“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to hold on to trash that you took from the museum last night, because why? You want to go through it?”
“You’re making it sound worse than it is. I gathered up Eddie’s notes and sketches and threw them away, and now I think maybe there was something in there that shouldn’t have been thrown out.”
“So give him the bag and be done with it.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s slightly more than just the one bag.”
She opened up a small fridge by her feet and pulled out a plastic bottle of water. She drained half of it and then set it down on her desk with a thud. By the time she looked at me, I’d tapped out half the alphabet in Morse code with the ball of my foot.
Finally she looked at me and shook her head. “Normal people don’t ask friends to hang on to their trash.”
“Normal people don’t pay $3,000 for a hat.”
We stared at each other for a couple of seconds. I didn’t know if I’d overstepped my bounds with that last statement, but if she was going to hit me below the belt, then I was going to hit her over the head. Seemed fair.
“Samantha, I really appreciate that you found my hat. I owe you a big thank you.” She leaned back against the register, looked at the wall over my head, and then back at my face. “Fifty percent, but that’s it.”
“I don’t want the discount, Cat.”
I sat on the other side of her desk, not sure if we were at an impasse. She picked up a sleek pen and wiggled it back and forth in her fingers.
“What do you remember about the afternoon when you were mugged?” I asked, changing the subject before she made me an offer too good to refuse.
“It’s kind of a blur, you know? I was walking out to my car. Someone came up from behind and grabbed me with one arm and took my hat. I didn’t get a good look at him. He shoved me down toward the back of my car, and when I turned around, he was running away from me.”
“How do you know it was a guy? Did he say anything? Do you remember any other details?”
“I think he said, ‘You can’t have this yet.’ His voice was low and I can’t place it, but it was familiar. I just keep going over what he said. ‘You can’t have this yet’? That’s not what you say when you’re mugging someone. You say, ‘Give me your wallet.’ What he said makes it sound like I was the one who took the hat from him.”
“You said the voice was familiar?”
She nodded, and her red hair bounced off her shoulders.
“Do you know anybody from the museum? Christian Jhanes, Thad Thomas? Dr. Daum?”
“I don’t know any of those names.”
“What about Milo Delaney?”
She leaned forward and looked at the notebook on her desk for a few seconds. She pulled a leather agenda out of the top right drawer of her desk and flipped through pages from earlier in the year. She stopped on March and tapped one perfectly manicured fingertip on the second Friday.
“Yes. I mean, I think so, but maybe yes. I met him at the accessories market last year. We were next to each other in the airport security line and he got into a fight with the woman at the counter because she said his bag was too heavy.”
“He does seem to have a short fuse,” I said, thinking back to how he’d treated me when I was at his showroom with Nick.
“But he’s a hat designer. What would he want with my vintage hat?
“You said you bought it on the secondary market, right? Can you introduce me to your contact?”
“I may have made it sound like I was more connected than I was. My boss was the one with the contact. He invited me to tag along because he thought he’d look less suspicious if he was with a woman. His contact—he didn’t exactly put an ad in the paper. I wouldn’t know where to begin to find him.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t these people in the business of selling something?”
“Collectors are different from people like us. You can’t just walk into a store and buy a valuable piece of history. I mean, you can at some places, but to get the real thing, to know it’s been authenticated, but to not pay a fortune, well, you can’t go standard retail. You’d be amazed what’s out there. Vintage Hermes, Stephen Sprouse, Pierre Cardin. You name it, somebody’s got one to sell. It’s all hush-hush, and it’ll cost you, but you can get it.”
“You’re saying that the sellers are protective of who gets their stuff?”
“Exactly. The people selling stuff love it as much as the people who want to buy it, and the sellers want to make sure it’s going to someone who will truly appreciate what they bought. Remember Audrey Hepburn’s dress from Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Christie’s predicted it would go for something like a hundred thousand. It sold for close to a million. And that Jean Louis dress that Marilyn Monroe wore to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to President Kennedy? That went for more than a million. I know the economy’s tough for the rest of the world, but collectors … well, they’re still willing to shell out money when something rare becomes available. They’re willing to accept that they might never be able to tell anyone that they have what they have. And most serious buyers know when they see the real thing. They’re willing to not ask questions about something’s provenance.”
“So you’re saying they’ll relax their ethics to get what they want?”
“Relax? Some of the collectors my old boss knew didn’t even have ethics to relax.”
21
I thought back to the list of collectors I’d printed out from Christian’s computer and about Dirk Engle’s coveted client list. Those were the people who would be most interested in this event. Christian even said so. I leaned back on the folding chair and ran my hands down over my pinstriped pants. There was one person I’d encountered who claimed not to have that kind of information, but who would clearly benefit from it if she did. Vera Sarlow.
Cat picked the hat up and used her hands to mold the smashed corner. “Give this to Eddie. Have him use it in his show. At least it’s authentic.”
“That’s a generous loan,” I said. I wasn’t sure if we were done talking about the trash.
Cat shrugged. “It’s not worth getting killed over.”
“None of this is. That’s why I’m trying to help Eddie figure out what’s going on. So it all stops.”
I waited, still wondering where she stood on my request. After an awkward amount of time, I stood up. “I have to get back to my job before I get fired.”
She stood up behind her desk, stepped around to the front, and then held the door open and followed me out.
“Good luck, Sam,” she said.
“I don’t need luck, Cat.” I walked a few steps away from her and then turned back. “But I could use your brother’s phone number if you have it handy.”
I drove to the edge of the outlet center parking lot and boosted my confidence with a vanilla shake from the drive-thru on the corner. I was starting to believe there was a direct link between my mental acuity and the amount of ice cream I consumed. Now wasn’t the time to test the theory.
I tapped Dante’s number into my phone. He answered after two and a half rings.
“Hello, Samantha,” he said.
“You don’t happen to be in the area, do you?” I asked.
“It would help if I knew which area you meant.”
“I figured if you were following me, you’d know.”
“Today’s my day off.”
“Figures.”
“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked. His voice was drawn out, as if I’d woken him from a nap.
“I have something that I don’t think I should have and I’m looking for someone willing to hold on to it for me for a day or two.”
“Fine.”
“It’s nothing illegal, just so you know.”
“I didn’t expect it would be.”
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“No.”
�
��Why not?”
“That’s not the question that interests me.”
“What is?”
“Why you waited this long to ask for my help.”
I could have told Dante that he was the next person on my list, or that I’d asked his sister first because I made important decisions in alphabetical order. I could have told him that he was reading too much into my request. I could have said never mind, tossed the trash into the Dumpster at the edge of the outlet property, and driven away while enjoying the rest of my milkshake. It really didn’t matter what I said to Dante. The person I had to answer to was myself.
“I’m going to drop the stuff off by your sister’s house. I want you to put it somewhere nobody would look. Don’t make contact with me. I’ll arrange to get it when it’s safe.” I hung up.
The phone rang almost immediately.
“What part of ‘don’t make contact’ don’t you understand?” I asked.
The phone was silent. I pulled it away from my head and looked at the screen. It was Nick. The call disconnected.
When I reached Cat’s house, there was a motorcycle parked in the driveway. Maybe I should have told Dante he’d need more than a backpack. I blocked him in with my car and got out. I didn’t see him. I opened the back doors of my car and started unloading trash bags.
“Nice outfit. Who are you today, Banker Barbie?”
“Your fashion commentary is somewhat undermined by the fact that you’re named Dante and you cover yourself in flames.” I set the trash next to his motorcycle. He picked up the bags and moved them a few feet away. I knew none of them were heavy, but still, I couldn’t help notice the way his biceps flexed when he picked them up.
“You don’t seem surprised that I called you,” I said.
“Surprised? No. Interested is more like it.”
“In what?”
“You. I’m interested in you.” He glanced at the trash bags. “I just didn’t expect you to come with so much baggage.” He smiled.
I raised an eyebrow. “Your sister wants no part of this. I need to go through them, but not before tonight.”
“She’ll never know about it.”
“Good.”
“Anything else you want to ask me?” he asked.
“This isn’t the beginning of some kind of working relationship.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asked. “Because I could some things.”
“You think I don’t know stuff?” I asked. “I know a thing or two.”
“I’m sure you do, Samantha.”
My phone rang. I glanced at the display and recognized Nick’s showroom number. “I have to go back to work before I get fired.”
“Still working for your boyfriend? I didn’t expect that to last.”
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my relationship to Nick or my employment status. Since both were tenuous at best, I didn’t ask for clarification. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
I thanked Dante and hopped back into my car. I slurped up what was left of my milkshake and called Nick back. He didn’t answer. I texted him that I was finishing up with a late lunch and then drove to Over Your Head.
When I pulled up to the front of the store I noticed a crowd of customers inside. Quite a change from a couple of days ago when one lone customer sat in the chair. Most of the sitting stations were filled with women, many of them holding glasses of champagne. The sales staff was easily recognizable in their mint green smocks. I asked one if Vera was available, and after nodding she disappeared behind the green curtain.
Moments later the brunette store owner came out front. “Let me guess. You couldn’t get your mind off the green Milo Delaney hat, right?” She turned to the locked case.
“I, uh, actually was more curious about the vintage items you mentioned in your ad. I forgot to ask about those when I was here last time.”
She looked around the store at the bustling business. “I don’t have any on display at the moment. We’ve scored a large supply of vintage hats, and I haven’t had time to work out the merchandising.”
“Where did the inventory come from?”
“What’s On Your Mind. When the store closed, we took possession of their inventory. Word of mouth spread quickly. And it’s certainly helped business, that’s for sure.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This woman was serving up the fact that Dirk Engle’s death had been to her personal gain. It was the same thing Christian had advised Rebecca: use Dirk Engle’s death as an opportunity.
Vera Sarlow had been the original consultant of the millinery exhibit, and thanks to the ad in the paper and the sign I’d seen in front of her store the day I stopped for pizza, I knew she had a relationship with Milo Delaney. It was almost too perfect. I needed to catch her off guard if I was going to learn anything from her.
“Vera, considering you were competitors, did you have a good relationship with Dirk Engle?”
“I’d hardly call it good.” She glanced over each of her shoulders and reached a hand out to my elbow to steer me away from customer earshot. “Dirk Engle was my brother.”
22
Vera continued. “My grandfather was the first milliner in the family. He started the Philadelphia store. My dad took it from there, and Dirk and I helped him run it. But after Dad died, we didn’t agree on what direction to take it. I wanted it to feel like an old millinery shop, welcoming, like you stepped into a time warp.”
“What did your brother want?”
“Dirk wanted an exclusive boutique with a bell on the door and an invitation to enter. He had my dad’s contacts of collectors who wished to buy rare items discreetly. He didn’t want to deal with what he called the ‘riffraff.’” She made air quotes around the word “riffraff,” like it was a term to be credited exclusively to Engle. “I always thought hat shopping should feel a little like playing dress-up in Mother’s closet.”
I thought back over Tradava’s reasons for getting into the hat business. “Your brother’s store does very well, doesn’t it?”
“Did. The shop is closed now.”
“What will happen to it now?”
She chuckled. “What’s On Your Mind is going to be absorbed into Over Your Head. Maybe I should rename it: ‘Two Heads Are Better Than One.’ It would make him roll over in his grave.”
Unlike the first time I’d been to the store, today Vera showed no grief over her brother’s murder. He’d been deceased for less than a week, and already she was planning how to leverage the situation to her benefit. Apparently the hat business was rather cutthroat.
“What about his client list?” I asked.
“If I can find it, I’ll contact each person individually and let them know about the changes. Of course I’ll tell them that I’m his sister, that my store is a third-generation milliner, but it’ll be up to them to decide if they want to shop with me.”
“You don’t have the list?”
“I’ve been through his desk and his computer and it hasn’t turned up yet.”
I was about fifteen minutes from Nick’s showroom, and I made it there in eleven. I scanned the parking lot for his white truck. It wasn’t there. I sat in the car for another minute and listened to his voice mail.
“Kidd, I’m not sure if I’m going to see you today or not. I’m headed out to Milo’s. I left the keys to the showroom with the manager of the video store.”
From an employer/employee standpoint, I didn’t like what the message inferred—that I wasn’t professional enough to show up for work because I’d gotten my feathers in a twist.
Regardless of where we were in our relationship, Nick, of all people, knew I was a professional. The seven years we’d worked together when he was one of my vendors at Bentley’s New York had taught him that. He’d watched me deal with the politics of being a luxury retail buyer: diva-like personalities of designers, the one-upmanship of competition in the retail world. I’d even maintained a business-like relationship with him when clearly I’d wanted more. I�
��d worked with good assistants, bad assistants, and no assistants and had learned to juggle a mind-boggling to-do list with the efficiency of a plate spinner in the circus.
I’d been the one to demand that Nick hire me, and regardless of how I felt about his not-a-lecture lecture yesterday, I wasn’t going to be the petty girlfriend who up and left him in the lurch. I was embarrassed by how I’d stormed off, but I couldn’t change how I’d reacted. What I could do was the job he needed me to do. I prove my moral fiber was as fabulous as the tweed in my blazer.
But his voice mail suggested he wasn’t there. Good. If he wasn’t at the showroom, I didn’t have to worry about details like apologizing to my boss/boyfriend for my childish behavior.
I picked up the keys from the video store, and since I was all about proving my integrity, I emptied my wallet on a late fee I’d accrued from keeping Isaac Mizrahi’s Unzipped well-past the due date. I let myself in to the showroom and started unpacking Nick’s sample collection. I fought the urge to try on every style—even though I was a sample size—and printed up labels for each right foot with the style name and the suggested retail. I carried the sample boxes to the storage area to the right of the powder room and arranged them in alphabetical order.
After I’d checked off every task on the list Nick had made up for the week, I figured I’d earned myself a break. An inexperienced intern would have lost hours making googley-eyes at him and playing with the samples.
I left Nick a note asking him to call me. I returned the keys to the video store and figured as long as my account was up-to-date, I might as well rent something. I picked out every Hedy London movie they had—only available on VHS—and left.
I stopped off at the gas station on the corner and filled up my tank, picked up a Slim Jim for protein, and headed home. It nagged at me that I still didn’t know what had happened at the museum last night. I flipped through my recently dialed numbers and tapped the one labeled Fuzz. Detective Loncar answered.
“Hi, Detective Loncar, this is Samantha Kidd.”
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper Page 14
