MR. WOLFE
by
A. J. LLEWELLYN
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
Mr. Wolfe
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
http://www.AmberHeat.com
http://www.AmberAllure.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2013 by A. J. Llewellyn
ISBN 978-1-61124-429-8
Cover Art © 2013 Trace Edward Zaber
Published in the United States of America
Also by A. J. Llewellyn
Abandoned Paradise
April Sun In Cuba
Balthazar Starblitz
The Book And The Rose
Bunyip
Cherish
Christmas In Flip Flops
The Cross
Cops And Rubbers
Deeper Blue
Eynhallow
He's Gone Home
Isle Of Capri
Kaleidoscope
Love For Sale
The Love God Of Indian Frybread
Naked In Hong Kong
Nightwalker
The "Tame" Series
Wait For Night
The "Xu" Series
And With D. J. Manly
Fawnskin, Books I & II
The House Of Driscoll, Books I & II
Island Heat
Dedication
To the memory of the late, great, Mr. Paul Zastupnevich, the most gifted and generous costume man I ever met. Visiting you was a thrill that lives in my heart and inspired this tale. I hope wherever you are, sequins and other sparkly things are involved. xxx
Chapter 1
He took his time observing the warehouse from across the street before approaching the young woman sitting at a white desk just inside the entrance--Ikea, how...gauche--surrounded by forty costume trunks. The sun shone brightly on that hot June morning.
The clothes. Oh, God. The sun is beaming right down on some of those costumes. Oh, the horror! The horror!
He began to fret, watching the woman who was supposedly working, but in fact appeared to be doing nothing more than updating her Facebook page.
Mr. Wolfe knew this because he had perfect vision. Everything about him was precise. His nose twitched. It always did when he sensed bad behavior. He knew the woman at the desk was about to take yet another photo and post it online, which was in violation of her contract.
From somewhere--Where? This is the industrial section of LAX!--he could detect the heavenly smell of barbecue. It was a delicious distraction, no more. He wanted to move across the road before the woman at the desk could take one more picture and do further damage.
"I've seen enough," he told the tense woman beside him. "Let's go."
He could feel her breathless trot at his heels. Virginia Campbell needed to give up smoking. She was a fairly attractive, middle-aged, African-American woman who'd already unburdened herself to him about her chronic boyfriend and health problems.
Mr. Wolfe would deal with helping her later.
As they reached the entrance, the recently hired alleged costume archivist for legendary diva, Zara Finley, stared up at them. Panic flashed across her eyes as she pushed her glasses toward the bridge of her nose.
"Virginia, gosh, this is a surprise." She glanced at Mr. Wolfe, who held her gaze for a brief moment before stepping aside to allow Virginia to handle Linda's firing. He tried to absorb as much as he could as he walked between the jammed rows of shelves. He'd been here before in the dead of night with Virginia and Miss Finley. In daylight it looked worse.
Dust.
Dust! All over these beautiful clothes! He swept up the three dresses he'd noticed piled on the chair sweltering under the full glare of the sun. He wished public floggings hadn't been outlawed.
This crime against fashion was one of the worst he'd ever encountered. He growled low in his throat, a distressed, strangling sound that was loud enough for Virginia to call out, "Everything okay back there, Mr. Wolfe?"
"Fine thank you," he muttered.
As he progressed through the gigantic space, he fumed. Every muscle and bone in his being twitched and pulsed with mounting fury.
Stylists.
Linda East was a stylist and they were the bane of the fashion industry. They couldn't sew, had no idea how to handle rare fabrics and fell apart when little things went haywire. What the hell was wrong with a seasoned pro like Zara Finley that would induce her to hire a damned stylist to archive her work? Didn't she know they were basically poor girls with a well-developed sense of style who adored spending other people's money?
He knew one stylist even had her own TV show. It made him mad. Shopping wasn't a lost art. It was the death of the costume industry. Shopping was something Mr. Wolfe did when he'd run out of all other ideas for creating amazing pieces for his clients.
Linda had been hired to begin the arduous process of archiving Miss Finley's substantial collection of costumes. Zara had chosen the woman herself when the two met on the road on the singer's most recent tour. Linda had complained about the condition of the costumes as they arrived in their badly packed trunks. She'd pointed out how some of the beading on the star's most famous gowns had become tarnished. Many of the garments were stained from makeup and sweat from previous tours.
Zara Finley had fallen apart when her most celebrated white-beaded dress, made by hand thirty-five years ago, and a big part of every performance, had turned gray thanks to bad wardrobe management. The singer had hired Linda to clean, repair and maintain her current touring outfits and to archive her enormous collection of trunks.
That had been three months ago.
Since then, Linda had made a career of racking up bills for everything from dry-cleaning to hangers, shelves, plastic storage containers, and other "mystery" charges. Zara had been anxious to see the results of Linda's efforts and after being stonewalled for weeks had stolen down here in the middle of the night to view the results.
She had become so upset when she spied the dozens of still unopened trunks and amateurish packing of some items in plastic containers that she'd wanted to call the police.
Virginia had urged her to call a professional instead.
"We need Mr. Wolfe," she'd said, according to the phone call he had received from the frantic woman.
He had met with Virginia and together with Miss Finley, had come down here in the middle of the night. He carefully assessed the situation and told her his terms. He was an oddball, by his own definition, but she knew his reputation spoke volumes.
"You can really turn this around in thirty days?" she'd asked, sounding doubtful.
"Absolutely. I never make promises I can't keep."
He had requested permission for immediate expenses that Zara Finley had surprisingly approved. He'd wanted to install security cameras and special locks inside and around the warehouse. He'd pointed out that her own insurance company required these locks and Linda had overlooked these provisions.
She had cried in his arms when she realized she could have lost everything and not be able to file a claim.
He had asked to replace all the tacky store-bought, flimsy plastic shelving with cedar shelves, the installation of which he would supervise.
Mr. Wolfe also wanted to upgrade the air-conditioning system immediately, since climate control would be essential to the preservation of her garments.
And finally, he requested a case of one hundred percent pure Vermont maple syrup.
"What's that for?" Virginia had asked.
"A necessity, I assure you," he'd responded.
He gave Miss Finley a list of what he would be providing himself as part of his exorbitant fee. He would bring all cleaning products, archiving tissue paper, proper costume archival boxes and would take care of all maintenance and cleaning of the facility himself.
Miss Finley had approved everything. Even the maple syrup.
She had become excited over their new collaboration having consulted Mr. Wolfe's other happy clients. He had refused to divulge names until she agreed on confidentiality, and then she had almost fallen over when he presented her with a partial list.
"You've worked with...Madonna?" she breathed.
"Yes." Mr. Wolfe had encouraged her to call his references. She'd called only one, Lady Gaga, who raved about his work.
When Zara Finley thought Mr. Wolfe was out of hearing range she'd asked Lady Gaga, "What does he do with the maple syrup?"
Lady Gaga said, "I have no idea."
He knew she'd responded this way because his hearing, like his vision, and everything else about him was acute.
When his new boss came back to him and said, "I'm thrilled to work with you," he didn't smile until she said, "And please, call me Zara."
Mr. Wolfe could hear Linda sobbing now. When all else had failed, she turned in a noble, tearful performance, but he felt no pity for her.
No. He almost fell over when he saw the jumble of costumes in the few open trunks. Though his body always ran hot, he knew the temperatures inside the warehouse were sweltering and hadn't been climate-controlled. At all.
This would be rectified by the end of the day.
And yet, Linda had billed Miss Finley for a supposedly newly installed air conditioning system. She'd provided invoices and bids.
Except all of it was false.
"You can't be serious! You're firing me?" Linda shouted.
Mr. Wolfe approached a series of cheap shelves dotted with plastic containers. One was labeled bustyas. That took him a moment. She obviously meant bustiers. Good Lord, she couldn't even spell. He opened up the box, the smell of dry-cleaning fluid so strong it made his eyes stream.
He'd reached these beaded gems just in time. He braced himself for the horror of what he knew he was about to find. He turned a corner and came to the makeshift wardrobe Miss Finley had photographed and sent him before he took on the emergency assignment.
Mr. Wolfe could hear Linda arguing loudly now, denying she'd been posting photos online of Miss Finley's collection.
"I've been framed!" she yelled. That was a cute excuse.
Mr. Wolfe knew there had been two attempted break-ins this past week. What she'd done was unforgiveable. She'd inadvertently tipped off Internet trolls to this location, which contained numerous superstar performers' warehoused costumes.
Both times, Miss Finley's particular warehouse had been targeted.
Mr. Wolfe opened the closet in front of him as Linda's voice rose. He didn't think he could look, but he had to.
There on a wire hanger in dry-cleaners plastic was the legendary, show-stopping, white, bugle-beaded dress. Except it wasn't white. It was gray.
Wire. He was still in shock. She'd also sent the garment to a basic, commercial cleaner. She hadn't even bothered to take it to a proper costume cleaning firm.
But the fact she'd left it on a wire hanger burned him deeply from within.
Cleaners might hand the garment to a customer on a wire hanger, but the archivist's job was to remove it promptly and hang it on a padded, soft hanger. If the dress was especially delicate or happened to be made of a knit fabric, it needed to be stored individually in a sweater bag with a cedar block or a muslin bag containing lavender buds.
He stifled a scream and removed the filmy plastic, gently taking the dress off the hanger. Miss Finley trusted him to restore her dress and properly archive the rest of her treasures, many of which were also damaged but had been deemed irreparable by so-called experts.
Mr. Wolfe would not fail her. He'd never failed a diva yet.
He walked outside just as the security guards arrived to escort a sniveling Linda from the premises.
"Will you at least give me a good reference?" she called out desperately to Mr. Wolfe.
He stopped and stared at her. "A reference? Are you mad?" When he was certain the security guards couldn't see his facial expression, he bared his teeth at Linda, who was so shocked it seemed to choke off the scream before it could start.
Her mouth hung open as he hissed, "You...you...vandal!"
Mr. Wolfe walked across the street and climbed into his SUV, pulling it into one of the three parking spots outside the storage unit. He unlocked the trunk and hauled out the huge steamer trunk that accompanied him on all his assignments. He allowed Virginia to help him lug into the unit.
"Do you need anything else?" she asked. He could tell she'd enjoyed her moment of power. He intended to give her many more, but not right now.
"Hmm?" he responded, already focused on the job at hand. "Oh, no dear. Thank you." He pushed the tiny spectacles on the bridge of his nose a little higher.
She blinked. "Are you sure?"
"Quite." He paused. "I expect my work crew here within the hour. If you would like to stay and meet them, you are most welcome. If, however, you trust the angles and positions of the cameras we are about to install, I'll call you as soon as they are activated."
She blinked again. "No, no. I trust you." She glanced around. "Can you give me any hint what the maple syrup is for?"
"No, my dear. I never divulge my techniques."
She nodded. "Yes, yes, I understand." Her eyes grew large. "I'll let you carry on, then."
"Thank you."
They exchanged smiles. He hated to leave the door open, but the costumes had suffered for years and could wait another hour, especially now that none lay directly exposed to the sun. The summer heat was stifling and his health condition was too delicate to withstand no air at all.
Mr. Wolfe glanced around the unit, dismayed at the task ahead. This was his toughest assignment yet. He took a deep breath, glancing down at his uniform of tight black leggings tucked into knee-length boots, and his formfitting, three-quarter length black T-shirt. He never wore loose or baggy clothing for his work, and neither did his staff.
His long, grey hair was well brushed and pulled into a ponytail. He was ready. He began methodically to move everything Linda had left on the long wooden workbenches. He grouped pens and pencils and office supplies onto a shelf far from the tables. He discovered a few odd bits of hardware and moved those to a plastic storage container left open on another shelf.
Barely able to stifle his disgust, he threw out her hairpins and all the condiment bottles and food scraps she'd left behind. Next, he scrubbed the benches, sterilizing them with a touch of rubbing alcohol. He opened his trunk and pulled out his massive container of acid-free paper and began lining the tables with it.
Glancing at the wall clock, he saw there was none. How odd. It had been there the night before. He'd seen it when Miss Finley had forwarded him the clandestine photos she'd taken of the space before he came down to meet her.
He frowned.
Mr. Wolfe would have Ambrosio attend to this as well as the other things on his list.
The mere thought of Ambrosio stopped his hands moving.
Ah, Ambrosio...
Mr. Wolfe shook his head and refocused his energies.
He never wore jewelry when he worked on his clients' clothing. Nothing that could catch on an irreplaceable garment was permitted. He pushed aside the closed trunks and focused on the ones Linda had left open. Donning his clean white butcher's apron, he slipped on white cotton g
loves and began sorting through the first trunk.
His heightened vision and sense of smell revealed that there were no insects in the trunk, but he detected human body odor and makeup. And something else, too. His nose twitched.
Ah, yes. The faint scent of semen.
That made him smile. Zara Finley was a naughty girl.
After sorting through the four open trunks, he put the garments back inside, covering them with white sheets.
Removing the white gloves, he cleaned off what Linda had evidently been using as a lunch table, lining it with paper and fluffy white towels.
He took out a large metal dish, filling it with the contents of a gallon container of distilled water that had been in his trunk. Into this he shook a handful of shaved, pure white soap, adding more flakes to the mix as he swished gently with stroking fingers. Picking up the famous bugle-beaded white gown, he lowered it into the mixture until the entire thing had been submerged. He added more distilled water and smiled as he saw the color of the water changing. Ah, a little progress.
Mr. Wolfe let the dress soak a minute longer as he propped more snow-white towels beside the sink, which stood in the far corner of the warehouse. Lifting the dress out of the metal dish, he transferred it to the towels, laying it just so.
Spilling out the soapy water that carried with it the scent of toxic dry cleaning chemicals into the little sink, he refilled it with water and the flaky soap. He gently put the dress back into the container, letting it soak as he dried off his hands.
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