“Why did you try to burn the mannequin?” I asked.
He looked up at me. Whatever he’d hoped to gain by going up against Amanda and Tiny had left him with little energy and even less spirit.
“After the fire, I knew somebody would find it in my studio and link me to the arson. I didn’t need a lot of time, just a couple of days so I could finish my painting. But the investigators were poking around and I couldn’t concentrate. And I thought if somebody saw that mannequin, they’d think I was responsible. It was bad enough that I was so outspoken with my complaints and started that petition that nobody wanted to sign. I might as well have put a neon sign over my head that said ‘I’m a suspect.’”
“Detective Loncar is surprisingly understanding when it comes to stuff like that,” I said.
Santangelo looked up at me. “You saw me. The night I set fire to the mannequin in the Dumpster. I would have put it out but you saw me. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t risk my reputation, my show, my paintings. Not now.”
I felt like I’d slipped into a world where people were commodities and creative pursuits were paramount. Somewhere along the way the humanity of life had been traded for fame and fortune, for false niceties that hid felonious rationalization. In all of my years in fashion, I’d never encountered people like this, who saw destruction and vandalism as justifiable when it came to protecting their craft.
I backed away from Santangelo. His words said that he was sorry for what he’d done, but his actions told me that he’d do it all again if it meant protecting himself. If anybody was a victim in all of this, it wasn’t him. It wasn’t Harper. It wasn’t me. It was Amanda.
I fled Warehouse Five for home. Santangelo had given me more information than I could process on an empty stomach. After finishing the Neapolitan ice cream directly from the carton, I slowed down. Sure, the artist in residency had screwy motivation, but he’d done little more than try to protect himself. The person who had been out for himself all along was Clive.
I spun the empty carton of ice cream until I found Clive’s number. He answered after several rings. I hadn’t calculated the time change, but Tahiti was on the other side of California, so it was earlier than here, and I wouldn’t have minded waking the British bum up.
“’Allo, darling. How are you? Enjoying a bit of a rest now that you’ve some time on your hands?”
“You might have fooled everybody else, but you haven’t fooled me. I know about your history with the minor. Your career was almost destroyed. What did you offer to Amanda to get her to hire you?”
Amanda gave man opportunity to redeem myself and I gave her legitimacy. My documentary would have done for her what Unzipped did for Isaac Mizrahi. She would have been more than a designer. She would have been a star.”
“But you risked it all by making a play for Harper.”
“I’d like to see you prove that bit of rubbish. Amanda and I had an arrangement. A couple of hours in the editing booth, and I’m certain to have a magnificent narrative of what happened.”
“But there wasn’t any show, and Amanda can’t want your photos now.”
“I have no loyalty to Amanda. I’ve spoken to editors at the major magazines and there’s extreme interest in what I shot. Six different galleries are bidding on the opportunity to showcase the images and the tabloids are talking six figures per image. Why shouldn’t I take advantage of the situation? Exclusive footage of fashion in flames. Much better than what I might have gotten if the show went off without a hitch. You might say I got lucky.”
“If the fire inspector can link you to the arson, I wouldn’t call it lucky.”
“Ms. Kidd, a photographer needs to know how to chase the light. That’s what I did. Chased the light.”
“And if someone had gotten injured in the process of you chasing it?”
“Then I’d have sold my film to the highest bidder and walked away. But alas, that wasn’t to be the day I struck gold.”
Again I thought of the strand of dyed blond hair. “Is your hair color natural?”
“I hardly think that’s relevant,” he said.
“The police can link a person with dyed blond hair to the fire,” I said boldly. I didn’t say which fire.
“A little Sun-In can hardly be called dyed. Now if you’re done with your interrogation, Ms. Kidd, I have sixteen swimsuit models waiting for me on a white sand beach. You do know that I’m in Tahiti, don’t you? Where I’ve been for twenty-four hours. I’ve spoken to Inspector Gigger and Detective Loncar. If they were content to let me do my job, I suppose you should be too.”
I made a fist and punched the cushion on the back of the sofa. “Thank you for your time,” I said with as much cordiality as I could muster.
“Cheerio, lass,” he said in return, and hung up.
Clive stood to make a lot of money from those photos, and if he’d been pressuring Harper for sexual favors, then he surely had no moral compass and clearly would destroy Amanda in the process of getting rich. If he was telling the truth about being able to sell the photos now that he’d been terminated, then my suggestion that Amanda replace him with Dante had created a situation for her. It had made things worse. Amanda Ries might have fabricated some of her troubles, but as far as I was concerned, they were far from over.
I remembered the photos in the basement. Fine, I thought. Clive thinks he can make money by selling his photos? They’d lose all value once Nancie Townsend published Dante’s photos in her new magazine. I’d show Clive the meaning of exclusive.
I called Nancie. “Nancie, this is Samantha Kidd.”
“Samantha, I was just thinking about you. How’s the article coming?”
“Better than expected. I’m pretty sure I can have something to you by tomorrow.”
“Perfection. Do you have art?”
“I have art like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You’re not toying with me, are you?”
“Here’s what you need to know about me. When I say I’ll deliver something, I deliver it. Deadlines are not a problem. Are you still interviewing other candidates for the position?”
“There are a few people on my radar, but I tell you what. I’ll blow them off until tomorrow at five. If your article is as good as you say it is, you’ve got yourself a job.”
I brought the photos upstairs to the computer and sat down to write the expose of all exposes.
SOME LIKE IT HAUTE
by
Samantha Kidd
The world of haute couture is fickle. Too long in the spotlight and a designer can get burned. For emerging talent Amanda Ries, the burns didn’t come from the spotlight. They came at the hands of an arsonist.
Details of the fire at the recent Amanda Ries runway show can be found in the newspapers and online, but what’s missing from those reports are a description of the true stars of the show: the clothes. Why? Because aside from the first six runway looks, the audience didn’t have a chance to see them. This reporter gained backstage access prior to the show and followed up with a visit to the showroom to document the full collection.
Formerly known for an ice cream sherbet color palette of All-American classics, Ries tried her hand at something new. Shades of orange, red, yellow, and silver decorated futuristic jumpsuits, motorcycle jackets, and kimonos. While other designers gravitate toward a post-apocalyptic future, Ries shows us an exuberant vision. Her woman of the future is strong, confident, and fashion forward, a merging of sixties space age and nineties minimalism with a dash of Harajuku thrown in for good measure.
I chewed on my fingertip and read over what I’d written. So far, so good. Already I’d managed to plug my credentials and pull the rug out from under Clive’s supposed exclusive by having art of my own.
Before continuing, I picked up the stack of images and flipped through them. It was about the clothes, not about me being in the clothes, so I ignored how I looked and focused on the garments. I selected four images, and then prepared to send them. Here
was the one flaw with Dante’s shoot-on-film decision. What was I to do, scan in these pictures and email them?
I hadn’t talked to Dante since Tuesday night, when Loncar and Amanda had shown up. He claimed I went stiff as a board when Amanda showed up. And he took it to mean that I wasn’t over Nick. Turns out he was right. But this didn’t have to do with Nick. This had to do with an investigation that we’d started together. I called him.
“I need to email some of these photos that you took. How should I do that?”
“Whoa, slow down. No ‘Hi Dante,’, no ‘how was your day?’”
“Hi Dante, how was your day?” I said.
“It was good. I took the bike to Jersey. Stared at the ocean for a couple of hours. Cleared my mind.”
“Do you do that often?”
“Whenever I need some clarity. You should try it some time.”
“I don’t have a bike.”
“Anytime you want to go, all you have to do is ask.”
I twirled a lock of hair around my index finger but said nothing. After a few seconds, he spoke again. “So, what’s this about photos?”
“I’m working on that article about Amanda and I need the art. Your photos are on film and they haven’t been touched up.”
“They don’t need to be touched up. There’s truth in them.”
There was that word again. Truth. The same word Santangelo had used. It made me uncomfortable because I knew I’d been avoiding it. But there was no time like the present to acknowledge the truth about my own life.
“Can you come over tonight?” I asked.
“What for, Samantha?”
“So we can talk.”
30
I was wired with nervous energy, so I cleaned. Scrubbed the grout in the bathroom with a toothbrush and sponged down the baseboards. Even dusted the pages of the books on the bookcase. Fueled with romantic frustration, concern about Nick’s father’s health, and anxiety over the arsons around town, I might as well have hung drywall in the basement. None of it helped. The past week had taught me a lot about myself, and I was determined not to become one of those never-happy people if it killed me.
By the time Dante arrived, I’d picked up a couple of smudges of dust and dirt on my sweater and plaid skirt. I didn’t bother to change. He gave my outfit a quick glance but said nothing. I held the door open and let him in.
“I’d offer you something to drink but your options are limited to water. Sparkling or tap.”
He waved my offer off. “I have a feeling this isn’t a purely social visit.”
“It’s semi-social. Come with me.” I went upstairs to the spare bedroom and cued up my article on Amanda’s show. “This is an article about Amanda. It could lead to a job. I need your permission to use the photos. You’ll get full credit, of course.”
He fanned the stack of photos out and paused for a second over the one in the red dress. “You could have asked me that over the phone,” he said.
“I need your signature.”
“You didn’t ask me here to get my signature on a release form.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Dante leaned against the wall and crossed one foot over the other. He crossed his arms as well. The sleeves of his black leather jacket rode up, exposing his tattoos. “What’s on your mind, Samantha?”
I chickened out. “Clive Barrington,” I said.
“Clive? What’s he done now?” He relaxed his arms, as though he’d been expecting a different subject.
“Someone set a fire in a trash can in front of my house.” At the look of anger on his face, I continued. “I was able to put it out with an extinguisher before the fire department arrived. I found some ash in the bottom and looked at it under the microscope.” I waved toward the Fisher Price toy. “There was evidence of dyed blond hairs. You told me Clive dyed his hair. So I thought it might have been him, only I found out he’s in Tahiti. He couldn’t have set the fire.”
He followed my gesture to the Fisher Price microscope and a hint of a smile tugged at his lips before he grew serious again.
“Clive Barrington is not a nice guy. He was always a part of the scene, not just the photographer, but on the party circuit. There was a rumor about him making advances toward the models, even those who were underage. He promised to help make careers. More than one mother looked the other way and left him alone with their daughters.”
“Did any of the accusations stick?”
“Nope. The guy’s like Teflon. He’s an opportunistic bastard who looks out for himself.”
“Does he have it in him to do any of this?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him, but I can’t see the upside. Clive Barrington doesn’t do anything unless it benefits Clive Barrington.”
“I called him earlier today. He’s negotiating with some industry gossip magazines to showcase the fires. ‘Fashion in Flames,’ he called it. He said something about how a good photographer chases the light.”
Dante leaned forward and flipped through the photos again. “If Clive let it be known to the right people that his footage was for sale, he could start a bidding war. I’m thinking he’d get six figures, maybe even seven. Fashion, emerging designer, arson. Could be the kind of thing to bring his name back into the limelight. Make him hot again. Make people forget about the accusations.”
“So there’s a motive. And he was there, he had opportunity. If only I could figure out how he started the fire.”
Dante waved his camera. “There’s a few more shots on this roll of film. I can develop them now if you want.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Come with me. It’s been a long time since I had a photography assistant.”
We went down two flights of stairs to the basement and entered the darkroom. Dante closed the door behind us. I turned to face him. He put his hands on my hips. I closed my eyes and stood there for a second, smelling cinnamon on his breath, before reaching up and moving his hands away.
“I appreciate you helping me with the investigation, but I’m not ready to do this,” I said.
I wanted Dante to nod his understanding, but he didn’t. He didn’t walk away or say something clichéd about being friends, or toss out a light comment about timing or calling him if I needed a distraction. My words hung in the air. The acknowledgment that I had made a conscious decision to close this particular door without fully knowing what was behind it.
Finally, he spoke. “The new photos will be ready in an hour. No worries on using them. Email me the waiver. I’ll sign it and get it back to you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I left the room and went back upstairs to work on the article. After a short while, I heard footsteps downstairs. Seconds later, the garage door opened and shut and a motorcycle drove away.
* * *
I finished the article and emailed it to Nancie with a note that photographer approval would be following soon. Next, I called Amanda’s studio. Tiny answered.
“This is Samantha. I finished the article on Amanda. Any chance you or she would be available for a follow up?”
“I told her that article was a bad idea, but her business is her business now. We parted company earlier today.”
“She fired you?”
“I quit. If I don’t get out soon, no amount of press in the world will save my reputation.”
“But what about her? Amanda Ries Designs, and her being on the verge of breaking out?”
“Sometimes you have to know when to cut ties from a sinking ship.”
Amanda had surrounded herself with people to protect her from the details of running her business and everybody was moving on. I wondered how she was taking it.
“Is Amanda there? Can I talk to her?”
“She’s at Warehouse Five wrapping up some business with the insurance company. You can probably catch her if you get there soon.”
Before she could hang up, I blurted out, “Oscar LeVay.”
“Excuse me?” she asked.
/> “Have you paid him for the models at the show?”
“How is that any of your business?”
“I guess it isn’t.”
“That’s right. Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Good. See ya around, Sam. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but that would be a lie.” She hung up.
I stuck my tongue out at the phone and then looked up OLV Model Management and called the main number. A receptionist claimed that Oscar was in a meeting and offered to take a message.
“This is Samantha Kidd. K-i-d-d. I’m working with Amanda Ries to resolve any outstanding issues related to her recent show. Do you know if Mr. LeVay received payment for the models yet? If not, I can arrange for a check to be delivered this afternoon.”
“Mr. LeVay would probably want to talk to you about that. Hold, please,” she said. She clicked me to a silent line for the briefest of moments, and then Oscar picked up.
“Tiny?” he asked.
“No, this is Samantha Kidd. I’m calling on behalf of Amanda Ries. Tiny is no longer with the company.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No, sir. I’m helping Amanda clear up any outstanding issues that resulted from the fire and I came upon your invoices. Where do we stand on them?”
“I’m not sure. Tiny claimed to have cut a check, but until I see it, I’m not going to believe it.”
“Why don’t I deliver payment in full? If I can verify that a second check has been cut, I’ll put a stop payment on it.”
He agreed. I verified his address and made arrangements to meet him before the close of business. I had a little over an hour.
Oscar was the only person still waiting around for something from Amanda. It stood to reason that whoever was trying to destroy her wouldn’t do so unless they got what they wanted. So I’d give Oscar what he wanted and see what he did next.
The check from Amanda was still in my handbag. I scanned it into the computer and used the resulting jpeg to mock up a fake check with a suitably computer-looking font and a made up account number. After a ten minute diversion to look up the penalties for check fraud, I called Detective Loncar.
Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) Page 19
