Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) (16 page)

“I’ve seen the coverage. That’s one heck of a story. From what I saw, the clothes were pretty amazing. Could you get an exclusive?”

 “Let me ask her. She’s been open to a lot of my suggestions,” I exaggerated.

Big mistake. Huge.

“Perfection! Get me an expose, something about Amanda’s troubles. I want it all. The struggles, the collection, the fire. Oh—this will be fabulous. I can see a regular feature: ‘designers in the hot seat.’ Backstage with designers who are about to have a make it or break it show. How soon can you get it to me?”

I chewed my bottom lip and turned my back on Logan, who looked suspiciously like he was judging me. “Nancie, you do know that there have been more incidents since her show, right? Maybe instead of focusing on the fire, it’s best to let the police find some answers.”

“The police? As in, the fashion police?”

“No, as in the police-police. Men with badges who carry guns.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You know these men? Do you think we could do an article about them?”

“These police aren’t the kind you’d want to feature in a fashion magazine,” I said as an image of Gigger as Ichabod Crane popped into my head. “But I tell you what. I’ll write up a story about Amanda—about the collection, and what it was like behind the scenes of the runway show—and email it to you.”

“Perfection. But I want film and I want it to be good. Have the article—with pictures—in my inbox by Friday morning. If it’s good, I’ll pay you freelance rates to run it and you’ll be the frontrunner for the job.”

“Deal.”

I took down her email address and we said goodbye. I turned around to face Logan. “If you didn’t like expensive cat food, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about things like paychecks and jobs.”

He stuck his paw in the air and swatted at a piece of lint, and then turned around and disappeared through the narrow opening to the basement.

Now you’ve done it, I thought to myself. You leveraged your connection to your ex-boyfriend’s maybe-former girlfriend’s arson-tainted collection for a possible job opportunity.

One of these days I was going to take the easy road.

Okay, fine. Write an article about Amanda’s show. I could do that. I’d spent time working backstage prior to the incident. I knew firsthand what went on before the show started, and I bet a lot of people would find that interesting. Forget the attack. Forget the fire. Forget the mysterious leg sticking out of the Dumpster.

I shivered. None of that was going to be easy.

And on top of everything else, I’d promised Nancie photos.

First, I pulled a carton of Neapolitan ice cream out of the freezer. It was slightly less than half full. I ate a scoop and called Amanda. Tiny answered

“Hi, Tiny, this is Samantha.”

“Sam, hey. It’s been a couple of days. How are you feeling?”

I cringed. I really did prefer Samantha. “Better. The first couple of days were pretty painful, but the doctors said I’ll heal. Thanks for asking,” I added.

“So the doctors gave you a clean bill of health? Which doctors? I’ll follow up with them.”

I misunderstood her. “I didn’t accrue any major medical bills, but thanks for the offer.” The phone was silent. “Tiny?” I prompted.

She laughed. “Medical bills, that’s funny.” She cleared her through and I realized the laughter had been forced for impact. “You were attacked outside of the warehouse where I showed my collection. We have no liability for accidents that take place in public areas.”

“You thought I was going to sue you?”

“Just try it. I doubt you’ll get far.” There was an awkward pause. “Listen. Sorry about the accusations. Things have been tense around here ever since the fire. First your attack, then the fire. It’s a never-ending stream of bad publicity. I’d give my right arm for some good press right now.”

“You can’t honestly tell me that nobody from the media has contacted you about all of this. Somebody must have offered to run a puff piece in order to get an inside scoop.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want a puff piece. I don’t want the fire to be the focus. This is a business. Amanda needs coverage that’s going to get us orders. Everything else is a distraction.”

If I wasn’t mistaking, that knocking sound I heard was opportunity standing at my door. “I might be able to help you with that. I spoke to a contact in the industry earlier today and she’s interested in a feature on Amanda’s collection. Any chance you can talk her into giving me an exclusive?”

20

“What’s the feature?” Tiny asked.

“Backstage at a runway show, glamour of fashion, the hype of a new designer, that sort of thing.”

“She could really use something like that. Where will it be syndicated?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Tiny, somebody’s going to write about this sooner or later. Clive Barrington is bound to sell off his photos to the highest bidder. Amanda has a better chance of a fair story with me writing it than with a stranger. I can do the story based on my experiences prior to the show, but it’ll be best if I write about the whole thing, fire and all.”

I let my words dangle in the air for a few seconds. It was harder to not fill the silence with words than it was to sleep on my side with a midsection full of bruises. Finally, she spoke.

“Can you play ball with Clive?”

“If you give me his number.

She rattled off his digits and I wrote them on the side of the ice cream carton.

“Be here in an hour. Oscar LeVay is due here for a meeting with Amanda. After that, you’re up.”

“Oscar’s on his way? For what?”

“See you soon.” I hung up and grabbed my handbag. No way was I going to pass up a chance to watch Amanda interact with Oscar. I still suspected that he’d taken the threatening letters from her desk, and I wanted to know why.

I shrugged into my coat, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and whipped the front door open. Standing on my doorstep was Molly Diers.

She wore the same olive green snorkel coat she’d worn the first day we met. A brown stain had been added to the front. On her legs were heathered gray sweatpants that ended in elasticized cuffs right above thick white socks and neon cross trainers.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had a last minute yoga class this morning. Did I miss my whole appointment?”

In the mix of everything that had been happening—the arson, the date-not-date with Dante, the trip to New York, the potential new job, and the visit with Detective Loncar—I’d completely forgotten about Molly’s need for a makeover. Problem was, Molly was really in need.

Really, really in need.

“I’m sorry that you came all this way. Something came up and I have to leave. It’s an emergency.”

“A fashion emergency? Bigger than me?”

I looked her over again. “Can you come back this afternoon?”

“The kids will be out of school at two forty-five. If I can come at four, I could focus more.”

“Four. Sure.” The only thing I had planned for the day was to go to Amanda’s showroom and then come home and write an article for Nancie. I could do that in five hours, right? “Four o’clock. Meet me here and we’ll have another consultation.”

“I don’t need another consultation, I need clothes. I thought you were going to have something for me to look at today. My ex-husband is coming in for his parents 50th anniversary and he’s bringing Lolita!”

“His new girlfriend’s name is Lolita?”

“It might as well be. I can’t see him like this.” She looked down at the green snorkel coat and picked at a clump of what appeared to be dried-on scrambled eggs.

I did some mental calculation. Go to Amanda’s, stop by Tradava for some clothes for Molly, and then come home and write the article. It would be tight, but I could do it. And in the category of keeping myself busy so I didn’t think about Nick or Dante, it was just what the doctor would have ordered. If there’d been a doctor in this scenario.

“I’ll have everything ready when you get here.”

“Great. Thank you, Samantha. You really are a lifesaver,” she said. She pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. I wanted to spin her around and give her a push toward her car but that somehow felt too rude. Patiently, I stood on my porch and waited for her to put away the soiled Kleenex, pull a handful of flotsam out of her other pocket, and dig through it for her car keys. Two sourball candies wrapped in plastic and a pack of matches fell to the porch before she looped her finger through the key ring. I was afraid if she bent down to collect them she’d drop everything else in her hand.

“I’ll get it,” I said, and stooped down. I closed a gloved hand around the candies and picked up the plain white matchbook with my other hand. “Do you smoke?” I asked.

“No, why?”

“I don’t see a lot of people with matchbooks these days.”

“It’s a memento. The last time a stranger hit on me in a bar.”

I put my hand on her upper arm and gently turned her around. “Molly, things will get better for you. I don’t know how long it’s been, but you’ll get back out there again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how long you’ve been carrying around this packet of matches, but your confidence will come back. Before you know it, the night when a stranger hits on you will be one of many.”

She turned back to face me. “It was this past Saturday night,” she said. She glanced at the matches. “He was a creep who was looking for a nude model. Do I look like model material?” She waved her hand up and down the length of her stained snorkel coat. “When my ex left me for a younger woman, I decided to teach my kids something about integrity. But please,” she paused, “do something about this.” She left me on the porch and drove away.

I glanced down at the matches in my hand. It seemed pretty silly that such a small thing could give Molly Diers a confidence boost. It wasn’t the matches themselves, it was what they represented.

I was about to toss them when I noticed something written on the inside. I flipped the package open and saw a phone number, followed by the letters C. B. I knew of a C. B. In fact, I knew of a C. B. who was just seedy enough to use a pickup line about models. I raced back inside and pulled the Neapolitan of ice cream out of the freezer. The number I’d written on the side matched.

So Clive Barrington had given away a pack of matches after the fire at Amanda’s show. Did it mean something? I intended to find out. I called the number.

“Clive Barrington,” he answered.

“This is Samantha Kidd.”

“Ah, love, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was talking to one of my clients and she just so happened to have a pack of matches with your number on them.” I paused for effect. “It struck me as curious that you had a pack of matches on you and that you gave them away the day after the fire at Amanda’s show. Perhaps trying to rid yourself of evidence?”

“I hardly think I’d write my name and number inside matches that were used to start a fire. Come on, love, I expected more from you.”

And I’d expected less of him. “She said you asked her to model for you. Is that the best pickup line you have?”

“I wouldn’t resort to using something so mundane. The models I shoot aren’t amateurs. Although I’d make an exception in your case. How about it, Ms. Kidd? Care to let me take artistic photographs of you?”

“No thanks.” I hung up without saying goodbye. I tossed the matches on the counter and left. Even with the sidetracks of Molly’s appearance and the conversation with Clive, less than an hour had passed. I still hoped to arrive at Amanda’s before Oscar left.

I’d have a better chance of getting film if I showed up with a photographer than if I asked permission first. There was only one way to turn.

“Dante, this is Samantha. Meet me at Amanda’s showroom as soon as you can. Bring your photography equipment.” I left the address on his voicemail and disconnected. I nestled the phone into the cup holder next to the list I’d made yesterday while driving home from the Big Apple. “Get Job” was at the top.
Stay focused, Samantha. This article is about getting paid, not about the investigation.
And if—no,
when
—I got the job I’d celebrate by buying Logan that fancy cat toy. Productivity was my middle name.

I parked in the driveway next to a shiny black sedan. It was the same car that had parked next to the Corvette the first day I came to Amanda’s studio. I followed the sidewalk to the front door and listened before knocking. The door was too thick. I bent down and crept under the front windows, and then peered into the corner.

Oscar stood facing Amanda. Today he wore a navy blue three piece suit with a paisley necktie. “Thank you for understanding,” he said.

“Had she mentioned that she was going to Mexico?” Amanda asked.

“Harper was a loner. She didn’t have friends at the agency. The only person she listened to was her sister. If anything, I’d think the others were jealous of her rise. Perhaps that made things more difficult for her. Perhaps that’s why she left without telling anyone.”

I strained to keep up with their conversation, plugging one finger into my right ear and pressing my left closer to the glass. The voices stopped. After a few seconds, the front door opened. Amanda looked at me standing under the window.

“You’re early,” she said.

“I was already on my way.”

She leaned forward and looked at the patch of lawn where I’d been standing, and then turned around and went inside. I followed. “Have a seat. Oscar and I are finishing up.”

Oscar wasn’t in the room, and I hardly suspected him of hiding behind the wicker screen like I’d done days before. “Where is he?” Just then, a toilet flushed. “Oh.”

The tall man came out of the powder room. He saw me, and then looked at Amanda. “We’ve reached an understanding?” he asked her. She nodded. He lifted a wool cape from a peg on the wall and draped it around his massive shoulders. He his hat from a chair and tipped it my direction before putting it on and leaving.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“‘Okay’ is hardly the term I’d use.”

“Is he still demanding payment?”

“Yes,” she said. “And Tiny said I have to pay if I want to come out of this with my reputation intact.”