Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5)

by Diane Vallere

  Nancie had given me a press card three months ago. It had been a joke at the time. What kind of breaking news would an ezine dedicated to decades old fashion be required to cover? But apparently when she started up Retrofit, she applied for everything that a magazine should get, and, now that we were building a solid reputation among online fashion journals, the applications were being stamped APPROVED and the accreditations were flowing in. I’d worn my press pass around Retrofit for a week. I’d even Instagrammed a selfie and proclaimed it my new favorite accessory, until the day I realized it didn’t go with my Hermes scarf. I’d left it on the desk here and forgotten about it.

  I hung the cord around my neck. As far as I knew, there was a good story wrapped up in Jennie Mae Tome’s collection in the attic. Intro Samantha Kidd, Girl Reporter.

  I changed into a brown blazer, A-line skirt, and a pink blouse with a long matching scarf that knotted at the neck. I left my hair loose, but pinned the front to the side with a barrette. It was about twelve inches shorter thanks to Nick but still halfway down my back. I finished with nude pantyhose (because it was both era accurate and I needed the control top to fit into my skirt) and chunky heeled shoes, dropped the copies of the IDs on the kitchen table for Loncar, and pulled the bible out from behind the box of Bran Flakes.

  When Nancie had given Pritchard and me the assignment for our first ever print magazine, she’d been concerned with two things: us following the layout of her bible, and her selling ad space. I flipped through the spiral bound notebook, waiting for something to strike me. It didn’t. Nancie had been meticulous in the layout. Each page of her bible had a title, a collage of photos or notations that indicated what she wanted, and how she wanted to feature it. The only thing missing was exactly how she’d expected us to go about getting the content. She’d hinted around about Pritchard’s contacts, and had gone so far as to warn me to pull my weight. But maybe Pritchard didn’t have a contact list of possible leads at his disposal. Maybe there had been only one collection on his radar: Jennie Mae’s.

  That had to be it. Pritchard’s whole reason for showing up in Ribbon had been to get into Jennie Mae’s drawers.

  If that was the case, then it wasn’t a coincidence that he was elbowing me out of the way. If he was after something in Jenny Mae Tome’s archives, then he’d been zeroing in on it long before he showed up at her house. I closed the bible, tucked it back behind the Bran Flakes and left.

  I drove the dead taxi to the library. Armed with my press pass and my temporary ID papers, I obtained a new library card. The librarian set me up on a computer on the first floor where there was no time limit. I pulled up a new search and typed in “Fake ID bust” and scrolled through the search results, looking for something I could use.

  I found it on the fourth page of results: a small town newspaper article from 1972 that wrote about an ID scam in Utah.

  The first thing that struck me was the name of the suspect: Gene Whitbee. Where had I heard that before? I closed my eyes and concentrated. When it didn’t come to me right away, I read the article.

  Gene Whitbee was a small time crook who operated out of a trailer in Utah. He and his partner mostly trafficked in stolen merchandise, but Gene ran a fake ID operation on the side. In time, the fake ID ring became easier with less overhead than what was required to run the fence, and Gene used the profits from one business to expand the other. When his partner found out that Gene had been taking control of the operation, he threatened to turn Gene over to the authorities. Gene wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Rumors that he shot his partner abounded, though no body had ever been found.

  The physical strain of working with photographic chemicals and the equipment needed to produce top dollar fake IDs eventually took its toll on Gene. Unmarried and unloved, he died alone in a folding chair by the community pool. His body was found next to a pile of empty beer cans and a note: PS: I’m sorry.

  Because, as it turned out, Gene Whitbee’s partner had been Pritchard Smith.

  Chapter 22

  MONDAY, AFTERNOON

  I felt like I was trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle with pieces from four different collections. If Pritchard’s body had never been found, was it possible that the skull in the hobo bag was him? Let’s not forget that the skull had been in Jennie Mae’s attic. Had her story about Pritchard leaving her been made up to cast her as the victim instead of a possible accomplice in a forty-year-old murder?

  And who, exactly, was the person running around calling himself Pritchard Smith now?

  I was surrounded with information, scattered around me like bird feed in a public park, but the years, the crimes, the evidence, and the motives didn’t match.

  I clicked onto a public internet browser and opened my email. The unread count was back over a thousand. I scrolled through the pages until I found the email I wanted.

  123@fashion.net: If Gene Whitbee murdered Pritchard Smith forty years ago, who have I been working with?

  The reply popped up almost immediately. You have the wrong man.

  I wrote back: who is the right man?

  There were no more replies.

  What did she mean, the wrong man? That was a Hitchcock movie with Henry Fonda. Did she want me to rent the movie? I looked it up on IMDB. True story of an innocent man suspected of murder. My coworker was guilty of something, I just didn’t know what. Maybe her response was merely an expression that had triggered a “there’s a squirrel!” reaction in my already overtaxed brain.

  Absentmindedly, I clicked through my emails, deleting most without opening them. Halfway down the second page, I stopped. There was an email from Nancie that I’d somehow missed.

  Samantha—I’m heading to Bethany House to check out their archives. Call me to discuss.—Nancie

  The email was dated three days ago—the last time I’d seen Nancie.

  I looked up the phone number. The librarian eyed me suspiciously. I packed up everything I’d brought with me and went out front to make the call.

  “Bethany House,” answered a female voice.

  “I’m calling on behalf of Nancie Townsend’s office,” I said. “She had an appointment on Friday?”

  “Yes, she’s been working in the vault for the past few days. There’s no reception in there. I can give her a message when she comes out if you like.”

  I was already in the dead taxi by the time she finished her sentence. “That won’t be necessary,” I said. I hung up and peeled out of my parking space. I had no idea where Bethany House was located, but that wasn’t going to stop me from getting there.

  I called Eddie. He answered in his professional voice. “Visual Department, Eddie Adams.”

  “It’s me. I need directions. Are you by your computer?”

  “What do I look like, Google Maps? Use the GPS on your phone.”

  “This isn’t my phone. It’s an untraceable cell from the spy store. And before you say anything, ‘untraceable’ means ‘no GPS’.”

  “Dude, you are one maraschino cherry short of a banana split.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It means you are both bananas and nuts.”

  “Listen to me. I just got on the highway heading east. I need to get to Bethany House. Which way do I go?”

  “The auction house? I heard they have an awesome collection of vintage skateboards on display. Okay, hold on, I got it.”

  He gave me the directions and wished me good luck.

  “How’s Logan?” I asked.

  “Back to normal. He slept on my head last night.”

  I felt a pang of jealousy. I didn’t know if I was still being watched or not. After the release of Nick’s dad, I felt like as long as I operated as a free agent, I could keep everybody safe. Nick’s snatch-and-grab and his Jim Rockford disguise seemed to fool anybody who might be watching. There had been no threatening phone calls, no spray of bullets when I left, no attempts on my life for the past forty-two hours. Let’s see if I could keep it that w
ay.

  After hanging up with Eddie, I drove through Pottstown, past Stowe, to Sanatoga. The view gradually changed from highway to residential to small town. I looked at the notes written on the back of the ID of Gene Whitbee. Third right after the correctional school for boys. I passed the school, counted out streets, and made the turn. In front of me sat a monumental three story pink brick building with white trim. A small iron sign hung from a post in the front yard. Bethany House, it announced.

  I parked by the front door, adjusted the bow tied around the neck of my mauve blouse, and got out of the car. The doors to the building opened up and Tahoma Hunt came out. I remained in place, unsure if I should approach him or get back in and drive away.

  “Samantha,” he called. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Have you talked to Nancie recently?”

  I was wary of giving him information. “I don’t know how you hooked up with Nancie or what it is that you’re planning on getting from her, but I know about your background. I know about the felony convictions in Utah. You need to leave Nancie—and me—alone.”

  His brows lowered over his eyes, casting a determined and angry expression to his face. “That is history. I need to talk to you about Retrofit. I think you might have gotten the wrong idea about what I was doing the day you spotted me in Nancie’s office.”

  “I got the impression that you lied about having an appointment and were planning on stealing the master version of her project.”

  “That’s what I thought you thought.”

  “Am I wrong? You do have a history of stealing things.”

  “You’ve looked into my background. I should have expected as much after our encounter.” He stood tall, his height and broad shoulders emanating a sense of personal pride, not shame or deceit. “What I did in the past was for personal reasons and has nothing to do with my business at Retrofit. You’re right that I was there for the bible, but you’re wrong about why. Nancie sent me to get it for her.”

  “She did? When?”

  “Nancie wasn’t feeling well and wanted to work from home so I volunteered to pick it up for her.”

  “You didn’t act like you were doing a favor for a friend. If what you’re saying is true, you could have told me so that day.”

  “Nancie told me that someone was after the bible and that she didn’t want to leave it in the office. You startled me when you showed up. I didn’t offer an explanation right away because I didn’t know if I could trust you. When you took the bible, I realized you didn’t trust me.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I imagine she’s home sick.”

  I didn’t tell Tahoma that just hours ago, his receptionist had told me that she was working in the vault.

  “I’m curious about one thing,” I said. “You said you’re been trying to reach me. How did you know I was coming here?”

  “Nancie told me.” He smiled tentatively. “Our encounter had been bothering me and I told her I wanted to clear things up.”

  Tahoma got into his SUV and started the engine. I stood next to the dead taxi, hoping to double back to the Bethany House after he drove away. He didn’t drive away. I got into the taxi and drove to the gas station on the corner, going through the motions of filling up the tank until his SUV disappeared past several green lights. I hopped back into the dead taxi and returned to the Bethany House.

  I parked in the same space and went inside. A woman with striking red hair and coral lipstick sat behind a small wooden table. She looked up at me. “I’m sorry, we’re closed for the day,” she said. Her voice was thick with a South Philly accent. “If you want information on membership, I can give you a pamphlet.”

  “Actually, I’d like to talk to someone about your vault of clothes from the Seventies for an article for Retrofit magazine,” I said. I reached inside my neckline and pulled out my press card. “I’ve been working closely with Pritchard Smith.”

  “Nobody told me anything about a Retro magazine or a Richard Smith,” she said.

  She was either a very good actress, or she really didn’t recognize his name. I changed tactics. “We both work for Nancie Townsend. I called earlier and someone told me she was working in the vault.”

  “I didn’t realize that was you. I was just about to tell her it’s closing time. Come on, I’ll take you there.”

  As the elevator descended, I thought about how well Nancie had taken care of me since I started working for her. I thought about how the opportunity to work at Retrofit had come through the recommendation of my boss at Bentley’s, who had never steered me wrong. I thought about how dedicated Nancie was to the magazine, how she came in early and stayed late, and how her eyes had lit up when she first told Pritchard and me about her idea to do a special print edition.

  Nancie would not have let Retrofit close overnight. If we’d lost our lease, she would have had us set up shop in her basement before giving up her dream. She wouldn’t have asked Tahoma to go to our offices to pick up the bible. Cold or no cold, she would have done it herself.

  Nancie was not going to turn out to be the bad guy here. Which meant one thing.

  The elevator doors opened and the receptionist pressed the door open button. Before I knew what was happening, she pushed me into the darkness. The elevator doors shut, leaving me in darkness.

  Chapter 23

  MONDAY NIGHT

  “Who’s there?” asked a voice I hadn’t heard for several days.

  “Nancie? Is that you?”

  “Sam?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Keep talking. My eyes haven’t adjusted yet and I don’t know where I am.” I felt around on the floor for my handbag. I found a lipstick, a Snickers bar, and the canister of pepper spray before I found the bag. Nothing else appeared to have fallen out.

  “I’m in front of the elevator doors. Where are you?” I asked.

  “Turn to your right and follow the sound of my voice. Keep walking, keep walking, keep walking, okay, stop.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the floor.”

  I blinked a few more times but nothing happened. I pressed my eyes shut and counted to thirty. When I opened them, I was able to make out racks of clothing and shelves of shoes. Next to the shoes, I spotted Nancie. Now that I could see, I knew why she hadn’t gotten up to meet me. She was tethered by a length of rope to the foot of a large wooden dresser. About ten feet past her, a door was partially open, exposing the faint silhouette of a toilet.

  I rushed over to her. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “It’s the strangest situation. I came here for a meeting. Pritchard said they were expecting me but I haven’t seen a person in days. At least I think it’s been days. I fall asleep, and when I wake up, there’s food and water. And it’s good food. But how do they know when I’m asleep?”

  I ran my fingers over the rope around her ankle, and then pulled on it. “It’s unbreakable,” she said. “I put all of my weight on it, and if a hundred and sixty-five pounds won’t loosen it, then I don’t think your bare hands will.” She laid back and rested her head on a pile of clothes. “How did you get here?”

  “I got your email.”

  “That was a couple of days ago, wasn’t it?” She yawned. “I’ve lost all track of time.”

  “I’ve been tied up with other aspects of the project,” I said. “When I called here, the receptionist told me you’d been working in the vault and that there was no cell phone reception. I thought it would be best to talk to you face to face so I came here myself.”

  “You might as well get comfortable,” she said.

  Nancie appeared to be more than a little out of it. Instead of taking her advice, I stood up and walked around the room.

  “You’re sure nobody hurt you?”

  “Sam, I’m not joking. The service here is almost as good as the Four Seasons.”

  “You’re being held captive in the basement of an auction house,” I said.

  “I said ‘almost’.”
>
  I found my phone and tilted the screen in front of me in an attempt to illuminate our surroundings. Untraceable meant no data plan, so I couldn’t download the flashlight app. The best I could do was hit the End Call button every fifteen seconds, giving us short bursts of a blue glowing light. As if things weren’t dire enough.

  “How are things at the magazine? Are you and Pritchard working well together?” Nancie asked. Her voice was soft and light, as if she’d taken a hit of Helium and it was starting to wear off. I looked at her. The blue glow from the phone faded, but I could see her face well enough to see that her pupils were dilated. Whatever had been putting her under had slowed down her cognitive functions.

  “Nancie, Retrofit closed. There’s no magazine anymore. Pritchard Smith isn’t who he says he is.”

  She scoffed. “That’s not possible. Pritchard might seem like a snob, but he’s completely dedicated to the work. He waived his salary for the opportunity. Did you know that? I knew this project would require more than what you and I could do, but I had to spend my time finding ad sponsors. I put out a call for an unpaid intern. When he showed up, I practically turned him away. He was obviously too qualified.”

  Something Jennie Mae had said to me tickled the back of my brain. “Nancie, did you tell Jennie Mae Tome that I’d be coming to her house to view her collection?”

  “Yes. I knew you’d love it. But Pritchard was in the office before you and volunteered to head out and get a jump start. I think he wanted to prove himself.”

  “The man you hired is a fraud,” I said. “The real Pritchard Smith was a shady businessman. He was killed by his business partner. Somehow a skull, possibly his, ended up in Jennie Mae’s wardrobe. That’s what this guy is looking for.”

  “Sam! Stop it. I don’t want to hear ghost stories.” She put her fingers in her ears.

  I bent down and gently pulled her hands away from her head. “Nancie, they’re not ghost stories, they’re the truth. It’s all the truth. The Retrofit offices have been cleaned out.”