Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  “What about the guy on the roof?” Carson asked.

  “The good news is that the police don’t think the phone calls have anything to do with the guy on the roof. But the down side is that there’s nothing new. No prints, but he hasn’t been back. Hopefully, it’s all over. Whoops! Looks like I’m at work. I’ll call back in a couple of days, okay?”

  “Love you, honey!” My parents chorused.

  “Love you too. Bye, now!”

  I clicked off my cellular, threw it into my satchel and exited the cab after paying the driver. Then I noticed that my workshop’s metal security door was ajar. What the hell?

  Maybe Maggie had arrived earlier than I had this morning. Unlikely, though, since she most often showed up at about nine o’clock. I usually got here first, at eight-thirty or so, depending upon the traffic, to disarm the security system and open up the workshop. That way, I could see which employees got to work on time, and who lagged behind.

  I walked inside.

  It was as though I had stepped into an alternate universe. A chaotic, horrible universe.

  My beautiful workshop had been trashed.

  My entire body began to quiver uncontrollably. I couldn’t breathe, but my pulse began to race. My hands seemed to lose all strength. My satchel fell from my sagging shoulder, landing on the floor with a thump.

  Not a single piece of furniture remained upright. Every dressmaker’s dummy had been upended, with torn scraps of partially sewn gowns and jackets hanging off them in shreds. Every computer monitor had been smashed.

  I was in a state of shock. When I could, I went farther into the room. My sneakers crunched on broken glass and slipped on rags and tatters of the expensive apparel that had comprised my spring line. The big ceiling fans spun, circulating both air and random shreds of ripped fabric. They swirled, a colorful mist in front of my eyes.

  Everything went blurry and I swayed, dizzy. I clutched the nearest object—a metal pillar—for support. My pulse, fast and loud, beat in time with the ceiling fans. Flashes of darkness and light alternated with the pulsebeats. The world was going light, then dark, then light again. My head throbbed.

  No. I can’t faint, I told myself, putting my sweaty forehead to the cool metal. If I fall down, I’ll cut my hands. I need my hands to work. Oh my God, who would do this to me?

  Is he still here?

  Terrified, I stumbled outside and somehow managed to find my cellphone to call 9-1-1. I was still shaking when Maggie came about five minutes later.

  “Cara! What’s going on?” She looked surprised to see me collapsed outside the atelier.

  “Don’t go in, not before the police get here.” My voice felt raspy. I struggled to find air, my throat too tight and tense for a single oxygen molecule to reach my lungs.

  I dropped my head between my knees, again hoping I wouldn’t faint. Dear God. Months of work, trashed. Thousands of dollars of equipment, gone. Records—oh, Lord, if he’d destroyed the computers, I wouldn’t have any records of sales orders to send to the factories, or even copies of my drawings for the next show. Cara Fletcher Couture would come to a complete stop. I’d lose everything, and, despite insurance, would certainly have to declare bankruptcy. Except—

  “Maggie!” I jumped up and grabbed her sleeve. “Do you have the flash drive back-up to the computer?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I download every night. And it’s up in the cloud as well. You know that. What the hell’s the problem?” She again reached for the door.

  “Go in and look. But I’m warning you, it isn’t pretty. And don’t touch anything!”

  After poking her head inside, she let loose with a truly admirable stream of curses. Despite my full-blown anxiety attack, I was impressed.

  She jerked back outside. “Who the hell did this?”

  “I don’t know. Kenney, maybe. Trent Whiting. I don’t know!” On the verge of tears, I waved my hands around in panic and despair. All I had ever wanted was to make beautiful clothes. Why did so many people hate me? What had I done wrong?

  “What about Fletcher Wolf?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “He wouldn’t do something like this. This doesn’t seem like his slick, smooth style.”

  “I’m not so sure. Didn’t AnnMarie tell you he’s a corporate raider? This looks like a raid to me!”

  “Where’s that flash drive?” I asked. “I need to see it, Maggie, right now. Did you update it last night?”

  She took out her keychain, displaying a small, flat tab linked to it. “Sure did, boss. Even if he wrecked every computer, all the data you need is right here. Every sketch, every drawing, every spreadsheet ... and, better, every order.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Ten million dollars worth. We’re insured against every possible eventuality.”

  “So we’re down, but not out.”

  Sirens screamed, heralding the arrival of two squad cars. I had calmed down enough to draw in a breath and to steel myself to give a police report…for the second time in less than three months. This is almost becoming routine, I thought bleakly.

  ~*~

  Hours later, after the crime scene investigators had come and gone, I tried to send everyone home. I didn’t want my employees to see me weepy and miserable. They refused, choosing to help me clean up the workshop. I could hear them downstairs, talking in hushed, serious tones as they righted mannequins, set up drafting tables, fixed chairs.

  Much of the less expensive equipment could be salvaged. The vandals couldn’t destroy the sturdy chairs and tables, but the computers were destroyed, especially after the fingerprint experts had dusted them with a fine, black powder in order to lift prints. Every machine in the shop was garbage, fit only for a dump, including expensive, top-of-the-line sewing machines.

  Every fabric swatch, each representing hours of work, had been ripped apart and scattered. Every sketch for the next show was torn to shreds. It was a disaster. If this had taken place in September or, worse, October, the extensive vandalism would have forced me to cancel the show, which could have destroyed Cara Fletcher Couture. With no new designs, there would be no new orders and, therefore, no company. As it was, we had a lot of work ahead of us, months of work that we’d already done once but would have to do again.

  Maggie had gone to negotiate with the insurance company while I walked around the place with a police detective. The roar of a newly purchased wet-dry vac, sucking up broken glass, bits of plastic, and fiber strands, occasionally interrupted our conversation and contributed to my pounding headache.

  “Let me show you this, Ms. Fletcher.” Detective Briggs led me to a storage closet on the ground floor, where we kept unused bolts of fabric and trim samples. He pointed upward at the metal box housing the building’s security system.

  The wires inside the open box had been severed. “Cut off at the source. But how did they even get in to cut the lines?”

  “As with most of these systems, there’s a programmed delay,” the detective said. “It allows you to enter the building and disconnect the security system via your code or a key without setting the system off. In this case, it seems as though the perpetrator or perpetrators knew enough about the system to enter by shooting through the front door lock and to disable the system within the thirty second delay period.” Pausing, he took a deep breath. “Ms. Fletcher, you have to face the fact that this may have been an inside job.”

  “An inside job! That would mean that someone working here wants to hurt the company. I don’t believe that. Jobs in this business are scarce. I treat my employees well. What about the theory that, umm, a business rival did this?” I avoided mentioning either Trent Whiting or Fletcher Wolf without more proof. I didn’t know much about the law, but slinging around accusations to the police without proof was wrong.

  He hesitated. “That’s a little out of my league. I suppose it’s possible. Anyone with knowledge of security systems could guess, with a reasonable level of certainty, where the main coordinating box of the sys
tem would be located. Most people and businesses do put them in closets.

  “But let me show you something.” He led the way over to a dressmaker’s form. I thought all my tears had been cried out, but I again became weepy as I looked at the dummy.

  This particular mannequin held the remains of a yellow silk gown, its fluttery edges trimmed with Esme’s embroidery in the vivid jewel tones I adore. The tiny, exquisite stitches had taken months.

  Now, the bright silk was scored in a dozen places, with slashes so deep they carved rents into the dummy’s padded body. Detective Briggs ran a thoughtful hand over the wreckage.

  “There’s anger here, Ms. Fletcher,” he said softly. “This is a personal attack on you and your work. Watch your step.”

  Chapter 7

  AnnMarie Slye’s office looked like she did, sleek and powerful. Furnished with polished metal and glass, it had an impressive view of the East River. Dressed casually in a poet-style blouse and jeans, with hair tinted dark to match my mood, I squirmed in one of the uncomfortable, high-tech chairs as I tried to explain my worries to Ann and her investigator. “I don’t want to sound as though I’m paranoid, but I’m really frightened. If I weren’t heavily insured, I’d have to declare bankruptcy. Even so, there are losses money can’t compensate.”

  The private investigator AnnMarie had hired, Shila Chong, nodded. “Many of my clients talk about the loss of a sense of security stemming from an invasion of this sort.”

  “Yes,” I said with relief. The woman seemed to understand my concern. “And, combined with the other events like the attempted break-in and the phone calls, I’m beginning to feel, well, hounded.”

  “Now, this suspect you mentioned?”

  I paused, wondering if I was making a big mistake. “I need absolute discretion.”

  AnnMarie’s chair squeaked as she leaned forward. “As my sub-contractor, Shila’s bound by the same privilege which restricts me. Don’t worry. This conversation is confidential.”

  “The prime suspect is a man named Fletcher Wolf, or someone working for him.” Prime suspect, indeed! I hoped I didn’t sound corny, but the situation did have elements of a Perils of Pauline melodrama. “Wolf is suing me over the use of the name of my sportswear division. A few weeks before this vandalism, he toured my workshop. He could have spotted the security box then. And we talked about this particular dress.” I took out a color photograph of the ruined canary silk on the slashed mannequin.

  “Hmm,” Chong said. “The majority of crimes are committed by males between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five. That would fit.”

  Ann frowned. “Wolf has occasionally used questionable tactics to take over other corporations, but I doubt that he’d stoop to this level.”

  “What questionable tactics?” Chong asked.

  “There are rumors of corporate espionage and spying, but they’re only gossip. He usually creates a situation where the target has no choice but to bow down. Buy-outs are his specialty.”

  “Who is this Fletcher Wolf?” Chong pushed back a lock of her black hair.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” I managed a bit of a smile. “Every time I try to categorize our Mr. Wolf, he seems to change into something, or someone, else. He seems to have the iron hand in the velvet glove routine down pat.”

  “Wolf is the C.E.O. and part owner of Fletcher Tool and Gear,” Ann said. “His company is aggressive enough that he’s gained a name as a corporate raider. I must admit he has a reputation for ruthlessness.”

  Chong said, “Sounds like the Jeff Bezos of the hardware world.”

  “And who else could it be?” I asked rhetorically. “Okay, I don’t have a great relationship with my daughter’s father, but he lives on the West Coast. And there’s…” I bit my lip, realizing that perhaps there were more people out there who hated me than I had previously thought.

  “What?” Chong asked. “Who?”

  “Someone from my past showed up at my April show,” I said. “A creep named Trent Whiting, who’s currently using the name Trent Nevada.”

  “Trent Nevada?” Ann snorted with laughter.

  Chong smiled. “What makes you think he could be responsible?”

  “Nothing, really. But it seemed strange. He hasn’t had access to my atelier, so he wouldn’t know how to disarm the security system, or even where it is. And Wolf does. Did.” I rose to pace.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but have you ended any relationships recently?” Chong asked. “Stalking and vandalism are typical bad acts of a jilted boyfriend. Some men just can’t accept rejection.”

  “I’m too busy these days to date.” I didn’t want to tell Ann and her investigator that the only man other than my father who’d touched me in months was Fletcher Wolf.

  Chong pursed her lips. “I’ll check out Whiting and your ex…what’s his name? Kenney Madden. But Wolf seems the most likely suspect. Have you talked with him about this event?”

  “No. The last thing I want to show is weakness. That would be fatal.”

  With a glance at AnnMarie, Chong tossed a portable phone to me. “Call him. Let’s see how he reacts.”

  I pawed through my satchel for Fletcher Wolf’s business card. “I’m not sure that I really want to do this. There’s no proof.”

  “But he’s an adversary who knows the location of the security box. He or someone he employs could easily make the crank phone calls, too,” Chong said.

  “That’s true,” I said, anger sweeping me. “He frequently travels from Wilmington to New York. Also, he’s got hundreds, possibly thousands, of people working for him. What do you think, Ann?”

  AnnMarie shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt. Use my speaker phone.”

  I punched the numbers of Fletcher’s office into the phone with short, staccato stabs of my finger, as though I could stab the vandals through their dark, cruel hearts.

  “Fletcher Tool and Gear, may I help you?” an aggressively perky voice chirped.

  “Yes. May I speak to Mr. Wolf?”

  “Which Wolf?”

  I was momentarily startled. “Er, Fletcher Wolf, please.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “This is Cara Fletcher.” After I was put on hold, I said to Chong, “There’s more than one Mr. Wolf. Please check this out. Ann, your dossier didn’t mention more than one Wolf.”

  Ms. Chong nodded. “I’ll get on it as soon as I’m back in my office and email you what I find out. You still have a computer, don’t you?”

  “Nope. I have a tablet, but it’s small. Better messenger it over.” I waited on hold with one knee bouncing restlessly, in time with my heart.

  “Cara Fletcher, as I live and breathe.”

  Damn him, that Virginia accent was as sexy as ever. I repressed the heat sweeping my body at the mere sound of Fletcher Wolf’s voice and said, as coldly as I could, “Mr. Wolf, I don’t want to sling accusations, but…” I drew a deep breath.

  “But what? Hey, are you on a speaker phone? Your voice sounds hollow.”

  “My atelier was vandalized last night, and I’m being harassed,” I explained in a rush. “Frankly, you’re the only person I can think of who wants to hurt me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Quite the opposite. Harassed? Are you all right?”

  I couldn’t help thinking of the kiss we’d almost shared, but told myself to cut the crap. “Oh, please. Let’s not mince words. You’re suing me, costing me thousands of dollars. I know you’re unhappy about the Fletcher name, but I demand that you confine this war to the courtroom. If you and yours disturb my peace again, destroy my property again, attack my business again, I can’t answer for the consequences.”

  “Exactly what do you mean, Ms. Fletcher?” His voice was cold as a corpse.

  “Let your imagination run riot, Mr. Wolf. I’m not going to let you or anyone in your employ destroy everything I’ve built during the last ten years. Do you understand me? Just stay out of my way, and we’ll all be happy.”

  “I�
��m an honest businessman and don’t engage in dirty tricks to get ahead. Your case stinks and I’ll blow you out of the water the next time we’re in court.”

  “You lost last time. Are the use of tactics like vandalism and harassment the way you even the score?”

  I heard his heavy, angry breathing. “Is this how you repay me for a continuance? I’m trying to calm this case down, not fire it up.”

  “You requested the continuance. I merely agreed. I’m sure you had your reasons. Did you need extra time to arrange to have my workshop destroyed?”

  “For the last time, Ms. Fletcher. I did not destroy your workshop. I did not order anyone to vandalize it. And, for the record, I’m sorry it happened, but I’m not responsible.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Damn it, I could hear the beginnings of hysteria sharpening my voice, shrill and high.

  “There’s nothing I can do about what you think.” And with that, Fletcher hung up on me.

  ~*~

  After more inconclusive discussions, I returned to my workshop, my brain in turmoil. The more I thought about it, the more I doubted that Fletcher Wolf had anything to do with the vandalism. Maybe I was blinded by lust, but I didn’t see him as two-faced. Complex, yes, but hypocritical, no.

  But he wasn’t the only Wolf in the pack.

  I struggled to put aside my worries for the rest of the day, hoping for a productive afternoon. All went well until a heavy pounding on the workshop’s metal door blasted apart my concentration. When it finally popped open, Natalie, dressed in her school uniform, confronted the intruders. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out! Haven’t you done enough?” She then tried to slam the door shut.