“No, only about half.”
“Then I suggest you go through the rest before making an assertion of phantom hats, Mr. Adams.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Whatever response I’d expected, a smile wasn’t one of them.
“Maybe there are more downstairs. I’ll go check,” I said. I punched the first-floor button on the elevator and headed to the gift outpost. I called Rebecca’s name when I didn’t see her and wandered past the long narrow counter that served as both display case and barrier between customer and the back wall of more expensive merchandise. A spinning metal rack that held paper doll books featuring decades and designers stood by the end of the counter. I spun the rack and hovered my hand by Fashions of the Seventies.
“Were you looking for me?” a voice from somewhere behind the glass counter asked.
I stepped closer and saw Rebecca kneeling behind the case, adjusting a tray of scarves. She refolded one of the Mondrian silk squares with right-angle precision befitting the De Stijl movement.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for the rest of the boxes. Are they down here?”
“There are no other boxes. Those were the only ones the woman dropped off.”
“They were dropped off? Not delivered through the mail?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean, they were dropped off.”
“By a woman, you said? Did you catch her name?”
Rebecca looked at me funny, like I was asking too many questions, which I was. “Is something wrong?”
“No, well, I guess I don’t know. Christian said there should be more hats.”
“Christian—oh, you mean Dr. Jhanes. Yes, he’s been anxious about the arrival of the hats. The woman who dropped them off works at a hat store. The boxes all say Hat Exhibit. I figured some delivery guy took them to her store instead of here. It was probably just a mix up. I have a feeling you’re curious about more than where the hats came from.”
She started to climb a ladder behind her. On the third rung up, she reached out to a shelf filled with twelve-inch replicas of Rodin’s The Thinker and adjusted their positions.
“Busted,” I said. “Actually, Christian’s upstairs with Eddie, and I needed an escape.”
“Take your time. I’m still putting out the newest shipment. Lorraine’s sixth-grade class came through today, and I didn’t have time for anything but them. I didn’t think they were ever going to leave!”
“Sounds like you’re as busy as Eddie,” I joked.
“Not usually, but with the attention surrounding this exhibit, we’re all on our toes a little bit more. I don’t know why, though. Dr. Jhanes is a genius. If everybody does what he asks, this’ll be great.”
“I thought he was new?”
“He’s new to the museum. For the past seventeen years he’s been the chairman of the history of fashion curriculum at I-FAD.”
“Eddie said something about him working at I-FAD. You mean he left there and works here now?”
“Dr. Jhanes is going to shake things up around Ribbon. He’s been busy hobnobbing with the donors and members of the board. He’s supposed to be collaborating with the former director, but he’s not interested in the way things used to be done. He’s high energy, fast thinking. The last director was a dud. I don’t think they see eye to eye.”
“I thought Dr. Daum was the museum director,” I said.
She bit her lower lip before nodding and then turned her attention back to the Mondrian scarves. I didn’t think she had been expecting me to know the name of the man she’d just insulted. “Dr. Daum retired. He still comes around a couple times a week.”
“That’s too bad. I would have liked to say hello.”
I knew Dr. Daum well. I’d volunteered at the museum one day a week during my summers off from college. I did research, typed up labels, wrote grant proposals. Most of the people at the museum had titles like “education coordinator” or “docent team leader.” Dr. Daum was the only person who wanted to walk around the museum with me and talk about the garments displayed in the rotating collections. Fortuny, Pierot, Norma Kamali. I spent the better part of my day in the basement updating files or working on the computer, but I’d spend my lunches walking around with him learning about the collections.
Dr. Daum had written one of my two letters of recommendation to Bentley’s New York department store, helping me land a job in their training program.
After I’d been promoted to senior shoe buyer for them, he’d occasionally send me magazine clippings of shoes with notes in the margin. “Were you responsible for this?” he’d write, or sometimes, “Not my fave.”
My favorite was after I’d had a particularly tough season because the rest of the world didn’t believe as strongly as I did that riding boots were just as fabulous in mauve as they’d been in black, brown, and tan. I’d taken a bloodbath on markdowns to liquidate the inventory and questioned my risk-taker instincts. A clipping from our catalog arrived in the store’s mail along with a page from a glossy celebrity magazine that showed a young it-girl in the boots. Dr. Daum’s comment said, “Everybody should own a pair of mauve riding boots.” Despite the poor performance of the inventory, I agreed.
“I think Dr. Jhanes is going in a different direction than Dr. Daum was taking the museum. Some days, it’s a little tense.”
“I don’t care how much of a mover and shaker Christian Jhanes is,” I said, “if he doesn’t appreciate Dr. Daum’s experience, he’s an idiot.”
Rebecca’s eyes grew wide and she stared behind me from her perch halfway up the rolling ladder.
“Ms. Kidd,” Christian said from behind me.
I turned around. My hands fingered a pair of turquoise beaded moccasins from a large cylindrical container next to the register. It was more for distraction than necessity.
Christian ran a manicured hand through his golden-brown locks, and I was struck by how long it had been since I saw buffed nails on a man’s hand. Yet despite his highlights and pinky ring and expensive taste in shoes, there was a clear sexual energy about him.
Rebecca lost her balance on the ladder and her knuckles went white as she caught her own fall and reestablished her footing. Slowly she stepped on the rungs until her clunky loafer connected with the rubber mat behind the glass counter.
“What were you doing, Rebecca?” he asked.
“I was organizing the back stock of Thinkers,” she said.
“You shouldn’t waste your time on anything above eye level. Nobody looks up in a store. But your cases, your bookshelves, your displays that relate to the rotating collections should be immaculate. And always, always full.”
“Of course, Dr. Jhanes.”
“This isn’t a formal environment. Call me Christian.”
“Of course, Christian,” she said in the voice of a child who’s been reprimanded.
“Come down to my office this evening, after you close the shop. I have a special project for you.”
Rebecca flushed. “Okay,” she said.
Christian paused and rested his hand on the spinning metal rack of paper dolls. “And should your friend Samantha decide she wants the moccasins she’s eyeing, give her a 30 percent discount. She’s been helping with the exhibit and should get something for her troubles.”
I stiffened at the use of my full name. He’d heard it once, when I introduced myself to him. Using it now was less a formality than his way of letting me know he’d been paying attention. The air crackled with electricity, and I wanted to get back to Eddie.
“Speaking of the exhibit, I should be going,” I said. I set my credit card on the counter. Christian stared again at the turquoise moccasins and left. I gave him a solid thirty-second lead and left the shop with the shoes tucked under my arm.
The elevator doors opened to a scowling Eddie juggling two large metal stands. He set them down and tugged at the bottom of his Frankie Tee. “It’s been, like, forty-five minutes. Where have you been?”
“What is your major malfunction?”
<
br /> “‘Major malfunction?’ What is this, a bad eighties movie? Did you find any of the hat samples?”
“No. Rebecca said some woman dropped off the packages. They were sent to the hat store by mistake. You don’t think—”
“That Dirk Engle’s screwing the exhibit by not delivering the merchandise? I don’t know what to think. Maybe he’ll cool down tonight and show back up tomorrow.”
“So what now?”
“New plan. We’ll keep working for a couple of hours, give Christian time to leave. Take pictures of everything. I want proof of what I’m doing here. Next, research and copywriting. Go to the computer and look up whatever you can find on Hedy London. And make it good. Rumor has it Christian’s trying to get her to come to the gala.”
“She’s coming? Here? To Ribbon, Pennsylvania?”
“That’s what Christian says.”
“Sounds like a publicity stunt. She’ll probably cancel at the last minute. Good word of mouth, get people talking. Big letdown the night of the show, though.”
“That’s why we’re not supposed to say anything until Christian confirms it. I got the feeling he knows her personally. All I heard is that she’s got something big in the works, and Tradava’s been hoping he can nail her down for a public appearance.”
“What kind of something big?”
“She’s working with an up-and-coming designer to produce a collection of hats based on her personal collection. Tradava got the whole thing as an exclusive. Supposed to be huge.”
“A licensing deal? Hedy London accessories?”
“Just hats. She signed an agreement for her name to be used—”
“I know how a licensing deal works,” I said. “Somebody puts her name on the product and somebody else makes it. The perfect storm is to get a good name and good merchandise.”
It was one thing to have Hedy London’s name on the collection of merchandise that would be sold by Tradava. But if she showed up at the opening of the gala? It would put this collection on the map. Hedy London was no mere actress. She was a legend, with the likes of Janet Leigh and Eva Marie Saint. The thing was, Hedy London didn’t show up until thirty years after them.
“Well, the name is Hedy London and the merchandise is a limited-edition collection of hats based on the styles she wore in her most famous movie.”
“The Reaper Wears Red?”
“No, the other one.”
“Murder After Midnight?”
He nodded.
“What’s in it for her?”
“Money, publicity, something like that. You know who she is because you like old movies. I know who she is because of this exhibit. Christian and Thad know who she is because they’re cultured people. But if you asked most people, they probably wouldn’t remember her.”
“Give people a little credit. Hedy London was huge in the seventies. She was credited for bringing back the neo-noir.”
“The seventies were a long time ago.”
“Maybe they were, but Hedy London was bigger than the seventies.”
“For the sake of this exhibit, I hope you’re right,” he said.
“So say she’s doing it for publicity. What about Tradava? It’s a big gamble for them. I doubt her name comes cheap. If it doesn’t work, they’ll be taking a bloodbath in markdowns, and it’ll be hard to land another licensing deal in the future. People like a sure thing. Just about the only person who isn’t taking a big risk is the designer who she’s collaborating with. A lot of designers get their start that way. Design under a known label, and if the collection’s a success, then come out from behind the velvet curtain and take a bow for your incredible talent. If the collection doesn’t sell, you’re just a no-name designer who claims to have done what someone else told you to do.”
“I don’t want you going off on one of your tangents here,” Eddie said. “Research. Hedy London. Hats. Go.”
I dropped into the chair by the desk and cued up a search engine, making notes of any relevant information. I made a list from IMDb of Hedy’s better-known movies and added five of them to my Netflix queue. I watched several trailers on YouTube, joined the Facebook page for her fans, and learned about her background from Wikipedia.
Hours passed. The museum lights shut off automatically at eight o’clock. Once we were in the dark, the eerie quiet of our surroundings became evident. The only illumination came from an assortment of flashlights Eddie had scattered across the floor.
I shut down the computer. “You ready to go?”
“Sure. Can you give me a ride home? I rode my skateboard today.”
I looked around for other signs that it was 1985. “Fine.”
“Let me drop off the keys and we can get out of here.”
I waited by the back doors while Eddie headed to the admissions office. When he didn’t return quickly, I went looking for him. I found him standing in the doorway, his back to me. I crossed the vestibule. A ray of light from the office sliced through the otherwise dark museum foyer.
“What’s taking you so long? Can we go now?”
He didn’t answer. I shuffled closer and saw that he was as white as a sheet of notepaper. I’m pretty sure I matched his shade when I saw the body behind the desk.
4
A man’s body lay on the floor. A piece of Bubble Wrap covered his bald head, distorting his features. A large pomegranate-colored stain pressed against the plastic. His vacant eyes stared through the pockets of air. His torso was wrapped in Bubble Wrap, and his arms were secured by his sides.
“Is he dead?” I asked, approaching the body.
I dropped to my knees and put my hand on his wrist. There was no pulse, no nothing. The temperature of his skin was cool, like a chicken breast that had been left on the counter to defrost.
I shivered and looked around the office. The air conditioner was on high even though it was October. On the floor by the base of the air conditioning unit sat a pair of royal blue reading glasses.
“This is Dirk Engle,” I said, standing too quickly. I tipped forward at a dangerous angle and caught myself on the corner of the desk. The window was pushed open and a breeze snapped the shades against the frame. A small lamp on the bookcase behind the desk was on, a single bulb shedding light on the scene.
I wasn’t sure how Eddie reacted to dead bodies, but I had to get out of there. I couldn’t stomach the smell of copper and acid. I gave him a few seconds while I dealt with my own racing heart and squeezed my eyes shut to block the image. I turned in a small semicircle so I wasn’t facing the body.
“I need air,” I said.
Eddie didn’t move. “Look.” He pointed inside the room, and I turned back around.
The forest green felt fedora from the shipment of otherwise empty boxes lay upside down on the floor next to the body. It looked more out of place than a brunette starring in a Hitchcock movie.
A breeze blew the shade on the window away from the window, and moonlight glistened off the jewels on the hatpin. A thin trail of blood had escaped the Bubble Wrap covering Dirk Engle’s head, and made a slow but steady path toward the hat.
“Is that hat from Hedy London’s private collection?” I asked.
Eddie didn’t answer, but it didn’t matter. We both knew it was. Earlier that night, that hat had been between the layers of Bubble Wrap, stabbed with a knife. And here it was, sitting in the admissions office of the museum, next to a dead body wrapped in pocketed plastic instead.
Before I could stop him, Eddie reached down and picked up the hat. He turned it over in his hands and then dropped it. He squatted, his breathing heavy. “I’m responsible for this. I’m responsible for the hats and the exhibit. What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to call the police.”
Eddie looked as surprised as I felt by the voice of reason coming from my mouth. What I didn’t tell him was the steady stream of thoughts that had led to that statement: No gloves, dead body, stolen memorabilia, wrong place, wrong time. I might be a lot of thi
ngs, but I never said I was normal.
Eddie crossed the room to the phone and dialed 911. I heard the words “museum, emergency. Dead body.” He hung up, and a door slammed at the back of the building.
“Who else is here?” Until I’d heard that door shut, I hadn’t stopped to think the murderer might still be around.
Eddie’s eyes went wide and his shoulders raised. “I thought it was just us.”
“Me too. How long until the cops get here?”
“Soon, I hope.”
Sirens wailed in the distance like alley cats on the prowl in the middle of the night. There was nothing for us to do but wait.
Soon a mêlée of cars, ambulances, and crime scene investigators arrived. Eddie unlocked the back doors and doubled over by the flowerbeds. I looked in the other direction and tried not to think about the image in the office.
A stout man with a short buzz cut got out of a brown sedan and spoke to the female officer who had first arrived on the scene. He dropped his head down, cupping his ear to hear her better. She pointed a finger at me.
He looked up and his face expression soured.
It had to figure that there was one homicide detective in Ribbon. Detective Loncar. He was tough and gruff, and the last time I’d seen him he’d been losing the battle with the buttons that kept his shirt closed. Detective Loncar and I had a spotty relationship that had started when I discovered my boss dead on my first day at Tradava, and continued through a second homicide investigation at a different retailer in Ribbon. Before moving back to my old hometown, I’d researched the weather, the number of sandwich shops in the area, and the assortment of outlet shopping. It hadn’t occurred to me to notice that the crime rate was on the rise.
Tonight he wore a black suit and tie with a white button-down collar shirt. I wondered if his wife had started shopping for him. The shirt was still too tight, the tie was too wide, and the pants were too short. Still, I applauded the effort.
He flipped through a small notepad and approached me. “Ms. Kidd. What are you doing here?”
“I’m helping Eddie with the exhibit.”
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper Page 3
