Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper

by Diane Vallere

  I felt every bit the glamorous socialite as I stepped onto the red carpet. Nice touch, I thought. Eddie had never mentioned the final details, so I didn’t know if he was responsible. Either way it made for a dramatic entrance.

  I picked out some familiar Tradava faces after scanning the crowd surrounding the front doors. Outside of that group, I felt anonymous. I wished someone would be waiting to meet me at the entrance, but after realizing that I hadn’t planned to arrive alone, I thought twice about that wish. Lost in thought, I made my way through the crowd to the massive front doors, propped open for the evening with large urns that held topiaries shaped to resemble pillbox hats on hat stands.

  The waning sun cast golden rays into the foyer, where chic volunteers, dressed in matching belted camel skirt suits and long brown gloves, greeted guests. They were all modeled after a scene from Murder after Midnight. Stylistically, it was a home run. In reality, it was like a cloning experiment gone wrong.

  I stood by myself now, looking for familiar faces or anything out of the ordinary. Two guards stood at the entrance. Another stood off to the side, radio in hand, watching the crowd as they entered the museum. They weren’t the museum guards who had ushered patrons from one wing to the next, keeping viewers a safe distance from the paintings. These officers were police, I guessed, dressed in less obvious uniforms than the men out front but armed all the same, radios in hand, surveying the scene. My pulse returned to normal as I picked them out of the crowd.

  Detective Loncar must have coordinated that as part of his plan to keep Eddie and the other patrons safe tonight. I looked around for the detective, wondering what his take on formal attire might look like. I didn’t see him.

  The young blondes with carefully coiffed French twists peeking out of camel and brown trilby hats bustled around, checking invitations and directing guests here and there. Invitations! Of all the things I remembered to pack in my bag, I suddenly realized I had left that vital piece of paper on the counter at home.

  I stepped to the side of the line, pretending to search through my purse, all the while knowing I could be bounced out before even getting a glimpse of Eddie’s work.

  “Samantha! I’m delighted to see you this evening,” a voice called to me.

  Dr. Daum stood beside one of the volunteers. I greeted him warmly and accepted his arm as he escorted me past the faux Hedy Londons and into the museum lobby.

  “How’s Thad?” I asked as we walked past the coat check line.

  “He’s doing fine, just fine. He was released today. He was hoping to be here tonight, which I think was a little presumptuous on his part considering his multiple wounds. He was quite a lucky young man, though. Quite lucky.” His voice drifted off.

  “Multiple wounds? I thought he was stabbed.”

  “Three times, three shallow wounds.” The former director guided me toward the elevator. “But now’s not the time to talk about it. He’ll be fine, and that’s what counts.”

  We arrived on the second floor amidst an already-energized crowd that was taking in Eddie’s genius. Twelve hats had been positioned on sculpted white bust forms and perched on Ionic pedestals. Twelve pencil-thin flashlights were suspended from the ceiling, directly over each hat, to shine on them from above. The dental floss was invisible; the flashlights appeared to be hanging in midair and only added to the design concept. Behind the hat display were dozens of mannequins dressed in shades of camel, brown, ivory, and taupe. Nipped-in waists on jackets and skirts full with accordion pleats of netting recalled Dior’s New Look that had launched in the late forties and defined the fifties. I walked from one mannequin to the next, wondering how the city of Ribbon was going to react to such strikingly feminine—yet retro—fashion. That is, if the fashionistas weren’t going to buy it out first like they’d done with the latest designer collaboration at Target.

  While a large portion of the crowd oohed and ahhed the exhibit, a throng of partygoers stood off to the side, sipping champagne and munching hors d’oeuvres. I saw mini quiches and cocktail shrimp. I cursed the corset that would keep me from eating.

  “Your friend Eddie has turned out to be exactly what we needed for this exhibit,” Dr. Daum said. “He managed to do some extraordinary things for us during what would normally be a trying time. In fact, he kept much of his exhibit under wraps. Even though we’re viewing it now, he and Christian still planned for an unveiling.”

  “Eddie said something special was happening tonight, but he didn’t tell me what.”

  “Yes, Christian said the same thing.”

  “Dr. Daum, there’s something I think you should know about Christian—”

  “An interesting approach, I think, considering this is a crowd that expects a lot to be impressed.” He checked his watch. “In fact, it’s almost that time. Have you seen him yet?”

  “Christian? No, not yet. But Dr. Daum—”

  “Then I must go and see if Eddie requires any help.” He stepped away and nodded formally in my direction.

  Once again I was by myself. I glanced around, looking for someone else who might provide a conversational escape but found nothing more than well-dressed couples walking around, nodding in my direction. I suddenly became aware that someone was standing close behind me, breathing on my neck.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” Arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me backward toward a tuxedoed body. “You didn’t think I was going to leave you all alone, did you?” a husky voice whispered in my ear.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back. “I knew you wouldn’t stand me up,” I said.

  “Stand you up? I wasn’t even sure if you’d show.”

  I whirled around and stood face to face with Dante. Heat shot through my body and face and a few other unmentionable places.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Expecting someone else?”

  A volunteer approached us with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Dante took two from the tray and offered me one. Not one to turn down champagne from a handsome man, I accepted the glass and sipped.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me how nice I look?” he asked.

  I was still swigging from the champagne flute and stopped to look his way. He cleaned up nicely, that was for sure. Still the rebel, though, he sported a black shirt under his peak lapel tuxedo and had chosen to wear a black tie with green flames that looked like they’d been lifted from a motorcycle with a custom paint job.

  “Well?”

  “What did you do, call ahead to find out the dress code?”

  “You actually think I don’t know how to dress?”

  “No.” I stared him straight in the eyes and chose my words carefully. “I think you probably know more than you let on.”

  His gaze was direct, but I wasn’t going to let him get to me.

  “What brings you here tonight?” I asked.

  He leaned in close, and once again I felt his breath next to my ear. “What do you think brought me here?”

  He was being evasive on purpose, and I finally understood what he meant about the questions I asked. Mine were polite. Innocuous. They were reactionary, based on our encounters, and he knew it. He had come to expect the expected from me. As long as he kept me on my toes, he’d be the one controlling what I knew and what I didn’t. It was time to turn the tables.

  “What’s your connection to the exhibit tonight?” I asked.

  Passing couples looked in our direction. Part of me was looking out for Nick, and the other was looking for Christian. And there was that murderer to consider too. The rest of the guests in attendance had the luxury of relaxing into party mode. I knew too much to relax.

  Dante leaned against the wall and poured half his champagne down his throat. “I know the guy who’s running the show—Christian Jhanes. He had me do some dirty jobs back in my college days.” He scanned the crowd, not making eye contact. “Plus there’s this woman I was hoping to run into …” His voice trailed off.

  I’d done it. I�
��d gotten him to admit to a connection between himself and Christian. And despite his attempt to distract me with innuendo, I knew I’d scored a point. I thought over what I wanted to ask next but didn’t get the chance. Cat approached us.

  “Samantha, Dante, you found each other,” she said. One of the few people to pay proper homage to the exhibit, her signature red hair was topped with a green satin turban. It was trimmed with white feathers that easily stood twelve inches above her head. It was the perfect complement to her white silk skirt suit. If she’d paid $3,000 for the last one, I didn’t want to ask about the price tag on this one. She cocked her head to one side and touched her finger to her cheek. “You like?”

  “Won’t lose you in the crowd, that’s for sure,” Dante answered.

  She caught her reflection in the glass doors of the gift shop and adjusted the pleated satin confection over her shoulder-length bob. “It’s almost better than the last one. It was designed by Lily Dache’s assistant. You know who that was, right?”

  Dante stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked over Cat’s head. I intently studied his profile, trying to determine who or what he was watching. “Who was Lily Dache’s assistant?” he asked mechanically.

  “Halston!” Cat and I said in unison.

  She giggled at me and then turned back to Dante. “What are you still doing here? I thought you had someplace to go.”

  “I do.”

  She rolled her eyes and tipped her head conspiratorially. “Dante’s got a thing for Hedy London—ever since he first saw one of her movies. Then she spoke at his graduation. I think that meant more to him than the diploma.”

  “You know Hedy London?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow and then dropped it.

  Cat leaned in. “He keeps telling this ridiculous story that she made a pass at him before she gave the speech at his commencement. I told him he could come tonight if he was on his best behavior.”

  I looked back and forth between their faces. Cat’s invite and enthusiasm appeared completely genuine.

  “So what do you think? Did I keep up my end of the bargain?”

  She eyed the details of his tuxedo. “I thought I told you not to go with the black shirt. I like the tie, though. I mean, if you insist on wearing flames everywhere you go.”

  He put a hand out and flipped a lock of her hair. “I don’t think you want to finish that sentence, Red.”

  Neither spoke for a moment. I turned my back on their brother/sister tiff and scrutinized the crowd.

  A variety of dress code interpretations wandered the room. There were cocktail dresses, gowns, sequined tops paired with skinny jeans and stilettos, and at least one purple velvet tuxedo. The few Tradava faces that I recognized played it safe: classic tuxedos on the men and little black dresses on the women. They definitely needed someone on their team to shake things up.

  Cat and I shared critiques of some of the more unique outfits that circled the room. She pointed out a few faces I didn’t know: designers and critics who had made the extra effort to come to the exhibit to grab a piece of Eddie’s limelight.

  And then I recognized Milo Delaney.

  It made sense he’d be here. Tonight’s opening was a hat exhibit and a cross-promotional event for Tradava and I knew from working with Nick that Milo was the designer behind the Hedy London designs, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

  What if Milo had knocked off the hat collection and produced two sets of samples? And kept the originals for himself? His connections with Vera at Over Your Head would provide the channels for resale. Was that why he’d cancelled his appearance at her store?

  If nothing else, I wanted to ask him why he sent me the forest green fedora. He looked in my direction as I searched for loopholes in my logic. I smiled feebly and tipped my champagne flute in his direction. He turned and walked the other way.

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught Dante waving too. But it was Vera Sarlow who’d stepped in his path. They hugged briefly, and he kissed her on the cheek. Her black chiffon dress had a fitted bodice and a sweetheart neckline that showed off a figure I didn’t know she had. A small wafer of felt with black net and a pheasant feather perched on her head.

  The fact that Dante knew her raised questions I hadn’t considered only minutes before.

  I turned to Cat. “Dante went to I-FAD, didn’t he?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where Christian Jhanes worked.”

  “I know. He was Dante’s photography professor. Christian gave him a couple of jobs on the side between classes.”

  “Could Dante do film editing?” I asked.

  “Sure. His junior year he duplicated our home movies and edited me out of the footage.”

  Warning bells sounded in my head. “Is that hard?”

  “I don’t know, but I remember he was mad because he didn’t get an A.” She looked around the crowd. “Where did he go?”

  “He’s over there.” I pointed toward her brother and Vera.

  “Is that Vera Engle?”

  “It’s Sarlow now. Vera Sarlow. How do know her?”

  “She went to school with me. I haven’t seen her in years. I should say hello. Are you okay if I leave you here?”

  “Sure.”

  Cat approached Vera, and Dante broke away. He stopped by a tray of champagne flutes, picked up two more, and returned to my side.

  “So your boss stood you up?”

  “No, not really. He’s running late. He’ll be here,” I said.

  “For his sake I hope he finds you soon, otherwise I might monopolize you for the rest of the evening.” He moved closer to me and I felt his hand on the small of my back.

  Just then the lights went out.

  34

  A collective gasp escaped from the crowd. People rustled about, wavering between excitement and nervousness over what to do next. I searched the crowd for the security guards I’d seen out front. In the dark, it was hard to differentiate between partygoers and police officers.

  Soft emergency lights glowed by the exits. A rush of air overhead ruffled my hair, punctuated by a loud clank. A power outage would have been too much of a coincidence on a night like this.

  Footsteps sounded behind us, followed by a second clank. A light sliced through the darkness and threw a spotlight on a cloaked twenty-foot-long banner hanging from the balcony of the upstairs galleries.

  The silhouette of a woman appeared behind the cloak. Raising a microphone to her lips I heard a gentle, sexy voice tease the audience with a song.

  The singer was Hedy London herself. She worked the stage with a thick feather boa and a dress of sequins. Catcalls and wolf whistles accompanied her singing. She stepped out from behind the white cloak and made her way down the spiral staircase. She reached the bottom step and punctuated the final words of her song with hip thrusts. I stood, mesmerized. I hoped I had half that much sex appeal when I was her age.

  Applause met her performance while the crowd watched the white cloak drop and unveil the banner promoting the exhibit. It was a blown-up fake movie poster modeled after her most famous movie, with “Millinery” After Midnight in the title space instead. This must be what Eddie had picked up from the sign shop. I had to hand it to him, he’d created a great opening for what I hoped was a great exhibit.

  My heartbeat was still racing from the panic when the museum went dark, and my close proximity to Dante didn’t help matters. He, on the other hand, was completely oblivious to my presence now that Ms. London was here. I guess Cat had been telling the truth about that crush. He was entranced.

  “I’m going to try to find Eddie,” I whispered in his ear.

  I weaved through the crowd. Before I got far, Eddie appeared at the top of the stairs by a podium I hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “Friends, patrons, and guests of the museum, welcome to our tribute to the iconic nature of the chapeau. As we’ve worked on this exhibit we’ve come to view this collection of memorabilia as more than a co
llection of hats from different movie sets, but as pieces of a different sort of artistic history, unique with their intrinsic value. Join us upstairs to view our collective ideas of millinery as memorabilia, of fashion as art. We hope you enjoy what we’ve assembled for you. A special thank you to Ms. London for her presence here this evening.” He paused while the crowd applauded the film star. “Now, I know it’s only eight o’clock in Ribbon, but it’s midnight somewhere. Enjoy your private viewing of Millinery After Midnight.”

  Applause once again rang out through the foyer of the museum, this time for Eddie. No one in the room would have suspected that the speaker who addressed them so eloquently had been in hiding for most of the week. His confidence generated a buzz around him. Within minutes he was engulfed in popularity and sequins. There was no point in trying to reach him now.

  The fact that no one had formally introduced him only added to his cachet, as if his identity transcended his name. I couldn’t believe Christian hadn’t even bothered to be there to give him formal credit for what he’d accomplished.

  Then it struck me. The publicity-obsessed crafty museum director who’d kept maniacal deadlines in place to open this exhibit was nowhere to be found. But surely he was here somewhere. Was he watching us right now? Or had that been the real motivation behind getting the exhibit to open on time—that it was the perfect chance to make a clean getaway with a trunk filled with collectibles?

  I sipped the last of my champagne and watched the crowd overtake the massive marble staircase. Others stood in line by the elevator. The lobby had thinned out. All was under control. I could relax. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Pssst,” Eddie hissed from behind me. “Come with me.”

  He held a finger to his lips to indicate silence and pushed me toward the gift shop. I wasn’t prepared to be pushed anywhere, and I took an awkward step back, shifted my weight at an unpredictable angle, and felt a shooting pain through my ankle. I turned to face him. His eyes darted back and forth.

  “Christian never showed up, and Hedy London appeared out of nowhere. It’s like I’m trapped in the middle of someone else’s funhouse, and I don’t know which direction to go.”