Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) (20 page)

“Amanda, there’s a very good chance that the person who put me in the hospital was the same person who started the fire that destroyed your show. I need you to be honest with me and tell me what you told the arson investigator.”

“The tall man with the short pants?” she said. For the first time since we’d met, we shared a smile. “I gave him a statement, but I didn’t have much to say. The fire started on the runway. I was backstage making sure the models were perfect before they went out. You probably saw more than I did.”

“I have the show on video tape. Do you want to see what the rest of us saw?”

* * *

In a move of extreme compassion, I offered Amanda the use of my shower before we watched the video. I was still reeling from her confession. The self-proclaimed normal woman with the model appearance and the glamorous business had gone a little crazy. I guess we all go a little crazy sometimes.

While she was showering, I went downstairs. There was still the matter of food—or lack of food—to be dealt with, and even though Amanda and I were forging new ground in how we related to each other, I wasn’t yet ready to let her see my shortcomings. There was only one person I could call.

“Yo,” I said when Eddie answered. “I’m in over my head and I need your help.”

“Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m at home, but I’m not alone.”

“Which one? Nick or Dante?”

“Neither.” I held my breath and glanced at the closed bathroom door. “Amanda.”

“Is Mercury in Retrograde?”

“We don’t have enough time for the full explanation. Here’s the problem. She’s in a bad way and I don’t think she should be alone. But I haven’t eaten since nine o’clock this morning, and that was a bowl of ice cream. And I know this is really, really petty of me, but I feel like I have a chance to prove something about myself to her right now and I don’t want to order delivery.”

“I’m pulling an all-nighter on these displays so I can’t bring you food. Tell me what we have to work with.”

“I have two partially defrosted chicken breasts, a bag of baby carrots, less than a third of a half gallon of Neapolitan ice cream, three bags of pretzels, and a box of wine.”

“How close have you guys gotten since she’s been there?”

“Not very.”

“Okay, so save the pretzels and the wine and get out a large stockpot. I’m going to tell you how to make chicken soup.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“How complicated can it be? You have three ingredients.”

“Good point.” I got out the stockpot and came back to the phone.

“Bring four cups of water to a boil. Hopefully your chicken will be defrosted by this point. Add the chicken and chopped up carrots. Throw in some salt and pepper, cover, and let it simmer for half an hour.”

“And then what?”

“And then you pour it into a bowl and eat it.”

“That’s it?”

“Dude, we are going to work on this. Now, is everything else okay?”

“Not even close.”

After hanging up, I put the water on to boil and submerged the package of chicken breasts in warm water to get them fully defrosted. My mind wandered to Amanda’s motivation while I chopped the baby carrots. When the water in the stock pot was boiling, I added the chicken breasts, and the carrots, shook in some salt and pepper, and closed the lid again. I set the microwave timer for thirty minutes and poured myself a generous glass of wine. I’d earned it.

Ten minutes later, Amanda came downstairs and joined me in the living room. “Something smells good,” she said.

“I’m making chicken soup. I thought it might make you feel better.” I didn’t mention that it was either that or pretzels, and that I didn’t consider her worthy of my pretzel stash.

“I thought you didn’t cook?” she asked.

“I can cook when I have to,” I said defensively. The timer beeped and I stood. “Have a seat. We can eat out here and watch the video. I’ll be right back.”

We traded spaces and I went into the kitchen, returning with a wooden tray that held two bowls of soup. “I don’t have any crackers,” I said.

“This is already more than I expected. Thank you.”

Amanda’s long straight hair was draped over her left shoulder. She wasn’t one to overdo her makeup routine, but without any, she was still a knockout. She balanced her bowl on her lap and scooped dainty mouthfuls of broth to her lips. If she hadn’t been sitting in my living room, I would have held the bowl up to my lips and drank. Heck, if she hadn’t been there, I would have bribed Eddie to show up with hoagies.

I hit play on the remote and the screen filled with the image from the stationary camera at the end of Amanda’s runway. She looked up and froze for a moment, her spoon halfway to her mouth. The broth dribbled from the spoon and spilled onto her camel trousers. She glanced down at the spreading wet spot, but didn’t dab it.

This was the fifth time I’d watch it and I hoped to spot something I’d missed the first four. There were Dante and I on the left. There was Clive on the right. At the twenty-seven second mark, there was Santangelo sneaking in. I glanced at Amanda to see if she’d noticed, but she did not.

The lights went down, the pop music started, and the runway came alive. Godzilla graphics illuminated the back wall above Amanda’s name. And then five models came down the runway before Harper in the silver wig and kimono.

“She complained that her kimono didn’t fit. Remember?” I said. “But aside from how the sleeves are dragging on the floor, it looks great on her.”

Amanda leaned forward. “It’s going to happen now, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

I nodded.

I knew where to look for the smoke. It appeared on the left first, by the hem of the kimono, a whisper of something, and then flames. It was that fast. Screams replaced music. The house lights went on. Harper struggled to get out of the kimono. Nick stepped out from behind the backdrop and helped her. The fire blazed a trail through the rose petals on the ground and spread to the rest of the room. Someone knocked the camera over and the video went to fuzz.

“So that’s what happened,” Amanda said when it was done. “We couldn’t see anything. We didn’t know. One second I was adjusting a collar on one of the girls and the next, Harper was screaming.”

“How did Nick know that Harper needed his help? If you were all so busy backstage, how come he knew to come out and help her out of the kimono?”

“There’s a small video feed on a monitor in the back. Tiny watched the monitor to keep up with the pace and make sure there aren’t any problems out front. Nick must have been watching too.”

“Where was Clive Barrington through all of this?”

“I don’t know, and I know how that sounds, but you know what it’s like backstage at a runway show. It’s chaos! I love the excitement, but I have to concentrate on the problem in front of me. Otherwise I get overwhelmed by how little I can control. That’s why I have Tiny watching the monitor, and the interns to help dress the models, and Nick to oversee the accessories. There’s almost too much to do, but it would be worse to have people helping who I can’t trust.”

“That’s why you let me go on Friday night, isn’t it?” I asked. She looked up at me, and we locked eyes. “You didn’t know if you could trust me. You knew how much work it would be and you knew that I knew the collection. There was no good reason for you to let me go before the show. And if you hadn’t fired me, I wouldn’t have left when I did, and I might not have been attacked.”

“I’ve been over that decision a hundred times since then. Honestly, Samantha, I didn’t want to let you go.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I couldn’t stand what it was doing to Nick.”

“What does Nick have to do with you letting me go?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Nick’s father is in the hospital.”

25

My heart stopped. Tears built up a wall behind my eyes. I set the soup bowl down. “When?”

“A few weeks ago. He’s been splitting his time between Ribbon and New York.”

“What happened?”

“He fell and broke his hip.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“It’s still too soon to tell.

“Why didn’t Nick say anything?”

“What did you want him to say? You broke his heart and you moved on like nothing happened.”

“That’s what you think? Is that what Nick thinks?”

“What do you
want
us to think? You brought a date to my runway show. You told Nick you needed a change. And all of a sudden the guy you’re dating is my new photographer.”

“He used to work for a private investigator. He’s a good person to have on the inside.”

“Depends on what you’re trying to accomplish.”

I looked at my soup bowl for a few seconds. “Me working with you after Nick fired me—that wasn’t his idea, was it? It was yours.”

She flipped her hair behind her shoulder and shrugged. “You two were making each other crazy. At least that’s how it sounded to me.”

“He talked to you about me?”

“Don’t you talk to Eddie about Nick?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

How to tell her that I had an irrational jealousy of her because of her relationship with Nick? That even though I’d known him for eight years, I secretly hated that she’d known him longer? That some might say people who ate ice cream for breakfast weren’t in the same league as her? I went with, “Maybe it isn’t. It just feels like it is.”

“He wanted to make sure you were going to be okay.”

“Does he know about the letters?”

“No. That was—that was my own idea. He’s dealing with a lot right now and I thought if I could keep you preoccupied, you’d be one less thing for him to worry about.”

“How is his dad?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We haven’t talked much over this past week. He has his problems and I have mine.” She tucked her feet under her and picked at the carpet fibers. “I went to design school so I could get into fashion. One thing led to another and now here I am. I guess you never know when the bottom’s going to drop out of your life.”

“Amanda, you have a gift. Don’t let any of this stop you from using it. This,” I gestured toward the screen, “is all a set-back, sure, but don’t let it get in the way of what you want out of life.”

The longer Amanda sat on my sofa, the less jealousy I felt toward her. She’d relied on the people around her to see her vision through, and she found herself alone. Did she have a chance at success if she was willing to hand control of her business over to others? Was it possible for her to succeed if she didn’t?

Amanda yawned, and then so did I. I’d lost all track of time, but I suspected it was late. Hours had passed since Loncar and Amanda showed up and Dante had left and for a moment I wished I could pretend that none of this had happened. But I couldn’t. Because all of it had. The breakup. The attack. The fire. And now, Nick’s dad. Things had gotten very, very real.

Something had happened since the breakup. Somewhere between learning that Dante had a son, Detective Loncar had a wife who made uncooked meatloaf, and Amanda had a nervous stomach, I realized that I’d kept myself from seeing reality when it came to Nick. I’d projected my feelings onto him, the daydreams that I’d had when he was a shoe designer and I was a buyer, when we couldn’t do much more than casually flirt over dinner at market week.

And once we’d started dating, I wanted him to see me as perfect girlfriend material. The reality? He was coping with the very real crisis of his father’s declining health while I was with his maybe former girlfriend eating three ingredient chicken soup.

Reality bites.

I carried the empty bowls to the kitchen so Amanda wouldn’t see the sadness on my face. The clock read eleven thirty. Dante’s developed photos awaited me in the darkroom, but they felt somehow less important now that I knew the threats against Amanda had been fake.

I was working up the best way to politely suggest that playtime was over when I returned to the living room and found her asleep on the sofa. I pulled a spare comforter out of the closet and covered her. I pointed a finger at the ceiling. “I get extra credit for this, you got that?”

It was well past my bedtime and my body was tired and achy. I climbed into bed. I dreamt about fires and woke up in a sweat with the covers kicked onto the floor. I’d been so buried in details about Amanda’s samples that I hadn’t stopped to ask the most obvious question of all: How had someone started the fire in the middle of a runway show in the first place?

26

The next morning I woke up alone in the house. Amanda had left a note thanking me for my generosity on the coffee table. That was it. No acknowledgment of the fake letters. No apology for firing me on the eve of her runway show. No mention of the homemade chicken soup. I peeked out the front window to confirm her departure. Her car was gone.

I showered and dressed in a man’s white button-down oxford under a chunky gray knit sweater with a Union Jack on the front, a short pleated gray and navy plaid skirt, tights layered with argyle knee socks, and black leather riding boots. I slipped on black fingerless gloves for the simple reason that they made me feel tough.

I opened and shut the freezer and refrigerator. Now that I’d cooked the chicken breasts and the carrots, the only thing left was a carton of Cool-Whip left over from a Labor Day party. Surprisingly, it looked exactly as it had two months ago. I dragged a finger though the white fluffy substance and tasted it. Seemed fresh enough. But then I thought of last night. I’d made chicken soup from scratch. In personal growth terms, wouldn’t it be taking a step backward to have Cool-Whip for breakfast?

I called Eddie. “How’d things go at Tradava last night?”

“I wrapped up around two thirty.”

“I thought when you got promoted to visual director, you’d be able to delegate a little?”

“Dude, I’m not management material. I got into creative work so I could be creative. Telling other people what to do isn’t my style.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you having a problem with it when I helped you out at the museum,” I said.

“Where are you?” I asked.