Diane Vallere - Style & Error 02 - Buyer, Beware

by Diane Vallere

  I thought it through again. Kyle had killed Emily at Heist, probably minutes before he’d run into me in the handbag department. A crime of passion. I could have easily overheard something, or seen something, and that was one thing he didn’t know. So he figured out a way to keep an eye on me. Plus, he was the one who fed me information about Belle DuChamp. Once he confided in me about his engagement to Emily, I wrote him off as a suspect. I never saw this one coming. And when I’d floated the rumors past Andi Holloway….

  I’d forgotten about Andi. She had benefited financially from the apparent feud between Tradava and Heist’s buyers, and she had a relationship with each of the buyers. In fact, even she said she didn’t believe the rumor about Belle and Kyle. The romantic stories she’d told me about what Kyle had done for Emily when they were at market were the stuff of chick-lit novels, not murder mysteries. It didn’t make sense.

  Unless Kyle had been playing her too.

  25

  “Dante, I have to get out of the house. I’m going for a drive.” I grabbed my keys, but stopped before I made it out the front door. “Is my car back to normal?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I took off, only slightly surprised he didn’t follow.

  It was a warm spring day. The wind whipped through my curly hair, just what I needed to clear my mind. I snaked around a couple of suburban streets while deciding where I wanted to go, turning onto Perkiomen Avenue behind a delivery truck. I blasted the Go-Go’s from my stereo and cruised a couple of miles without a specific destination. I ended up in a parking space in front of the renovated building where Andi rented her Bag Lady offices. I entered the showroom and found Andi slumped in a chair, surrounded by opened boxes of handbags.

  “Andi?” I hopped to the side so I had a better view of her.

  “Yes?” She spun her chair toward me. The normally peppy RockStar-fuelled woman was like a deflated balloon. “Oh, hi Samantha,” she said, not standing up. “Did we have an appointment?” She stood up awkwardly and used her instep to push one of the shipping boxes out of the way. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and her nose was dry from too much dabbing with a tissue.

  “I heard, and I thought I should … I mean …” Suddenly my visit seemed calculated, and I didn’t know what to say. “Are you okay?” It was the only sentence that felt right.

  She slumped back into her chair.

  I stepped around the boxes and sat across from her in silence.

  “I don’t get it. I just don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. I’ve known Emily and Kyle forever. They seemed so in love. I thought they’d found it. Made me believe that I might find someone too, but not living this kind of life,” she tossed a shiny red wallet on the table. “The only thing keeping me from a total breakdown is the Xanax I took this morning. I don’t see it. I can’t see him doing it. I know that’s just denial speaking, but I completely, utterly, wholly can’t see it.”

  She must be upset. Three adverbs and not a single “totally.”

  My eyes strayed to the paperwork on the table. It was an invoice for the shipment she was unpacking, and the letterhead said Ace Trucking Company. I pointed to it.

  “Did Vongole change their delivery service?”

  She pulled the invoice toward herself but made no effort to hide it. “No, Ace delivers my samples. Simulated delivers the store’s inventory.” Her index finger had poked the invoice by the Ace Trucking Company logo, and she pushed it back and forth in a nervous gesture. “Only someone screwed up this time.” She reached down to the box on the floor and pulled out a yellow patent leather clutch. It was the same one I’d drooled over when Mallory and I were standing in the showroom only days ago. “Here, take it.”

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Seriously. The factory screwed up and these clutches accidentally came in with my samples. I’m just going to end up selling them in a sample sale. I might be selling it all.” She waved her hand around the showroom. “After Kyle and Emily and their association with Vongole, both stores are dropping the line to protect their reputations. I might as well cut ties too.”

  “How will that affect you?”

  “I’ve been looking for a reason to cut back on my travel and try to have a real life. I can focus on my other vendors. Most of them are local.” We both looked around her showroom at samples of striped cotton pajamas, sachets shaped like hearts trimmed in lace, and a collection of glassware shaped like hard candy. Vongole had been the shining star in her assortment.

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I hugged her and said good-bye. She insisted I take the yellow patent handbag, so I did. I could give it to Loncar as evidence. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t.

  I started the drive home and got caught behind a large delivery truck. Traffic was bad enough that I couldn’t get past him. Through seventeen traffic lights I stared at his “How am I driving?” sticker until he pulled off the road into the Briquette Burger parking lot. That’s when I noticed it was a Simulated truck. I called Nick with little regard for the Ribbon/Milan time conversion.

  He answered on the third ring. “’Lo?”

  “I just followed a Simulated truck and it’s pulling into Briquette Burger. That’s the trucking company that delivers the Vongole handbags. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “S’mntha?”

  “Hi, Nick. Sorry if I woke you, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Are you in trouble?” His words were becoming clearer as the suspicion of imminent danger to me hung somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.

  “A Simulated truck pulled into Briquette Burger. Why would he do that?”

  He yawned. “Maybe he’s hungry. Is that really why you called me?”

  The way he phrased that question led me to believe that wasn’t a very good reason for calling. “No, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “That’s sweet.” His breathing turned even.

  “Nick?”

  “Mnh.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  I parked in the ten-minute takeout space next to the restaurant. The Simulated driver jumped down from the cab, went around back, and opened the doors. I couldn’t see inside, but in a matter of minutes he’d removed three cardboard cartons and stacked them on a dolly. He pushed it to a door in the back of the restaurant. Minutes later he returned and repeated the routine.

  Before he had a chance to push the second dolly load to the back door, I approached. “Can I talk to you a second?”

  “Sure, little lady, whaddya want?” He uprighted the handcart and leaned against it.

  “What are you delivering to this restaurant?”

  He looked nervous.

  “I mean, is this a regular stop for you?”

  “Yeah. Restaurant supply stuff, for what it’s worth.”

  “How long have you been delivering to Briquette Burger?”

  “Couple of weeks now.”

  “Did you deliver some mushrooms here recently?”

  “Why does everybody want to know about them mushrooms?” He pulled the mesh John Deere hat that had probably been standard issue when he got his trucker’s license off his head, scratched his bald spot, and pulled the hat back over it. “We don’t normally deliver produce, but when it came time to unload the delivery for this address, the crates were there.”

  “Doesn’t Simulated deliver to Heist? The new department store?”

  “Yeah, the owner’s got us running all over town these days. Guess we’re makin’ him some money somehow.”

  “Who’s your owner?”

  “Local big shot. Tony Simms. Hey—you okay?”

  The last question, I was most certain, had to do with the sudden bout of vertigo I felt at the mention of Tony’s name.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for your time.”

  I raced to the car, where I’d left my cell phone in the cup holder. First call, Detective Loncar.

  “Ms. Kidd, what do you want now?” He didn’t seem happy to hear fro
m me.

  “Did you know that Tony Simms owns Simulated Trucking?”

  “Yes, Ms. Kidd. Tony Simms owns half of Ribbon.”

  “And that doesn’t concern you?”

  “That we have an entrepreneur in our midst? No, that doesn’t concern me. Especially when he risked his life to come forward and pinpoint the murderer in a recent homicide investigation. Is that it?”

  “Yes.” I was about to hang up when I remembered the mushrooms. “Wait! Simulated was the trucking company that delivered the mushrooms too.”

  “Ms. Kidd.” I could hear the lecture in his voice. “The Ribbon Police Department appreciates your interest in helping us. I would never want to say anything to deter you from working with us again in the future, but I think we got about all we need this time. Thank you for doing your civic duty.”

  The worst thing about cell phones is that there is absolutely no satisfaction in punching the hang-up button.

  I dialed Nick again.

  “Mmmmmmmh.”

  “Nick, it’s Samantha. This is important. Are you awake?”

  Silence, and then a grunt.

  “Tony Simms owns Simulated Trucking. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “Mmmmmh.”

  “Nick, I’m being serious. You’re the only person who knows about what’s been going on, and if we’re going to do this relationship thing, then we need to be able to talk to each other. I need someone to talk to. Okay?”

  He yawned audibly. “You want to know what I think? Maybe a homicide investigation isn’t a good basis for a relationship. Good night, Kidd.” He hung up before I had a chance to argue.

  I threw my phone in my handbag and turned to my car. Dante stood next to it, arms crossed, flame tattoos in full display.

  “Did I hear you’re looking for someone to talk to?”

  26

  Dante followed me back to my house and parked his motorcycle in the driveway behind my car. Neither of us said a word until we were inside the living room. I split the gray flannel sofa with Logan. Dante took one of the black and white chairs.

  “Here’s what’s really been going on. Tony Simms owns Heist, and when he offered me the job, he said, ‘Heist cannot fail.’ And, aside from the way he produced ID with my name and picture on it, I remember his eyes boring through me when he said that. Now, he’s an intense man, I know that.” I held up a palm to stop Dante from interrupting me. “And he’s a successful man. But don’t you think it’s weird that he’s connected to everything that’s going south? Heist, Vongole, Simulated Trucking, the mushrooms that poisoned Cat and Logan?”

  “Keep going,” Dante said. By now he was listening intently.

  “Simms had big plans for this store, which is why he wooed a very successful general manager away from Tradava to run it. Think about it: he owns the store, and he owns the fleet of trucks that deliver to the store. If Heist had been successful in its initial opening, it would have put a big dent in Tradava’s business.”

  “And with their prices, they could have continued with the momentum long after opening too.”

  “Right. Their entire success was staked on their pricing structure.” I pulled the two Vongole reports out of a folder. “Kyle Trent gave me this.”

  “I’m not a spreadsheet guy,” Dante said. When he didn’t take the sheets of paper I held out, I laid them on the table.

  “The basic components of a product’s profitability are the same from any retailer. This is Tradava’s recap of the Vongole business. They’re showing close to a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollar loss in one season, while Heist was projecting a two hundred thousand dollar margin surplus off discounted prices. It didn’t make sense.”

  “Could Tradava be mismanaging their business?”

  “Vongole sold the same amount of merchandise to both Heist and Tradava, but Heist got a 40 percent discount off of the cost of the merchandise. They only passed 30 percent of that on to the customers, so they made more money on every bag that was sold than Tradava did. What I can’t figure out is why Tradava can’t move their inventory at 50 percent off.” I leaned back against the flannel sofa. Logan climbed onto the afghan and sat behind my head. He flicked his tail, and it swatted my ear.

  “When I went to Tradava the other day, there was this giant table filled with marked-down bags. Something about that pile of markdowns. The bags looked cheap.”

  “Maybe it’s the merchandising?” Dante asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You have another theory?”

  “I think the sample bags are high quality, and the bags at Tradava aren’t. That’s why Kyle wanted to cancel the Vongole orders. He told me the quality suffered when their business exploded.”

  “What about Heist?”

  “The assistant buyer said something interesting. Four months ago, Vongole didn’t have enough merchandise to fill their orders. Now the store is overflowing with merchandise.”

  I sat back, waiting to see if Dante was going to connect the dots in the same manner that I had earlier, or if I’d been reasoning a murder investigation on a sleep deprived mind. “I think the quality suffered because the bags are being mass produced with poor-quality leathers.”

  “You think the bags at Heist are knockoffs.”

  I nodded. “I found out today that Ace Trucking Company delivers the samples to the showroom, but Simulated delivers the inventory to the store. At least to Heist.”

  “So there’s a different trucking company that carries inventory, which could mean the stock production comes from somewhere other than the sample production.” Dante followed along.

  “And look at this.” I pulled my yellow patent leather clutch out from inside a dingy white pillowcase where I’d kept it wrapped since coming home.

  The front door opened and Eddie and Cat walked in. I had an idea. “Cat, what do you think of my new handbag?” I held the yellow patent leather clutch out to her.

  She turned it over in her hands, opened up the magnetic closure, checked the lining, sniffed inside it, and snapped it shut.

  “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this,” she said. “It’s a fake. A good one, but still.”

  “Is that your opinion?” Dante asked.

  “It’s a fact.” She handed the bag back to me. “I’m surprised you couldn’t tell.”

  “I could,” I said.

  Dante crossed his arms over his chest and Eddie leaned forward.

  “How can you be so sure?” Eddie asked.

  Cat leaned on the arm of the chair Dante sat in, swinging her left foot back and forth. The heel of her bottle-green bootie bounced off the worn fabric on the side.

  I looked at her, not sure which of us would answer.

  “Take it away, Sam,” she said.

  “Look, the lining is pink. Vongole makes it a point to only line their bags with the literal opposite color on the color wheel. A yellow bag would be lined in purple. A red bag would be lined in green. A blue bag would be lined in orange.”

  “What about a pink bag?” Dante asked.

  “Any bag that isn’t a primary or secondary color is lined in powder-blue suede,” I said, thinking of the black and white bag I saw at Tradava.

  “You’re hanging your entire assessment on the color of their lining?” Eddie asked. Dante stood up and went into the kitchen. I stared at his back and considered a comment about his lack of enthusiasm for my fake-busting skills.

  “I’m not done. See, the label is metal. Vongole’s labels are all silver, and they’re sterling silver at that. If you look closely, you can always see the ‘925’ stamp on real silver, and it’s not here. And, the pull-tab along the zipper closure is too short. It’s supposed to be six inches long.”

  “How do you know that’s not six inches? Looks close.”

  I turned the Halston book upside down and pulled a flattened hundred-dollar bill from the back. I held it next to the pull-tab. The tab ended right around the first zero on the crisp green bill. “US Currenc
y is six inches long.”

  “What’s this all about, Sam?” Cat asked.

  “The cops arrested the wrong guy,” I said.

  Eddie folded his hands across the Union Jack on the front of his T-shirt. “It sounds good enough to us, but I think you’re going to need more to make the detective take you seriously. Like proof from the factory.”

  “Nick checked into the two factories that claim to produce Vongole.”

  “Vongole doesn’t have two factories. Their bags are produced at Luta,” Cat said.

  “That’s what I was told when I started. Basics from Luta and fashion from Lussuria. But when Nick heard his factory couldn’t produce his samples he checked out these two.” I waited a couple of seconds for effect. “Lussuria doesn’t even exist.”

  “So Nick’s been helping you all along?” Eddie asked. “What does he think about your current theory?”

  I thought about Nick’s reluctance to keep talking about the homicides. “He thinks it’s time I left it to the cops.” I looked from face to face, trying to decipher their thoughts.

  Dante returned from the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee. “Does this guy even know you?”

  Eddie and Cat left, but Dante stayed behind. I dug through the newspapers and mail that was piling up on my kitchen table and found Tony Simms’ business card. Office, home, and cell numbers were listed below his name. I went with cell, hoping it was the easiest way to make sure I caught him.

  “Tony Simms,” he barked into the phone after one ring.

  “Mr., um, Tony, this is Samantha Kidd.”

  “Samantha Kidd. I got two minutes.”

  “I, um …” This was no way to sound believable to a businessman. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat and matched his cadence. “I don’t think I can make the college dedication.”

  “Impossible! I need you there. We’ve already covered this. Liaison to the store, goodwill. I thought I made myself clear.”

  I thought about the money in the Halston book. “You did.”