Diane Vallere - Style and Error 01 - Designer Dirty Laundry

by Diane Vallere

  “May I have that?” I asked, nodding at the envelope.

  He folded the envelope in half and thrust it at me. “You’re not going to the gala, are you?”

  “Of course I’m going. It’s an industry event, right? I work in the industry.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be worthwhile for you to attend. Anyway, I’ll be there so I’ll let you know if anything exciting happens.”

  Heat flared up around my neck. “Look, Nick. If you’re trying to string me along while you date your girlfriend, that’s not going to happen. I appreciate you being nice to me and helping me out today, but don’t think you can tell me what to do and where to go. I’ll go wherever I want to, whenever I want to. Got it?”

  He leaned forward, his arms resting on his thighs, and dropped his gaze to his hands. “I’m worried about you,” he said. He looked up at me. I remained silent and waited to see what he would say next. He leaned back against the cushions and smiled. “Doesn’t matter what I say. You’re going to do whatever you want. Right?”

  I was confused again, not knowing his motivations. On one hand, I wanted to show him the threat, tell him about the suspects, and ask if I could be a third wheel to his date with Amanda. On the other hand, he knew something, and was keeping it from me. And if Amanda was the one guilty of murder, that made him an accessory, and not the kind you coordinate with your shoes. I wasn’t sure how to treat him.

  “You look like you want to talk about something.”

  Fight the temptation to tell him what you’re thinking, I coached myself. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “Then get some rest.” Unexpectedly, he kissed me on the forehead, then stood up and left. I threw the locks shut behind him too tired to push the sofa to the door. I turned off the lights. As I pulled the curtains shut, I saw the outline of a person detach themselves from a bush in front of my house.

  Someone was outside of my house right now.

  And I was alone.

  A flashlight would have been handy, but I was unprepared for this kind of emergency. Mental note: leave flashlights everywhere.

  The last time I was in this house and had to rely on my senses in the dark was when I was ten years old, playing hide and seek with my sister. She’d turn off all the lights and give me a head start to hide. In the pitch black house, she would try to find me, while I either stayed hidden, or moved from spot to spot to stay unnoticed. In hindsight, it was kind of a creepy game for a ten-year-old to play.

  But creepy or not, it had left me with the knowledge of how many steps it took to get from one room to another. The statistics were burned into my memory. Nine steps would get me to the kitchen. Eleven would get me to the counter, and twelve would get me to the phone.

  At the ninth step, I ran into the stool tucked under the counter and knocked a stack of metal mixing bowls onto the floor. They rolled in a circle, sounding an aluminum alarm to anyone in a five-block radius. The phone fell to the floor, an insistent beep replacing the dial tone.

  I guess my legs were a little longer than when I was ten.

  A shadow approached my front door. I pressed my body to the base of the counter. A rap on the door triggered a burst of adrenaline. Slowly I extended my right leg, pointing my toes like a prima ballerina toward the phone on the floor, trying to pull it to me.

  The man moved from my front door to my bay window. He reached inside his coat for—what? A knife? A gun? A lead pipe?

  From the living room, my cell phone ring pierced the silence. The man out front returned to the front door again. I moved, fast, scrambling to the living room, fishing my hand between the green velvet cushions like a dog searching for a previously buried bone. The ringing stopped. I had to get away from sight. A few seconds passed and the buzz sounded again. As my hand closed around my phone I sent silent messages to the caller. Leave a message. Come over and check on me. You should think it’s weird I’m not answering the phone.

  The man out front rapped his fist against the living room window. “Samantha, I know you’re in there, I just saw you. Let me in.” Click.

  Eddie.

  The body moved back to the front door and the fist raised and pounded again. I unlocked the padlock and pulled the door open.

  “Took you long enough. Your neighbors were looking at me like I was some kind of stalker. It was like someone told them to look out their windows at that moment to check up on you.”

  Apparently my telepathic message travelled far enough to leave the house but didn’t make it past the block. Good to know the limits of my powers.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you since I got that message from you at Tradava. What happened?”

  “Follow me,” I said. In the kitchen, I righted the phone and restacked the metal mixing bowls. I poured two glasses of water and handed him one. “There was a photo on Michael’s desk, a picture of you and me, outside the diner. Someone drew a knife stabbing me in the heart. And blood droplets and a pool of blood around my boots. It said ‘get her’ along the side of the picture. I put the picture in an envelope and took it but someone knocked me out. I woke up on the fifth floor, next to Nick. Empty envelope, bump on my head.”

  Eddie gulped half of the water then burped. He leaned back against the kitchen table. Logan buzzed around his ankles, purring within seconds. “You have to call the cops, dude. This whole thing has gotten over your head. This is beyond detective games.”

  “You think that’s what I’m doing? Playing detective games?” I drained my glass and considered refilling it with vodka. “Think about it from my perspective. Someone is out to get me.”

  I picked up the driving gloves I’d worn to Tradava, lined up the fingers, and set then in a neat pile on the countertop.

  “Can I see the envelope?” Eddie asked.

  I tossed the envelope on the table between us. He turned it over and read the threat, then tossed the envelope back on the table. “Dude, I’m telling you, go to the cops.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Sam, don’t be stupid. That’s a threat. I mean it’s a clue. I mean, it’s both.”

  “Is it? Loncar hasn’t believed one word of what I’ve said so far. If I take this to him now, what’s to make him start believing me now? I could have written this myself. And it’s not just Patrick anymore. A woman was attacked at the fabric store. The owner. She was the consultant to the finalists. She might have been killed too, if I didn’t show up. But Loncar doesn’t believe that either!”

  The phone rang. We stood in the dark staring at it until the machine clicked on. “This is Brittany Fowler from Full Circle Mortgage. I’ve been trying to reach you with no luck. If you don’t call us back about your mortgage we’re going to start foreclosure proceedings.” She hung up.

  “What am I going to do?” I said.

  “If you don’t go to the cops, I will,” Eddie said, his green eyes as sharp as a broken Coke bottle.

  “Give me a day. Let me get through the gala, let me see what I can find out.”

  “Sam, I don’t feel good about this.” He stood up and crossed the room to the front door, then turned back around. “Twenty-four hours,” he said before leaving.

  Chapter 23

  Eddie didn’t understand my reasoning for not calling the police, and I didn’t waste time trying to convince him. Instead, I’d shuffled him out the door, then filled two bowls of vanilla ice cream: one for me and one for Logan. He sniffed at it, patted it, then licked his paw. I lowered myself to the floor, opposite him, and scooped a mound of ice cream from my own bowl into my mouth. After it melted on my tongue I swallowed, then reached a hand out and stroked Logan’s black fur. “If the cops take me away, who’s going to take care of you?” I asked him. He turned his yellow eyes toward me and yowled. Traces of ice cream coated the tips of his whiskers. I pulled my hand back, took another scoop, and let him eat in peace. My mind, hopped up on Breyer’s, wandered to Nick.

  His presence at Tradava. The ride home. The right p
lace/right time coincidences.

  When I was a buyer and Nick was a vendor, he’d needed my relationship—the professional one—to ensure his success. From the moment I met him, years earlier, I’d felt an attraction to him, but getting involved with one of my vendors was strictly verboten. I’d had to remind myself of it on more than one occasion, especially on those nights when he took me to dinner after a long day of appointments. From that first night, when he offered to walk me back to my hotel before learning I lived in the city, to the night in May when we capped off the evening with lemon meringue pie, I knew I’d been keeping myself in check for fear I’d ruin our work relationship by trading it for something fleeting. I had always suspected he felt the same way but now, I wasn’t so sure.

  Had the chemistry I’d felt all been an act? Had the flirtation been all about orders? He didn’t need anything from me anymore. I had absolutely nothing to do with the success of his solo venture, unless you counted future shoe sales. What I’d read in Who’s Who detailed a talented designer driven enough to stand out from the pack. What I didn’t know was the depth to his drive.

  Nick was on the verge of jumpstarting his career, without the benefit of financial backers. Could that make him go from the normal, charming person I had been attracted to in the past—hell, was still attracted to—to a person with homicidal tendencies? I couldn’t see it. But was he willing to look the other way if someone he knew did? College friends. What did Amanda know about Nick that I didn’t know? He was telling me to leave her alone for a reason.

  As much as I wished they were, Nick and Amanda weren’t the only two people on my radar. There was Red. And there was Michael. And there was Clestes, the mystery entry to the competition. One of them was hiding more than a runway collection. It really came down to one thing. The person who killed Patrick was either the one person with the most to gain by him being dead, or the most to lose by him remaining alive.

  The attack on Florence from Pins & Needles was just as baffling, unless she knew something about the competition. If she did, her attack could have been a message …or a warning.

  There had to be more. I knew by now Patrick had taken measures to tell the world something was wrong. Going to the police. Loaning me the laptop with the protected file and hiding the password in the case. Leaving his Rolodex open to the card for Pins & Needles. But as charming as his cryptic methods might have appeared once, now they frustrated me. I thought back about our last meeting.

  “As arbiters of fashion we have an obligation to honor the past and encourage the future. Every piece of fashion before us was important. Claire McCardell. Pierre Cardin. Steven Sprouse. Every fabric means something too.”

  “Even double-knit polyester?” I joked.

  “We are not here to judge but to guide and educate.”

  “Patrick, I’m excited about this job.”

  “I see that in you. You’ll make a fine addition to my team, Ms. Kidd.”

  “Is there anything else I need to know?”

  “I don’t email.” He thought for a moment. “When you want to say Thank You, send a note. When you want to communicate, come to my office. And always remember, in our business, it’s important to look the part. I expect you to be on time, but if you must be late, I’d prefer it to be because you were putting on lipstick before reaching the office or taking an extra thirty seconds to find the right shoes. When all else fails, Ms. Kidd, look en vogue.”

  At the time, I liked that expression. It was like a moment lifted from Working Girl. I liked knowing my sense of style would help me do my job. But now, I was as frustrated as ever. I looked at the ceiling.

  “Patrick, why did you waste your time telling me how to dress? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? This business, your trend Department, was not as important as your life and now you’re gone and I’m the only one trying to figure everything out. Why couldn’t you just tell me?” I stared at the ceiling for a few more moments, wishing he really would speak to me from beyond the grave. Logan jumped up on the table and padded across the folder I’d brought home from the library and head butted me. I nuzzled his face for a second before scooping him up and flipping open the folder.

  There was one article for each designer listed in the computer file. Patrick wanted to make sure someone paid attention to that file. I planted myself in front of the computer screen and stared at the list of designers. And again, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  Until now, I’d been approaching the mess of my life in reactionary mode. The killer had been one step ahead of me, destroying the life I was trying to create for myself. But what about those years of experience I had, the problem solving, the analytical sense? What about the ability to walk into a showroom filled with samples and edit a vast collection into a cohesive assortment for Bentley’s? What if I used that skill set to figure things out?

  My years of working in a buying office had left me with above-average skills when it came to manipulating a spreadsheet, and I couldn’t get past the idea the one thing I needed to know was staring me in the face.

  I clicked around the other pages in the workbook.

  Nothing.

  I scrolled down.

  Nothing.

  I hit control/ end, to go to the last cell used on the page.

  The cursor bounced to v61472. Patrick’s copy had ended on row 657.

  It seemed like I’d stumbled upon something.

  I clicked the button between the row numbers and column letters and set the font to black. Cells that had appeared empty now filled with data. Patrick had set the text to white on white so the page appeared blank to the naked eye. Virtual invisible ink.

  I scanned the list of names. I’d seen them before but not formatted like this.

  Rucci Ciccone $10,000

  Cavalli Costello $10,000

  Gucci Corleone $10,000

  Gabbana Louchesy $10,000

  Missoni Liotta $10,000

  Armani Tanzini $10,000

  Pucci Marcello $10,000

  Piana Gravano $10,000

  Miuccia Maria pending

  Donatella Castellano pending

  Entry fees $10,400

  TOTAL $90,400

  It wasn’t a passing knowledge of fashion that helped me recognize the second set of names. It was a passing knowledge of quote/unquote business men. Names that had been in and out of the papers for years. I didn’t know what they had to do with the list of designers or why Patrick had hidden the info. With the exception of the names by Donatella and Miuccia, each designer’s corresponding entry indicated a ten thousand dollar deposit. The names by the two women of fashion were marked pending.

  But that wasn’t all.

  Below the names was another section of text. It was addressed to me.

  Dear Samantha,

  I’m wracked with guilt over my recent behavior. This is not what this business is about. New talent needs a proper home. I cannot sit by and watch anymore. I leave it to you to Look in Vogue and correct my legacy. I won’t be around. This is not about the money, it is about the creativity. Friendship and loyalty do not have a price. If this is the new business of fashion, it will go forward without me; my only regret is that I did not take the time to properly train you to succeed me. I hope I am right about the instincts and tenacity you’ve demonstrated up to this point in your career.

  I felt an ice cold blast, as though someone had opened a freezer behind me. It was like Patrick had sent me an answer. I was on the right track, but it was a track that scared me. What did a list of known Mafioso have to do with Patrick’s murder? Had he gone to them for the money? How had he planned to pay it back? Why had he used my name, why had he identified me in this file?

  I didn’t know what to make of it, but it was clear this was more than the minor leagues and Eddie might be right. The cops needed to know about this, although they didn’t need to hear it from me. After working up my nerve, I placed an anonymous call to the police station.

  “Loncar,” he
answered.

  “I have infor—” I panicked, fearing he’d recognize my voice. I dropped it lower and disguised it. “Invormazon. Deeteective, zhere ist more to ze Patreek case zan designers,” I continued, immediately embarrassed. Instead of reporting important information to the police, I sounded like I should be plotting big trouble for Moose and Squirrel.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “You need not know my identitee.” This was going poorly. I had to get him the info and get off the phone. “Ze monee ist from ze mob.” I dropped the accent but kept my voice low, then quickly rattled off a list of the names in the file. When I reached the last one, I paused for a couple of seconds, considering the least suspicious way to disconnect the call. I finally hung up without saying good-bye.

  Patrick had reached out to me, and telling the police what I found was the right thing to do, even if I hadn’t done it the right way. Loncar had the information now. He had to investigate it. Whatever it meant, he’d figure it out. That was his job.

  The phone rang and I jumped and knocked over Logan’s bowl. He scampered into the living room. My heart pounded as the rings continued until the machine picked up. “Ms. Kidd, this is Detective Loncar. I need to talk to you about some information we received from a call made from this number.” He paused, as though he knew I was standing there screening his call, then left his number and disconnected.

  That was impossible! I’d dialed *67! Unless … unless the police could see my number regardless of the covert actions I’d learned back when I was a kid making crank calls at a slumber party. But of course they could see my number. They were the police.

  What was wrong with me? Why was I unable to fully embrace my situation, to act like an adult, to turn what I knew over to Detective Loncar and move on with my life? Because being back in Ribbon, back in this house, made me feel like a kid despite any professional success I’d achieved in New York.