leather swivel stool and set my clutch on the table.
Kyle stood. “Wait here,” he said.
I was not giving him this easy a getaway. I spun to the side and slid myself off the stool.
He stopped me. “You want a cup of coffee? My treat. And why don’t we move to one of those tables over there?” He glanced at one surrounded by a couple of modern wooden and metal chairs. The padded stool was certain to be more comfortable, but when I added in the privacy factor, the table won.
“Sure. Thanks.” I moved to the table and watched Kyle. I’d place even money he had been fast-tracked early in his career and now held an enviable job that he’d keep for the next decade if he was smart. A few sales associates stood in line behind him, openly giggling when he smiled their direction. I bet girlish giggles followed Kyle Trent a lot. He was no stranger to attention and probably didn’t spend a lot of nights sleeping alone.
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 02 - Buyer, Beware Page 9