Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) (18 page)

“If you’re trying to get lost in a crowd, you might want to find a different crowd.”

“You’re saying I’m not mannequin material?” I asked. I put a hand on the arm of the mannequin next to me and she rocked dangerously to the left.

“Dude!” Eddie said. He shoved the glue gun into his pocket, raced forward, and caught her. “These mannequins cost a grand a piece.”

“For real?”

“New mannequins are either fiberglass or plastic and they are the definition of cheap. I’m trying to maintain a tiny shred of nostalgia in an ever changing world of hot pants and prom dresses.”

Suddenly he hopped on his left foot and kicked his right foot like there was a mouse in his pant leg. He made a
woop woop woop
sound like Curly from The Three Stooges and hopped in a circle. The cord from the glue gun wrapped around his leg. Now tangled, he lost his balance and fell forward. His hands connected with the mannequin on the end and knocked her over. Her arm popped off, slid out of the sleeve, and landed on the ground. The plaster broke by her elbow but the arm didn’t fall off. I yanked the cord to the glue gun out of the wall.

“You’re supposed to unplug it when it’s not in use,” I said. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

He picked the plaster arm from the floor. There was a half inch space between the components that had broken, and in the middle was a steel rod.

“Another one bites the dust,” he said.

“Why didn’t it fall apart?”

“There’s a steel frame inside the plaster.”

“Can you shoot a bunch of hot glue in the middle and squeeze it shut?”

“I wish. When these old ones break, they have to be destroyed. There’s too much chance of them cracking more and causing an accident around customers.”

“So you’re going to send her off to the mannequin graveyard?’

“Worse. Broken mannequins have to be destroyed. Security arranges a pick up with a special trash removal company. And I can’t yell at anybody over this one because it was my fault.” He suddenly looked at me. I held my hands up in front of my waist palm-side out.

“Don’t even think about blaming this on me.”

His shoulders fell, dejected. He pulled the large black radio off of his belt. “Walt, this is Eddie. I got a broken mannequin on one, by the coffee shop. Nothing dangerous, but it’s one of the old ones. It’s gonna have to be burned.”

My head snapped up. “Why do you have to burn it?”

He waved me silent and held the radio up to his mouth again. “Not the whole thing. Broken arm. Sure, I might have another lying around. I’ll put it behind the coffee counter. Get it when you’re ready.” He hooked the radio back to his belt.

“Why do you have to burn them?”

“You see how big this thing is? Imagine how much space it would take up in the trash. And like I said, they’re expensive. The iron framework inside can be recycled, but the plaster has to be burned off, and then the iron has to cool and be professionally cleaned before the company can start over. We get back like a tenth of the price of the mannequin, but it’s something.”

“Who burns them?”

“I don’t know. Some company with a big incinerator. What do you care?”

I chewed on my lip. “I have to call Loncar. I think somebody might have been burning a mannequin in the Dumpster behind Warehouse Five.”

22

“You said these mannequins were made of plaster. What else are they made of?” I asked.

“Horse hair and cotton fibers to make it stronger.”

That’s exactly what I’d started to suspect. I didn’t know much about the flammability of plaster, but when you added in the content of cotton fibers, you had something that would burn. And if someone burned a plaster mannequin leg, the only thing left would be the steel rods inside.

I called Loncar. “Detective, remember how I saw a leg in the Dumpster at Warehouse Five? But you found no evidence that a person was there at all? And how Ichabod—I mean, Inspector Gigger—didn’t believe me?”

There was a sound on the other end of the phone like a chuckle.

“But turns out, Gigger was right.” I said. “There wasn’t a person in the Dumpster. There was a mannequin leg. Maybe not a whole mannequin, but a part of one. If you can come to my house tonight, we can go over my theory in more detail. I have an appointment at four that should last an hour and I have to focus on that first. And I have to write an article, but I can work on that after you leave. So, seven? Can you come then?”

“Fine,” he repeated. “See you tonight.”

* * *

Molly Diers’ car was in my driveway when I returned home. I pulled in behind her minivan, backed out, and pulled up next to the mailbox. After wrestling with the merchandise I’d bought at Tradava after I called Loncar, I shut the door with my hip and headed toward the house. Molly was on my front porch with two boys. Logan sat inside the big picture window staring out, and one of the two boys was propped up against the windowsill staring in. The other boy sat on the swing next to Molly, his head buried in a book.

“I hope you don’t mind. I was late picking the boys up from school and didn’t have time to take them home.” Her eyes cut to the packages draped over my arm. “Are those for me?”

“A couple of last minute items,” I said. “Why are you waiting outside? You must be freezing.”

“They wouldn’t stop bothering each other in the car. The rule was they could get out if they didn’t talk.”

I looked at the one with the book and the one antagonizing Logan. They looked angelic enough. If Molly could deal with her two boys sitting in the background while she tried on clothes, then I was going to deal with the situation. I threw the bags over my left arm and unlocked the front door.

“Follow me,” I said to Molly.

“Is she a witch?” the non-book reading boy asked. “She has a black cat.”

“She’s not a witch, dummy,” said the boy reading the book. “She’s probably a pagan.”

“Joseph!” Molly said. “You take that back.”

“I take it back,” Joseph said. “Maybe she
is
a witch.”

I carried the shopping bags down the steps last. Not-Joseph sat on a folding chair, swinging his legs above the exposed cement floor. Joseph set his book down on the chair next to his brother and wandered to the bookcases against the back wall.

“Molly, are you sure you still want to do this today?” I asked.

“I told you this morning. I need a dress for this weekend and I’m running out of time.”

“But if you’re busy keeping track of the boys—”

“Do you have any puzzles? They love puzzles. Any kind of puzzles.”

I scrounged around and came up with two unsolved Rubik’s cubes. Within thirty seconds the only sound was the click of plastic against plastic.

First crisis averted.

“Today is about determining what shapes look good on you and what you like. We might not agree on everything. I’ll give you an honest opinion, but ultimately it’s your money, so you have to feel good about spending it,” I said. It was the same speech I gave every client. I had a feeling Molly would take it more seriously than most.

“I can’t believe this is my life. I used to know about stuff like this and now I’m paying you to make sure I don’t walk out of here looking like a fool,” she said. “The things we do for family.”

I hung the shopping bags on an empty rolling rack and tore the plastic down from the hangers. I handed the first round of clothes to Molly and lowered my voice.

“Remember those matches you dropped the other day? Is there anything else you can tell me about the guy who gave them to you?”

Her lips curled into a frown. “Why do you keep asking about him? He was a nobody.”

“You kept the matches, which meant something,”

“Yeah, it meant I wanted to light some candles in my apartment.” She grabbed the black dress in my hand and turned away.

“Molly, don’t sell yourself short. You’re a beautiful woman and when we’re done here, everybody is going to see it.”

She looked at me for a second and her expression softened. “He told me I reminded him of a model he used to work with,” she said. “It was just a line that a creep in a bar probably uses on every woman who walks in, but I liked the way it sounded.”

“It’s the accent,” I said. “Makes everything sound good.”

“What accent?”

I narrowed my eyes and looked at her. Something didn’t make sense. She took the clothes and undergarments that I held out to her and carried them to the darkroom that I’d indicated for her fitting room. A moment later, the door opened back up and she came out, her face bright red. Behind her was Dante.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Molly. “You surprised me as much as I surprised you.”

Molly looked at him and then me. “Was that part of the plan—send me into a dark closet with a sexy man?”

“Nope. Not part of the plan.” I glared at Dante, and then turned back to face her. “This is Dante. He’s a photographer. He sometimes uses that room to develop photos.”

Behind me, Joseph spoke. “That’s probably where she casts her spells.”

“Mom! Don’t go in there!” Not-Joseph cried out.

The look that I gave the two boys probably didn’t do much to prove I wasn’t a witch.

I turned back to Molly. “The room is empty now. You can go in and change.”

She leaned into the doorway, more tentatively this time. When she was convinced no more tattooed bikers were lurking about inside, she closed the door behind her.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed at him.

“You told me to come here and develop the film, remember?”

“Are you finished?”

“The prints are drying. Who is this woman? Do you trust her? Because every photo I took today is hanging in there.”

“She’s a client.” The door opened slowly and Molly Diers poked her head out. “Samantha, can I ask you something in private?”

I left Dante and crossed the room to her. “Yes?”

“These photos are of you. What are they from?”

“I’m writing an article on a local designer and needed some art. Last minute thing—no time to hire a model.”

“So he’s your photographer? Do you trust him?”

I looked at Dante, who was fiddling with one of the Rubik’s cubes while the boys watched.

“More than I probably should,” I said.

“I wish I met the kind of men I could trust.” She shut the door again and I went back to Dante.

“This woman just went through a nasty divorce. Her ex-husband has a girlfriend half his age, and her in-laws invited her and the kids to their golden anniversary party this weekend.”

“I know you’re not seriously asking me to be her date.”

“God, no!” The clicking of the plastic toys in the background stopped. I froze and looked at Dante. He looked behind me. He smiled at them. The clicking started again.“If I’m going to help her, I need her undivided attention. That means no you, and no them.” I tipped my head toward Joseph and Not-Joseph. “As in, can you do make them go away? Like, to the kitchen?”

“You think their mom is going to let me take her kids?”

“I think their mom would pay you to take her kids.”

The door behind me opened and I turned to look at Molly’s head, poking out from behind the door. She looked nervous.

“Come on out,” I said.

She stepped out from the closet, wearing a close-fitting jersey wrap dress. Until today, I hadn’t realized what a body Molly had under that snorkel coat. The jersey molded to her long, lean torso, nipping in at the waist where she’d cinched the wrap-around tie. Behind me, I heard the click of a shutter. Molly copped a couple of poses and pouted and Dante clicked a few more frames.

“You’re a natural,” Dante said.

“It’s the dress,” Molly said. She stepped in front of the full length mirror and studied herself.

“Molly, if it’s okay with you, Dante can take the boys to the kitchen for a snack and that’ll give us a chance to concentrate.”

“Yes, please,” she said to Dante. He went over to the boys and said something. They looked up at him in awe. He tipped his head toward the stairs. “I hope you guys like ice cream and pretzels,” he said. He looked at me. I made a face. Not-Joseph giggled, and then the boys followed Dante.

“Who is he, the Pied Piper?” she asked.

“He’s a friend.”

“You think he’s busy this Saturday night?”

“If I were you, I’d make other arrangements.”

* * *

The impending in-law anniversary celebration had shifted Molly’s priorities from single mother getting by to wardrobe overhaul. By the time we were finished, she’d chosen two thirds of what I’d assembled in my high speed shopping trip at Tradava, including a paisley printed tunic, several pair of boot-cut pants, an amber cowl neck sweater with an asymmetric hem, two suede skirts, and the jersey wrap dress for the party. She wanted to pair it with fishnets and stilettos. Not entirely appropriate for a fifty-year wedding celebration, but if it was between that and her snorkel coat, I knew which way I’d cast my vote.

After Molly left with her boys in tow (freshly tattooed thanks to Dante’s skills with a waterproof eyeliner pen), I opened and closed the cabinets, looking for food. I wasn’t known for going for long stretches of time without a meal, and turning down Dante’s lunch invite had left me hungry. And when I was hungry, I had a hard time focusing. I pulled a package of frozen chicken breasts out of the freezer and set them in the sink, and then stared out the window into the yard next door.

“Topeka,” Dante said, joining me in the kitchen.

“What?”

“Topeka. Capital of Kansas. The way you were staring out the window, I figured you were doing some mental gymnastics. For me, that’s either state capitals or times tables.”

“So why’d you say Topeka?”

“Most people get stuck on Kansas.”

“I’m good with Kansas. I get lost in the M states.”

He smiled. “The photos from today are in your basement. You want to go look at them? I didn’t see anything abnormal, but I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“Sure.” I went down the stairs again, with Dante behind me. The rack of clothes from Tradava stood in the middle of the basement, covered in cast-offs that Molly hadn’t taken the time to rehang. An ivory dress had fallen from the plastic hanger and lay in a pool of wool jersey on the floor. I tossed it over the top of the bar and then went into the darkroom.