“Pam Trotter’s office,” said a female voice. It had a slightly high pitched nasally tone, and I recognized the executive’s assistant.
“Is this Wanda? It’s Samantha Kidd, from the advertising department.” We spent about a minute on small talk—how was your vacation, great, yours?—before I cut to the chase. “I’m working on the pre-fall catalog and had an idea that I wanted to pitch. Does Pam have any time on her calendar this week? I don’t need more than fifteen minutes.”
“Can you come right now?”
What? Now? I needed concept boards and background sets and locations to pitch and ballpark cost estimates. I was not ready.
“Sure,” I said.
“Great. Better get here fast, though, because she’s got projections starting at ten.”
“On my way.” I grabbed my notebook, cell phone, and the open copy of WWD and ran to the elevator.
Pam Trotter was in her late fifties and wore it well. Her auburn hair was layered just enough to give it movement around her face, but not so much that it distracted from her clear blue eyes. She wore a navy blue turtleneck sweater and wide legged trousers, and her sunglasses were perched on top of her head, I assumed more as an accessory than because the store was bright. An unstructured navy blue tweed blazer was draped on the back of her office chair. She flipped back and forth between the first few pages of my sketchpad with her left hand while her right gently rubbed at the heavy links on her gold chain necklace.
“You came up with this just now?” she asked.
“This morning. I was reviewing the runway shows and the looks that were trending on social media and it just kind of clicked.” I bit my lower lip. “I’d have to do some research to scout a factory, but I have a lead. My boyfr—fia—Nick Taylor sent me pictures of a couple of available spaces. If you like the idea, I can make some calls and work up a budget. If we act fast we could get this shoot in the can over the next week or so. That’ll allow the buyers more time to prepare their pitches for the rest of the catalog.”
“I love it,” Pam said. “It’s fresh and exactly what’s happening right now. All this grunge, yuck.” She wrinkled her nose. “I love the first catalog of the season. Everything looks so new. I just wish we didn’t have to wait until July to see it in print.”
“I had an idea about that too,” I said. In as few words as possible, I told her about the interview for the paper and my thoughts about the proposed photo shoot. “It would give Tradava extra press for free. It would be a teaser for customers who could come in and place advance orders for the merchandise, and it would be a way for us to claim ownership of this trend before it hit the rest of the pre-fall market. We wouldn’t have to hire models, just move merchandise from here to the site and someone from the store’s shipping and delivery department could do that. We’d get a jump on the rest of the fashion publications.”
Pam removed her sunglasses from her head, folded the wands in, and tucked them into the top right drawer of her desk. “It’s brilliant,” she said, though her tone was matter-of-fact. “Assuming we can get samples from the designers. Tights, gloves, sunglasses can all be pulled from inventory. Designers can overnight us their runway samples of the suits. The only problem is the shoes.”
She was right. Retail buyers selected their advertising choices at market in December. The factories produced those samples early so stores would have time to shoot them but anything we requested now wouldn’t get produced until after the orders were fulfilled and that would be far too late.
“We could pull from stock,” she added, “but that would take away from the high fashion angle. “What’s happening in footwear is almost as important as what’s happening in ready to wear.”
Seeing as how I’d been playing with forty pair of shoes from Nick’s upcoming shoe collection for the past week, I already knew what the key shoe trends were going to be. Platforms. Square toes. Stilettos. For as feminine as the clothes were, the shoes had a tough edge about them. Like so many other aspects of fashion, it was the contradiction in styles that made them work. I could ask Nick to produce the shoes for us in exchange for editorial credit. And I knew he’d say yes. But I didn’t know if he’d say yes because it was good for him or because it was good for me.
This relationship stuff was hard.
Pam signed off on my releases and checked her watch. “I’ve got pre-projections starting in about five minutes. Lock down the factory first and then get me a concept board. We’ll figure the shoe thing out. Good work, Samantha.” She smiled, and I left.
By the time I returned to the advertising offices, I was brimming with excitement. This was big. This was bigger than big. This was huge. It was the perfect high profile project to make everybody at Tradava take notice of me and possibly even erase some of the damage from what had happened the first time I tried to work here. I’d have to warn Carl to avoid mention of that in his interview.
The office was empty when I returned. Nancie’s cardboard box was gone and the shelves behind her desk had been picked clean of personal belongings. The only thing that remained was a paper cube printed with her original Retrofit logo. The top square of paper had her phone number, followed by xoxoxo. I pulled the piece of paper off and tucked it into my wallet. I didn’t want to lose touch with her, but I knew how retail friendships were. Tight while you’re there in front of each other, but out of sight, out of mind.
I moved to my desk. A note had been scribbled on the middle of my desk blotter that said, “Party’s over! Booze ratio just went up. Call me.”
It was only a few minutes past eleven, so if I’d missed Eddie it hadn’t been by much. I called his extension and left a message.
I scanned in the documents and emailed them to Carl with a note outlining my idea and a barely concealed threat if he didn’t use it. I pulled up Nick’s email with the factory pictures and scrolled through, looking for contact or location information. When I found none, I called him. He didn’t answer. I texted twice, sent an email, and finally called Angela, his showroom manager.
“Angela, it’s Samantha. I was hoping to get some info on the factories Nick is visiting today.”
“Thank God you called,” she said. “He wants you to join him but I don’t have your new number.”
“Are you sure? The last time we talked, he didn’t want me there.”
“Since when do you listen to what he says?” Angela said. “But I’m sure. He said it was urgent and that was two hours ago. I think something might be wrong. If I were you, I’d drop everything and go.”
3
Monday, 11:00 a.m.
A surge of adrenaline shot through my arms and legs. I jumped up from my desk while still holding the phone to my ear. “Which factory?” I asked. “Where?”
“It’s in the old Prince district, by Cherry and South Sixth.”
“I’m on my way.” I hung up and grabbed my coat and bag and left, almost colliding with Eddie. He held a thermal take-out cup in each hand, and our near-accident resulted in splattered coffee on his New Order T-shirt.
“Dude!” he said. “You are not going to believe what happened. Seriously. Do these people think I’m a robot?”
“Can’t talk. Emergency. Gotta go.”
Eddie held out one of the cups. “Take this. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I grabbed the coffee and raced out of the store.
Nick didn’t answer either of the calls I made on my way to the factory district. It was a ten-minute drive and after two attempts to reach him, I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and concentrated on driving fast. I took the Penn Avenue exit and blitzed through the downtown streets until I found the factory where Angela said he’d gone. Leaving a message with Angela and not calling directly was out of character. Something was up.
Nick’s white pickup truck was parked in the lot in the space closest to the entrance. A shiny black Lexus was parked next to him. I parked next to the Lexus and ran inside.
“Nick?” I yelled. “Nick, ca
n you hear me?” I ran into the center of the factory and spun in a circle, looking for signs of some kind of factory-related-urgent-but-not-911-worthy situation that would have changed Nick’s mind about wanting me there.
“Kidd?” Nick said. I looked around, trying to place the location of his voice. “What are you doing here?”
I looked up. He was on a narrow platform about ten feet above me. Next to him was a short man in a black coat and hat. Nick was easily six inches taller than the man, but considering their location, I was having a hard time judging either of their heights.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m okay. Wait right there. I’m coming down.” He turned to the man next to him and said something and then disappeared.
I met him by the base of the stairs and threw my arms around him. He gently pushed me away. “What are you doing here?”
“I need a factory for work. I called Angela and she said you were trying to reach me, that it was urgent and I had to get here right away. I thought—” I stopped talking. The echo of my voice bounced off the exposed concrete, sounding hollow and panicky. Nick wouldn’t call me if there was something wrong. He’d call the police. “I don’t know what I thought. Why am I here?”
“You’re not kidding around, are you?” he said. This time Nick put his arms around me. “You want to slow down and fill me in?”
“Like I said, I need a factory. The one in the picture you sent this morning looked good so I called Angela to get the address, but before I had a chance to tell her why I called, she said you told her you wanted me to meet you here. I’ve been calling you to find out why you changed your mind but you didn’t answer.”
“The building is made of concrete. Blocks the signal.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, I didn’t tell Angela I wanted you here. I told her you wanted to be here.”
“Oh,” I said again.
The man who’d been standing next to Nick on the landing upstairs had joined us on the ground floor. He cleared his throat. I’d temporarily forgotten that, for Nick, this was a business meeting. I stepped backward, out of Nick’s arms and held out my hand. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your meeting in such an unprofessional manner. I’m Samantha Kidd.”
“Vito,” the man said. He grasped my hand with his gloved one and shook it. “You work for Mr. Taylor?”
“Samantha is my fiancé,” Nick said.
Vito smiled. “I did not know you had become engaged. Congratulations! We’ll toast at our next meeting.”
“There’s not going to be a next meeting, Vito. I told you, I’m not ready to move my production from Italy to Ribbon.” He put his hands up. “I hear what you’re saying about bringing jobs back to the US, but for now, I’m going to keep things the way they are.”
Vito shrugged his shoulders as if Nick’s response didn’t faze him one way or the other. He turned to me. “I believe the lady said she’s in need of a factory?”
Well, this was awkward. I looked at Nick, who raised his eyebrows. My earlier fears about loss of identity seemed a bit trite considering I’d charged into the place like Wonder Woman prepared to save her man from an unknown threat.
“I’m setting up a photo shoot for a local department store. For their catalog. I pitched the idea of using an empty factory as the backdrop. The general merchandise manager signed off on the concept and told me to set it up immediately. So here I am.”
Nick crossed his arms over his coat. “I think I can help you find another location that would work.”
Vito spoke. “Don’t be hasty, Nick. This is your fiancé. The woman you’re going to marry. You want her to be happy, yes?” He held out an arm and guided me toward the back of the factory. “I think we can work something out. When would your team need to use the place?”
“Um,” I looked over my shoulder at Nick, who shook his head back and forth. I looked back at Vito. “I don’t think I should make a decision right this second.”
“I tell you what. You put in a good word with your future husband, tell him to reconsider his own decision, and I’ll let you use my factory for as many photo shoots as you want. No charge.”
“That’s not necessary. Nick and I have separate businesses and separate lives. My interests in your factory are strictly on behalf of Tradava. We’re prepared to pay to rent the space, just like we would for any photo shoot.”
“No, no, no. Consider it an engagement gift.” He raised my bare hand to his lips and kissed it. “Until next time, Ms. Kidd. It’s been a pleasure.”
The pleasure was all his. I pulled my hand away from him and surreptitiously wiped it on the back of my coat. Vito approached Nick and shook his hand, and then left.
The factory was awkwardly silent except for the sound of Vito’s heels snapping against the cement. As if by unspoken agreement, neither Nick or I spoke until Vito’s car engine started and the black Lexus swung out of the parking lot.
“What did he say to you?” Nick asked.
“He wants me to ask you to reconsider your decision. But don’t worry, I told him our lives and our businesses were separate and that I was only here acting on behalf of Tradava.”
“Kidd, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Whoa,” I said, and put my hands up. “My idea is very good. The GMM of Tradava practically gave me a promotion when she heard it. I’ll look at other factories, but if this is the best one, I’ll have Vito draw up a contract and we’ll rent it, just like we do with everybody else. You really don’t have any say in that.”
“That’s not what I meant. You always have good ideas. That’s what makes you special, because you see things differently than the rest of the world. It’s just—there’s a history with this factory and with Vito, and it’s not particularly pleasant.”
“A history? Like a Saturday night special?” I knew empty factories were exciting. I leaned forward and looked back into the dark interior.
Nick shook his head. “No more Godfather movies for you.”
I straightened back up. “I’ll call Vito tomorrow and let him know the store lined up something else. Okay?”
“Thanks.”
Until that moment, I expected Nick to say I should do whatever it was I wanted to do. The fact that I’d given in to his request triggered the same fears from earlier. I looked out at the parking lot for a moment, and then back at Nick. “You should call Angela and straighten this out.”
He held up his finger and tapped his phone. The call rang seven times before he disconnected and tried again. Same thing—Angela didn’t answer. I walked a few steps toward the exit.
“Kidd, hold up.” He put his phone in his pocket and jogged over to me.
“I’ll get out of here and let you get on with your day. I was so excited after I had the factory idea that my mind has been going a mile a minute.”
“It does that,” he said. “This factory thing—it is a good idea. Tell you what. Angela has a whole file of local factory sites. I’ll bring it to dinner tonight and maybe you can get a lead from there.”
“You told Vito you weren’t planning on moving your production out of Italy, so why the folder on factories?”
Nick hesitated for a moment and seemed to consider his words. “I’m not convinced Vito would make the best business partner, but he’s right about one thing. There are tax incentives available to me if I create jobs in the US. Ribbon is the perfect setting. Lots of these factories have just been sitting around collecting dust. I could have my labels produced here and shipped to Italy, or have the tissue paper from the boxes produced here, or even the boxes themselves. Think about it. There’s a reason Paper Mill Road is named paper mill road. Just because the paper mills are currently closed, doesn’t mean they can’t be reopened too.”
I drove back toward Tradava, but it was after lunch and the only thing I’d had all day was coffee. I exited the highway, but instead of taking the shortcut to the store, went through the light, into the parking lot for the st
rip mall where my favorite sandwich shop sat. And since it just happened to be a few doors down from Nick’s showroom, I could check on Angela, pick up the factory file and work on securing a location this afternoon. Three birds, one stone. Samantha 2.0 productivity at its best.
I parked close to the showroom and yanked on the door. It was locked. I rattled it a couple of times and pressed my face up to the glass, looking for Angela. It was the middle of the day. She was probably in the ladies’ room. I flipped through my key ring for the one Nick had had made for me back when I worked for him and prayed he hadn’t changed the locks. The key slipped in and the door pulled open.
“Angela?” I called out. “It’s Samantha. I used my key.” Her desk was neat and her computer screen was dark. A manila folder labeled FACTORIES sat on top of her desk. I flipped the folder open and fanned out a list of addresses that was several pages long.
I walked through the showroom to the small kitchenette, and then poked my head into the tiny office that Nick used when he wanted privacy. No Angela. She’d probably slipped out for a bite and would return in a few minutes. I went back to her desk and copied the files from the folder on the small machine behind her desk, put the originals back in the folder, and stuffed the duplicates into my handbag.
I slipped off my black bootie. While I waited for Angela to return, I wandered around the showroom on lopsided heel heights, occasionally slipping on one of Nick’s shoe samples and checking out my reflection in the knee-high mirrors he’d strategically placed. It was while trying on a black suede platform pump that I noticed the blood reflected in the mirror.
I turned around and scanned the showroom floor, looking for the source. It came from the sample closet to the left of Angela’s desk. A nauseating sensation started in my stomach and radiated outward, causing my arms to twitch and my hands to shake. I hobbled to the closet and eased the door open.
Angela’s body fell out.
4
Monday, 1:00 p.m.
Cement Stilettos Page 2
