Diane Vallere - Style and Error 01 - Designer Dirty Laundry

by Diane Vallere

  I wandered the living room, straightening pillows on the green velvet sofa, rubbing the toe of my shoe against the tracks in the carpet from moving the sofa. I wasn’t the only person dealing with the situation, either. Maries Paulson was too. I went to the kitchen, searching the piles of paper on the dining room table for the interoffice envelope she’d dropped by. When I found it, I dialed the number she left inside.

  “Ms. Kidd? I assume you’re calling me because you have information that can help me?”

  My chest heaved and fell with a deep breath of courage. “Ms. Paulson, I don’t think we’re going to find the money. I think Patrick went outside of the fashion industry to get the get it.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I found some password protected files on Patrick’s computer and I think—I mean, I’m not sure, and I don’t want it to sound like I’m accusing him of something, but—”

  “Get to the point, Ms. Kidd.”

  “I found a list of, um, businessmen.”

  “It’s quite possible that Patrick did approach a team of businessmen. Financial types are often looking for a return on their investment. This competition, if it discovered a great new talent, would be worth much more than a hundred thousand dollars in publicity. Plus, it could give someone a foothold in the fashion industry, instant status as part of the new wave of tastemakers.”

  “Ms. Paulson, I don’t mean businessmen like the kind who look at portfolios and crunch numbers. They’re all …” I stopped talking. What were they? They were all Italian. I’d been so busy proclaiming my innocence in the murder, when had I become guilty of racial profiling the same nationality credited for bring the world Pizza? Regardless of my instincts, of the familiarity of the names, and the conclusions I’d drawn from their collective associations, I had nothing. “Maybe I’m wrong,” I finished quietly.

  “My dear, Patrick’s reputation in this industry is spotless. If I understand what you’re implying, no one would believe you.”

  Once again I found myself twisting the phone cord around my finger. This time when I reached the kink I kept winding. The tip of my finger turned purple.

  “That’s what I thought you were going to say.”

  “Tell me some of the names,” she said.

  “Louchesy, Costello, Maria,” I said off the top of my head. She laughed, at first a low throaty laugh that grew. Uneasily, I waited, wondering what was so funny.

  “My dear, those are garmentos!” Her laughter continued.

  “Garmentos?” I repeated.

  “Businessmen, like you said. In the garment district. Of course Patrick would have turned to them. Fabric wholesalers depend upon the fashion industry’s success in order to thrive. Oh but you gave me a laugh.”

  “Ms. Paulson, these men each gave a ten thousand dollar donation, and the entry fees to the competition amounted to ten thousand, four hundred dollars. How would that be collected? Would those men have cut Patrick a check? And where would he have deposited the money?”

  “I don’t know. At least now I know where he obtained it. I’ll make a few phone calls and figure it out.”

  I thought about what Michael had said. “Ms. Paulson, I’m not so sure the money is safe. I think he might have kept it in the office and one of the designers in the competition found out.”

  “I highly doubt Patrick would have kept the money in the office.”

  “If he caught someone in the act of stealing it, he would have tried to fight them. That might be how he died.”

  “If someone stole the money they wouldn’t be pressuring me to deliver it to the gala, now, would they? No, I don’t think anyone has gotten their hands on the money. Not yet. This can all be over if I make it be known I’ll deliver the money as requested. You haven’t called the police about any of this, have you?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. The room felt hot, and I opened the sliding doors behind the kitchen. A breeze caught the long vertical blinds and blew them into the room, then sucked them out as quickly, snapping the plastic against itself rapidly. “Ms. Paulson, are you still planning to attend the gala?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’re taking the money?” I asked in a tentative voice.

  “I’ve already met with my financial advisors and made the withdrawal. I see no other choice,” she replied. Too many lives, including your own, are at risk. I can’t see how I can ignore the request.”

  “And the police?”

  “I’ve followed the instructions given to me, in deference to you, but I have asked the museum to make arrangements for heightened security. I have a few trusted people who will be monitoring everything. If all goes as planned, this will soon be over.”

  “Someone killed Patrick over that money. If someone believes you have the money, you might be in danger too,” I said.

  “Ms. Kidd, I have a plan to draw out the murderer at the gala, but it will only work if he or she thinks I am complying with the instructions left to me. That is imperative. Now, my dear, it is your turn to do as I say. Keep this information to yourself. I’ll speak to the executives at Tradava this afternoon, and we’ll turn the event into a memorial for Patrick instead of a competition. If one of the designers is the guilty party, this change in plans will cause them a misstep, one that might give the police the break they need.”

  “Ms. Paulson, the police think I’m involved in Patrick’s murder,” I said.

  “My dear, when this settles down, let me see what I can do about finding you a position in my showroom. I like your style.”

  If it wasn’t so bittersweet, it would have almost been funny.

  I showered and looked at my closet to see what to wear. There was no chance of me going far from the house, short of lugging the recycling to the corner for pickup the next day, so I pulled on a pair of lavender cashmere pajamas and started wandering around, tidying up the messes I had been leaving behind all week. As I tucked several errant shoes into the closet I rediscovered the pinstriped suit I’d bought at Catnip. Now seemed as good a time as any to try it on.

  The pants slipped on easily, with a low-slung waistband and a flared leg. I turned around and checked out the fit from the back. The flattering cut concealed evidence of my recent comfort eating. But the suit needed shoes, and I had a good idea where to find the perfect pair.

  Back when I landed the job as senior buyer for Bentley’s, Nick had sent me a package. Nestled snugly in the cardboard shipping container were four crisp white shoe boxes, all marked in my size. It was against company policy for me to accept a gift of this value from a designer, and I wasn’t the type to break policy. Yet there was something about his generosity that touched me, and I didn’t have the heart to make the phone call to tell him to take the shoes back. Instead I folded the flaps of the shipping container inside of each other and tucked the box away in the back of my closet. I had never thanked him for the shoes. Never acknowledged his gift. Never worn them.

  I’d rediscovered the carton when I cleaned out my closet before moving from New York. No longer an employee of Bentley’s, I figured I owned the shoes outright. I’d packed them up with the rest of my wardrobe and put them where they’d been all along, into the back corner of my closet, sight unseen.

  I knelt on the floor, reached past my turquoise suitcase, and found the box. With two hands I lifted it over the suitcase and set it in front of me. I tore it open. Inside were the four white shoeboxes, labeled in black with Nick Taylor’s logo.

  I eased one of the boxes out of the packing crate and lifted the lid. Inside the tissue was a pair of black and white Dalmatian-printed mules. I held one shoe in my lap and traced my finger over Nick’s signature like I had that morning at Tradava, the morning before I saw Patrick’s body. There had been so much hope and anticipation that morning. I had been on the verge of something new. I had been energized by the idea of working for Tradava in their trend office. And then, in seconds, it had all ended.

  I slipped the shoe onto my foot an
d held it up. A perfect fit. I stood, slipped into the other, and looked in the mirror. My reflection showed the image I wanted to project at the Gala. Confident. Stylish. Someone who has every right to be at the event. But looking the part was only a portion of my strategy. Knowing the details, as many of the details as I could, before arriving on that red carpet was part two. I was going to attend that gala and figure out a few things or my name wasn’t Samantha Kidd.

  Chapter 24

  The doorbell rang while I was admiring my outfit. “Kidd? It’s Nick. I have food.”

  The scent of tomato sauce and mozzarella trumped the warning bells ringing in my ears. I stripped off the suit and pulled my cashmere jog suit back on, then descended the stairs and let Nick inside. I did not comment on the carryout bag in his hand and the bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He set them both on my kitchen table and handed me a couple of paper towels, then poured two glasses of wine. After he unwrapped a pair of meatball sandwiches, I pulled one over to my placemat and started without him. He eased himself into the wooden chair across from me, watching with an amused expression on his face.

  “Are you going to stop and come up for air?”

  A meatball dislodged from inside the roll and fell to my lap, leaving a round stain on my thigh before it rolled off and landed on the floor. I scrubbed at the stain with the paper towel, turning it into a trapezoid.

  “So, are you in for the night?” he asked.

  I was going to the event, whether he thought it was a smart idea or not, so I decided to avoid the subject and the lectures of the Samantha-be-careful sort. “I’m going to relax tonight, forget my worries, and find something totally superficial to watch on TV.” Usually I was pretty good at vaguely answering questions and not committing to actual lies, so I started making mental notes to make sure I relaxed sometime that evening, and to make sure I took in at least thirty seconds of mindless television. Aside from a frontal lobotomy, there wasn’t much I could do about the forgetting my worries part.

  “Good. I was afraid you were still thinking of going to the museum.”

  I glanced down at my stained pajamas. There was no way my cover was going to be blown. “Do I look like I’m still planning to go to the museum tonight?”

  “No, you look like you’re ready to sit this one out.” He refilled my wine glass, though it was far from empty. “Good girl.”

  I cringed. I really can’t stand that kind of language.

  “I need to tell you something,” Nick said, ignoring his own sandwich.

  “Mkayf,” I replied, which was supposed to be “Okay,” but I was chewing a particularly large glob of mozzarella. He picked up the oregano shaker and spun it around in his hands, then set it back down on the table.

  “I’m taking Amanda to the gala tonight.”

  I wasn’t sure where he was going with this but the timing, when coupled with the golf-ball sized amount of meat and cheese and in my mouth, was unfortunate. I swallowed a too-big lump and, with no other options, guzzled from the glass of wine to force it down my throat.

  “You’re telling me this, why?”

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. There’s absolutely no reason in the world I should worry about telling you this, only …” His voice trailed off, and I would have paid good money to get him to finish that thought, if I didn’t need all of my good money to pay the mortgage. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem like a good idea to interrupt him while he thought through his words. “Only, I can’t get you out of my head.”

  His brown eyes were the colors of melted Milk Duds, all chocolaty and caramelly and sweet, and …. STOP IT, SAMANTHA!

  Nick said nothing more, waiting for my response, I assumed. Only, I didn’t know what to say and, for once in my life, that translated into not saying anything. Go figure.

  “I’ve got to leave so I can get ready for tonight. You sure you’re going to be okay by yourself?”

  “I’ll be okay. This is one night where I’m happy I’ll be on my own.”

  “I brought you a movie,” he said, and set a DVD case on the sofa. How to Steal A Million. A movie about a woman who plans a museum caper and some undercover work. Perhaps a glimpse into Nick’s sense of humor, or worse yet, an indication he wasn’t buying my angelic act.

  I ignored the reference. “One of my favorites. Thank you.” I held the door open for him and leaned against the frame. “Don’t have too much fun tonight. I don’t want to hear about the great party I missed.”

  “Deal.” He stared into my eyes again, and I felt a serious moment coming on. “I’m glad you’re being smart.”

  Nick may have had my best interests at heart, but a part of me, the paranoid part that felt like my ankles were being pulled down into a pit of quicksand, still wasn’t sure who to trust.

  I caught my reflection in the living room mirror and realized I hadn’t needed to do much to convince him I wasn’t planning to leave the house. I looked and smelled like I’d spent the past few hours in a pizza oven and I had only about half an hour to get ready. I called information and got the number for a taxi company, then reserved a pick-up in thirty minutes. Time to get glamorous.

  Twenty minutes later I stared at my reflection. Designer pinstriped pantsuit. Designer Dalmatian shoes. Designer attitude, marked down to half price. If ever there existed a reason to wear an outfit I couldn’t afford, this was it. I knotted a vintage black and white silk scarf over my head like a sixties film star and topped off the look with the purple fedora. A spritz of perfume masked any lingering meatball sandwich smells. I twirled in front of the mirror. Not bad for an unemployed ex-fashion industry employee suspected of murder.

  From the driveway, the taxi driver laid on the horn. I yelled out the front door I’d be ready in a couple of minutes. The taxi driver yelled back he was starting the meter.

  Nick’s visit put me behind schedule, allowing me no time to think about what I was about to do. I grabbed my already assembled handbag filled with essentials for the evening, locked the door behind me and pulled on a pair of gloves. I slid into the back seat of the cab and told the driver where to go.

  The day had moved from dusk to dark, helpful for my undercover activities. My nerves rose in direct proportion to the distance we were from the gala. I asked the driver to drop me off at a coffee shop within walking distance of the museum. He pulled over and I held out his fare, plus a nice tip. “If anyone asks, you never saw me. Got it?” I said. I didn’t know if it was the fedora or the pinstripes making me act like Humphrey Bogart.

  He eyed me up and down and took the money from my outstretched hand. “If you don’t want to be remembered, you shouldn’ta worn that hat.”

  I guess it was the pinstripes.

  Inside the coffee shop I bought a bag of chocolate covered espresso beans and a latte while trying to ignore the fact that everyone in the shop was staring in my direction. Not for the first time since returning to Ribbon I was reminded it was much more than a distance of a hundred and twenty miles that separated us from the fashion capital of the country. Here, I was a roadside attraction in the middle of Starbucks.

  I finished half of my latte and stood to leave. On my way to the door, a few high school boys asked where the costume party was and I succumbed to the pressure of conformity. I took the hat off and gave it to a little girl playing on the floor by her parents. “Enjoy it, honey,” I said, and patted it onto her head with a silent good-bye.

  I popped a few espresso beans in my mouth and trudged through the fallen leaves scattered across the sidewalk with the early evening breeze. The air was crisp and cool, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I was out looking for a murderer, it would have been a perfect September night. Shiny luxury cars pulled onto Museum Drive; people in eveningwear mingled outside. I sat on a bench by the duck pond, close enough to watch but maintaining a distance of anonymity. I was looking for something—anything–unusual. I just didn’t know what. In a fashionable crowd, unusual was defined more by the poseurs than the soc
ialites. Many women who had taken care to dress for the event shivered in the evening air, unprepared for the drop in temperature. They looked out of place next to women in full-length fur coats. A flash of red hair caught my attention, and I watched the boutique owner move through the crowd.

  She cut a chic picture in a black pencil skirt and a fitted jacket with a nipped in waist. Reminded me of the outfit I’d worn that first day at Tradava less than a week ago. Silver chains dangled from the lapels of her jacket, which coordinated nicely with the long silver earrings she wore. She ascended the steps next to a man in black: black tux, black shirt, black hair, black tie. A silver leather clutch, flat as a pancake, was tucked under her arm.

  I followed her figure until she entered the museum, passing a large black and white portrait of Patrick displayed on a wooden easel. A woman blocked my view but when she turned, I recognized Amanda Ries. Her dress, a high cut halter with a plunging back, fell to the floor like black oil and oozed onto the ground around her feet. Light from the almost-full moon bounced off her creamy skin. Her hair was held back with chopsticks, and a beaded handbag rested in her left hand. She waved at someone on the steps. Nick.

  Even though I knew they’d be attending together, I wasn’t prepared for the sight of them as a couple. A pang of jealousy trumped the other, more practical, emotions I felt. I watched their body language: her laughter when he whispered in her ear, his hand casually resting on her arm. Her tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow as they spoke to another couple on the balcony, him putting his hand on the small of her back to guide her inside the building. I felt played with, like a cat plays with a mouse. Nick’s admission earlier amounted to little more than a ploy to keep me home. This was clearly the body language of a couple in love, or a couple of conspirators, not a couple of college chums. Whether he wanted me waiting in the wings or not, I wasn’t about to find out.