Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) (6 page)

“Responsible for what?”

“Your little stunt brought on some bad publicity. The day before the show, claiming to have been attacked in the parking lot.”

“I was attacked.”

Tiny held up her hands, palm-side out. “I guess we’ll never know the truth, will we?” She smiled. She set her coffee cup on the desk behind her and crossed her arms over her gray sweater. The cuffs on her white oxford had been unbuttoned and folded back, exposing a black, utilitarian sports watch. Whatever jovial vibe she’d started out with had been replaced. “Like I said, Amanda and I expected you to show up. What’s your take on the fire?”

“Somebody sent me to the hospital the night before the show. I don’t know who and I don’t know why. A day later, a fire at the warehouse destroyed Amanda’s show. I don’t believe that fire was an accident. When I was attacked, I was warned to ‘stay out of it.’ The only business I’ve been involved with for the past four weeks is Amanda’s business.”

“You’d do well to walk away from the whole thing,” Tiny said.

“You said my reputation preceded me. That means you probably know I’m not going to leave this alone.”

“I don’t get people like you,” she said, shaking her head. “You make things far more complicated than they need to be. Nobody’s asking you to be some kind of a hero. Why not just get on with your life?”

It was in high school that I first learned that people don’t expect you to take the hard way. I was on the track and field team. Before each meet, our coach would gather us in the gymnasium and call out the different events. If we planned to compete in one, we called out our last name and he wrote us in.

I was one of six girls who had been tagged long distance runners. There were only two events for us: half mile and mile. Nobody wanted to run the mile. Ever. But one day I decided I would. Coach called out “mile” and I called out “Kidd.” He looked up from his clipboard and held my expression for a few seconds. I shrugged in a
why not
? gesture. He smiled and wrote down my name. From that day on, I ran the mile every time we had a competition.

If I was going to do something, I was going to go the distance.

“Tiny, I’m not going to let this go until I have some answers.”

“If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for Amanda.”

It was at that moment that Amanda appeared from the kitchen. “No, Tiny, you’re wrong. If anybody can help me, it’s Samantha.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” Tiny said. She grabbed a cross-body nylon bag that was propped along the wall and stormed out the front door without a coat. I watched through the front window as she hunched her shoulders against the wind and climbed into a black SUV then drove away.

Amanda sat in the leather chair behind the large glass-topped desk. A vase filled with orange roses like the ones at her runway show sat on the corner. She held out a white, business-sized envelope. “This is probably what you came here for. Your check. Take it. You earned it.”

I took the envelope, folded it in half, and tucked it into my handbag. “Amanda, I didn’t have anything to do with the fire,” I said. “But I’m not going to forget that somebody jumped me.”

She stared at me with a curiosity, like I was a specimen in a Petri dish. “I don’t know who attacked you,” Amanda said to me. “But you must know something that I don’t. Something that will help me figure out what’s going on.”

“The way Tiny just stormed out of here. Was that normal?” I asked.

“What’s normal these days? I found you barely conscious in the parking lot outside of Warehouse Five. Twenty-four hours later my show went up in flames. It’s hard to believe the two aren’t connected. Tiny’s convinced you had something to do with the fire. When you pulled up out front, she wanted me to call the cops.”

“What possible reason could I have for wanting to make myself look like a victim and then burn down your show?”

Amanda  opened a different drawer and pulled out a tri-folded piece of paper. “Maybe you should take a look at this.”

She held the paper between her first two fingers the way Mae West would have held up an unlit cigarette. I took the paper and unfolded it. In mismatched letters that looked like they’d been cut from magazines, glued to the page, and then run through a copier, the paper said:

AMANDA RIES: BURN, BABY, BURN!

8

I sank into one of the chairs across from her desk. “When did you get this?” I asked.

“The first one came about a month ago.”

“The first one? There are more?”

Amanda dropped her eyes to the glass desk top. She pulled her sleeve over her hand and wiped in circles at a ring from a mug that hadn’t been set on a coaster. When she finished, she pulled the bottom drawer of her desk open and pulled out a small stack of white papers bound with a yellow rubber band. When she looked at me again, her face was the picture of worry.

“So far there are six.”

“May I?” I asked. She nodded and I took the pile. After pulling the rubber band off, I flipped through the pages. Each one held a threat spelled out in mismatched letters like the first. I ran my finger over the smooth paper. I couldn’t picture Fonts.com having an option that looked like a pre-technology cut-and-paste blackmail note. Whoever had painstakingly assembled these pages of threats had access to fashion magazines and a lot of time on their hands. Whoever had done this was making a point. I doubted it was coincidental that fashion was Amanda’s business.

“Take them. I don’t want to look at them anymore,” she said.

“Does Tiny know about the letters?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do the police?”

“Whatever you might think of me, you need to know one thing. I am remarkably normal. When I get a cold, I go to the doctor. When I drive through a shady part of town, I lock the doors and roll up the windows. And if somebody sent me threats that look like the work of someone with a screw loose, I’d go to the cops. I don’t share your attraction to danger.”

“I wish people would stop saying that.”

“It’s true. You get off on the thrill in a way I don’t understand.”

I stood up and pushed my sleeves back so she could see the burn marks on my wrists. “Do you see this?” I asked. “This would never have happened if I wasn’t at your dress rehearsal helping you with your runway show. It never would have happened if you weren’t trying to get me to leave. I’m not here because I get off on the thrill of being hospitalized for doing you a favor. I’m here because I don’t want the person who did this to me to get away with it.”

“Samantha, I never dreamed you would get hurt. Of all people, you. The day before the show gets sabotaged, too. If you would have stayed in the hospital, you wouldn’t even have been there.”

“What are you saying, Amanda? You don’t believe me, do you?”

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Why did you agree to work for me? I might have understood if you and Nick were still dating, but you broke up. Nobody would have judged you if you’d said no, considering the circumstances.”

“You know that’s not true.
Everyone
would have judged me. Including you. If I hadn’t shown up to help you after I said I would, you would have talked trash about me. And despite what you may or may not believe about me, I have integrity. I know the fashion industry and was prepared to help you. And I did. End of story.”

“A lot of people think the only reason you showed up was because you wanted to use me to get Nick back.”

“If I were trying to get him back, the last place I’d be is here. Nick doesn’t support my need to find answers.”

“That doesn’t affect you, does it? That he worries about you and the decisions you make?”

“I’m worried about the fact that I was attacked two nights ago. That’s what I worry about.”

Amanda dropped her eyes to the desk. She was hiding something. Did she know more about my attack but didn’t want to tell me? I pressed on.

“There’s an artist who rents space at Warehouse Five. He’s been trying to get you banned from the building.”

“Santangelo Toma. Tiny told me she’d take care of him.”

“Take care of him, how?”

“The same way she appeased the rest of the tenants. She offered them comp tickets to the show. Most of them were happy to accept.”

“And Santangelo?”

“He tore up the tickets and threw them at her.”

There was something hinky about Santangelo’s behavior. I could understand him not being happy about the chaos that Amanda and company brought to his studio space, but his animosity seemed disproportionate to the situation.

Before I could ask any more questions, a car pulled into the front driveway. I turned around and followed her stare out the picture window. The tall man who’d been working with the models the night I was attacked got out of a midnight blue BMW. He slammed the door and walked to the Corvette. He stopped by the driver’s side window and bent down to peer inside.

“He was backstage on Friday night. Who is he?” I asked.

“Oscar LeVay. He owns OLV model management. Tiny worked with him to cast the show.”

“So he was there the night of the show, too?”

“Yes. He’s been there every night this week.”

I couldn’t tell if Amanda was thinking what I was thinking, but the word “opportunity” was flashing through my brain like it was the name of a new show in Vegas.

“Were you expecting him?”

“No.”

“Then I want to stick around and hear what he has to say. Where can I hide?”

The doorbell rang. Before she made a move toward it, she reached out and put her hand on my forearm. “You can’t tell anybody about this conversation.” There was open desperation in her voice.

We stood two feet apart, eyes locked in a face-off where lines were drawn and crossed. If this had been a western, there would have been tumbleweed and the cry of a coyote.

“Done,” I said. I scanned the interior of her studio and noticed a hinged wicker screen that partitioned off the corner of the studio by a rolling rack. “What’s behind the screen?”

“Nothing. That’s where models change when there’s mixed company.”

I moved to the corner and stepped behind the screen. “Let that guy in and pretend I’m not here.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

I ducked behind the screen and wedged myself onto the floor behind a round wicker hamper. I hadn’t noticed if the lighting created a telltale shadow that would give away my presence, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to be as indiscreet as possible.

I heard Amanda open the door. “Oscar, hi. Tiny just left. Is there something I can help you with?”

Heavy footsteps marched into the room. The door closed. I pictured the well-appointed man in the room with Amanda, and wondered how she could possibly hold her own against someone as imposing as him.

“Amanda, I took a chance by hiring out Harper to your show and look what happened. She was my top girl. Now she’s fled the country. Do you know what this will do to my business? She’s been with me since she was fourteen. I’ve spent years grooming her for the big time. Every day I face a firing squad of mothers who are afraid to trust their girls to me and I’ve built my fortune on being able to maintain the safety of every model in my charge. I’ve lost that reputation because of you.”

“Oscar,
my
collection was ruined.
My
reputation took a hit, not yours.”

“And your name is in every news outlet from here to Manhattan. Publicity stunts only work once, my dear. I don’t care what kind of circumstances there were, I expect you to pay in full.” His voice grew louder and I imagined the effect his words and attitude had on Amanda. I wished I could see, but there was no way to do so without giving myself away.

Or was there?

Amanda had a large mirror hanging on the outside of the powder room and the door was partially open because the room was vacant. I strained my neck until I picked up the reflection of the two of them in the middle of the room.

Oscar was a good six inches taller than Amanda. An ivory pashmina scarf was draped around his neck and tucked into the front of his coat. He held a tweed hat, shifting it from one hand to the other.

“Oscar, be reasonable. Tiny manages the billing.”

“I don’t trust her. She’s been nickel and diming me over the models’ fees since we started casting this show. You had twenty of my girls. They get two fifty an hour with a minimum five hour booking per day. That’s twenty-five grand for the fittings, twenty-five grand for the rehearsal, and twenty-five grand for the show.”

Seventy-five thousand for models for the runway show? I knew the fashion industry was lucrative for lots of parties involved, but not in towns like Ribbon. I couldn’t believe that Tiny would have agreed to those rates and not renegotiated the event as a total. Unless Tiny was getting some kind of kickback on the side from the arrangement. Regardless of who made what, I had a feeling the models were getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

Oscar continued to rant. Even from a short distance I could see a gloss of sweat beading on his shiny forehead. “I should sue you for the damage you’ve done to my business. Harper was booked for the next year and I’m going to lose those commissions.”

Amanda’s face went whiter than it had been. “Oscar, please calm down. I’ll talk to Tiny when she returns and I’ll have her call you to discuss the situation.”

“When will that be?”

“This afternoon.”

“If I don’t hear from her by three, I’m starting legal action against your company.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The doorbell rang. I couldn’t see who had arrived, but I assumed if it was Tiny, she wouldn’t have rung the bell.

“Excuse me,” Amanda said. She disappeared from my sight.

Oscar moved closer to her desk. I ducked back, behind the screen, and held my breath. Had I left evidence of my presence behind? No. But there was one thing that I knew had been left behind: the threatening letters that Amanda had received.

Maybe Oscar wouldn’t see them. Maybe they’d be lost among the piles of invoices and sketches and notes she kept scattered on the surface. “Oscar, I have to cut your visit short,” Amanda said. “My lunch date is here.”