Cement Stilettos

by Diane Vallere

  Copyright Page

  CEMENT STILETTOS

  Book 7 in the Samantha Kidd Mystery Series

  A Polyester Press Publication

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

  ebook edition

  First published June 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Diane Vallere

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781939197313

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Books by Diane Vallere

  About the Author

  1

  Monday, 7:30 a.m.

  For the record, it was seven days after I slipped on the engagement ring when Nick and I got into our first argument. Any judge in the country would have agreed it was all his fault.

  “No,” he said.

  “No? Just—‘no’? You’re saying no to me just like that?” I slammed my coffee cup down on my kitchen counter a little too hard and hot liquid splashed out onto my thumb. I shook the droplets off and blotted up the spill with a paper towel.

  “That’s right. I’m saying no, just like that. I mean it, Kidd. Don’t fight me on this.”

  “But it’s my life and I can do whatever I want with it. And just because we’re getting married—someday—doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”

  Logan, my black cat and second in command in Chez Kidd, slunk into the kitchen and buried his head in his bowl. He’d been slightly less vocal about supporting me since I put him on a diet a few months ago, but still, I’d hoped for a hiss or a growl to let Nick know it was two against one. Something.

  “I’m not telling you what to do,” Nick said. “I’m telling you what you’re not going to do. You’re not spending the last day of your first vacation in two years traipsing around run-down factories in a sketchy part of town with me.”

  “Why not? Like you said, it’s my last day of vacation. I should be able to spend it how I want. Besides, you’re leaving for Italy in a week.”

  “I would have thought you’d be more interested in going to Italy with me. Italy has pizza.”

  “Empty factories sound interesting. You never know what you’ll find,” I said. “Besides, I want to spend more time with you.”

  “That’s sweet, Kidd. It is. But after I gave you forty pair of shoes for Christmas, you forgot I was even in the room. My showroom manager already arranged my schedule for today and it’s going to be tight. You’ll be a distraction.” I crossed my arms over my pajamas. “A good distraction. But why visiting empty factories sounds more interesting to you than milking the last day of your vacation is beyond me.”

  He may have had a point.

  “Fine,” I said. “Go conqueror the designer shoe world.”

  He bent down and kissed me. “I have to get going. Meet me at my showroom tonight? I’ll take you out to dinner. But don’t show up a minute before six because I really do have a lot of work to do.”

  “Okay.” I pretended to pout. He kissed me again and then left.

  I cleaned up after a breakfast of toaster waffles and coffee and went to the bedroom. It may seem odd that my first proper vacation in two years was making me antsy. Sure, the first few days came with the luxuries of sleeping in, eating ice cream for breakfast, and helping Logan play with his new catnip toys, but after being employment-challenged for almost two years, the aimless days were starting to feel familiar, and not in a good way. Everybody I knew either had returned to work or had a baby. (Only one person I knew had a baby, but she’d temporarily moved in with her brother in Philly while her house here in Ribbon was being prepped for sale.)

  Nick wasn’t being entirely altruistic when he turned down my offer to “help” him. The last time I’d tried to help him at work hadn’t ended well. It may have had something to do with me prioritizing a murder investigation over the work he’d expected from me. I liked to think I’d matured a bit since then, but I understood why he wasn’t willing to chance it. Nick didn’t know I’d kicked off the new year and our engagement with a whole battery of resolutions. I was going to be a better version of myself: more focused, professional, and thoughtful. I was going to become Samantha 2.0.

  I showered and changed into a white shirt and black leather leggings and blow dried my hair. I added silver hoop earrings and a silver tank watch, pulled on a navy blue shrunken blazer and ankle booties, kissed Logan between his pointy black ears, and headed to the store where I worked, one day early.

  Tradava was a local department store in the process of establishing itself as a reputable, mid-range retailer. Growing up, I remembered the store for its toy department and annual outdoor tent sales of aisles bursting with discount items. As a teen, I’d spent a fair portion of my allowance on accessories like lace gloves, gummy bracelets, and the occasional Flashdance sweatshirt. I’d moved away for college and then work in New York City, but two years ago, when I gave up the life I knew, I’d moved back and stumbled into a job working at the store. In my time away they’d been leveraging their roots in the community to build their brand as a family-owned chain with ties to the bigger cities of Philadelphia and New York to the east.

  I parked around back of the store in the employee lot. The biting January wind snapped at my cheeks and whipped my hair around my face. I flipped the collar of my Pea Coat up to ward off the wind and ran in long strides across the lot, catching up with my good friend Eddie Adams. Eddie was the visual director for Tradava and, thanks to the task of maintaining the store’s display standards over the holiday season, resident grouch.

  “Don’t tell me her highness is gracing the store with her presence,” he said. “Is your sabbatical over already?”

  “It was a week of vacation and it’s over tomorrow. I came in today to ease my way back into my routine.”

  “You’re afraid the store managers are going to forget they hired you. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  I’d known Eddie since high school though our friendship had become solid since moving back to the town where I grew up. We shared the same taste in music (80s New Wave) and movies (John Hughes), but were opposites when it came to food territory. (He ate vegetables. I preferred crunchy snack foods, pizza, and anything on Jamie Oliver’s Do Not Eat list.) I benefitted from his link to the store gossip chain, though I secretly questioned how often he leveraged gossip about me to maintain the in-and-out flow of insider information.

  We flashed our employee IDs and headed to the elevators. “Did you hear anything about Cat?” Eddie asked.

  Cat Lestes, the aforementioned friend with a baby, had left town in her third trimester after her husband of ten years had been m
urdered. We’d been keeping in touch over phone calls, emails and texts, but once the baby arrived, she had considerably less time to chat.

  “She had a girl. Six pounds, healthy. Already has orange fuzz on top of her head.”

  “That is going to be one spoiled baby,” he said. I knew he was right.

  I changed the subject. “Anything I need to know about the store?”

  “Sales, down. Mess, up. Staff, idiots. Stress to booze ratio, two to one.”

  “I guess that’s better than one to two.”

  He tipped his head and his brows pulled together, and then tipped his head the other direction. “Yeah, one to two. That’s what I meant.”

  Eddie held the heavy glass door open for me and then followed me down the corridor. He stopped by his office. “Coffee at eleven?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I rounded the corner and went into the small, two-desk office where Retrofit for Tradava operated. My colleague, Nancie Townsend, stood behind her desk with an open cardboard box in front of her.

  “Sam! God, I missed you. Come here and give me a hug.” She dropped two heavy crystal candlesticks into the box and came out from behind the desk, smothering me in an embrace. “I have news. I can’t believe it. I’m engaged! It’s like a dream come true. It’s perfection!”

  “You’re engaged?” I asked, instantly regretting the incredulity that snuck into my voice. “Is it—”

  “No, not him. You don’t know the guy. He’s a curator for a small museum in New Mexico. Precious fella, really. As sweet as can be. I’ve never lived in New Mexico—heck, I’ve never lived west of Ohio!—but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for love.”

  “You’re moving? To New Mexico?” I stepped back from Nancie and took in the desk, the partially empty shelves, and the rather large rock on her left ring finger. “But what about Tradava? And Retrofit? You made this magazine what it is. What’s going to happen to it?”

  Right around my last birthday, I’d been a very overworked employee at a start-up online fashion magazine called Retrofit. A series of events led to Tradava acquiring the operation and absorbing us into their advertising wing with the task of putting out a cross between a catalog and a fashion magazine.

  “We both know I’m not cut out for corporate life in a department store where I have to back trends that were approved in a boardroom. I loved the start-up phase of Retrofit, before we were bought out. We wrote what we wanted to write and worked when we wanted to work. We were allowed to have an opinion. This”— she gestured to the walls around us—“is great for security, but not much else.”

  “It’s too soon for you to leave.” I said. “Tradava only bought Retrofit last year. We haven’t had a chance to put our stamp on things.”

  It hadn’t been easy to create cohesive trend stories based on what the buyers had already ordered, but Nancie and I had managed. We had five catalogs completed for the upcoming spring season. It was time to start planning pre-fall. “Now that we’re caught up, we’re definitely going to have a say in what we feature and how we write about it. That’s why they wanted us.”

  Nancie took my hand and smiled. “Sam, Tradava is your world. Not mine.” She squeezed my hand and looked down at it. “Is that what I think it is? It’s an engagement ring too. To Nick? Nick Taylor? You lucky thing. I knew you two could work it out. Oh my God, we’re both engaged. It’s double perfection!” She squished me into another hug. “We can both give notice, and because of all the work we did before the holidays, Tradava will have plenty of time to reorganize and do whatever they want to do with the catalog. Everything is going to work out perfectly.”

  “I don’t want to give notice,” I said.

  Nancie shrugged and went back to packing her box of personal items while I hung up my coat and moved to my desk.

  Nancie was a big fan of perfection. She chatted on about how different her life was going to be after she got married, how she planned to help at the museum as unofficial assistant curator, and how she’d need a whole new wardrobe because her current dress code of black and white was a little stark compared to the vibrant colors of the Southwest art scene.

  I cued up my email and scribbled a few notes onto my agenda, all the while feeling a growing sense of discontent. Would it work out perfectly? Or was I destined to follow in her footsteps and become Mrs. Nick Taylor, the wife of a popular shoe designer, who lacked her own identity?

  2

  Monday 9:30 a.m.

  Nick’s career was on the verge of breaking out. His shoes were featured regularly on the editorial pages of major fashion magazines. I’d first met him eleven years ago when I worked as a designer shoe buyer in New York. That path had led me to career success but not happiness, so after nine years, I’d left.

  In that nine years, Nick’s reputation had only grown. I didn’t doubt he wanted the best for me, but on more than one occasion my own path veered widely from his, often times into slightly dangerous territory. I never looked for trouble, but something inside me didn’t walk away when I found it.

  That’s what bothered me the most: that I still hadn’t found what I was looking for. My job had become something for me to grab ahold of and I found that I needed it. Would professional Samantha be able to coexist with married Samantha? Would Nick’s growing fame eclipse my own accomplishments?

  I provided the minimal responses needed to keep Nancie talking even though my mind was miles away. Somewhere between her pro/con list on bolo ties (retro enough to be cool or too Stray Cats?) she was interrupted by a call. She answered, said “of course” three times, and hung up.

  “That was Human Resources. Looks like they got my letter of resignation. Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck,” I said, with what little enthusiasm I could muster. I returned to my overflowing inbox, unread emails, and growing sense of threatened identity.

  An email from Nick popped up and I opened it. It was a forwarded message from Nick’s showroom manager, Angela, and included pictures of empty, run down factories. The one line from Nick said, see what you’re missing?

  While I considered the appropriate response—a balance between looks like fun and I have my own life!—I clicked onto the next email. And all of a sudden, things looked a little brighter.

  To: Samantha Kidd

  Fr: Carl Collins

  Re: Interview/Profile

  Sam: I pitched a series of feel-good local celebrity profiles to the Sunday Times and got the green light this morning. After your involvement in the recent crime wave over the holidays, we all agreed you’d be the ideal candidate to star in a Local Celebrity profile. If you’re interested, I’ll send over the release forms for you to sign and we can set up the interview and photo shoot.

  Carl Collins was a reporter for the local paper. He was in his mid-thirties but dressed to appear older so as to inspire trust in a span of generations. He was determined to become the Tom Wolfe of Ribbon, Pennsylvania, and somehow knowing me fit into that master plan.

  On any other occasion, I’d see right through Carl’s motivation. He wanted to butter me up so I’d tip him off the next time I was involved in something newsworthy. But this time I had my own motivation: protect my identity from being overshadowed by Nick’s. There was a very good chance this wasn’t how “healthy relationship” stuff was supposed to work, but, not having had many successful, long-term relationships under my patent-leather belt, I went with my gut. Which actually was under my patent-leather belt.

  I replied yes, thanks, please email releases, and then clicked send. Almost immediately the documents showed up in my inbox with a note: I’ll be in touch. -CC

  I starred the email and moved on to my next task: looking for emerging fashion trends. I checked social media, clicked through stills of recent fashion shows, and paged through backup copies of Women’s Wear Daily. It was my unrefined method for filtering a whole lot of stimulus into a clear message for the store. And like I’d told Nancie, it was early enough on the calendar that w
e would have a chance to suggest trend highlights in the next catalog, not react to those dictated to us.

  I opened up a blank sketchpad and filled the first page with notes: ladylike suiting. Colorful. Tailored. Chic. Return to Camelot. Early Sixties. Fully dressed and accessorized. As I scribbled the free-form stream of consciousness triggered by the websites and fashion coverage I’d reviewed, a possible ad campaign came into focus. A barren, concrete, bombed-out factory background with models in candy-colored suits. It would be the perfect way to show off the trend that was popping up in several designer collections. Easy to accessorize: black tights and shoes to set off the colorful suits. Leather gloves. Hats. Sunglasses to play into the Jackie Kennedy vibe. The store would love the concept because it included merchandise from multiple departments, all the better to drive sales.

  Tradava had sponsored a couple of fashion-industry-related events since I’d been back in Ribbon, establishing themselves as more than a store with fishing gear and freshly baked goods. New designers invited our buyers to view their collections, and once in a blue moon, the store negotiated an exclusive.

  In terms of business growth, it was a natural for the store to shift advertising focus onto the trend market. The more we competed with online retailers like Amazon, the more we had to come up with a hook to get people to walk through our doors.

  Every advertising spread had to be approved by senior management, and approval was based on details like cost of location, transportation, models, et cetera. Apparel shoots had the highest budget because they required models and exotic backdrops. That also made them the most difficult to pitch. But I had an idea that almost guaranteed senior management would say yes.

  I’d invite Carl Collins to do the interview at a mock photo shoot and stick around for a behind-the-scenes peek at how we put the catalog together. Tradava would get extra exposure, Carl would get something entirely unique for the Ribbon Times, and I’d secure my place as a local celebrity on my own and not as Mrs. Nick Taylor.

  I printed the forms and hastily filled them out, and then called the General Merchandise Manager of Ladies Apparel to set up a brief meeting.