Diane Vallere - Style and Error 01 - Designer Dirty Laundry

by Diane Vallere

  The gloves I had so carefully worn to avoid leaving fingerprints were on the desk next to Michael. I looked around the office for a way out while the walls felt like they were closing in.

  “Who do these kids think they are, entering a contest to get money to back their collections? That’s not how it used to work. It took talent. Passion. Vision. And hard work. I’ve been designing clothes since I was seventeen. I witnessed the beginning of American Design. I watched Dior launch the New Look when I was a child and realized how famous he would become—he’ll live forever because of that! That’s the industry I wanted to be a part of. And I was. I dated Halston, for Christ’s sake!”

  The woman was clearly delusional. Everybody knew Halston was gay.

  “But the industry is changing. I’ve seen the genius of Corregès copied so much people think he’s a boot and not a designer. I’ve seen true talent retire because the industry became less about creativity and more about marketing. This contest, this whole farce, is part of the problem, not the solution. Dangling a contract and money in front of a bunch of small town designers is not the way to discover the future of fashion.”

  “But you’re a judge, you were part of the contest all along,” I said. “You’re gaining as much publicity as any of the contestants.”

  “I don’t need the publicity. I owe money, too much money to pay. My debts run deep. When Patrick said Tradava pulled the funding, that he had to raise one hundred thousand dollars to see the competition happen, I thought it was over. But when he secured the money, quickly, I had to know how he had done it. He wouldn’t tell me details. That’s when I knew I had to get at the money myself.”

  Her eyes glowed with rage and insanity, accented by the reflection of the fluorescent tube lighting that lit the room. “He caught me going through his files. I suspected he knew, but he pretended not to. I discovered the bank and the account number. All I needed was the password on the account and I could have transferred the money to my own bank and vanished.”

  “Patrick was a better person than you. He went to businessmen who had a stake in the success of future designers. He remained true to the industry while you wanted to steal from it,” I said.

  “Don’t be a child. Those men were loan sharks. I should know. I turned to them myself when I first had financial trouble. There’s no getting away from them once you’re in bed with them. This was my way out. Patrick knew I had turned to them once. He was the one who reopened that door, not me. And he wasn’t going to stand in my way after the door was open.”

  “But you said—”

  “Such naiveté. It’s almost charming.” She ran a gloved finger down the side of my face. I sat still, achingly still, clenching and unclenching my jaw. My temples pulsed with the motion, but I was powerless to stop.

  “When I came here, that morning, I wanted to give him one last chance. But he refused. He said he would find another judge and that I was no longer a part of the competition. When he hired you, he planned to train you to be the second judge. I couldn’t allow him to do that. I couldn’t allow him to tarnish my name, to cut me out, and I couldn’t let you take my place. He put up a good fight. I didn’t expect that.” Her pupils dilated and her spittle hit my cheek. “I’ll ask you one last time. Where is the money?”

  “I don’t know where the money is,” I said. “I don’t know anything about the money.”

  “That’s not true. You’ve been snooping around here for a week. You figured out so much you must know. You’re the only one who had access to his files.”

  “There’s nothing in the file about where the money is hidden!”

  “Patrick may have discovered me, but he was going to ruin me too. He thought it was in our best interest to start this contest, to become judges, in this small city, with these small talents. I’m not a small town woman, and my career is far from over. These children wouldn’t know what to do with a hundred grand, but my debts are too numerous to list. That money would buy me out from under the men I owe. I have to have it. Patrick knew what it would mean to me, but he wouldn’t tell me where he kept it. Don’t you understand? I have to have that money!”

  “You’re a killer!” I shouted at her. She smiled, as if she was heavily medicated. It was like she didn’t even realize what she’d done.

  “I’m sure the police will be interested in knowing how you stole Patrick’s computer and violated his privacy, how you extorted a hundred thousand dollars from me at the gala.”

  “There is no money!” I yelled. “The police found your briefcase, empty. Nobody ever threatened you, and nobody demanded cash from you.”

  “Are you sure about that?” she said. “Maybe you demanded the money from me, money that would help you start over. If anything happens to me, maybe I’ve left enough evidence to lead everyone back to you.” I moved away from her and bumped into Michael’s foot.

  He made a gurgling sound. Maries stood up and we both looked at him. “I know where the money is,” he whispered.

  “Where is it?”

  “Water,” he choked out.

  Maries grabbed the back of my jacket and yanked me up. “Get him something to drink.”

  I picked up the glass of lemonade and held it to his head, beads of condensation transferring onto his bluish skin, running down the side of his face. My mind raced. I needed time to figure things out, but time might be the one thing Michael couldn’t spare. I raised my eyes to the ceiling and silently prayed to the gods of footwear and designer clothes and everything I found holy. Who was the patron saint for fashion? Yves St. Laurent, I need your help! Are you listening?

  Lemonade sloshed over the opening of the glass, down Michael’s cheek. Maries shot a gloved hand out and caught me by my wrist. The glass dropped and shattered against the floor. I jumped at the crash. Maries picked up a shard with her other hand and dragged it across my cheekbone. My skin burned like someone had set it on fire and I saw the blood out of the corner of my eye.

  I tried to pull away but she was stronger than I’d imagined. I realized with sickening certainty my prayers were not being answered. She twisted my wrist around until my shoulders and neck followed. The pain had doubled me over and my face was inches from the broken glass. She bent over behind me, pinning me down.

  “Get more lemonade,” she hissed in my ear. She let go of me and I tried to stand. My legs were shaking so hard I could barely walk. I couldn’t speak. I leaned against the walls in the hallway and guided myself to Patrick’s office.

  I pulled the delicate glass pitcher out of the mini-fridge. It was half empty.

  Before all of this happened, I might have said it was half full.

  My eyes darted wildly around the office. To the desk. To the sofa. To my reflection in the glass on the framed magazine covers that had fallen off the walls and now littered the floor. My cargo pants were disheveled from sitting on the floor. My undercover chic look had been replaced by Goth cheerleader from hell hours ago, but what difference did it make now?

  “I don’t think he has a lot of time left,” she called in the singsong voice of a murderer.

  I walked back to the horror scene. Lemonade sloshed over the sides of the pitcher and spilled on the desk and the floor. Maries had moved Michael into the chair behind the desk. She was perched on the corner, close enough for me to see the roots of her hair.

  She was crazy, of that I had no doubt. But unlike me, she had managed to keep her gloves on all of this time. She looked like she always looked: elegance personified. And here I was, sweating profusely and barely able to stand. But I would not let her see my weaknesses.

  My mind swam with information. The design competition, the night I spent locked in Tradava, and the museum event. I thought of Eddie, asleep in the car out front. Of Patrick’s password, Livo72, of Michael’s promise that the money was safe, of the protected file, and the two contributors who still had pending payment. I watched Maries face as I tipped the pitcher to Michael’s mouth, the look of anticipation on her face reach
ing climax.

  And then it all became clear.

  Chapter 32

  She’d doped the lemonade.

  Maries Paulson had called me predictable, so now I did the most unpredictable thing I could think of. I smashed the pitcher against the desk, crashing it into a thousand pieces and splashing the remaining lemonade on her. She jumped back, startled. Score one for me.

  The door to the offices rattled. I heard my name called from far in the distance.

  Maries lunged for me. I jumped back, one step, then two, then turned around and raced for the door. She grabbed a fistful of my sweater and threw me sideways into Patrick’s office. I stumbled across the floor, ricocheting off the desk, hands in front of me to soften the blow when I fell. My left hand connected with the arm of the purple sofa, but I was off balance. My right hand slapped against the wall. She grabbed the back of my head and pushed it forward, into the corner of the framed Vogue cover. A sharp pain exploded behind my right eye and spots blurred my vision. The glass shattered, then fell to the floor in a shower of shards. The poster curled from the frame, exposing neat stacks of hundred dollar bills.

  “The money!” Maries gasped.

  I spun to face her and swayed with dizziness. I grabbed a long blade of broken glass. Blood dripped from my palm. Maries lunged at me, her hands clawing on either side of my body at the money that had been hidden in the office all along. I closed my eyes and screamed. Her body fell against me, knocking me backward, into the wall, and onto the pile of cash on the floor. I kicked at her, screamed, and tried to move her off of me. She went limp. I pushed out from under her arm and raced back to Michael.

  “We have to get out of here,” I said, trying to help him stand. “Now.”

  “But Maries—” he squeaked out.

  “Maries Paulson is dead,” said Detective Loncar from behind me.

  He stood in the middle of the doorframe and held out a hand. I took it and stood, then walked to the doorway of Patrick’s office. Through my tears and sweat and matted hair I saw Maries Paulson lying on the floor, face down, on a pile of money. The large shard of glass had pierced her neck. A pool of blood seeped over the bills and the Vogue poster, dented and torn, lying next to the sofa.

  It was the first time I’d seen her not look glamorous.

  A blonde woman in scrubs offered me a cup of water and a rose-colored blanket while a medic checked my pulse. “Michael,” I said, and pointed to the other room. “He’s hurt worse than I am.” I held the blanket around me while they went to check on him. Minutes later the blonde pushed a wheelchair into the office, then Michael was pushed out.

  Detective Loncar directed a team of police officers around the office. Two men in navy blue windbreakers pushed a gurney covered with a sheet out of the office. I looked away.

  “Ms. Kidd, you want to tell me what happened here tonight?” the detective asked. He ran the palm of his hand over his short crew cut while he looked around the room. A skinny man in a black leather jacket snapped photos of the money, the glass, the blood.

  “Somewhere else,” I said. My voice had turned raspy, despite the water. He guided me, alone, away from the trend offices, to the sofas by the ladies’ lounge, and I told him the story of Maries Paulson, Patrick, the design competition, and the hidden money that had led to a murder.

  It might have been the birds chirping or the sun shining. It might have been the soft, fluffy down comforter on my bed, or Logan by my side. It might be the peace and quiet I’d earned after the night at Tradava when I’d narrowly escaped with my life. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. The drama was over and I was free.

  Tradava had been given enough information to exonerate me from wrongdoing, but no offer of employment had been extended. That meant I was probably going to have to interview for the job all over again. If I still wanted it.

  My mind wandered to Cat—Catherine—Lestes, the owner of Catnip. In a parallel universe, she and I might have been friends, her owning a boutique that could fuel my passion for fashion. Everything she’d ever told me had been true. Clestes was a collection of one of a kind items co-designed by her and her brother, a textile designer. She sold the collection at her store. Together, they’d been a legitimate finalist in the design competition. She had never believed the competition was a level playing field, and had approached her chances with a watchful eye on anyone who might have had an unfair advantage. My own actions, my own appearance at Tradava and misguided partnership with Maries Paulson had done little other than lead Cat to believe I had something to hide.

  The bags from my shopping spree were still lined up along the wall, ready to be returned. I didn’t need a collection of unique choices I couldn’t afford to endorse who I was. Fashion was in my blood. I’d land on my feet and demonstrate my abilities to the world, yet.

  But not today. I pulled out my T-shirt drawer and stuck my hands into the back. Under the stack of neat white Hanro tank tops I found it. A faded black T-shirt that said The Kid. The adult XL had once hung to my knees now fit like a security blanket, softened with repeated washings. The black had turned to gray and the metallic iron-on peeled up by the bottom of the decal. I pulled it on over Union Jack pajama bottoms and shoved my feet into a pair of white Moon Boots for warmth. Downstairs, I retrieved the newspaper and the mail from the front porch. There would, no doubt, be yet another account of the events at Tradava, as there had been every day since the showdown. It had been over a week, and the paper was still going strong. I carried the still-bundled newspaper from the porch to the trashcan.

  Nick’s truck turned into my driveway. I looked down at my outfit and sighed. I was tired of trying to impress people. The boss who’d been impressed by my resume was dead. So was the designer who would have appreciated my taste level. My closet was half-full, but this was me too, Moon Boots and all. I held the door open for Nick. He set a pile of mail on a side table inside the door and followed me to the sofa.

  “How’s the hand?” he asked.

  I held it up to show off the clean application of gauze across the cut on my palm. “I won’t be playing handball anytime soon, but I’ll survive.” Logan padded into the room and jumped onto the window sill, staring outside.

  “Have you read the papers?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We sat side by side on the green velvet sofa. It was back in place along the wall, facing the large bay window. I had stopped pushing the sofa up against the door the day after the police brought me home from Tradava. Now that Maries was dead, I finally felt safe.

  “Patrick wanted this competition to be his legacy. He believed, completely, that design talent doesn’t have to come from a big city. He wanted to find someone with vision and put them on the map.”

  I flipped my wrist over and stared at the gauze, then flipped it back and set it on my thigh. “He asked Maries to be his partner. I don’t think it ever occurred to him what would happen.”

  “What happened when you were in there with her? Why did she snap?”

  “She owed a lot of money. Money she had borrowed to relaunch her collection, that she couldn’t repay. When she learned Patrick had raised the hundred thousand dollars, she saw a way out of her debt. Add in that Patrick had turned to questionable loaners, the same people she owed money to, and she freaked.”

  “But why did Patrick keep the money in the frame?”

  “That wasn’t him. That was Michael.” It made sense, after the fact. Michael heard Patrick talking to people about investing in an undiscovered talent. He knew where the money was coming from, and where the account was kept. Maries Paulson had asked to be a co-signer on the account, but it never happened. Michael thought Patrick was being secretive about the money because he was a finalist. But when Patrick died, Michael had all of Patrick’s passwords, and moved the money out of the bank and hid it. What he really wanted was the validation. He wanted to be announced the winner.

&n
bsp; When Patrick and Maries first conceived of the competition, they both had ulterior motives. Patrick wanted to be relevant again. A new generation of designers barely knew who he was, and he wanted to be a part of the future of fashion.

  “Patrick’s password. Livo72. Look in Vogue 72. I misunderstood him. The note he left told me to ‘Look in Vogue’, but I didn’t get it. It was all right there. His password was more than a password, it was a clue. If I’d figured it out, if I had listened, maybe he’d be alive. Now two people are dead.”

  “Kidd, Maries made her bed and now she’s lying in it.”

  Nick reached his hand to my face and cradled my cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the almost-healed cut Maries had inflicted. I tapped the toes of my Moon boots together.

  “How’s Amanda?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “She’s still recovering from injuries. Doctors say there will be no long term damage, but she’s shaken up. Terrified, actually. I think she’s taking an extended break from the runway circuit. Women like Amanda don’t get over things like this too easily.”

  “Women like Amanda? What about women like me?”

  “Women like you are a lot more rare. That’s why I’m here.”

  Truth be told, I wouldn’t blame her if she did take that extended break. I considered taking a break myself. My image of the fashion industry was somewhat tarnished.

  A few minutes lapsed and Nick stood. “I should be getting to the store.” I followed him to the door. “So what’s next for you, Kidd? Are you going to stay here?”