Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper (26 page)

“Before you say anything, I’m sorry I’m late.” He was quiet and serious. “Go for a walk?”

“Give me a sec to put my dress back on.”

“You’re fine,” he said.

I checked the locks to make sure the door wouldn’t lock behind us and followed him onto the porch and down my driveway. The air was cooling down now that the sun had dropped. We made it halfway down the block before he spoke.

“I don’t think this is working out,” he said.

“I know.”

A thin veil of mist surrounded us, typical of the evenings in Ribbon. I took a few steps back to where he was standing and positioned myself in front of him.

 “Let me explain something.” He stopped walking. He looked down at the sidewalk, using the toe of his shiny tuxedo shoes to play with some gravel in his path. There was a childish quality to his body language. “I’m worried about you, Kidd. Like it or not, your involvement with Eddie put you right in the crosshairs of this thing.”

“Nick—”

He held a finger to my lips to shush me. “I care about you. I want to protect you. And the only way I know how to is to keep you from going tonight.”

“But Eddie’s counting on me. I can’t let him go through this alone.”

“Whatever this is, it’s not just about Eddie anymore. This time neither of you has to be involved. Spend the night with me.”

My eyes widened.

“I don’t mean that. I mean …” He took my hands in his. “Let’s stay away from the exhibit together. Go out to dinner, go see a movie.”

“But Eddie needs me.”

“Eddie’s got the boys in blue to watch over him. He doesn’t need you.”

What I didn’t say out loud was that deep down, I knew Nick was right. Eddie might not need me, but I needed him. I needed his confidence in my friendship and loyalty. I needed to be there to support him. I needed to watch him get through the night without a hitch to know that he was going to be okay, and I needed to see the killer get his due.

When I finally spoke, it was a mere hint of a whisper. “I need to be there.”

He stepped away from me and dropped my hands. “I can’t watch you do this.”

“I know.”

The mist swirled around us. He ran a finger along side of my face and twisted it around a tendril of hair that had escaped my fancy up-do and turned curly due to the dampness in the air.

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m not even ready yet.” I flushed and looked down at my slippered feet with embarrassment.

“If I were a different kind of boss, I might take advantage of a moment like this,” he said with a smile, his fingertip now tracing a line down my neck. His palm opened up and he wrapped his hand around the side my neck, his thumb stroking the spot under my  ear. I tipped my head to the side and he leaned forward and kissed my neck.

“If I were a different kind of employee, I’d want you to,” I whispered.

He leaned down to my lips and kissed me. This time I knew it wasn’t one-sided. The mist turned into a sudden rain that created puddles on the uneven street and pasted my kimono to my body. Nick pulled his hand away, took off his jacket, and draped it over my shoulders.

We ran through newly formed puddles on the way back to my house. As quickly as the shower had started it stopped, just before we reached my front door.

“I think I should be leaving,” he said.

“Nick, don’t leave. You’re already dressed. Think of the visibility for your business.”

“I can’t do this with you.” He took my hands in his and kissed me on the cheek. “And it would be hypocritical to do it without you. Be careful, Kidd.”

I didn’t want to think about what he really meant. Sometimes a woman has to know how to take care of herself, and this felt like one of those times. I fixed my hair, stepped into my shoes, and admired myself in the mirror. I was ready. If only I knew what I was getting ready for.

33

I filled the small black satin bag with essentials: twenty-dollar bill, fully charged cell phone, identification, lipstick, powder, keys, breath mints, nail file, painkillers, moisturizer, small notepad and pen, Swiss Army knife, and emergency sewing kit. My version of the Boy Scout motto. I snagged a second twenty to cover what-ifs and left.

The sun was setting behind the museum, giving the sky a romantic orangey-gold tone. It was the perfect backdrop for the event. I pulled up in front of the museum, handed off my keys to the valet attendant, and gave the hem of my dress one last tug before accepting its miniskirt reality. As I approached the front of the museum, I watched limousines and shiny cars drop off well-dressed patrons. I scanned the crowd for police and spotted three uniformed officers standing to the left of the entrance and two more on the right. Good. They weren’t taking any chances here tonight.

The last time I had been at the museum for a formal event, I had not been on the guest list. There’d been no thrill of being one of the partygoers. In fact, I had been dropped off a few blocks away and walked to the event, watching by the pond and conducting surveillance before being threatened, hiding in a tree, and being chased from the premises.

Tonight was different.

I felt every bit the glamorous socialite as I stepped onto the red carpet.
Nice touch,
I thought. Eddie had never mentioned the final details, so I didn’t know if he was responsible. Either way it made for a dramatic entrance.

I picked out some familiar Tradava faces after scanning the crowd surrounding the front doors. Outside of that group, I felt anonymous. I wished someone would be waiting to meet me at the entrance, but after realizing that I hadn’t planned to arrive alone, I thought twice about that wish. Lost in thought, I made my way through the crowd to the massive front doors, propped open for the evening with large urns that held topiaries shaped to resemble pillbox hats on hat stands. 

The waning sun cast golden rays into the foyer, where chic volunteers, dressed in matching belted camel skirt suits and long brown gloves, greeted guests. They were all modeled after a scene from
 Murder after Midnight
. Stylistically, it was a home run. In reality, it was like a cloning experiment gone wrong.

I stood by myself now, looking for familiar faces or anything out of the ordinary. Two guards stood at the entrance. Another stood off to the side, radio in hand, watching the crowd as they entered the museum. They weren’t the museum guards who had ushered patrons from one wing to the next, keeping viewers a safe distance from the paintings. These officers were police, I guessed, dressed in less obvious uniforms than the men out front but armed all the same, radios in hand, surveying the scene. My pulse returned to normal as I picked them out of the crowd.

Detective Loncar must have coordinated that as part of his plan to keep Eddie and the other patrons safe tonight. I looked around for the detective, wondering what his take on formal attire might look like. I didn’t see him.

The young blondes with carefully coiffed French twists peeking out of camel and brown trilby hats bustled around, checking invitations and directing guests here and there. Invitations! Of all the things I remembered to pack in my bag, I suddenly realized I had left that vital piece of paper on the counter at home.

I stepped to the side of the line, pretending to search through my purse, all the while knowing I could be bounced out before even getting a glimpse of Eddie’s work.

“Samantha! I’m delighted to see you this evening,” a voice called to me.

Dr. Daum stood beside one of the volunteers. I greeted him warmly and accepted his arm as he escorted me past the faux Hedy Londons and into the museum lobby.

“How’s Thad?” I asked as we walked past the coat check line.

“He’s doing fine, just fine. He was released today. He was hoping to be here tonight, which I think was a little presumptuous on his part considering his multiple wounds. He was quite a lucky young man, though. Quite lucky.” His voice drifted off.

“Multiple wounds? I thought he was stabbed.”

“Three times, three shallow wounds.” The former director guided me toward the elevator. “But now’s not the time to talk about it. He’ll be fine, and that’s what counts.”

We arrived on the second floor amidst an already-energized crowd that was taking in Eddie’s genius. Twelve hats had been positioned on sculpted white bust forms and perched on Ionic pedestals. Twelve pencil-thin flashlights were suspended from the ceiling, directly over each hat, to shine on them from above. The dental floss was invisible; the flashlights appeared to be hanging in midair and only added to the design concept. Behind the hat display were dozens of mannequins dressed in shades of camel, brown, ivory, and taupe. Nipped-in waists on jackets and skirts full with accordion pleats of netting recalled Dior’s New Look that had launched in the late forties and defined the fifties. I walked from one mannequin to the next, wondering how the city of Ribbon was going to react to such strikingly feminine—yet retro—fashion. That is, if the fashionistas weren’t going to buy it out first like they’d done with the latest designer collaboration at Target.

While a large portion of the crowd
oohed
and
ahhed
the exhibit, a throng of partygoers stood off to the side, sipping champagne and munching hors d’oeuvres. I saw mini quiches and cocktail shrimp. I cursed the corset that would keep me from eating.

“Your friend Eddie has turned out to be exactly what we needed for this exhibit,” Dr. Daum said. “He managed to do some extraordinary things for us during what would normally be a trying time. In fact, he kept much of his exhibit under wraps. Even though we’re viewing it now, he and Christian still planned for an unveiling.”

“Eddie said something special was happening tonight, but he didn’t tell me what.”

“Yes, Christian said the same thing.”

“Dr. Daum, there’s something I think you should know about Christian—”

“An interesting approach, I think, considering this is a crowd that expects a lot to be impressed.” He checked his watch. “In fact, it’s almost that time. Have you seen him yet?”

“Christian? No, not yet. But Dr. Daum—”

“Then I must go and see if Eddie requires any help.” He stepped away and nodded formally in my direction.

Once again I was by myself. I glanced around, looking for someone else who might provide a conversational escape but found nothing more than well-dressed couples walking around, nodding in my direction. I suddenly became aware that someone was standing close behind me, breathing on my neck.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me backward toward a tuxedoed body. “You didn’t think I was going to leave you all alone, did you?” a husky voice whispered in my ear.

I closed my eyes and leaned back. “I knew you wouldn’t stand me up,” I said.

“Stand you up? I wasn’t even sure if you’d show.”

I whirled around and stood face to face with Dante. Heat shot through my body and face and a few other unmentionable places.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He smiled. “Expecting someone else?”

A volunteer approached us with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Dante took two from the tray and offered me one. Not one to turn down champagne from a handsome man, I accepted the glass and sipped.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how nice I look?” he asked.

I was still swigging from the champagne flute and stopped to look his way. He cleaned up nicely, that was for sure. Still the rebel, though, he sported a black shirt under his peak lapel tuxedo and had chosen to wear a black tie with green flames that looked like they’d been lifted from a motorcycle with a custom paint job.

“Well?”

“What did you do, call ahead to find out the dress code?”

“You actually think I don’t know how to dress?”

“No.” I stared him straight in the eyes and chose my words carefully. “I think you probably know more than you let on.”

His gaze was direct, but I wasn’t going to let him get to me.

“What brings you here tonight?” I asked.

He leaned in close, and once again I felt his breath next to my ear. “What do you think brought me here?”

He was being evasive on purpose, and I finally understood what he meant about the questions I asked. Mine were polite. Innocuous. They were reactionary, based on our encounters, and he knew it. He had come to expect the expected from me. As long as he kept me on my toes, he’d be the one controlling what I knew and what I didn’t. It was time to turn the tables.

“What’s your connection to the exhibit tonight?” I asked.

Passing couples looked in our direction. Part of me was looking out for Nick, and the other was looking for Christian. And there was that murderer to consider too. The rest of the guests in attendance had the luxury of relaxing into party mode. I knew too much to relax.

Dante leaned against the wall and poured half his champagne down his throat. “I know the guy who’s running the show—Christian Jhanes. He had me do some dirty jobs back in my college days.” He scanned the crowd, not making eye contact. “Plus there’s this woman I was hoping to run into …” His voice trailed off.

I’d done it. I’d gotten him to admit to a connection between himself and Christian. And despite his attempt to distract me with innuendo, I knew I’d scored a point. I thought over what I wanted to ask next but didn’t get the chance. Cat approached us.

“Samantha, Dante, you found each other,” she said. One of the few people to pay proper homage to the exhibit, her signature red hair was topped with a green satin turban. It was trimmed with white feathers that easily stood twelve inches above her head. It was the perfect complement to her white silk skirt suit. If she’d paid $3,000 for the last one, I didn’t want to ask about the price tag on this one. She cocked her head to one side and touched her finger to her cheek. “You like?”

“Won’t lose you in the crowd, that’s for sure,” Dante answered.

She caught her reflection in the glass doors of the gift shop and adjusted the pleated satin confection over her shoulder-length bob. “It’s almost better than the last one. It was designed by Lily Dache’s assistant. You know who that was, right?”