Diane Vallere - Style and Error 01 - Designer Dirty Laundry

by Diane Vallere

  “Nick Taylor,” he said. Unnecessary since his caller ID probably told him it was me.

  I forced pleasantries into my voice. “It’s Samantha,” I said. “Kidd,” I added, to match his professionalism. “Who is Amanda Ries?”

  “Leave it alone, Kidd.” He hung up.

  I called him back.

  “Nick Tay—”

  “Why won’t you tell me?” I demanded.

  “—Lor. With whom am I speaking?”

  “Cut the crap, Nick. What are you trying to hide from me?” There was a long stretch of silence. “If she’s your date for the gala, just say so. And if she’s involved in a homicide, I’ll find out.”

  “I’ll see you at the museum. Good-bye, Samantha.” He disconnected a second time. I tried to crumble the newspaper up into a ball, but it was too big. I threw it across the room like a Frisbee.

  Next, I called Tradava and asked to be connected with the Visual department. Eddie answered on the second ring.

  “When do you get off work?”

  “I’ve been trying to leave for the past two hours.”

  “Can you meet me for dinner? Brother’s Pizza, my treat.”

  “Be there in twenty.”

  I picked the crumbled up newspaper off the floor and smoothed it with my hands, then rolled it up and stuck it into my handbag. I pulled a tweed hat over my ponytail and zipped black boots up over my jeans, then left.

  When Eddie arrived, he walked right past me. I waited until he doubled back, then lowered the newspaper I held in front of my face. “Psssst. Over here.”

  He dropped into the booth opposite me. His eyes moved back and forth between my face and the hat. Okay, maybe I’d failed at the less eye-catching part of the agenda. Chianti bottles dangled over our heads and velvet-flocked paisley wallpaper cocooned us from the twenty-first century. The flame to the candle between the oregano and crushed red pepper threw off an eerie red glow, thanks to the faceted glass dome around it. The original wood tables had remained in place since the seventies; kids probably came here to find their parents’ initials carved inside a heart. If they ever tore out the interior for a renovation I could redo my basement in retro pizza chic.

  I pulled the Style Section out of my handbag and pushed it toward Eddie. Coffee grounds smudged the face of the model on the left of the cover. “Page seven.”

  He unfolded the paper and flipped the pages. “It’s a good thing my picture never ends up in here,” he said.

  “Why?” I looked across the table and gasped. Amanda the goddess’s face, no longer a picture of beauty, had been creatively defamed with little more than a felt tip pen. Her perfectly whitened teeth were blacked out and a set of horns was perched atop her head. The lines had blurred but the message was clear. Somebody didn’t like Amanda. And considering I was the one in possession of the newspaper, it seemed like someone was me. Embarrassing as it was, I reasoned to myself, it could be worse. I could have cut out a picture of my head and pasted it on her body.

  I slammed a hand down over the doodling. “That is Amanda Ries. She’s a finalist in the competition, and we haven’t seen or heard from her. That’s suspicious, right?”

  “Is that what you’re all hopped up about? I would have thought it was the fact that she’s pictured with Nick or that she used to work for Patrick.”

  Chapter 18

  “She worked for Patrick?” I asked. I remembered the word ARIES on files in the cabinet. A. Ries. It was so obvious now. I wondered what other obvious things were right in front of me. “When? Did you know her? Are you friends?”

  “Slow down, camper. She worked for him for a couple of years. I don’t think they really got along. I don’t think they didn’t get along either, but I don’t think they made a real connection. She used to cover the accessories market and a few of the smaller designer shows Patrick didn’t want to attend. I heard they had a big blowup when he wouldn’t listen to her critique of one major runway show. She even went over his head to the executive committee but they sided with him. She didn’t show up for work for two weeks and everybody thought she abandoned her job.”

  “That’s how she left?”

  “No, she came back like nothing happened. It was weird. People used to talk about her freelancing occasionally but after she came back, it was like, don’t get caught talking about Amanda. I don’t know what she did during that time. I think Patrick pushed her out the door. Like, it was Tradava or whatever she was doing on the side but she had to make a choice. He wouldn’t allow her to do both. Conflict of interest, I think. There was no room for advancement at Tradava if she kept working for Patrick.”

  “So if Patrick was out of the picture, she’d be in line for a promotion? I still think this sounds a lot like a motive.” I wouldn’t have minded if we found a tidy way to hang the murder on her, since it would clear me of all wrongdoing and get my job back, and leave Nick available for ten to fifteen years. Maybe less for good behavior.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Before when? Before two days ago you were a signature in my high school yearbook. Besides, I don’t spend a lot of time in those offices. My home base is in the Visual workshop with my staff. They actually work when I’m around.”

  “Doesn’t this make her a legitimate suspect? She had means. She had opportunity. And Nick won’t tell me anything about her.”

  “What’s her motive?”

  I pulled the folder of designer bios out of my tote bag next, extracted one sheet of paper, and slapped it down on the table.

  “There’s her motive,” I proclaimed, my index finger repeatedly stabbing the paper between her name and the purple A had been written on the corner of her application.

  He looked over the information on the page. “She says here Patrick is the one who encouraged her to enter the competition. Explain how that would make her want to kill the man?”

  “Okay, so it isn’t really a motive. But she’s in the competition and she was in the right place at the right time. No one would have suspected her coming and going. Why do I have to find a better motive? I don’t have a motive! How can I be under suspicion and Amanda not?”

  “She was employed there. Any evidence of her presence was probably written off as normal.”

  “And she doesn’t work there now, so nobody bothered to see if she skipped to Canada with a hundred G’s in small bills.”

  A pizza appeared on our table, as if by magic. Eddie pulled two slices apart and slid one onto a paper plate, shaking crushed red peppers and oregano on it. He paused briefly to acknowledge my stare, and tipped his head to the side. “I called ahead and ordered. If I left it up to you we’d never eat.” He tore off a piece of the crust and bit into it, letting his slice cool on the plate.

  “Whoever killed Patrick didn’t seem like the murdering type.” I said, ignoring Eddie’s unexpected foresight. “Otherwise he would have known he was being threatened, or someone else would have noticed something suspicious. It must have been someone Patrick knew and trusted, someone who didn’t seem out of place hanging around Tradava. And the EMT jacket in that bottom drawer, that’s weird. Who could have gotten into my office without being noticed? Employees, that’s who. Amanda. Michael. Both on the list of designers.” I bit into the tip of a slice and immediately chugged water to cool my burnt mouth. “My money’s on Amanda.”

  Eddie had a faraway look in his eyes. and I could tell he was looking for flaws in my logic. We kept our voices low. Gone were the jokes and sarcasm. Details were a little too close to home now. Spread out in front of us was the assortment of designer bios, and pieces of the disjointed puzzle were starting to fit together like mismatched panels on a quilt.

  “What about security?” I asked.

  “At a pizza place?”

  “No, security at Tradava. Don’t they keep track of who comes and goes from your wing?”

  “Security is there to protect the merchandise from being stolen from the store. They don’t watch our wing
. It’s our responsibility to lock the doors if we don’t want people to walk in.”

  “Nobody seems to take that seriously.”

  “Michael took the responsibility very seriously, but he said his keys were missing.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “This morning. He came in and I asked him.”

  “But they were in the office the day I started.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I took them.”

  “Sam!”

  I tore a piece of crust from the slice of pizza on my plate and dabbed it in a pool of grease. “Get this. He didn’t have to pay any entry fees for the competition. And the woman at the fabric store says he only shops the remnants because he’s broke. He was there the morning Patrick was murdered, and he was there when the body was found. That’s a lot of coincidence. How come he’s been missing since Patrick’s murder? That’s suspicious.”

  “He’s not missing. I just said he came in this morning. Besides, I never saw him as homicidal.”

  “It’s always the ones you don’t suspect.”

  “So we have another person with means and opportunity. What does his bio say?”

  I flipped through more applications until I found Michael’s. The purple circled C had bled through the paper.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  I left Eddie at our table and went to the restroom. After locking myself in, I pulled my cell phone out and called the number on Michael’s application.

  “MD designs,” answered a high-pitched male voice.

  “Michael, this is Samantha Kidd. We met a few days ago at Tradava, in the trend offices.”

  “Um, yes. I remember.” His voice quivered, but I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or if it indicated an unfortunate residual note of puberty he’d never outgrow.

  “Michael, I need to meet with you. Regarding the competition.”

  “You have nothing to do with the competition.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” I said. I paused for the briefest moment. When no counter-point followed, I continued. “I’ve reviewed Patrick’s files and I have a few questions. Where and when can we meet?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk about the money.”

  “The money is in a safe place, and the person who is entitled to it will get it.”

  “You know where it is!” I said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, as indicated by the click on the other end of the phone. “Hello? Hello?”

  This was news, big news. Michael knew something nobody else did. Which bumped him up several steps on the scales of suspicion. I noted the address listed on his application and headed back to the table to share the news with Eddie. Problem was, he was no longer alone. Nick sat across from Eddie with a slice of my pizza in front of him.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

  “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’ve been following me.”

  He shrugged, as though it was a possibility, which made me wish I hadn’t joked about it.

  I looked back and forth between the two men at the table. Nick, in a camel hair blazer, white shirt, plaid scarf. His curly brown hair was slightly disheveled which made him look younger than he was. Eddie sat across from him, in a nylon windbreaker over a Green Lantern T-shirt. He’d shaved the side of his head on one side, not unlike his yearbook photo. Both looked comfortable in their own skin even though they couldn’t have appeared more different.

  “Have you two been formally introduced?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Nick Taylor, Eddie Adams. Eddie, Nick. You guys should chat. You probably have a lot in common.” They looked at me like two men who didn’t know they’d been set up on a blind date. I grabbed the folder off the booth and shoved it into my handbag. “I gotta go.”

  I drove out of the parking lot and turned right on Perkiomen Avenue. The address on Michael’s application wasn’t far. I passed a couple of diners and gas stations, one roller rink, and a beverage distributor before the numbers on the buildings came close to Michael’s address. I slowed down until I spotted a small shed that sat back from the road. The mailbox out front said MD Designs in black plastic letters.

  I parked next to the mailbox and got out of the car. The shed was the kind you could buy at Lowes and place on the back of your property line to store your lawnmower and tools. It wasn’t a residence. I knocked on the door but no one answered. There were no cars around. Not one to waste a perfectly good opportunity I walked around to the back. A small blue Gremlin pulled up behind my car and Michael got out. I clutched my keys tightly and walked back to my car. There was no way to hide myself now.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “As you may know, I’ve stepped into Patrick’s role for the competition.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I thought quickly. His response, though argumentative, was not the same as saying he knew I was lying. I ran with it.

  “Patrick had your name on his calendar for today along with your address. I think he wanted to review your ideas?”

  “That’s not Patrick’s role. He was a judge. The judges don’t get to see the collections until they’re done.”

  “So who sees them first?”

  “Ms. Ingram, the consultant.”

  “Florence? From Pins & Needles?”

  “If you really were part of this competition you’d know that.”

  “Michael, we both know Patrick must have seen your collection. You worked for him and you’re a finalist. I have a hard time believing you were able to keep everything secret from your boss.”

  “I knew someone would say I cheated! That’s why Patrick didn’t want me to know about the bank account or the sponsors, so nobody could accuse him of favoritism.”

  “But you do know about it, don’t you?”

  “I’m not telling you anything.” He looked at my fist holding the keys.

  “Keys.” I raised my hand and spread my fingers with the key ring hooked over my thumb so he could see I wasn’t hiding anything from him. “You told Eddie your keys were missing, but I found them in the office.”

  “They were missing. After I get to work I always put them in the bottom drawer of my desk. Always. When I couldn’t find them I told security. I told the detective too.”

  “What-who-when?”

  “When he questioned me about you being at Tradava.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I never heard of you.”

  “But you were Patrick’s assistant! He had to tell you about me!”

  Michael’s deer-in-the-headlights stare relaxed into a very small smile. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But he’s not around anymore so it looks like you’re on your own.”

  “Michael, I’m not the person the police are looking for.”

  He snapped his fingers. “The police, that’s right. Detective Loncar asked me to call him if I saw you again.” He walked past me and unlocked the door of the shed.

  I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if he made that call. I hopped into my dirty car and drove home.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 19

  “I don’t remember inviting you over,” I said.

  You didn’t.” Nick rose from the porch swing in front of my house and followed me into the house after I unlocked the front door. I headed directly to the freezer and pulled out a half-gallon of ice cream. “Make yourself useful,” I said, and pushed the carton and a couple of bowls toward him. When he wasn’t looking, I shoved the Style Section into the trash and hid the computer. Nick tore a paper towel off the roll and wiped up a blob of ice cream that fell to my counter, then carried it to the trash.

  “Hey, you threw out the newspaper with my picture in it.” He held out a copy of the Style Section with the model in the red suit on the cover. Immediately I snatched it from his hand. “I find that personally insulting. I’ll forgive you if you tell me you didn’t
know my picture was in it.”

  Play dumb? Yeah, sure. I could maybe stall him for oh, about ten seconds at best. “I didn’t know your picture was in it,” I recited dutifully.

  He snatched it back. “Let me show you. It’s not every day the paparazzi takes my picture.”

  “Here it is.” He opened the paper and pointed to his picture. You would think for all of the times I’d looked at that picture I would have had a hard time faking surprise, but it came pretty easily. Largely because I wasn’t faking.

  The picture was unmarred by black ink. Amanda Ries’ eyes stared directly into mine as she stood in the photo next to Nick. I gasped when I looked at the picture, which Nick misinterpreted as mild infatuation with celebrity.

  “I had no idea you’d be so impressed.”

  Where were the black teeth? Where were the horns? Nick watched me with more than a little curiosity, so I filed my confusion away for later.

  “When was this taken?” I asked.

  “A couple of months ago at a benefit. I was lucky to step in front of the press photographer, to get some exposure.”

  I wanted to ask him about the caption that identified Amanda but after his recent warnings to leave her alone, it felt as though I’d be commenting on the elephant in the middle of the room. We stared at the newspaper spread out in front of us, scooping ice cream into our mouths. I tried another approach.

  “Do you attend a lot of benefits?”

  “Not really. Now that I’m opening my own boutique it’s going to be more of a priority to attend industry events. You know, see and be seen. You never know who you’re going to run into, or what could potentially be discussed at events like this. A lot of times it’s just food, drink, and some entertainment but sometimes you get lucky and end up seated next to a CEO or a magazine editor who is wearing your shoes, and you have a natural conversation waiting to happen.”