I read on. These journals painted a picture of someone who had impacted the lives of young creative students of fashion. He had been in the industry for decades, so it was possible his encouragement could have motivated a newcomer to go solo years ago and now be successful. Tradava was probably filled with assortments from people Patrick discovered, those indebted to him for providing a foot in the door opportunity. Recipients of glowing reviews had probably moved on to bigger and better collections, leaving behind nothing more than a few leftover markdowns on a clearance rack. Perhaps the merchandise hanging in Catnip. Merchandise with the labels removed. Someone who didn’t want anyone to know their collection hadn’t sold.
Patrick had a reputation for exposing new talent; that was his legacy. But from what I’d read, he hadn’t discovered anyone recently. The changing face of the fashion industry had left critics like him behind while reality shows and celebrity endorsements claimed to discover the next big thing. It appeared the industry he loved had moved on without him. But then, he had decided to create a local competition.
This year.
Coincidence?
He had joined Tradava years ago because there he was a big fish in a small pond. Was that all there was to it? A high profile fashion director could exist comfortably at Tradava, in the industry but not be at risk of stirring up trouble. A family-owned department store wouldn’t challenge him, an industry legend, to make or break anyone’s career but rather would hope he would lend them credibility. It was the perfect co-dependent relationship, until Tradava pulled the plug on Patrick’s plans for the competition, or determined he had outlived his promise. When Patrick turned elsewhere for funding, he said to the store and the world that he would not be turned out of the industry. If only I knew where he had gotten the money. Or where it was now.
Other than this particular competition, Patrick seemed to have been living a relatively normal, under-the-radar life. He had no enemies. Greed seemed to be the best motive for murder I’d discovered, and my research solidified the fact that the finalists in the folder at home represented those with the most to gain.
“Would you prefer this copy? It was returned while you were reading. I gave you an older version.” I hadn’t heard the librarian approach and I jumped, then noticed she was holding a different Who’s Who than the one on my table. Met with my confused silence, she continued. “That patron just returned it.”
“Thank you,” I said automatically, while I craned my neck to see the figure who had left the library. The windows were smudged, restricting my view. A flash of red punctuated the gray figure but from this distance, I couldn’t make out the details. Was that red hair peeking out from under a hat, a red scarf knotted around someone’s neck, or just a red herring?
I turned the new volume of Who’s Who to the ‘R’ section and looked up Ries, Amanda. There she was.
I devoured the information. Amanda Ries was indeed listed as a new designer. She had schooled at I-FAD, the Institute of Fashion, Art, and Design, had won a few design awards in local competitions, and had shown a capsule collection from a hotel room in New York a few years ago. It was the only collection cited.
There was nothing about her time at Tradava, which didn’t surprise me. Our position was an assistant to the director, so it wouldn’t merit a mention in Who’s Who. The thing that stood out to me was even though she had been the trend specialist at Tradava for a few years there were no unaccounted for years on her design history. The journal wrote of her graduating years and her scheduled collection debut this year.
I reread the last line.
A collection debut this year.
The same year Patrick had decided to launch a competition.
Patrick’s endorsement might have made a difference in her success, but an unflattering review would have killed those opportunities. She was a finalist in the competition that he would have reviewed, and he wasn’t around to give his opinion. The timing seemed awfully suspicious.
I flipped to the T’s to look up Nick, though my motivation lay somewhere closer to attraction than suspicion. His bio was fascinating:
Instead of following the well-trod path of most designers, design school and internships, Taylor interrupted his schooling to gain experience working for local cobblers, to understand how to construct footwear like a couturier constructs a garment. He spent his nights pursuing a double major in fashion history and business, graduated with honors, and licensed his name.
While his schooling could easily have landed him a sought-after position as creative director to a number of fashion houses or director of fashion at a respected retailer, he chose instead to partner with financiers to produce his shoe collection. His knowledge of the ins and outs of fashion and the business acumen gained in college put him a clear step ahead of other designers vying for editorial attention and orders from retailers. Uncredited, he collaborated with several designers to produce shoes for their runway shows, building a solid network in the business, and believes these contacts led to his early success. After several years of successful partnership between Taylor and his financial team he stunned again in a bold move to buy back controlling interest in his name, scale back distribution of his collection, reposition his line at a more attainable price point, and launch Nick Taylor Boutiques. At publication it is unknown if this risk will pay off.
The article went on to mention details of his graduation from the same fashion institute Amanda had attended. Same year. And knowing he and Amanda met in college disturbed me more than that photo in the Style Section. There was something about college friends that allowed them to drop in and out of each other’s lives. Those bonds withstood just about anything. I wondered if the same applied to Eddie and me. Could I count on his loyalty if I needed it, or was I really on my own?
I approached the librarian at the checkout desk. “Can you tell me who returned this?” I asked in what I hoped to be a conversational tone. She looked at me suspiciously, then shook her head.
“Nobody returned it. It’s reference material and can’t be checked out.” She reached out and took the volume from my hand and set it on a shelf behind her.
“But when you brought it to me, you said it had been returned.”
“Another patron had been reading it, much like you were.”
“Who?” I asked. “Was it a man or a woman? Can you tell me anything about them?”
She stared at me for a few seconds, and I got the distinct feeling she was memorizing my face, in the event she was asked to make a positive ID. “That would be a violation of privacy. Why are you so interested?”
“I’m new in town and just started a job in fashion. I thought maybe I’d find someone with the same interests as mine.”
The librarian fingered the glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. “Fashion, you say?” She bent down and pulled a manila file folder from the trash. “A man called a couple of weeks ago and asked me to run copies from a few of our stacks. He said he’d be in to pick them up, but he never did. I threw the file away this morning while I was cleaning.”
I flipped the folder open and discovered copies of magazine articles from back issues of Vogue. The top one was “People are Talking About …Patrick.” The following articles were on each of the designers listed in Patrick’s protected file. Each copy was dated on the upper right corner in cursive handwriting.
“Are you sure it was a man who asked you to make these copies?”
“Quite sure.”
“May I have them?”
“Five minutes ago they were in the trash, which is where I’ll return them if you don’t take them with you.”
I doubled the folder over and stuck it into my bag. As if to prove she was telling the truth about the trash bit, a smudge of ketchup smeared across the corner and left a red residue on my thumb. I looked around for a tissue box but found none. Instead I found myself standing face to face with Amanda Ries.
Perfectly straight jet-black hair, a lilac wool tunic belted over b
rown tights and boots, and a stunning lavender handbag. While I would have known her anywhere, it struck me that the recognition wasn’t two-sided. I put on my best poker face, fitting, for more reasons than one, and held out my hand. “Amanda Ries? Donna Poker. From the Style Section.”
“You—you asked me here to talk about Patrick?”
“Yes.” I took a few steps away from the librarian who had evidence in the form of a library card application that I was lying about my name. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“You can stop the charade, Ms. Poker,” she said. I didn’t like the way she emphasized my pseudonym. Made it sound fake. She glared at me and I forced myself to maintain eye contact. Looking away would have been too obvious of a tell.
“I don’t buy your cover story for a second. Are you some kind of a spy for Clestes?”
“Clestes?” I blurted. “Your competition?”
“You might want to check your facts a little better.” She leaned in toward me and I smelled peppermint on her breath. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you work for the Style Section about as much as I do. If you’re looking for facts, let me tell you one thing.” She flipped a long black lock of hair behind her shoulder, glanced toward the librarian, then back to me. She leaned in, well into my dance space, and I pulled back involuntarily, then immediately regretted the move and leaned forward too. I had the feeling that, to anybody watching, we were acting like a couple of chickens in a cage fight.
“Patrick and Maries have given me consistent feedback and Florence has been impressed with everything I’ve done so far. Don’t get in my way. I will win that competition.” She stormed past me and pushed against the heavy wooden doors. I followed her.
“Florence Ingram was attacked at the fabric store,” I called out behind her. “You know anything about that?”
Her hand reached out for the banister and her knuckles went white as she gripped it. Her left foot dangled over the step long enough for me to notice, then she continued her descent down the concrete stairs to the sidewalk.
More slowly, I descended the stairs too, then unlocked my car and flipped through the articles in the folder. I could think of only one man who would take the time to have a file of articles copied and never pick them up. The same man who had a list of those designers on his computer in a protected file. The man who couldn’t make that trip to the library because he wasn’t alive. Patrick. Not for the first time, I felt I was walking in the footsteps of a dead man. I only hoped while looking for answers, the same fate would not befall me.
I started the car and drove to Tradava. I needed to get in to the gala and the Tradava connection was my best shot. It wasn’t until I sat in the parking lot outside of the store that I questioned my motives. Was this one in a string of very bad decisions? Was my judgment completely in left field, or was I getting closer to figuring out who killed Patrick? I didn’t know, but now didn’t seem like the time to question my thoughts. After all, I’d recently bought a purple fedora. Clearly, my judgment was fine.
The Indian summer heat had broken, leaving an abrupt change in temperature. I found a driving glove in the glove box, and dug its mate out from under my car seat. After snapping them on and disguising myself with the pashmina I’d swiped from Patrick’s office and an oversized pair of sunglasses, I went into the store and headed straight to the trend offices.
There was a strip of yellow tape across the glass door, but it had already been sliced through. I pushed on the door and it swung open easily. Someone else had been here. Recently.
The desk had been cleared of Patrick’s inbox and the papers I’d left behind and set up with a sewing machine. A mess of fabric cuttings, lace, and trim covered the purple sofa. A bust form stood half-pinned with origami folds of taffeta in shades of lavender, orchid, and black. Pieces of chartreuse lace lay scattered on the floor along with a long strip of lilac seam binding. The color combination was rich and sophisticated.
I crossed the hallway to Michael’s desk and called Eddie. A black and white photo peeked from the base of the phone. I freed the picture, immediately recognizing the two people in the photograph, even though one of them had been covered with horns and a mustache. It was a picture taken outside of the diner Eddie and I frequented. The Devo logo was legible on the front of Eddie’s T-shirt. But the person he was talking to, the person with a knife drawn stabbing her in the heart, with blood droplets drawn falling down her gray tweed cape, pooling around her purple patent leather pumps was me. The words GET HER were scrawled on the side of the picture, and the handwriting was undeniably the same as that on Michael’s calendar.
I slipped the picture in an envelope and put it in my pocket. Eddie’s machine picked up. “Eddie, it’s Sam. Listen, I’m at Tradava, and I’m freaking out. I think I stumbled onto something—” I heard noises from the hallway. I had to get out of there, before someone discovered me. “Call me.” I hung up and grabbed my handbag and hurried into hallway. Just as I rounded the corner, something crashed down on the back of my head. I fell to the floor and blacked out.
Chapter 22
“Kidd? You with me?” asked a voice that sounded like it spoke from the other end of a tunnel. “Yo, Kidd, come on, wake up.” Somebody jostled my shoulder repeatedly. “Samantha?”
I moved a little. My head pulsed with pain that radiated from the back. The voice saying my name got closer, and when I was finally able to open my eyes my unfocused vision rested on Nick. We sat side by side on a sofa outside of the men’s and women’s lounges.
“You okay?” he asked.
“What happened?” I tried to remember. “Why are you here?” I looked at him again. I wasn’t supposed to be seen at Tradava. I had to get out of there before someone recognized me, but I didn’t think I could stand up yet. I touched the back of my head, felt a lump, and dropped my hand to my lap.
“I found you sitting here by yourself. I said hello a couple of times and you didn’t answer me. I came over to give you a hard time. When I sat down you slumped against me. You gave me a scare, at least until I felt your pulse. What are you doing here?”
“I-I don’t know.” Details of the past few minutes escaped me. I had been in Patrick’s office, but now I wasn’t. My fingers returned to the lump at the back of my head. I’d been knocked out. But how had I come to be sitting on a bench outside of the little known ladies lounge on the fifth floor?
“Work,” I said. Paranoia was back and I was in a distrustful mood. I needed more time to think, more time to concentrate on what had happened when I was in the office, what I remembered. “Get away from me,” I said, pushing his arm.
“Kidd, calm down.” Two short, round ladies in hats walked out of the ladies lounge and smiled at us. Nick put his arm around me and smiled back.
“Let go of me,” I hissed.
“Kidd, I don’t know why you’re mad at me, but I didn’t do anything.” We faced each other and he had a hand on each of my upper arms. He smiled his eye-crinkling smile, and I wanted to believe what he said more than I didn’t.
“I’ll be right back. Wait here.”
“Okay,” I lied. As soon as he turned the corner, I stood up on shaky legs. Dizziness overcame me and I reached out to the wall to steady myself. I could leave, I could go right now, before Nick returned.
I fingered the envelope in my jacket pocket then pulled it out. On the back was a hastily scribbled note. You are wasting your time. I can prove you murdered Patrick if you get in my way.
I sank back into the sofa. Someone had been in the trend offices. Someone had deliberately knocked me out. The envelope was empty, the photo was gone. If I had any doubts about being watched, set up, or knocked out, they’d just been erased. I’d been assaulted by the killer.
The magnitude of the situation hit me. Was I scared? Sure. But I was pissed off too. Someone was making a mockery of my fresh start in Ribbon, tearing out the seams of my carefully planned new life and throwing bleach on the vivid colors of possi
bility. And everyone around me wanted to stop me from discovering who that person was.
But I wasn’t ready to pack it in. My whole life I’d worked for someone else and excelled and it was time to put myself first. No matter what happened, I’d leave here knowing I didn’t go without a fight. Some crazy killer out there was about to learn one thing. You don’t mess with the Kidd.
Nick returned. I stuffed the envelope back into my pocket before he could ask about it and stood back up.
“I thought you would have left by now,” he said.
“I told you I’d wait.”
“I naturally assumed you were lying. Come on, I’m getting you out of here.” I wasn’t sure I liked the directness to his tone. I didn’t know if it stemmed from concern, irritation, or something darker. After I took a few unstable steps I begrudgingly accepted his offer.
When we reached the parking lot he directed me toward his white truck, against my constant claims that I was capable of driving myself home. “I don’t know what happened to you back there, but you’re in no shape to drive. Get in.”
“I don’t want to leave my car here.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Exactly. But you were passed out on a bench at Tradava, and you won’t tell me why. I’m taking you home so you can get some rest.” Our standoff ended when Nick picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” I said, and pounded on his back with a gloved fist. He ignored me until we reached his truck. I could have elbowed him in the ribs and tried to run away, but even I knew I wouldn’t have gotten far.
Nick drove to my house in silence. Our relationship had taken a weird turn a couple of days ago and was still in uncharted territory. I didn’t know if we were better or worse for all of the changes. By the time we reached the house I was too tired to function. I tossed my coat on the sofa. The envelope fell out of the pocket and landed on the floor by Nick’s feet. He bent down to pick it up and tapped it against his thigh a couple of times before tossing it on the table. A nagging voice at the back of my head kept telling me I needed to get him out of my house. I think it came from the same area as the bump.
Diane Vallere - Style and Error 01 - Designer Dirty Laundry Page 14
