Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) (3 page)

“Was there anyone else that you remember?” Eddie asked Amanda. “Or you?” he asked me.

I looked at Amanda, not knowing if she was going to return the eye contact. She didn’t. She stared at her hands in her lap and fidgeted with her jewelry. If I hadn’t noticed a slight movement at her temple, I might not have recognized that she was clenching and unclenching her teeth.

“I would have to think about it,” I said. “Right now it seems like everyone I saw had some legitimate reason for being there. Do you agree, Amanda?”

She nodded her head. Something buzzed in her red crocodile handbag. We all watched as she fished it out and looked at the display. She hit a button that stopped the sound and tossed it back inside, then looked up to find us all looking at her.

“It’s not important,” she said.

Her handbag buzzed again. She ignored it, but the buzzing continued. After several buzzes, text message alerts, and vibrations, Eddie stated the obvious.

“Someone seems to disagree with you.”

She stood and gathered her coat. “I need to get back to Warehouse Five. There’s a lot to do before the show.” She walked to the door and then stopped and turned back around. “I should have known something like this would happen.” Then she left.

* * *

Breakup Rule #2: Don’t be seen as a victim. I’d been hired to help Amanda at Nick’s request, and I’d gotten attacked. It was her runway debut, her big show, her production. I’d only shown up that first day to honor my commitment and make sure that nothing outside of positive things could be said about my character when she chose to speak about me to Nick. Now, I was unmade-up, with hospital hair and paper pajamas. There was no way she could keep this story from him. Seeing as how I was at the center of the drama—through no fault of my own—there was a good chance Nick would see things the way Amanda would paint them: with me at the epicenter. I’d become nothing more than an inconvenience to the designer’s carefully scheduled timetables.

I waited for the door to shut and then turned to Eddie. “You have to get me out of here. It’s going to take me longer than usual to get ready but there’s no way I’m going to miss her show.”

“Are you nuts?” he asked.

“Don’t do this. We both know I’m going to her show. We both know you’re going to help me. Go get a nurse and find out how I get out of here.”

“Dude, you can try to talk me into helping you, and there’s a chance you might be successful. That’s why I’m leaving you here in the hands of the professionals.”

“Eddie, I don’t have insurance. I can’t afford to get a bill for whatever they might do if they keep me here.”

“You’re not invincible. You were beat up with a bag of fruit. Who does that?”

“It was a warning. Like a scene from The Grifters.” I hadn’t given much thought to the choice of fruit as weapon. But in that movie, a bag of oranges had been used to beat up Angelica Houston because it caused internal injuries with minimal external bruising. I held my hands out and traced the burns on the left hand with the fingers on my right. “I don’t get the fire, though. If somebody wanted to attack me without leaving evidence, why go with an open flame?”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to distract me with movie references and words like ‘evidence.’ It’s not going to work. You’re in a hospital bed, suffering from internal injuries and second degree burns. For real. This isn’t a movie. I know you like danger, but this is probably the safest place you can be.”

“I don’t like danger,” I said.

Eddie raised one eyebrow. “I’m not going to help you get out of here before you’re ready.” He stood, collected his coat, and left.

There was a tap on my door, and then a nurse entered. She took my blood pressure and asked if I needed anything.

“Can I use the phone?”

She carried the old desk set to the table next to my bed. “Privacy?”

I nodded.

She left and I dialed a number from memory. “Hello, Dante? It’s Samantha Kidd. Are you free tonight?”

4

Dante Lestes was a somewhat mysterious photographer from Philadelphia. I’d met him when a promotional contest in town inspired me to plan a heist. Dante had surprised me in the past by helping me when others wanted me to play it safe. He accepted that I ran head on into impossible situations, and he’d given me the tools to protect myself. He had experience working for a private investigator, and while I was far from being a detective, I paid attention when he shared his knowledge with me. I might never be Kinsey Milhone, but I was a quick study.

Dante was everything Nick wasn’t: dangerous, tattooed, and accepting of my lifestyle choices. In the past, he’d hinted that he was interested in getting to know me better. I, being of post-breakup mental fragility, hadn’t followed up on those hints. But tonight, I figured a fashion show was a perfect place to set a new ball in motion. Keeping things on my turf, so to speak.

The tests at the hospital showed nothing that wouldn’t heal in time. The doctor gave me the option of staying another night, an offer that came with pain medication and all the green Jell-O I could eat, or going home. Even though it hurt to breathe and some of my skin was blistered and red, I chose to leave. If I’d had insurance, I might have seen things differently, but that’s the glamorous life of a fashion industry professional with a recently spotty work history.

My plan wasn’t completely foolproof, but I’d worked through the important issues. My car was still at Warehouse Five, but there wasn’t time to retrieve it now. I took a taxi back to my house, fed my cat Logan, showered, and thought about how I would gain entry to the show. Having spent considerate time working there, I planned to talk my way past whoever was working the door. No way would Amanda have thought to ban me.

The shower, makeup, and hair drying process kept me preoccupied, but by the time I had to choose an outfit, I had second thoughts about leaving the house. The local cable channel would broadcast the show. I’d already set up a recording. Maybe that would be the smart, safe, sensible thing to do.

I pulled on a loose-fitting, black jersey trapeze dress, thigh high stockings, and kitten-heeled boots. My ribs were still tender and I didn’t want to fuss with a waistband. I pulled my long hair up into a high ponytail and clipped a conical gold piece around the base of it, then added gold hoop earrings and an arm filled with bangles. My injuries were hidden. Only I knew they were there.

Only I would know that someone had waited in the parking lot for me, lit me on fire, and pummeled me with a bag of fruit like some kind of prison warning. I had to know why.

Screw smart, safe, and sensible.

By the time Dante arrived at my doorstep I was ready. I opened the door. Dante stood in front of me. His amber eyes locked onto mine, then slowly traveled down to my lips, then my body, where they lingered for a moment too long before he looked back into my eyes. I felt heat coming off him, heat coming off me. I held onto the door, taking shallow breaths, partly because it hurt to take bigger ones, and partially because being around Dante left me out of breath.

I guess being alone with Dante wasn’t terribly smart, safe, or sensible either.

“So, we’re going to your friend’s fashion show, right?”

I didn’t bother explaining the nuanced relationship between me and the designer-slash-maybe-former girlfriend of my ex and simply nodded.

Dante had traded his motorcycle for a late seventies Corvette Stingray with orange flames. Not only were we going, but we were going to arrive in style.

I gave Dante directions to the warehouse district. It was in a stretch of five abandoned factories that had been bought out by a special interest group and subleased as gallery space to local artists. Quilters, painters, jewelry designers, and other creative types shared room in the converted building, occasionally banding together for open houses and community activities. Officially, the building was named after the investors, but locally they were referred to by the faded numbers that had long ago been painted on the exteriors. Warehouses one through four sat vacant.

Dante wasn’t one to fill the air with chatter, but I’d learned that his silences didn’t mean he was bored. There were times when I’d seen him in action, and I wondered if he had the same need for excitement that I did. I didn’t ask. Tonight I thought it best to keep him in the dark about my recent attack. I didn’t want another lecture and I certainly didn’t want him to turn the car around.

When we arrived at Warehouse Five, the parking lot was close to full. Dante handed the car keys to a valet attendant. I got out of the car. A cold wind snapped at my face and ankles. I pulled my coat around me and caught the door that was being held open from inside. The person holding the door was Nick.

The last time Nick and I had been face to face had been six weeks ago, outside my house, discussing the merits/flaws of my personality. At the time, I’d been acting as his office manager by day and his girlfriend by night. A few days after that conversation, he’d reached the conclusion that my working for him wasn’t a great idea. He replaced me with a recent college grad and suggested I work with Amanda.

Clearly, that had worked out well.

“Kidd,” he said. His voice was soft and warm, like honey dissolving into a mug of hot tea. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

I hadn’t expected to see him either, a fact made painfully clear by the reaction of my nervous system. I tipped my head to the side and pulled my ponytail over one shoulder. “Hi,” I said.

Nick had thick, curly brown hair that he kept trimmed in a neat business-like style. He’d taken to wearing it differently. Longer and slightly unkempt, which gave him a boyish look. Instead of a shirt and tie like he normally wore for industry events, he was in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers. He looked more like one of the interns running around backstage than a highly respected shoe designer.

“I heard about the attack. Are you okay?” he asked. Behind him, Amanda watched us. For as many times as I’d wondered how I’d react the next time I saw Nick, I’d never thought it would be twenty-four hours after being released from the hospital while his maybe-former girlfriend glared at us from twenty feet away. At least I was wearing lipstick.

We were a foot apart. He smelled like clean sheets and freshly baked donuts and New Year’s Eve. I looked away from his root-beer-barrel colored eyes to his T-shirt. A piece of lint clung to his sleeve. I picked it off. He reached out for my hand, but a shock of electricity sparked at his touch and we both pulled away.

“Samantha?” Dante said behind me. I looked over my shoulder at him, and then back at Nick.

The two eyed each other. When it seemed obvious I wasn’t going to make an introduction, Dante held out his hand. “Dante Lestes,” he said.

“Nick Taylor.” They shook. Nick turned back to me. “You shouldn’t be here. Not after what happened.”

I didn’t say anything, and the tension grew to an uncomfortable level. Someone opened the door next to us and a gust of cold air entered. I stepped away from Nick. “Hope everything goes well tonight,” I said. I left him in the hallway and followed Dante through the crowd.

The set-up of the show wasn’t all that different from other runway shows I’d attended. Rows of collapsible white chairs were set up on either side of a raised white platform. A screen occupied the end of the runway, and Amanda’s name was mounted on it in large silver vinyl letters. Colorful lights cast an ethereal orange, red, and yellow glow across the audience. Large urns of orange roses sat on tall cocktail tables at the back of the room, and thousands of orange rose petals were strewn down the runway. Dante followed me as I weaved through the crowd, selecting two seats by the back. I didn’t need to be in front. I didn’t need to be noticed.

I looked for familiar faces. Buyers from Tradava, Ribbon’s own department store where Eddie worked, sat in front row seats along the right-hand side. As was the norm for a fashion show, a couple of pop stars were mixed into the crowd with an an actress who was going to be starring in a new political drama. For a show two plus hours east of New York, Amanda had drawn an impressive crowd.

Dante tipped his head closer to mine. “If I’d have known you were going to ignore me, I might not have accepted your invitation.”

I blushed. “I’m sorry. I get distracted at these things, looking for people I know.”

“Me, too.” He pointed to the end of the platform. “There’s one.”

I followed his finger and saw Clive snapping pictures of the crowd.

“You know Clive Barrington?”

Dante chuckled. “‘Clive Barrington.’ I never heard anybody use his full name before. We used to call him Bare. We competed for a few jobs, but Bare always had a taste for the ladies and eventually it got him into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Underage girl at an unchaperoned photo shoot. Turned into a he said/she said thing. Nobody knows what really happened, but he couldn’t get a job after that. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know he’d resurfaced.”

“I wonder how he hooked up with Amanda?”

“Who knows? Looks pretty much the same as he did back then. A little older, a little less hair. The glamorous life is taking its toll on him. Back in the day, he wouldn’t have been caught dead with highlights.”

Dante worked as a freelance photographer, taking jobs as they came in. Some were for a private investigator. Others were to cover parties and gallery openings. It had never occurred to me that he might know anyone at the show tonight. I watched him watch Clive and wondered what Dante was really thinking. Before I had a chance to ask more questions, the lights went down.

Loud Japanese pop songs filled the air. A Godzilla movie was projected onto the back of the stage above Amanda’s name. A model walked out, dressed in a silver leather motorcycle jacket over a red pantsuit. Her hair was bright red at the roots, fading to orange then yellow, cut in a bob with a heavy bang. She sauntered down the runway, posed at the end, then turned. Even from the back row I could make out the intricate red embroidery on the back of her jacket. The crowd applauded eagerly.