“No. She only ate the bread.”
“Did your cat eat the bread?”
“He licked it a couple of times, probably for the butter.”
“Ms. Kidd, I don’t know if we’re looking at our first case of poisoning through butter, but I don’t think this has to do with your job at Heist. I’ll send someone out to the restaurant to check it out, but I think you should get a good night’s sleep.”
“But what about my cat?”
“Call me back and tell me what the vet says.”
He disconnected. Already this partnership with the cops left much to be desired.
I wiped away the tears that had left tracks down my cheeks. The door opened and the vet came out, cradling Logan. He made a sound, like a meow that had been recorded on a forty-five and played at thirty-three speed.
“He’s fine. He ate something that didn’t agree with him, but it’s all out of his system now. Cats are funny that way. Better off than us, some might say. I gave him a sedative, but he’ll sleep that off and be back to normal in the morning.” He handed Logan to me, and I held him like a newborn.
I drove home, thinking about what was in store for me. It was after eleven when I pulled into the driveway. I set Logan on the kitchen table, next to my computer, and filled the Fred Flintstone juice glass with Merlot. One of these days I was going to update the house from early inheritance to modern woman. But before I could think about that, I had a few things I had to work out. I booted up the computer and started an e-mail to Nick.
The solitude of e-mail gave me the courage to confess my involvement in the homicide and the real reason I was working for Heist. It included phrases like I’m working with the cops, nobody else knows about this, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay, but I wanted you to know. I signed it with a bunch of Xs and Os and prayed to the gods of Internet communications that if this was the wrong thing to do, there would be a technical error and the e-mail would bounce. I turned the computer off so I couldn’t see his response, turned off the cell phone so he couldn’t call, and carried my now snoring cat to my bedroom. Whatever it was that I was in for, it was only hours away.
8
“ID, please,” said a petite woman behind the security desk at Heist. I handed her the card that Tony Simms had given me. She studied it for a moment and then handed it back.
“You’re Samantha Kidd? Nice outfit. Welcome to the team.”
“Thank you.” I adjusted the belt on my pink satin trench coat. I followed a few other people into the store, snaking my way through the denim department to an aisle that led to the handbag displays. Tony Simms stood in by the escalators.
“Samantha.” He nodded.
“Mr. Simms,” I replied.
“Call me Tony.”
That was better than calling him the scary small man that I wasn’t sure I could trust, so I went with it. “Okay, Tony.”
I hadn’t expected to see Tony this morning. I got the feeling this guy would know every move I made and every breath I took. Good thing I’d brought the police into my life; they were singing my theme song.
We walked through the store, past the ballet bars of handcuffed leather jackets and the mug shots in cosmetics. In light of recent events, it was more creepy than edgy. But still, their accessories department rocked.
He led me to a small office, not much wider than the desk inside. “I’m on your speed dial, top button. Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, take today and get acclimated. Instructions on logging on to e-mail are under the keyboard, along with your passwords. Your assistant buyer will be in shortly, I imagine, and she can give you a briefing on your schedule.”
After he left, I gingerly sat in the chair of a now-dead woman. I powered up the laptop and signed into e-mail. The unread ones were in red, and the first one’s subject was Welcome to the team! It was my second “Welcome to the Team” that morning, and already the phrase felt fake and automatic, like “May I help you?” sounded to thousands of shoppers programmed to answer, “Just Looking.” This welcome was from Belle DuChamp.
I read her brief note welcoming me aboard the Heist team. It had been sent on Saturday, probably after I’d left. She offered to give me a tour of the store at ten, and wanted me to sit in on two meetings in the afternoon, to get a feel for the store’s promotional activity and upcoming advertising. I jotted both in an unused day planner that I found in the upper right hand drawer of the desk.
The next note was from a Mallory George, whose signature line read Assistant Buyer, Handbags. Heist—Our Prices are Criminal! The note was brief and decidedly un-chatty, and included details on an appointment with the account representative from Vongole, apologies for having a dentist’s appointment that would cause her to be a half an hour late, and no mention of the words “welcome” or “team.”
I fussed around with the drawers and the notebooks and the catalogs, all of which bore a striking resemblance to my first day at Tradava so many months ago. Would I ever outlive this relatively newfound need to put myself in danger? Whatever it was I was seeking, besides the current task of identifying Emily Hart’s killer, I wondered if I would find it.
The phone rang, pulling me out of my self-analysis. “Samantha Kidd,” I answered, not sure if that was Heist’s standard method for answering the phone.
“Who? I’m looking for Emily?” said a perky female voice.
There are some things you just don’t say on the phone to a stranger, and “Emily is dead” is one of them. (Insert any name for Emily, but still, it just isn’t done.)
“I’m sorry, Emily isn’t here anymore. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Who are you again?”
“Samantha Kidd. Handbag buyer for Heist.” It sounded weird out loud.
“Oh. Wow. I knew Emily wanted to leave, but that was quick!”
“I’m sorry,” I said in the most polite tone I could muster, since I really was sorry that someone had died, but didn’t know what else to say. “Who did you say you were?”
“Andi Holloway. I’m the account manager for Vongole handbags. Actually, I run the showroom Bag Lady. Vongole is my biggest account right now.”
“I think I have an appointment with you today, but I don’t know what time,” I said.
“Fantastic. I have some new items that you will absolutely freak out over. Four o’clock?”
I checked the day planner that, at the moment, only had three things written down, but one of them was in the four o’clock timeslot.
“I can’t make four. Can you see me any earlier?”
“That could be problematic.” I heard her flipping pages on the other end of the phone and pictured her juggling buyers like men on a debutante’s dance card. “Can you make noon? Twelve thirty? No, make it one. Can you make one? It’ll be cutting it close, but I can do it.”
Sounded like I didn’t have much of a choice. “One it is. Where are you located?”
She read off a Penn Street address. “It’s a renovated office with space for rent. Seven stories, big Art Deco building. You can’t miss it. My Bag Lady offices are on the seventh floor.”
We disconnected with the pleasantries of “see you at one” and “I look forward to meeting you.” It wasn’t a lie. She knew Emily had wanted to leave Heist, and if that was true, then she had more than a professional relationship with Emily. You don’t tell your business associates you’re looking to leave your job unless you consider them a friend.
A petite woman carried a large vase of flowers into my office. So large that the only way I knew it was a woman were the skirt and stockinged legs visible from the waist down.
“Samantha Kidd?”
“That’s me.”
“These were waiting for you at security.” She set the vase on the corner of my desk. Striking orange flowers were nestled in a square glass vase that was lined with bamboo. A card was clipped to the side of the vase. It wasn’t in an envelope.
Knock ’em dead!
Though a smatter
ing of people knew I was starting this job, only one would take the time to send me flowers. Nick’s sense of humor and level of support were off the charts on this one. Maybe I should confide in him more often.
“They’re the most amazing calla lilies I’ve ever seen,” the petite woman said.
“They are pretty, aren’t they? What did you say they were?”
“Bronze Callas. He must be pretty special, whoever he is. That’s not a cheap arrangement.”
“He is,” I said, adjusting one of the waxy-textured flowers to the left.
“They last a long time, too.”
“Good. I’d hate to throw it away.”
We could only focus on my flowers for so long before we exchanged introductions, and considering she’d brought me flowers with my name on them, I was the only one in the dark.
“You must think I’m rude,” she said. “I’m Mallory George. Emily’s—I mean, your—assistant buyer.” She held out a hand for me to shake.
“Hi Mallory. Samantha Kidd.”
Mallory’s black bobbed hair had the rigid angles of a Louise Brooks bob, and had been straightened with a precision that lent it a Japanese flavor, though her features were definitely not Asian. She wore a crisp white shirt tucked into a long straight pencil skirt. If she had any curves, her outfit kept them hidden.
“Do you mind if I ask what your background is?”
“Excuse me?”
She stood in front of my desk with her handbag still draped over her arm, hands folded in front of her. “What is your work experience?”
I was taken off guard. I’d gotten this far without an actual interview, and now it seemed as though my own assistant was going to be the one to question my abilities.
“Don’t you want to put your things down?”
“In a second.”
She stared at me, not with hostility, but with something that felt alarmingly like X-ray vision. And I was not in a position to have someone see right through me.
“This is a big job. Emily had been in the handbag industry for ten years before landing here. I’ve been on the Heist team for fifteen. I relocated here when they opened this location. We have aggressive plans to outpace the rest of the store’s sales and be the number one department. I don’t think it’s too much to ask what your qualifications are since you’re now the buyer of the most important department in the store.”
I glanced at the phone and saw the time was minutes away from ten o’clock.
“I have an appointment with Belle DuChamp at ten, so we’ll talk when I return. Oh, and Andi Holloway rescheduled us for one o’clock today at the showroom. She said we should both come. We can talk on the way there. Does that work for you?”
Mallory looked surprised. She nodded her head and her bobbed hair bobbed. She looked at my flowers one more time, and then shuffled into her own office. I grabbed a notepad and pen, tucked my cell phone into my pocket, and traveled back to the executive offices to find the store manager.
Belle DuChamp’s promise to give me a tour of the store turned out to be empty. She was tied up on the phone negotiating the price of a large purchase with a customer. She held her hand over the receiver and whispered to me, “He’s so close. If I can close this, we’ll blow away our opening numbers. Sorry about the tour. Tomorrow?”
I nodded. She scribbled something on a piece of paper and returned to her call.
With the newfound available pocket of time, I left her office and wandered into the store. It was the perfect time to snoop. My snooping, not surprisingly, led to the handbag department.
A woman in a black nylon sheath dress accented with silver zippers was rearranging the assortment. Her dark brown hair was parted on the side and gelled back into a tight ponytail barely an inch long. Oversized silver hoop earrings weighed down her earlobes. A white can of RockStar Diet Energy drink sat just out of her reach.
“Isn’t this bag fantastic?” she asked, holding up a nylon tote with the Vongole logo emblazoned on a leather piece attached to the middle.
“I like the yellow one better.” I pointed to the crocodile bag I’d noticed at the gala.
“Omigod. I know. They’re totally fab, right? I can’t get enough of these. I have, like, ten of them in my closet, and it’s not enough. Look at the blue one.” She picked up a cobalt blue leather hobo bag. The color was magnificent. The logo was again stamped into the leather, in one of those very clean, linear fonts that are equally timeless and modern. “Here, try it on. It’ll totally pop your outfit.” She was referring to my gray sheath dress. I’d left my pink trench hanging over the back of my chair.
I took the bag from her and slung it over my shoulder. It was big enough to carry around a laptop and just about anything else I’d want to schlep back and forth to the store.
“Omigod, it’s so you. Let me find someone who can ring it up for you.” She looked around the store.
“Actually, I’ll take it to my office. That way I can get it on my way out.”
“You work here?” She was noticeably let down.
“Yes. I’m the new handbag buyer.”
“Omigod! Are you Samantha? I’m Andi Holloway, from Bag Lady!” She half-hopped with enthusiasm and shook my hand. My eyes darted between her and the energy drink. “This is totally funny. We’re still on today at one, right?”
“Sure.”
“I was just at Tradava meeting with Kyle, and we finished up early, so I came over here to merchandise. He told me about Emily.” She dropped her voice and moved in closer to me. “I get why you didn’t tell me on the phone. Kyle said it was awful. Just awful.”
“Kyle?” It was the only thing she’d said that stuck in my head.
“Kyle Trent. Your competition.”
I must have still looked confused, so she continued.
“You know, the totally hot handbag buyer at Tradava?”
9
Now this was news.
Kyle Trent had been at the gala in the area of Emily’s body. In fact, he’d been coming out of the shadows of the handbag department when I’d first noticed him. He had treated me like I was the one who didn’t belong, and all things considered, I hadn’t given him a second thought. Now I knew he worked for Tradava, Heist’s biggest competitor in the city of Ribbon. That meant he was the one who was out of place, at least as much as I had been. And what was it he’d said? Something about Emily, about her head being big. Had his comments been made to distract me from his presence, to make me more aware that I wasn’t where I should be so I wouldn’t take note that neither was he?
I was going to have to tell this to Detective Loncar. I wandered to the cosmetics department and asked a makeup artist for a tissue and a lip liner. I wrote KYLE TRENT on the tissue, handed the liner back to the suspicious employee, and balled the tissue up in my palm. It was just about noon. Mallory and I would be on our way to the handbag showroom in a short while, but I wanted to collect my thoughts, grab a bite to eat, and check on Cat, not necessarily in that order.
I stopped outside of my office when I heard Mallory on the phone.
“Somebody sent her a pretty expensive flower arrangement. Guess it’s her boyfriend or husband. I don’t think she’s going to fall for Kyle’s tricks. She knows Belle, too, but I don’t know how. I’ll find out.” There was a pause of silence, and then Mallory’s voice dropped. “I can’t talk. Call me later.” The phone clunked against the receiver while I ducked into my own small quarters. I shrugged back into my trench coat and belted it around my waist, picked up my vintage handbag, and went to Mallory’s doorway.
“What time do we have to leave to get to Bag Lady by one?”
“Twelve thirty should be fine, but Andi’s cool if we’re a little late.”
“We’ll be on time. I’m going to grab something to eat. Why don’t we meet by security at twenty-five after? I’ll drive.”
It was clear that Mallory wanted to undermine me, but I wasn’t going to let her. I didn’t know her deal yet, but with the tigh
t quarters of my Honda del Sol looming in our future, I’d have approximately half an hour to find out. Seemed like enough time to me.
I bought a Snickers bar and a packet of peanuts from the newsstand in the corner of the parking lot and sat on a public bench. I bit into the Snickers and scribbled names into my composition notebook, munching without any trace of manners, completely absorbed in my candy bar and Harriet the Spy routine. That’s why I didn’t notice the motorcycle that pulled up in front of me until the driver got off.
Dante.
He put the bike on its kickstand and faced me. His black leather jacket was unzipped half way, exposing a white T-shirt underneath. Well-worn jeans, creased by the knees and frayed at the hems, covered his lower half, down to black leather, round-toed boots. It was the same thing he’d worn when he first came to my house.
I slammed my notebook shut and wiped a ring around my lipstick with my index finger to remove any traces of chocolate that may have smeared onto my face.
“What are you doing, Samantha?”
“Nice to see you too, Dante.”
“You’re working here now?” He jerked a thumb behind him in the direction of Heist.
“It would appear that way, yes.”
“But sometimes things aren’t what they appear to be.”
“Okay, I’m working here now.”
He straddled the paint chipped bench and faced me. “Doesn’t add up.”
“What?”
“If you knew you were going to be working at Heist, you would never have entered that contest. And you would never have gotten a job so fast if you hadn’t applied before the contest. So somehow you got a job here, between the time that woman was murdered and today. And between that time, someone poisoned my sister. And I think it’s related, and I want details.”
It would have been easier to lie to Nick in Italy than to lie to Dante in front of me, but the irony was that I’d been honest with Nick despite the distance between us. I suspected what Nick would say about me being thisclose to a homicide investigation. But I didn’t know Dante that well.
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 02 - Buyer, Beware Page 6
