Diane Vallere - Style and Error 01 - Designer Dirty Laundry

by Diane Vallere

  “Because I saw it happen. Somebody was trying to get away with something, and it wasn’t fair. Not to me, who stayed up studying all night. Not to you, the person who really knew the answers. Not to anybody in that class who was being graded on the bell curve.”

  “It was high school. People don’t go around sticking up for strangers.”

  “It wasn’t right.” I bounced my knees against each other and stared at the bottom of Patrick’s desk drawer. The office was silent. “You work hard to make your own opportunities. You don’t get to make your own breaks by stealing someone else’s hard work. That’s not the way life is supposed to go.”

  “After college I landed this job. I’ve pretty much stayed in Ribbon since then. A few years ago I had the opportunity to move to New York and take a risk. It was a great job, and I thought about it long and hard. But I didn’t go. And here you are, you had that career and it didn’t make you happy.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’re where you’re supposed to be. Only you can’t appreciate it, because someone’s making you doubt yourself. You probably would be good at this job if you stick around long enough to get a chance to do it.”

  “Help me figure out who killed Patrick and I’ll stick around long enough to tell you all about what you missed by never moving to New York.”

  I didn’t use the words I promise because I wasn’t sure I could. But I was sure I couldn’t keep trying to figure things out on my own.

  Eddie reached over and thumped his fist against my hands. I thumped him back. The seriousness of the moment hung in the air for a couple of seconds. “How did you manage to sleep under here?”

  “I think my body shut down that night. Between moving here, then finding Patrick’s body, the cops, the mortgage people, I don’t know. I think something took over. I just kind of collapsed and slept.”

  “Was this your view?”

  “Pretty much.” I pointed out the wad of Post-its, cold medicine packets, and old crumbled business cards that belonged to employees who at one time occupied the chair in the trend office. I worked one of the business cards loose and looked at the name. Cat Lestes. Trend Specialist.

  “Let me see that,” Eddie said and snatched the card from my fingers. “This is an old card. At least six years. We changed our logo five years ago and this has the old one on it.”

  “Cat Lestes—Clestes. She must be the person Amanda was talking about. Did you know her?”

  “Six years ago I was on staff. Visual didn’t move up here until three years ago, and even now the staff still works out of the office on the first floor.”

  “Wait here,” I said. I writched my hips until I was out from under the desk, then flipped over and crawled away on all fours until I had the space to stand up. I went back to the trend specialist office.

  Only days ago I had entered this space and it felt void of personality; I had assumed the person I followed had left on poor terms. Today I knew that wasn’t true. Amanda had been my predecessor, and I wanted to explore a little more. There was something here in the trend offices, a connection somewhere I was missing.

  I scanned the vacant office, looking at it through the eyes of a stranger. The office still held little more charm than a high school gymnasium the day after the prom, with remnants of life swept into the corners. I opened up the file cabinet drawers and flipped through the plastic tabs on the top of the folders until I found the one I was looking for. Seasonal Recap, filled out by LESTES.

  It started to make sense. The visit to Tradava, that very first day. The collection I’d seen in the designer boutique. The label cut out of the pinstripe suit. I booted up the computer and launched the Internet, then did a Google image search for ‘Cat Lestes’. It was Red.

  “Eddie, I think I found something,” I called out as I rounded the corner back into Patrick’s office. I froze as a dark puddle oozed out from under the desk and slowly stained the carpet.

  My heart jumped into my throat. I put out a hand on the door and gulped deep breaths. Eddie’s arm stuck out from under the desk, palm up, fingers curled. Before I had a chance to act a hand clamped itself over my mouth to keep me from screaming.

  Chapter 30

  I bit down on the hand, hard. It let go. I whirled around and faced Nick Taylor.

  The same Nick Taylor who had arranged for me to be at home, under Eddie’s watch. The same Nick Taylor who claimed to be looking out for me, who claimed to care for me. This time, there were no comforting crinkles surrounding his eyes.

  This time I was scared to death.

  “What were you thinking, biting me? Who did you think I was?” he asked sorely.

  “Stay away from me. I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m calling the cops.” I stepped backward, one hand out front, keeping him at bay, the other in back, waving in the air, feeling for the desk. He reached his unbitten hand out to me and I smacked it away.

  “Don’t touch me! What did you do to Eddie?”

  “What happened to Eddie?” he asked, looking confused.

  I pointed toward the desk, to Eddie’s feet jutting out from underneath.

  “Eddie’s—he’s lying under the desk. You—you—while I was in the other office.”

  Nick looked first at the desk, then back at me. “Keep talking,” he ordered, moving toward Eddie. The stain on the carpet grew.

  “I didn’t—didn’t hear anyone. I d-d-didn’t even hear you. I came back to t-t-tell him I f-f-f-found C-c-c-lestes.”

  The sound of a snore from under the desk brought a halt to my babbling. Eddie’s legs, the only thing visible other than his limp arm, repositioned themselves as his legs rolled to their side. An empty tomato juice bottle rolled across the carpet, bumping up against Nick’s foot. He picked up the bottle and held it by the lid with two fingers. Dribbles of thick red liquid ran down the outside of the bottle. A fat droplet hit the carpet and seeped in. Nick set the bottle on the desk behind me and wiped red tomato-juice handprints on his jeans. He led me to the purple sofa.

  “Tell me why you two are here.”

  My words still poured out in a rush. “The trend specialist b-b-before Amanda is tr-trying to frame me.” I said. I was shivering uncontrollably but not because it was cold.

  “Have you learned nothing?”

  “It’s the only way to get on w-w-with my life. I c-c-convinced Ed-d-die because he c-c-could get me in here. I didn’t think he would be in any d-d-danger.” I didn’t know if I was making any sense, but I couldn’t stop talking.

  “So you saw a large puddle on the carpet and assumed he was dead. Then you saw me and thought I was the killer. That’s why you bit me?”

  “You clamped a hand over my mouth.” I took a few deep breaths. “All in all I think biting you was a n-n-natural response.” I took a breath and tried to get control of the stuttering. Nick started massaging his palm again. For all I knew he was wondering if I had rabies.

  I lowered my voice to a reasonable level. “I know you want me to leave all of this alone, but I can’t.” Considering how loud the voices in my head were, my own voice was coming out quiet and more than a little shaky. “I’m sorry you’re wrapped up in this, and I’m sorry people keep getting hurt. I just,” I paused to take a deep breath. “I want to get on with my life.”

  “I called you at the house. You didn’t answer. I called Eddie. I could hear enough background noise to know he was at Tradava. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, even if it doesn’t add up to anything wise.” I braced myself for the lecture Nick was gearing up to deliver. “Samantha,” he said. He reached out for my hand and held it between his. “Look at me.” I slowly raised my gaze from his hands to his face. “Amanda is my friend. She is mixed up in this, and I’ve been trying to help her.”

  “But how?”

  “She was about to debut her first solo collection under her name. It was an important step. She had a good chance of winning the design competition and the hundred thousand dollars. For an emergi
ng designer, that’s a lot of money.”

  It was a lot of money. It was the kind of money that would solve my problems, at least temporarily. I’d get the mortgage company off my back, tear out the shag carpet, and buy the best kind of gourmet cat food they made for Logan. But those were my problems, and this wasn’t about me.

  “Aside from the money, the contest came with connections. A guaranteed order from Tradava. Plus, Patrick met with the buyers regularly to advise on trends and emerging talent. His connections and endorsement could have opened a lot of doors for her. She needed him to validate her designs, otherwise it would have been too difficult to move from assistant to designer. Stores are like little worlds. You get a job, and that’s who you are. There’s not a lot of room for someone to reinvent themselves, and for Amanda to have any kind of credibility, she needed this. Something big to endorse her talent.”

  “But wouldn’t there always be questions about her winning, if she did win?”

  “That’s why she quit her job. She had to sever ties and distance herself from Tradava and Patrick before the competition got underway. She had solid feedback from everyone who saw her samples. Including Patrick and Maries. It was at Patrick’s encouragement she left.”

  Eddie rolled over again and knocked his head on the desk. He cursed, sat up, and looked around the room with glazed eyes. After he mumbled some unintelligible words he stood up, the tomato juice caked to the side of his pants. He refilled his lemonade and drained the glass in several gulps, then squinted at us as though he couldn’t make us out clearly. He stumbled to the sofa, plunked a pillow from under my arm, and returned to the floor behind the desk. The even breathing resumed.

  “Morning people,” I scoffed, shaking my head.

  “I wouldn’t criticize too much. Didn’t you fall asleep in here too?”

  He had a point.

  “Tell me about the gala. Something happened inside that room. And what happened to the money?”

  “What money?”

  “The money Maries Paulson took with her.”

  “Why would she have the money with her?” he asked.

  It was my turn to pick up the explanation. “Someone was extorting the money from her, or was trying to. Someone who knew about the money and the competition. Only, she didn’t know where Patrick kept it. I found a list of investors on Patrick’s computer, and it looked like he had collected eighty thousand dollars, plus the entry fees. That was ninety thousand, four hundred. He was short. But Michael told me the money was safe, and the right person would get it.”

  “Michael Dubrecht?”

  “Yes. He was at the gala too. I saw him talk to Maries. All the suspects were there.”

  “All?”

  “The designers. Michael, Red—I mean Clestes, Amanda, and you.”

  “Me?”

  “You. You were there, the morning Patrick was murdered. You were there, when my house was broken into. You had access to the computer, I found it in your store. And you tried to keep me from going to the gala.”

  “For your own good. I tried to keep you away for your own good. This is a murder investigation, Kidd, not a game. People have been hurt.”

  I jumped up from the sofa. “Then why are you here now, Nick? If it’s so dangerous for me to be here, why isn’t it dangerous for you?”

  “Because I suspected you were going to pull a stunt like this. Patrick is dead, Kidd. Two other people have been attacked. And you haven’t learned anything, have you?” Nick stood up and gathered his jacket in his palm. “There’s one way for me to prove to you I have nothing to do with this, and that’s to leave. Wake Eddie and let’s go. This isn’t business for us. It’s for the cops.” He walked to the doorway before turning around. I stood rooted to the spot next to the purple sofa. I had no intention of following him.

  “Come on, Samantha. It’s time to go home.”

  “No,” I said, surprising both of us.

  “You haven’t learned anything, have you?”

  “I learned having a home to go to only means something when you feel safe there. Until this is over, I won’t feel safe.”

  “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  “I learned something else too. I learned I don’t need you to save me.”

  “You sure about that?” he said, and, for a second, I thought about Nick helping me with the flooded basement, about Nick driving me home after I was knocked out at Tradava, and about Nick saving me from the police interrogation. I thought about how often he’d been there to save me, and how it really was time I learned to save myself.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Then you’re on your own.” He turned around and walked out. Seconds later, I heard the heavy glass doors that separated our offices from the store clunk into place.

  How much truth was there to what Nick said? More than I cared to admit. In one week I’d lived through some of the worst experiences of my life, and most of them were of my own doing.

  I shook Eddie’s leg until he woke up. “Dude, let’s get out of here.”

  He sat up and scratched the left side of his head. “Where am I?”

  “Tradava. Here. Take the keys, meet me in the car. There’s something I have to do before I leave.”

  He pulled himself out from under the desk. He opened his eyes as wide as he could and blinked repeatedly. “I’m not driving.”

  “I’ll be down in a sec. Hang tight.” I checked the clock. The store would be closing soon. This was it, my last chance to stand in these offices. Once I walked out that door, I’d be done with Tradava. This job had worked out for me about as well as a root canal performed by a sadist. I’d shown up and someone had done the kind of number on me that exposed my weaknesses, my nerves, my doubts to the world. Then they’d drilled.

  It was time to say good-bye to my fresh start.

  Eddie took the keys and stumbled out of the trend offices. I rounded the corner from Patrick’s office and turned into what should have been my office. Michael Dubrecht lay slumped in a corner.

  His spiked black hair, gelled into a Mohawk, pressed into his forearm, leaving small red welts. His red scarf, the one I’d seen in the closet when we first arrived, was knotted around his neck.

  I rushed to him and loosened the scarf. His eyes, unfocused and dilated, peered out of his face, then closed. His mouth remained open. I pulled off my gloves and felt along his neck. My fingers found a piece of seam binding knotted around his neck, under the scarf. With shaking fingers I fumbled with the knot until I was able to loosen it. I pressed on his neck and found a faint pulse.

  “Help!” I called, but no one was there to answer.

  “Michael, Michael, can you hear me?” I asked, shaking him by the shoulders. His eyes opened slightly, like small slits of a cat. “Vogue,” he choked out, then coughed a couple of times. “Water,” he said next.

  “There’s no water. Stay with me, focus on me. There’s lemonade. I have to leave you to get it.”

  “No!” he said, his hand gripping my wrist, tightly. Panic flooded his face like an electrical current that had been suddenly switched on.

  “I have to, you need the liquid. I’ll be right back. There’s not a lot of time.”

  “Not alone,” he said.

  “We are now. Nick and Eddie were with me, but they left. I’ll be right back, and I’ll get you out of here.” I raced to Patrick’s office for a glass of lemonade.

  I flipped the light switch a couple of times, but it didn’t work. I grabbed a glass and filled it. There was a heavy ka-chunk in the hallway, like a lock falling into place. Store security had taken to locking the doors, to keep people like me out. I looked to the ceiling in vain. We had to get out. Michael might not make it otherwise.

  I raced back into my old office, sloshing lemonade over the brim of the glass. He hadn’t moved. I tipped his head back so I could pour the lemonade into his mouth. When I let go of his head, it lolled to the side, his neck muscles apparently too weak to hold it up.<
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  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. “Help! Help! We’re locked in here!” I hollered. I reached for the phone and clicked it repeatedly, trying to get a dial tone. There was nothing.

  Before I could turn something brushed against me. I pivoted around. If only I’d been faster to figure it all out, so much could have been avoided. I should have known from the beginning, but still, she was the last person I was prepared to see.

  Chapter 31

  I watched the designer push a stray lock of brilliant red hair from her eyes. Then, in a sudden gesture, she pulled a vibrant wig from her head and shook out her own black locks. A sheath of glossy black hair fell to her shoulders and I stared directly into the eyes of Maries Paulson.

  “You? I thought you were in the hospital.”

  “That’s what you were supposed to think,” she said. “It’s that Ries girl in the hospital, not me. It only took a couple of bruises to her face to make her unrecognizable and a blow to her head to make her unconscious. I planted my ID on her and called 911. She wasn’t conscious enough to tell them they’d made a mistake.”

  It had been easy for Maries to copy the signature hair of one of the finalists, as easy as it had been for her impersonate an EMT or a grieving friend. It was a testament to the aging icon’s natural beauty, or at least an expensive moisturizer, that with a two-hundred dollar wig, she could pass at a glance for Red tonight, a woman almost half her age.

  “You have a real talent for doing exactly what I want, don’t you, dear?” Maries joked. “It might have been fun to work with you, if you didn’t keep getting in my way. Now, where’s the money?”

  Any surgeries she’d undergone had been successful if success was judged by a vacant expression that gave away nothing. It was her eyes, that had seen too much, that belied her true age. The dark sunglasses she frequently wore had been the best defense she had against the truths her eyes revealed.

  “I don’t have the money. I don’t know where it is!”

  “How predictable. Predictable people are nice to have around, until they wear out their usefulness. You helped me figure out what Patrick had done. I didn’t know about the file on his laptop, or that he’d gotten the money from the garment district. You told me all of that. And you made it very easy for me to make you look guilty. Things couldn’t have been easier if you were following a script. It’s too bad you’re going to wear out your usefulness in one night, sweetie,” Maries cooed. Her attitude was pissing me off, but she was right. I might as well have been following a script.