Buyer, Beware
Book 2 in the Style & Error Mystery Series
Diane Vallere
www.PolyesterPress.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.
No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2013 Diane Vallere
All rights reserved.
Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-939197-03-0
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-939197-01-6
Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series:
DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY:
“…the book is enriched by the author’s cleverly phrased prose and convincing characterization. The surprise ending will satisfy and delight many mystery fans. A diverting mystery that offers laughs and chills.”
-Kirkus Reviews
“Overall, an impressive cozy mystery from a promising author.”
-Mystery Tribune
“A sassy tale told with warmth and charm, Diane Vallere’s DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY shows that even the toughest crime is no match for a sleuth in fishnet stockings who knows her way around the designer department. A delightful debut.”
-Kris Neri, Lefty Award-nominated author of REVENGE FOR OLD TIMES’ SAKE
“Combining fashion and fatalities, Diane Vallere pens a winning debut mystery. With a fascinating look behind the scenes at what makes a department store tick, DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY is a sleek and stylish read.”
-Ellen Byerrum, author of the Crime of Fashion mysteries
“In DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY, author Diane Vallere stitches together a seamless mystery. The story will have you on pins and needles. Samantha Kidd is a witty heroine that you will root for as she fashions a fresh stylish start in her hometown of Edding, Pennsylvania.”
-Avery Aames, Agatha Award winner of nationally bestselling A Cheese Shop Mystery series
“A captivating new mystery voice, Vallere has stitched together haute couture and murder in a stylish mystery. Dirty Laundry has never been so engrossing!”
-Krista Davis, Author of The Domestic Diva Mysteries
“Designer Dirty Laundry is a light, cozy-style mystery written in a breezy manner. The murder plot is nicely set up, the suspects all credibly drawn, and Samantha Kidd an engaging amateur sleuth.”
-Mysterious Reviews
“It keeps you at the edge of your seat. I love the description of clothes in this book…if you love fashion, pick this up!”
-Los Angeles Mamma Blog
BUYER, BEWARE:
“You may want to stay out of department stores after reading Diane Vallere’s second book in her Style & Error Mystery Series. Behind the scenes some deals are to die for.”
-Sheila Connolly, author of the Museum Mysteries, the Orchard Mysteries, and the Country Cork Mysteries
“Vallere once again brings her knowledgeable fashion skills to the forefront, along with comedy, mystery, and a saucy romance. BUYER, BEWARE did not disappoint!”
-Chick Lit Plus
“In BUYER, BEWARE, Diane Vallere takes the reader through this cozy mystery with her signature wit and humor. BUYER, BEWARE is a fast paced, humorous read with a clever, knotty mystery to chew on.”
-Mary Marks, NY Journal of Books
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel is like swimming a race in a river: the water is cloudy, the conditions unpredictable, and while you’re not alone, you feel pretty isolated. It’s only after you’ve finished the race and come out of the water that you can focus on the people who cheered you on from the riverbank:
Thank you to my parents for your constant support. You raised me to think I could achieve anything if I worked hard enough, and now, for better or for worse, I believe it.
Thank you to Angela, Amy, and Cynthia, the best retail mentors I could have asked for. Little did any of us know my experience as a buyer would serve as research for a murder mystery!
Thank you to Ramona DeFelice Long for your editing and content insights. You’re a gem! And to Monica O’Rourke, who proves you can find professionals on LinkedIn, thank you for your thorough work on this manuscript.
As far as cheering goes, a shout-out to the Sisters in Crime Guppies, the most supportive pond a writer could find. Thank you Krista Davis and Sheila Connolly for your quotes, and to Josh for your suggestions of the Ace Trucking Company and Vongole sort.
And of course to lifelong friends like Jen, Gino, and Kendel, for your ongoing friendship. You’re in here somewhere, and not as a corpse.
Dedication
To Angela, who gave me my first buying job.
You’re fabulous!
1
This wasn’t how I’d planned on spending my Saturday night. It was one thing to be alone, waiting for the phone to ring. The man I wanted to call had spent the last month in Italy, and I’d gotten used to Saturday nights by myself. Maybe that’s why I was hiding in a bathroom with a naked man. He quickened my pulse, sped up my breathing, and inspired thoughts that would make a more innocent woman blush. Never mind that he was made of wood and tucked inside my handbag. Never mind that five minutes ago I’d stolen him from his place of honor in the admissions hall of the local design school.
I’m not a thief, my inner monologue cried out. I’m not a crook, or an opportunist, or the kind of person who breaks the law.
Well, maybe, on occasion, I was the kind of person who broke the law, but only in very specific situations.
If I make it out of here safely, I promise to never wear sweatpants in public, my inner monologue bargained with the patron saints of thieves and fashion.
From the hallway, I heard the resonant strike of leather soles on the marble floor. I promised myself if I could make it fifteen more seconds without breathing I could have two bowls of cherry vanilla ice cream when I got home. If I got home. If I didn’t get caught. Not the best strategy for not breathing.
The footsteps faded and I exhaled. The naked statue shifted lower in my handbag. I relaxed for a moment and rooted around, making sure my wooden companion was hidden inside the slightly worn Birken handbag I bought from eBay back when I had a disposable income. At least if I was hauled off to jail, it would be locked up with the rest of my outfit, patiently awaiting my release. How long do you get for stealing art? Ten to twenty years? Good thing the Birken was a classic.
The door to the bathroom slowly creaked open. Before I could scream, climb through a vent, or adopt a really cool fighting move, a man in a black turtleneck, black knit hat, black gloves, black cargo pants, and black Vans grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the exit.
“Did you make the swap?” Eddie whispered.
I nodded.
“Good. The security guard is on the other side of the building. We have to go. Now!” He shoved me into the bright hallway of the admissions building. We raced past closed classroom doors and bulletin boards filled with bright slips of paper that announced campus activities. We charged out the front doors, down the concrete stairs, to the parking lot. I dove into the back of the waiting getaway car, otherwise known as our other friend Cat’s Suburban, and pulled an open sleeping bag over my body. Eddie disappeared into the night on foot. I snuggled against the backseat and remained in the fetal position while Cat drove to the edge of the lot.
The car stopped. Why did the car stop? There was no way we were out of the
parking lot. It was too soon to stop.
“Can you tell me how to get back to the highway?” Cat asked in an innocent tone. I pictured her flipping her red hair over her shoulder and tipping her head to the side. A male voice described a series of exits and turns. She thanked him. A set of tires peeled out of the lot past us, the voices ceased, and off we drove, me clinging to the naked man in the backseat like it was our third date.
And that describes my first premeditated robbery.
The night was a success, if success can be measured by things like theft and clean getaways. Somehow we’d done it. My careful planning had taken us from concept to execution, but success was a team effort. Eddie, visual manager for Tradava, Ribbon, Pennsylvania’s oldest retailer. Cat, owner of Catnip, a discount designer boutique in the outlet center, and Dante, Cat’s brother, had made it happen. We’d pooled our collective resources and talents and swiped a statue from the Institute of Fashion, Art, and Design, or I-FAD, as it was known in fashion circles. Even more impressive than the success of our mission was the fact that I’d planned the whole thing less than a week ago.
Things had been quiet around Ribbon, Pennsylvania. Life was normal, or as normal as it can be when you’re in your early thirties, out of work, trying to figure out how to pay the bills. Six months ago I’d given up my glamorous job as a buyer for Bentley’s New York for a chance to move into the house where I grew up. Things hadn’t turned out exactly as planned, thanks to a murder investigation. I lost my job, lost a mentor, and came darn near close to losing the house. I’d taken to obsessively reorganizing my ample wardrobe, first by color, next by silhouette, and finally by decade. With my savings account rapidly dwindling thanks to things like the new mortgage payment and cat food for Logan, I was a starving fashionista, living off the contents of my closet.
And then the contest had been announced in the Ribbon Times.
Interested in a Heist?
Ribbon’s hottest new store opens on July 14. Join us for the Pilferer’s Ball to get a sneak preview of our unparalleled assortments at criminally low prices. The daring are challenged to arrive with one of the following items in tow, “borrowed” from their current place of residency. Should you successfully lift said loot without notice, you can win a $10,000 shopping spree at HEIST. Rules and regulations listed below.
It was right up my alley.
Eddie, a high school friend I’d reconnected with during the aforementioned murder investigation, seemed the perfect person to help me. Plus, safety in numbers and all that.
“The best time for the theft is in the early morning, like three or four o’clock. It’ll be dark, the night guard will be tired, and there will be minimal traffic on the campus since the bars and parties shut down at two. Anyone wandering around will probably be drunk and not a credible witness,” I had said to Eddie, while we hung out in my living room, discussing my plan.
When I first moved in, the house was a study in post-college hand-me-down. I’d painted an accent wall with a gallon of aqua paint from Home Depot’s “Oops” rack, and decorated the wall with fabric cuttings framed in black plastic document frames from the dollar store. Three rows of nine frames each filled the wall opposite the large bay window. A white afghan, crocheted by my grandmother, covered the back of the gray flannel sofa Eddie bought me from a prop sale at Tradava. Two black and white chairs sat opposite the sofa, set off by blue tweed fabric I’d found in the markdown bin at the local fabric store and fashioned into curtains.
“We need to not look suspicious around the campus, because people might remember us if we seem like we don’t belong,” I added. “I think you should pretend to be a security guard. That way the real guard won’t spend too much time watching the areas where you already are.”
Eddie sat sideways in one of the black and white chairs, his knees bent over the arm, his checkered Vans bouncing on the outside of the fabric. His pencil flew over a pad of drawing paper, making sketches.
“I don’t think I’ll make a very convincing security guard.”
I ignored him. “My new neighbor is the head of the fabric curriculum at I-FAD. I’ll volunteer to talk to one of her classes or something.”
I was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Hold that thought,” Eddie said. He spun to a sitting position and pushed himself out of the chair.
“You invited someone to my house?” I asked, shoving incriminating plans and schematics under the sofa. I followed him to the door.
Standing on my porch were a man and a woman. I recognized the woman as Catherine Lestes, Catnip boutique owner. The last time we’d spoken we shared a couple of not very nice words. She’d accused me of murder, and I don’t take well to that. Next to her was a man in a black leather jacket. He had jet-black hair and sideburns like Elvis in the 1968 comeback special. A white T-shirt, faded denim jeans that were frayed at the hems, and black boots finished his outfit.
“Are you Samantha Kidd?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” He held out a hand. His jacket sleeve rode up, exposing flame tattoos around his wrists. “I’m Dante. You know my sister, Cat.” He tipped his head to the side.
Not sure of the protocol to welcome a formerly hostile fashionista and a strange biker dude on my doorstep, I took a half-step backward and looked at Eddie. He stepped to the side and held the door open.
“Glad you guys could make it. Come on in,” he said.
Not what I’d expected. I glared at him, communicating thoughts that he appeared able to tune out.
“I get the feeling you didn’t know we were coming,” Dante said.
“Eddie invited me. We’re here to help with the theft,” Cat added. “I invited Dante to join us. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Sure, fine, no problem.” I turned to Eddie. “Can I see you in the kitchen for a moment?”
Logan, my frisky feline, slinked into the room. I turned to Cat and Dante. “Watch out for my cat. He’s very selective about the company he keeps,” I said. Logan crossed the room and sniffed the toes of Dante’s boots. Fickle cat.
In the kitchen, Eddie said, “Before you say no, think about it. We can’t pull this thing off by ourselves.”
“Cat doesn’t like me.”
He waved my protest away like the scent of stinky cheese. “She didn’t like you when she thought you were a murderer. Things change. Let them stick around and listen what they can do. Cat has connections at I-FAD so she can easily be our person on the inside. And she tells me her brother has all kinds of hidden talents.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, sneaky stuff, by the looks of him. But listen, we might need another man besides me.”
The problem was, I already had another man besides Eddie: Nick Taylor. Only, I didn’t. Nick was a shoe designer I’d worked with in my former life as designer shoe buyer at Bentley’s New York department store. When I gave up that job for a lifestyle makeover and moved from the Big Apple to the small town—Ribbon, Pennsylvania—Nick’s name moved from the “colleague” column of my life to the one labeled “you’ve got potential.” And then, like all good shoe designers, he left for Italy, where he’d been for the past month. I was pretty sure that, in addition to keeping the secret about our planned theft at the museum, keeping the secret of the hot tattooed biker who had all kinds of hidden talents might be a bit of a challenge.
“Fine,” I said, though it was anything but.
We returned to the living room. Logan was curled up next to Dante on the gray flannel sofa. Cat sat on one of the black and white chairs, flipping through the Halston coffee table book I kept on my glass and chrome coffee table. Her legs were crossed, and she bounced one patent leather lime green pump against her calf.
I sat next to Dante and retrieved the plans and schematics from under the sofa. I outlined my general plan to get them caught up.
“I’ll come up with assignments for both of you tonight. In the meantime—”
“Dante will make a better fake security guard than I will,” Eddie said. He pulled a piece of paper from his manila folder and held it out to Dante. “Plus, that will give me more time to work on the fake.”
Cat chimed in next. “I’ll set up a guest professorship with the college, Samantha. I’ve done it before and already have the contacts. The college probably won’t respond to your offer to talk to one of the classes since you’re currently unemployed.” She brushed a stray lock of vibrant red hair behind her ear. “Now we just need something for you to do.” She leaned forward, her elbows on her olive pants, her fingertips tapping against each other in a pulse while she thought.
“I got it!” Eddie said, spinning to the front of the chair and leaning forward. “You can go undercover as a student.”
We all turned toward him. Expensive moisturizers and a box of Miss Clairol could only do so much, and I think the ship had sailed on undercover student ten years ago.
“Undercover grad student,” he clarified. “What? She could do it. Get her into a sweatshirt and jeans and she’d look like half the students on campus.” He looked at me and cocked his head to one side. “A tan, less eyeliner, no lipstick, some highlights …”
“We get the point,” I said.
“So to make sure I’m up to speed,” Dante said, “Eddie’s going to make a fake sculpture. Cat’s going to use her contacts to get inside the college and look around. I’m going to pose as a security guard. And you’re going back to school.”
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 02 - Buyer, Beware Page 1
