Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper (14 page)

“No. Why would you have asked who wanted you to follow me? If I know why you were asked to follow me I can probably figure out who.”

“You are an inquisitive woman, I’ll give you that,” he said, stepping forward.

“How did you know where I’d be?” I asked, taking a step back.

“Generally speaking, when someone is asked to follow someone else, they’re given a general background, some information on the subject. I don’t know many instances where people say, ‘Drive around town and find a woman in a necktie and pearls,’ but in your case, that would have worked as well, because I think you’re probably the only woman around Ribbon wearing that outfit.”

“Enough about my outfit. I want answers.”

“If you could decide on what questions you want to ask, maybe we could work something out.”

I felt like I was having a conversation with the Mad Hatter, appropriate since the hat exhibit was fewer than a hundred feet from where we stood. I turned around to look at the museum, to see if Dr. Daum was still on the grounds watching me, but he wasn’t. When I turned back to Dante, his helmet was in his hand, and he was straddling the bike.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

Dante leaned forward, holding the helmet upside down in his two hands. “You’re not asking the right questions, Samantha.” A hint of cinnamon caught my attention while he put on the flame-decorated helmet and turned the key. He nodded once and then rolled the bike forward off the kickstand and pulled out of the parking lot.

I should have felt angry/concerned/nervous/creeped out, but I didn’t. I felt annoyed. And excited, which triggered a nice layer of guilt to the emotional cocktail. I turned back to the windows to the Frowick Gallery on the second floor of the museum for a second and thought about things. I had said I wouldn’t be involved, and here I was at the museum, involved.

There had to be a reason Dante was following me. And then I realized something.

I was in a position to follow
him.

As fast as I could, I unlocked the car, jumped inside, and revved the engine. The tires made a squealing sound as I backed out of my space and threw the car into drive, hoping to catch up with Dante at one of the stop signs or traffic lights close to the museum. I was slowed down by the same set of stop signs but caught sight of a motorcycle making a left turn on to Penn Avenue. Still too far away to know if I was following the right motorcycle, I took a chance and made the same left, weaved in and out of cars on the two lane road, and closed the distance between us.

It was almost too easy.

Within two blocks I was directly behind him. I kept on his tail as he briefly pulled on to the highway, exited by the Ribbon Designer Outlets, and pulled into a space next to the loading dock. I pulled into a space next to him and slammed my door while he was unlocking the equipment bag from the back of his bike. He pulled off his helmet, slung the camera bag over one shoulder, and tipped his head toward the building.

“Not bad,” he said. “Follow me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You followed me this far to find out what’s going on. What’s ten more feet?” He turned around and walked into Catnip, his sister, Cat’s, boutique.

For all the warning bells that might have sounded in a different person’s mind, the only bells I heard were the subtle ding-dong that sounded when I followed him through the door. I’d shopped here before, soon after I’d moved back to Ribbon. The soft lighting showcased the boutique’s merchandise, tables of cashmere sweaters, folded jeans, racks of last year’s designer looks. Cat had great taste, and I would have been happy to become a regular customer if only we hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot. We’d since worked past most of our issues, but still, she didn’t look happy to see me.

“Cat,” I said.

“Samantha,” she said back.

“You two need to talk,” Dante added.

As I looked back and forth between their faces, I noticed the family resemblance. They shared the same square face and wide-set eyes. Cat’s hair, a vibrant red, could have come at the hands of an expert colorist, and Dante’s jet-black hair could have come from a bottle of shoe polish, but confirmation of either point would have to wait because I had bigger questions on my mind than the authenticity of either of their hair color.

Aside from her facial expression, Cat looked delightfully fresh in a lime green taffeta jacket that was cinched at the waist over biscuit-colored skinny pants and spiked olive green heels.

“I guess you’re wondering why I asked my brother to follow you around Ribbon.”

“You? You asked him to follow me?” I asked, again feeling like Alice in Wonderland.

“Dante, go get me a latte. Samantha, would you like anything?”

I would have killed for a cup of coffee but wasn’t ready to accept her hospitality. “No thank you,” I said.

She held out a twenty, which he looked at but didn’t take. “It was all her idea,” he said.

After Dante left the store, Cat turned to me. “I don’t know you very well, but after what happened at Heist, I feel like I can trust you.” She was referring to a publicity contest we—Cat, Dante, Eddie, and I—had entered a few months ago. What had started as a contest with a sizeable cash prize had ended in three murders.

I waved my hand in front of her. “Water under the bridge,” I said, not 100 percent sure the cliché fit the situation. It seemed a stretch to believe Cat had asked her brother to follow me around Ribbon because of some mild fascination with my brush with crime, but if it wasn’t that, then I didn’t know what it was.

“I asked Dante to check you out. Follow you around, see the kind of people you spend time with. I know you’re working on the Hedy London exhibit at the museum. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”

Was that it? She wanted an inside angle on the Hedy London exhibit? She had an odd way of going about asking, and I was afraid she was going to be sadly let down when she heard how little I could do for her.

“About Hedy London? I don’t know anything about her, really. Or the exhibit. Tradava is the one who has the exclusive on the collection, and I don’t work for them.”

“No, that’s not it. I have—had—a hat, a Lily Daché, and now it’s gone.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have access to the sample collection either.”

“Listen to me. I bought it on the secondary market a few years ago. My old boss has connections. With all the press surrounding this exhibit, I thought it would be fun to take it out and wear it.”

“I’d love to see it,” I said quickly.

“You can’t. The day I wore it I was mugged. The only thing stolen was that hat.”

17

I had a strange feeling I knew why Cat had wanted to talk to me, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

“Cat, I’m flattered, but if you were mugged, you should be talking to the police, not me.”

“I called the police. They have a report. But they didn’t seem all that interested in helping me find my hat. You’re close to this thing, and I can’t help but believe it’s related to the exhibit.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”

“I don’t think the police really cared all that much about my missing hat, but I’m not willing to just accept that it’s gone. Will you, I don’t know, keep an ear to the ground?”

I hesitated. Could I make an argument that helping Cat find her hat wasn’t related to the Hedy London exhibit? I didn’t think so. “You said you got it from the secondary market. eBay?”

“Nothing that mainstream.” Cat leaned in closer and dropped her voice. “I bought it a couple of years ago. My old boss, the previous owner of this store, collects Hedy London memorabilia. He invited me to go on one of his field trips. It was crazy cool. We had to dress down, like bums. He had an address that led him to a driver who took us to a row home in the middle of Ribbon, where a guy met us on the street and ushered us into his loft. It was filled with the most amazing vintage fashion. I found this hat that Hedy London was supposed to wear in an early movie, but it ended up on the cutting room floor.”

“They threw the hat on the floor?”

“The footage from the movie ended up on the floor. The hat ended up in this guy’s collection. It’s so yummy, it’s a turquoise pillbox confection of felted wool, satin and rhinestones!” She clapped her hands like a five-year-old at her first puppet show.

“At least you didn’t pay retail,” I muttered, half under my breath, remembering the style I’d tried on at Vera Sarlow’s store. A thrift store find would have been a nice change of pace.

“I wish I’d paid retail. That hat probably cost about three dollars back in its day.”

“What did inflation cost you?” I asked.

“Three thousand.”

I was speechless. Cat’s news had just let me know that as far as fashionistas go, she was in a whole other league.

I told her again I didn’t know what I could do for her but promised to stay in touch. We were interrupted by a call on my cell phone.

“Kidd, do I need to find another showroom manager?” Nick asked.

“Nick! I lost track of time. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” I disconnected before he could get another word in and then said goodbye to Cat and left out the back door. Dante leaned against the hood of my car. He held coffee cups in each hand.

“So that’s it? You’re back in Ribbon because your sister asked you to follow me around?” I asked.

“Philly’s not all that far.” He tipped his head to the side and then righted it, as though I was close enough to the situation that there was no point in adding to my reasoning. “Besides, it was an interesting proposition, so I said yes.”

“I don’t want to be rude, but I’m late for something.”

“Work. You’re late for work. With your boyfriend,” he finished.

“Exactly how much do you know about my life?”

“Not nearly enough.” He held out a cup. “Coffee. Cream, no sugar. I’m fairly sure you wanted it even though you declined my sister’s offer.”

This time I took the cup.

“Call me if you want to talk about the questions you should be asking.”

“What if I didn’t keep your number?”

“If you look hard enough I’m sure you’ll find it.”

“Ladies’ room stall? ‘For a good time call’?”

“Something like that. Bye, Samantha.”

After leaving the designer outlets I drove to Nick’s showroom. I spent the twenty minute drive coming to the conclusion that I had to talk to somebody about what was going on. The person I trusted, the person I wanted to be my confidant, was waiting for me inside that showroom. It would be nice to talk to Nick about what was going on. He’d have a different perspective, and in the past he’d even been willing to help me out when I needed it.

It took about ten more minutes in the parking lot to work through all of the reasons I
shouldn’t
confide in Nick: lecture, warning, and accusations of broken promises. By the time I decided to go for it, I was more concerned about the voices in my head than anything Nick might say.

By the time I opened the door to his studio, I felt as though I’d played three sets of tennis with Novak Dj0kovic and was left with a tightening knot at the base of my neck.
Mental note: find some kind of outlet for tension. Soon.

Nick stood by the left wall of the showroom with a power drill in one hand and a screw in the other.

“We need to talk,” I said. “Not like ‘boss-employee.’ I mean, I know I said we should be on a break while we were working together, but can we talk? Like boyfriend-girlfriend? Or is that not a good idea?”

Nick set the drill on the desk and studied my face. A dull heat grew around my hairline. I didn’t look away. For a few seconds, the attraction to Nick I’d felt on Saturday night lit up like the fuse on a stick of dynamite, and I wondered how long it would take until it exploded.

“Let’s—” His voice cracked. He tucked his chin and coughed a couple of times into his fist. “Let’s get out of here.”

I followed Nick to his truck. He drove to a bakery about three miles from his showroom. I followed him inside. He gestured for me to sit in a booth while he went to the counter. He returned with two cups of coffee and two donuts.

“What’s up, Kidd?”

“I’m involved.”

He nodded. I expected him to comment but he didn’t.

I took his silence as an indication that he wasn’t going to lecture me, and that was enough encouragement for me to open up. I told him about the exhibit, the thefts, the murder, and the midnight trip to the museum. The only thing I didn’t mention was the list I’d printed from Christian’s computer. I wasn’t sure why, but that detail felt better left unsaid.

He reached across the table and set his hands on top of mine. For a few seconds we didn’t speak.

“I know you’re concerned about what my involvement says about your showroom while I’m working there. I had no right to lie to you, but everything else I told you was true. Eddie needed—needs—my help. I can’t walk away from that.”

“Kidd, I don’t think you understand.”

“No, I do. And when you asked me not to get involved, I thought I could. Not get involved. I thought I could not get involved. But I already was involved, and I can’t just walk away. You need to know that about me. You might not like that about me, but you need to know it, because it’s not going to change.”

The heat from his hands felt good. I stared into his eyes, his soft, brown, root-beer-barrel eyes that had flecks of gold in the middle.

I closed my own eyes and inhaled the scent of his cologne mixed with the scent of the bakery: dark and spicy with a glazed-sugar coating. I opened my eyes and saw him studying me with the same intensity. My thoughts took a less-than-appropriate turn, involving a countertop in the kitchen. Abruptly, he pulled away and tucked his hands in his lap. Could he read my mind? And what was so inappropriate about a bakery-based fantasy anyway?

Someone cleared her throat and I looked up. Mrs. Aguan, the head of human resources at Tradava, approached our booth. She wore a white mandarin-collared shirt, a boxy, forest green cardigan, and gray slacks. Her hair was short, gray, and spiky, and was the same color as her pants. A multi-strand necklace of rough-cut green stones filled in her neckline.