Panty Raid

by Diane Vallere

  Joey accepted my answer with a laugh.

  Whatever it was that Joey Cheeks had been fired up about five minutes ago, he quickly transitioned into enigmatic and slightly butt-kissing designer. It was a character I was first exposed to in my days working for Bentley’s New York.

  Faking friendships with my vendors had been among the more uncomfortable aspects of my job. It required a bit of politicking, maintaining positive relationships so my store could have leverage when it came time to negotiate. I’d had my share of vendor dinners, tickets to shows, swag bags, and complimentary samples up to a value acceptable by my employer.

  Over countless market weeks, I’d learned which vendors drank too much, gossiped too much, and generally expected too much. I’d learned to blame my company when offered inappropriate presents. I learned to order the second least expensive entrée on the menu so as not to appear cheap but also not incur unnecessary debts. In the seven years that I’d held that job, I booked fewer and fewer social engagements. By the time I quit, the only invitations I accepted with any regularity were those from Nick.

  We never crossed the line.

  But all that knowledge of designers and vendor reps had provided an insight into the personality that stood before me. When Joey Cheeks looked at me he saw one thing: a buyer with the budget to place an order. Joey Cheeks was going to tell me anything I wanted to know.

  Which brought me to an interesting observation. Joey wanted me to write orders for him. From what I’d overheard, he wanted big orders. In light of Lydia’s death, his mention of publicity had shaken me, because it was too selfish of a thought. But I didn’t know if Joey knew about Lydia. Joey didn’t act like a man who had just learned the face (body) of his company was dead. His comments about Lydia’s absence had been about the impact her actions would have on him.

  Unless he knew and was pretending he didn’t.

  There was no way Lydia would have had samples of Joey’s collection for her bridesmaids if he wasn’t aware of it—unless Joey trusted his line manager, Teresa, completely and let her make the decisions. But so far, I’d seen a hands-on company owner who had his finger in every pie. If this man was responsible for Lydia’s death to get a publicity, then he was truly diabolical. Especially if he’d done all that twelve hours ago and was here, at Intimate Mode, promoting his collection of panties.

  Joey kept up the charming act as he walked me around his booth, but try as I might, I had a hard time warming up to him. Apparently, I did a poor job hiding my thoughts.

  “You heard me talking with my line manager about Lydia, didn’t you?” Joey said, pausing the TV that had his runway presentation running on a loop.

  “I may have caught a word or two.”

  He sat back. “Signing Lydia was a coup—at least I thought it was—but she’s caused problem after problem since before the ink was dry on her contract. I threatened to cancel it, and she said she’d sue the pants off me. Have you ever had to deal with a problem employee?”

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “Workplace drama comes with the territory.” At his confused look, I clarified, “If you work alone, you’ll probably love your staff. If you work with others, it’s just a matter of time until there’s a personality clash.”

  “At this point, I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Lydia managed to get me some publicity after all.”

  Joey was either the most calculating and detached designer I’d ever met, or he didn’t know about Lydia. I waffled on whether to blurt it out, but the longer we chatted, the more awkward the news (coming from me) would be.

  The curtain that kept us separated from the prying eyes of the public pulled aside, and Teresa interrupted us. Her side ponytail had come slightly undone, and tendrils of hair hung loose on the opposite side of her head. “Have you seen this?” she asked Joey. She held up a newspaper. The image was Lydia Moss’s body on the sidewalk in front of the Eiffel Tower with the words #GetCheeky printed across her butt. “Lydia Moss killed herself last night.”

  Joey grabbed the newspaper and scanned the article. “She’s gone? For good?”

  “That’s how it seems,” Teresa said.

  Joey stood up and thrust the newspaper back at her. “At least she showed them her good side.”

  16

  I stared, horrified, at Joey’s back as he left the booth. He’d made no secret of his regret over signing Lydia, but to make such a callous comment after seeing a picture of her dead body was chilling.

  “He didn’t mean that,” Teresa said. She set a cardboard drink holder on the table and placed one of the take-out cups in front of me and another on the table in front of the chair Joey had vacated. The third cup had a straw with a ring of lipstick that matched Teresa’s own. She pulled that cup out and tossed the cup holder into the trash like a Frisbee. “Joey and Lydia had a contentious relationship since the beginning, but deep down he loved her. He loves them all. That’s why he got into this business.”

  She pulled a Diet Coke out of the pocket of her bomber jacket and popped the top. She removed the lid from the third cup and dumped the cola inside then swirled it a few times and snapped the lid back into place. I pulled the lid off my espresso and sniffed it. It smelled bitter. I looked longingly at Teresa’s soda.

  She held up her index finger. “I’ll be right back.” She pushed the curtains open and the breeze left in her wake caught the newspaper and blew it from within my reach to the floor next to the chair in front of me.

  The news of Lydia’s death was out, and I wanted to know what the press had said. I had no idea how long my window of alone time would last so I acted fast. I slid down in my chair and used the tip of my heel to drag the newspaper toward me. When the newspaper was within reaching distance, I bent down and picked it up.

  Whoever had taken Lydia’s picture had done so without authorization. I reached that conclusion because I’d been there. I’d been the one to call the police. As soon as the police and EMTs arrived, they’d checked her pulse and then moved her onto a gurney, covered her, and placed her into the ambulance. Additional staff had screened off the sidewalk.

  That told me a few things: someone else had seen Lydia’s body and had not only done nothing to help her, they’d taken a tasteless picture and profited by selling it. It did not escape me that the only identifiable thing about Lydia in the photo was the #GetCheeky slogan written across her panties. I guess that told me a third thing: someone thought it was more important to capture that angle than her face.

  I doubted it would be difficult to find a copy of the newspaper once I left the trade show, so after scanning the article, I pushed it aside. The unidentified staff writer had provided the briefest of details: longtime Las Vegas resident Lydia Moss, lingerie model and face of Cheeky Panties, was found dead outside The Left Bank early Sunday morning. Initial rumors of suicide have not been confirmed by the medical examiner.

  Distracted by my thoughts about how to find out who took the photo, I jumped when the curtain pulled open. Teresa was back. She’d taken off her satin bomber jacket, and her #GirlBoss T-shirt was prominently displayed.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. Her eyes jumped from me to the newspaper. She moved it a few inches away from me, folded it, and tucked it under her arm. She opened the top drawer of the file cabinet.

  For an awkward moment, she stared inside at the contents as if she’d completely forgotten why she opened it. She cut her eyes to me, saw me watching her, and shifted her position to block my view. When she turned around, she held a packet of line sheets and sample photos. The newspaper was nowhere to be seen. I assumed she put it in the drawer.

  “It’s been a crazy morning,” Teresa said.

  “That article—that’s horrible. Will Joey be okay? He said he recently signed Lydia to work for him.”

  “Joey will land on his feet. He always does.” She glanced inside the drawer again and then slammed it shut.

  We conducte
d our appointment like nothing unusual had happened. I flipped through the rack of samples. The tasteless T-shirts were parsley—they could have been made by any vendor in America and would have done far better in the juniors’ department than intimate apparel. It was clear Joey had outsourced the production of those designs and cared little about them, and when Teresa moved the rack of samples out of the way, I understood why.

  Joey Cheeks was angling to be the panty king of the universe.

  Displayed on tables shaped like white wedding cakes with Get Cheeky! signs on top were mountains of colorful panties. Hundreds. There were cotton panties, lace panties, silk panties, and even Days of the Week panties. Thongs, briefs, bikinis, Brazilians. Boy shorts and G-strings. Every pair of panties had a hang tag that said: Bet your bottom dollar on Cheeky panties!

  I had to give him credit for the pun.

  “What do you think?” Teresa asked.

  “I think Joey’s passionate about panties.”

  She laughed. “He took lemons and made lemonade, that’s for sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “Joey’s had a hard life. Got bullied for being…different. It was touch and go there for a while, but when he got the idea to use his name for the panty collection, everything came together. These days he’s a whole different person.”

  ***

  There are a few skills needed to be a successful buyer. One is a taste level. Being able to peruse merchandise and know what was appropriate for your customers and what wouldn’t resonate with them. It wasn’t enough to place orders to suit a buyer’s personal tastes because that was far too narrow of an audience. One customer, no matter how good they were, could not save a season, especially if that one customer flexed an employee discount. No, a buyer needed to understand the big picture patterns of the store’s customer: the needs she had in terms of drawer space, personal beautification, and feel-good, emotional desires.

  It was usually the emotional need that made the difference between an okay selling item and a runaway bestseller, and emotional needs were created by buzz. It had happened in the lingerie business once before.

  The intimate apparel industry had seen unprecedented growth in the Madonna days of the Eighties. After the pop star’s various innerwear-as-outerwear outfits showed up on MTV, bras and bustiers weren’t just about engineering. They were fashion.

  Joey Cheeks wasn’t in the business of intimate apparel. Joey Cheeks was in the business of fashion. A trade show would generate the usual orders, possibly pick up a few new accounts. For Joey’s line to transcend his industry, he needed something big. Something eye-catching. Something that would make everybody talk about his product.

  A dead lingerie model photographed in his product would fit that bill.

  This morning, everything I’d learned pointed to a replay of Marc’s past. I’d come to Intimate Mode to get away from my suspicions and now I was face to face with brand new ones.

  I selected an assortment of panties for Tradava and made notes on my line sheets. Between refills of Diet Coke, Teresa re-ponytailed her hair and held the samples while I photographed them. We recapped size availability, color swatches, and discount terms, and I asked about exclusives like a good buyer. I told her I’d write up the order and be in touch.

  Teresa, pleased with the promise of business, excused herself again and went to the front of the booth. I had no intention of writing up the order, at least not until I knew more about Joey Cheeks. Because despite the fact that he trafficked in underwear, I’d bet my bottom dollar he was hiding something. But what?

  As I scanned my surroundings, I heard two hushed female voices talking out front.

  “Lydia’s dead. Joey told me he was going to get her out of the picture and now she’s dead. He was at The Left Bank last night. He dropped off the samples. He was there, don’t you see?”

  “You don’t think Joey did this, do you?” I recognized that voice as Teresa. I stood up and inched closer to the curtain, hoping to identify the other speaker.

  “You saw how mad he was when he found out about her past,” said the first voice. I peeked through a sliver of space between the curtains and recognized Chryssinda. “When Lydia threatened to sue him if he tried to nullify their contract, he must have snapped.”

  “I think you should keep that theory to yourself.”

  “Listen to me. We both know he gave her those samples for publicity. Joey never hands out samples before a show. Why did he do it last night? He planned this. Think of the publicity he’ll get now.”

  “Shhh!” Teresa jerked her thumb toward the curtain separating us. “There’s a buyer in there. She might hear you.”

  I froze. If they pulled the curtain open, there’d be no way to pretend I hadn’t heard. I stepped back but kept listening.

  “The police were very interested in what I told them about Joey,” Chryssinda said, this time in a barely audible whisper.

  “You talked to the police? How could you? If they come after Joey, he’ll lose everything.”

  “He should have thought of that before he tangled with Lydia.”

  17

  I took another step back and bumped into the table. The cup of espresso fell over and spilled onto my line sheets. I grabbed the mound of samples to get them out of the path of liquid and looked around for something to blot the spill.

  It was a bad time for me to pop out from behind the private vendor appointment partition and announce my presence. It was a bad time for me to be anywhere at Intimate Mode, at least until I had a chance to find out who knew what and why, but one thing was certain: there was more to Lydia’s death than met the eye. Considering the photo of her backside on the cover of the Las Vegas Sun, there was a whole lot of her that met the eye. I had two more days to work the trade show, and I had to use that time wisely.

  Aside from the front entrance that would have put me in the path of Teresa and Chryssinda, there was one other way out. Under the pipe and drape that separated Cheeky Panties from the booth behind them.

  I pulled my lanyard off and shoved it into my laptop bag. I mopped up the spilled espresso with a pair of pink cotton Cheeky panties and thrust the soiled sample into the bottom of my laptop bag too, and then ducked under the back curtain.

  I’d successfully gotten away from Joey Cheeks’ booth, but I hadn’t given much thought to the location where I’d turn up. Face to face with a pair of ankles, one of which was tattooed with a small ink-black Fleur de lis. I stood up.

  “Oh my gosh, you scared me!” said the owner of the ankles, a curvaceous black woman in a plush white terrycloth robe. “You’re the sub? I’m Lisa.”

  “I’m Samantha.”

  She glanced at my body. “I told them I needed somebody with some meat on their bones. Turn around.”

  I turned.

  “Hard to tell when you got all your clothes on.”

  “One of the models called me fluffy,” I offered.

  She checked me out and nodded. “You’ll do. Did they give you a sample when you got here?” I shook my head. She picked up a garment. “Here,” she said. “You better hurry up and change because we’re supposed to hit the floor in ten minutes and your makeup needs a boost.”

  “I’m not—I don’t think—”

  “Girl, is this your first intimate apparel show? Please.” She pulled her terrycloth robe open like a flasher and Bam! It was cleavage and hips. “This is about female empowerment. Women see us in this product, they see themselves in this product. Men see us in this product, they see confidence. Either way, we go out there like this, and buyers write orders. That’s our job. You model sunglasses? You show them your face because that’s where the sunglasses go. You model shoes? You show them your feet because that’s where the shoes go.”

  I looked at the black garment. It must be some sort of sleepwear. “What are we modeling today?”

  She turned around and handed me a tube of red lipstick. “What do
you think? You gonna show them your bang bang, because that’s where the lingerie goes.”

  My bang bang?

  She grabbed my laptop bag. “Do you have any other shoes in your model bag?” She flipped the bag open and I grabbed it from her.

  “No, just the ones I’m wearing.”

  She frowned. “What size are you? Nine? Ten? Eleven? I got big feet, so you probably can’t borrow any of mine—”

  “Seven.”

  “Girl, how do you expect to keep your balance on size seven feet?” She shook her head. “You need to up your game if you want to make a career of this. You’re already on the short side. Lucky for you this is the year of body diversity.”

  “I’m five seven,” I said. “Five ten in my heels. Six if they’re platforms.”

  “Honey, I’m six feet two in my bare black feet.”

  She tossed my bag along the wall next to a row of zipped and unzipped duffel bags. “Good thing nobody’s going to be looking at our feet today. Put on the sample and then come out front for your makeup. You don’t have a lot of time to stand around and chat.”

  She left. I had one moment of indecision. Go back to Joey Cheeks’ booth and explain I’d overheard rumors to the effect that their designer was an unstable murderer, or put on a nightgown and prepare to show my bang bang with a group of models before coming back here and making a break for it.

  It was a tough choice.

  I stripped down to my pink strapless push-up bra and matching bikini panties and pulled the nightgown over my head. I left the privacy of the changing booth and joined the models out front.

  Oh, no. These weren’t just any nightgowns. They were Naughty Nighties. And every single one of the models was in the same black garment that I was. The same black garment that I hadn’t bothered to look at in the mirror.