Dante watched me from his motorcycle. I felt exposed. I slammed the hood back down and glared at him, trying to think of something snappy to say. Black car grunge had gotten on my fingertips, and I held them away from me like I’d just had a manicure and was waiting for my polish to dry.
“I’m not going to let this go.” I turned around and went inside.
Ten minutes later, I returned wearing black skinny pants, pumps, and an ocean-blue taffeta jacket cinched at the waist. I carried a pair of futuristic silver sunglasses and accepted the helmet he handed me. Helmet hair. My morning was going from bad to worse.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“Heist,” I said. “I don’t know where you thought I’d be going, but I’m going to work.”
Dante leaned in close. “You could play hooky with me, if you want. We can drive to the Jersey Shore, make a day of it. Forget your troubles. Nobody has to know.”
I flushed. “I have obligations, and now I’m going to be late.”
“Hop on. I’ll get you there in no time.”
I climbed onto the back of his motorcycle and grabbed the flames on his leather jacket as he peeled out of my driveway.
At Heist, I went to my office and located the Vongole folder on Mallory’s desk. I laid the two recaps side by side and compared the information. Both stores had achieved the same sell-through. Tradava had higher sales than Heist. So why was Heist reporting profits of two hundred thousand dollars while Tradava was almost the same amount in the hole?
I heard Mallory enter the office. She dumped her oversized handbag on the floor and sat down, cueing up her computer screen. I knew I needed the notebook that was shelved over her head, the one with the Vongole strategy, but before I could get it, she pulled it down, flipped a few pages in, and tore several sheets out of the binder without opening the rings. I leaned forward, watching her elbow propped on the outside of the notebook as she sorted through the pages. I stood up and pretended to get something from the closet so I could get a better view. She wadded the paper up and put it in her trash can. Seconds later, she stood up with her trash can and carried it into the hallway, where the trash crew would soon come to empty it.
I needed to see what she’d thrown out.
I pulled three business-sized envelopes from a drawer and scribbled addresses on the front: Cat, Eddie, and Logan (my cat is a very convenient undercover operative). Security went through our handbags every time we left the building, and I couldn’t risk being caught with company information. I tossed promotional postcards into the envelopes to Cat and Eddie, and shoved the Tradava/Vongole recaps into the envelope addressed to Logan. I stood up and walked past Mallory, waving the envelopes. “I’m heading to the mailbox. Got anything?”
“No.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Once in the hall, I scanned the three matching trash cans lined up outside of the office, zeroing in on the crumpled piece of paper that sat on top of the can closest to our office. I palmed it and walked down the hallway and through the store. As I walked past the handbag department I smoothed out the paper, tri-folded it, and shoved it into the envelope addressed to Logan. I sealed the envelopes and carried the lot to security.
“What time does the mail get picked up?” I asked Gabe.
“Three thirty.” He looked at the top of my envelopes. “They’re stamped? There’s a mailbox on the corner of the parking lot. They pick up in the morning too. You’re early enough to make it.”
I jogged to the mailbox, clutching the wad of envelopes. After dropping them into the box, I wondered if I’d done the right thing. The only actual piece of paper that proved anything until now was in the hands of the mailmen. Let’s hope today wasn’t the day they went postal.
Back in my office, I closed my working spreadsheet and checked my e-mail. There were four unread messages from Nick.
Samantha, I have a meeting set up with the Luta factory this afternoon. I was unaware that Lussuria was an extension of Luta’s production. I will keep you posted. Regards, Nick Taylor.
Samantha, I won’t be meeting with Luta after all. They are under investigation for producing merchandise that is not acceptable to export quality standards. Again, thank you for the recommendation.–Nick Taylor.
“If memory serves, you mentioned quality concerns when we last spoke. That last piece of information might prove interesting to your boss. I could be wrong but I believe his name is Loncar? –N.
S, My initial sample collection of shoes has been flagged and is being inspected by customs. In order to focus on the shoe collection, I’m going to postpone any handbag ventures indefinitely.–NT.
No doubt Nick had been busy, but of all the information in my inbox, the e-mail that struck me the most was the last. He was halfway around the country pursuing his own passion, the production of his shoe collection, and yet he was researching factories for me. If his collection was indeed tied up in customs, and he had to deal with the Italian government to get it back on track, then I had no right to involve him further.
But Nick was right. I had to share this info with Detective Loncar. I called the police station.
As the phone rang, Mallory came into my office. She stood by my desk, clutching a large binder to her chest.
“I’ll be just a second,” I said to her.
“I’ll wait.” She sat in the chair across from my desk just as the detective answered. I watched Mallory open the binder and pretend to study a spreadsheet. She wasn’t going anywhere.
“Hi—honey,” I said. Pause. “I never got a chance to thank you for the flowers you sent to Heist.”
There was silence on the other end of the call, and I couldn’t tell whether Loncar knew who he was talking to. “If you keep sending me flowers, the other buyers around here are going to get jealous.”
Mallory looked up at me and I smiled, pointed to the receiver, and mouthed the word “boyfriend.” She looked back at her notebook.
“What’s this about, Ms. Kidd?”
Okay, good. He knew who I was. “I was wondering if you could meet me for lunch? I have a surprise for you.”
Mallory stood up and left. I turned away from the door and dropped my voice. “I’m sorry. The walls have ears.”
“Ms. Kidd, not that I don’t enjoy your company, but if you have something to tell me, then tell me.”
“You know what I could do? Write notes on a brown paper bag and throw them out in the trash can at the edge of the Heist parking lot, say, around two? You could pretend you’re going through the trash and take my notes—”
“Two o’clock. Heist. I’ll meet you there.”
“I think my plan’s more covert.”
“Is there a place to sit?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
“Ms. Kidd, I’ll expect you to meet me at two o’clock, Heist parking lot, with whatever information you have for me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
For the next few hours I kept myself busy with the actual functions of being Heist’s buyer: familiarizing myself with the rest of the assortment, reviewing the seasonal budgets, and reading countless e-mails dictating the company’s position on color, trend, accessories, and silhouettes. Where Tradava had seemed to use the throw-spaghetti-at-the-wall approach to merchandising—buy a little of everything and see what sells—Heist had a clear vision of who their customer was and how they expected her to dress for the upcoming season.
Mallory nibbled on carrots from a plastic baggie in her office, the occasional snap, and subsequent series of crunches the only sound except for the click of her mouse. I was surprised she didn’t take a lunch break, until it occurred to me that maybe she didn’t want to leave me alone in the office.
At five till two I picked up my handbag and left the office. Detective Loncar was in his car, drinking from a red aluminum travel mug with Kutztown University’s logo on the outside. He got out of the car before I had a chance to tap on his window.
; “Hi, Detective. Are you hungry? Can I buy you lunch?”
“Ms. Kidd, you said you had information for me?”
“Oh, yes, sure. There’s a pizza place at the other end of the strip mall. Are you sure you don’t want to talk there? It’s my lunch break.”
He stared at me.
“I guess you already ate.” I sat next to him, hoping my stomach wouldn’t growl during our meeting. “So here’s the thing. Kyle Trent gave me a spreadsheet from Tradava for this handbag business, Vongole. When I got into the store, I looked at the same information for the business at Heist. It’s not easy to understand someone else’s spreadsheet, but once I figured it out, I realized there’s a huge discrepancy in how Vongole sells to each store.”
“I’m no retailer, but it seems to me it’s up to each store to determine how to run their business.”
“Under normal circumstances, I’d agree. Only, this isn’t normal, you know? The buyer here was murdered. So I’m thinking maybe it’s about business.”
“Do you have these spreadsheets with you?”
“Um—no. I will, though, in five to seven business days.”
Loncar’s forehead wrinkled.
“Never mind that. I shouldn’t even have the spreadsheet for Tradava. The important thing is that Tradava is showing a six-figure loss on the Vongole handbag line while Heist is showing a profit. For some reason, Heist doesn’t factor in freight, theft, or markdowns. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”
“I’m sure this means something to somebody, but unless you tell me you found a note that says ‘Kill Emily Hart because of Vongole handbags’ I don’t think it matters much to the case.”
“No note. Not a note in sight.”
“I’ve got means figured out, and opportunity,” he said. “Now I’m looking for the motive.”
“That’s what I found! Listen to me,” I said, slapping him on the arm for emphasis. As soon as I did, I froze, not sure if I’d overstepped my boundaries.
Loncar didn’t move, didn’t say a word.
I took a deep breath, and ticked points off on my fingers. “Here’s how a retailer figures out their bottom line. They take their sales, and then they subtract the costs of doing business. Merchandise, markdowns, shipping and transportation costs, theft. Like, if you had a lemonade stand. After you counted out what you made selling lemonade, you’d have to subtract out the cost of lemons, the gas you used driving to the store and back. If some kids from the neighborhood stole a pitcher when you weren’t looking, that would be theft. If you started selling for $3 a cup and weren’t moving it, you’d mark down to $2 a cup but that $1 would be a markdown. Are you following me?”
“I get the general concept.”
“Heist doesn’t use any of those expenses. For some reason, they don’t pay for shipping, they don’t mark down their merchandise, and nobody steals anything. But Tradava is the other way around, and they’re showing a pretty big loss.”
“What do you think this means, Ms. Kidd?”
“I don’t know yet, but it’s too big of a red flag to think it doesn’t matter.”
“You say Kyle Trent gave you the Tradava information?”
I nodded. “Last night. He invited me to his apartment.”
“What time was this?”
I felt my eyes roll up for a second as I thought. “Let’s see. I was at happy hour with Andi, then I went to the Tastee Freeze, and then I went to his house. Probably around seven.”
“Did you stay there long?”
“No, only about ten, maybe fifteen minutes. He wasn’t in very good shape.”
“This information he gave you. Tradava would consider that confidential, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes. He risked his job to give it to me.”
The detective scribbled something in his small spiral-bound notebook, and tucked it back inside his wrinkled blazer. I fought the urge to suggest a local tailor who could make his suit fit better. It didn’t seem like the time for fashion advice.
“Are you going to move on this?”
“Ms. Kidd, I appreciate the information.” He clicked his ballpoint pen and stuck it into his breast pocket. “If you think of anything else, call.”
I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like he was less sincere than he’d been at the beginning of all this.
I went back to the office. Mallory had left a note taped to my phone that said she’d be back by quarter after three. I had seventeen minutes to snoop. I tried to figure out Kyle’s motivation. He’d cancelled Tradava orders based on quality issues. It seemed the new lot of available inventory wasn’t up to Vongole’s usual quality standards, and Belle’s interest in pushing through orders quickly and stocking the shelves suggested she knew this.
It was a well-known fact in retail circles that salaries were only a portion of a vice president’s income, but annual bonuses, based on statistical performances, were pretty lucrative. I pulled out a calculator and ran a few what-ifs. At the industry standard, Belle’s possible bonus for the year was in the fifty-thousand dollar range.
Not too shabby.
And there was another perk in it for Belle. By bringing in the inventory—a seemingly unlimited supply of the hottest it-bag vendor—she could exceed the sales plan and secure her future at Heist. She’d be celebrated in social circles, a veritable celebrity among fashionistas. Andi had mentioned Belle’s divorce. Belle was a ballsy woman, tough, and smart and driven. I wondered who’d divorced who in that scenario, if Belle’s nature had been the reason for the split or the by-product of it. If she’d been left in the dust once, she wasn’t going to allow that to happen again. By driving home the largest profits that Heist had seen, she would earn raises, bonuses, and stock options.
It all made sense. Kyle must have figured out Belle was manipulating the system for her own personal gain. He’d see Emily would be responsible if the strategy failed. It explained the fight Mallory had overheard, and the animosity between Kyle and Belle. Belle would have started the rumor about the two of them, causing a riff between Kyle and Emily, and giving herself the distance she needed. Regardless of business, Emily wouldn’t have wanted to actively grow the Vongole business, which explained the note to Mallory. Belle must have ultimately determined Emily was a threat to her plan, and she eliminated that threat the night of the gala. Nobody would have questioned her presence on the selling floor of Heist because she was the general manager.
And the next day, Belle would have rushed to secure the last-minute orders with Andi before anybody could ask questions.
I glanced at the clock on my computer. I had about seven minutes before Mallory would return, seven minutes to call Detective Loncar. Seven minutes, as long as Mallory didn’t come back early.
“Detective, I think I figured it out.”
“Make it fast. We got some information of our own,” he barked into the phone.
“Belle DuChamp–she’s the one. She—” I looked up as Mallory entered my office and passed through to her own. I lowered my voice. “She had the means and the motive and the opportunity. That’s what you needed, right? I have it all here. She had to be one who killed Emily.”
“Ms. Kidd, thanks for playing detective with us, but we’ll take this one from here.”
“So you’re coming here to arrest her?” I asked.
“No, we’re not coming there to arrest her.”
“Why not?”
“Because Belle DuChamp was found dead this morning.”
23
While I was apparently the first to know, word about the general manager’s murder spread quickly through the store. A member of the store’s senior staff came around to each of our offices, telling us the store was going to close for the day.
I collected my things and popped my head into Mallory’s office. Her back was to me. “Mallory, are you ready to leave? I’ll walk out with you.”
When she turned my way, her eyes were red and angry. “I don’t trust you. I don’t know why anyone else won’t listen to
me, but I know you’re up to something,” she said, spittle flying from her lips.
The part of the unduly suspected employee had already been played once by me at Tradava, and I wasn’t rushing to reprise my role at Heist.
“You’re upset. Anyone would be. Let’s walk out together.”
Mallory took a few deep breaths and powdered her face from a compact that was slightly more orange than her natural skin tone.
“Leave me alone,” she said, and clicked the compact shut.
I walked through the store, past the handcuffed jeans and pile of shoes with the mannequin inside staring out. I couldn’t help wondering how real events were going to affect the future of the store that proclaimed its prices were criminal.
It wasn’t until I reached the parking lot that I remembered Dante had dropped me off. I called him. “I need a ride home.”
“Be right there,” he said.
When Dante’s motorcycle blazed into the parking lot and stopped in front of me, I straddled the seat and buckled the spare helmet over my head. And when we reached my house and I saw a black and white sitting in my driveway, I thought about telling him I’d changed my mind about us heading to Jersey.
Detective Loncar sat on my front porch with two younger men in uniform. Dante let the bike idle behind the cruiser before I hopped off the back.
“You want me to stay?”
“This doesn’t concern you,” I said.
“It concerns you?”
“It shouldn’t, but it does.”
“I’m coming with you.” He turned the ignition off.
“You’re waiting outside.”
We crossed the yard to the porch. “Detective,” I said cordially, nodding once while freaking out inside.
“Ms. Kidd, we need to talk to you.”
“Okay, I’ll just be a second,” I said, fumbling with the keys to unlock the front door.
“Ms. Kidd, there was a shootout in the Tradava parking lot last night.”
“I wasn’t anywhere near Tradava last night.”
“Nobody said you were.” He folded his hands in front of him but pointed his index finger and thumb out like a shadow-puppet of a gun. “You’ve been forthcoming with information regarding Heist, Tradava, and the recent murder of Emily Hart.”
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 02 - Buyer, Beware Page 14
