Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper (29 page)
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Authors: Diane Vallere
Tags: #Mystery: Cozy - Humor - Fashion - New York City
“He saw me slash the hat with the knife. He said he’d go to Christian and have me fired if I didn’t—if I didn’t—” She struggled with the words. “I told him I changed my mind. I asked him to come back, to meet me in the admissions office that night after everybody left. I had to shut him up. I had to make him go away. I asked him to turn around while I undressed. I hit him over the head with a gardening tool and he collapsed.”
“That’s what I stabbed my hand on tonight. You hid it in the gift shop. You were always remerchandising the store so you could keep track of the murder weapon. You used it to stab Thad. That’s why he had three stab wounds.”
Her eyes glossed over, and she seemed far removed from the interior of the gift shop. “All that blood—I couldn’t look at all that blood.” She started to shake. “I had to stop the bleeding. I covered Dirk’s head with Bubble Wrap and hid when I heard you and Eddie.”
“Rebecca, where’s Christian now?”
“He’s gone,” she said quietly. “I told him to leave while he could. I couldn’t hurt him.”
The museum was shrouded in silence while her words hung in the air. Seconds felt like an eternity. The gun dropped slightly.
Rage propelled me head-first into her. I knocked her down. The gun fired. I yanked on the tape that bound my wrists. It stretched. I freed my right hand and pinned Rebecca to the floor, my dress now all but destroyed.
She didn’t fight back.
I yanked on the phone cord until it fell on the floor and I called the police. “This is Samantha Kidd. I’m at the museum. In the gift shop. It’s an emergency.” I dropped the phone to my side.
I looked at the Bean Bag chair where I’d sat. A bullet had torn through the plastic, somewhere between where my collarbone and heart would have been. A trail of white Styrofoam pebbles spilled onto the floor. I shivered, no smart comeback sounding off in my head, only the notion that Rebecca had come close to either killing me or fixing it so I could never wear strapless again.
For the second time that night the air was filled with the sound of activity. Overhead lights switched on, blinding me until my eyes adjusted. Uniformed police officers flooded through the front doors and came to my rescue.
I was afraid to move, to leave Rebecca alone. It wasn’t until Detective Loncar had her cuffed on the floor that I climbed off her. The sweat that dripped from my face was gray with dirt, mascara, and survival. There was a din of white noise in the background. Loncar helped her up and pushed her toward the door.
All I cared about was getting sleep. Tomorrow was Saturday, and I wanted nothing more than to hide in my bed. The police maneuvered around, taking pictures, taping off areas that required further investigation, and jotting notes in notepads. Someone bandaged my hand again. Someone else wrapped me in a blanket.
An officer walked me through the museum to an ambulance. A few police cars remained, red and blue lights cutting through the darkness, washing the scene with their strobes. I closed my eyes as the ambulance drove me to the hospital. It was hard to believe it really was over.
37
Sunlight streamed through my windows, the kind of bright, uninterrupted rays that can only follow a rainstorm in Pennsylvania in fall. It was the kind of day where indoor cats ventured outside, sniffing the green grass, investigating the sidewalks. I’d spent almost thirty hours in bed, getting up only twice: once to feed Logan, the other to chat with Eddie on the phone.
I had enough muscle aches to know that my museum activities came with a price. My cheeks and ribs were bruised, and I had muscles I never knew existed. All of them were crying for attention.
I might have stayed in that bed all day, but when Logan jumped on my ankle I flinched and sent him flying across the room. I apologized with a can of tuna. The September heat wave had broken, and a cool breeze led me to pull on socks, my Indian moccasins, and a large fringed poncho atop a turtleneck and jeans. I found a soggy newspaper lying by the street. I scanned the front page while I followed the sidewalk back to my house.
“Hollywood Hat Exhibit Turns to Homicide,” by Carl Collins.
I was starting to suspect Carl Collins would soon be writing more than puff pieces. Most of the article was old news, considering I’d been at the museum until the bitter end and Mr. Collins had not. Rebecca confessed to stealing the collection of hats when they had first arrived at the museum and hiding them in the shop behind the row of Thinker statues. What she’d wanted was Christian’s attention, but when she learned about him and Hedy London, she set out to destroy the exhibit. One by one she’d taken the hats out of the museum, hidden in boxes that she carried to the trash. When asked at the time, she claimed she was moving and needed to take the boxes home. No one had suspected her of the theft or the murder. Thinking about it now, it still gave me chills.
Whether or not Christian had truly loved Hedy London would remain a mystery. The police caught up with him at his apartment, packing to leave town. It sounded to me like he realized he didn’t want to lie in the bed he’d made for himself.
An opportunist like Christian would have made for a poor role model, and I wondered how that had impacted Rebecca. I didn’t know if she’d been seeking a lover or a father figure, but either way, she came up empty. What I did know was that my life in Ribbon, living in the house where I grew up, had only been important to me because I had the love and support of a family. She didn’t.
I called my parents in California and told them I loved them and forgave them for not telling me about the squirrels in the attic. I told my dad that I’d been unemployed for eleven of the twelve months since I’d bought the house, and I told my mom that Nick and I had broken up. I told them both that I’d be okay because I knew I would.
I called in sick to Nick’s machine for the next three days. When my black eye turned to an attractive shade of yellow and the swelling went down in my lips, I figured it was time to face him. I drove slowly, half because I couldn’t turn my head to the left without pain and half because I wasn’t sure what I was going to say when I got to the showroom.
When I arrived, I found a college-age girl sitting at the reception desk, sorting through the mail.
“Is Nick here?” I asked.
“He isn’t coming in today.”
“Oh.” I scanned the interior. The shelves had been hung, and a selection of samples had been placed in significant positions, lit by almost-invisible threads of filament. It was better than he’d planned and bore a striking resemblance to the lighting situation at the museum. I wondered if Eddie had had a hand in it but didn’t ask.
“Are you Samantha?” she asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Nick told me you might show up.” She stepped out from behind the desk and stooped over to pick something off the floor. It was a pink gift bag. “He asked me to give you this.”
I didn’t look inside until I’d made it back to my car. I unwrapped the paper from a first-edition hardbound copy of
Barbie Solves a Mystery,
published in 1963
.
I opened the front cover of the slightly worn book and found another piece of paper, folded into fourths. It was a letter of termination, addressed to me, effective immediately. Under the official-looking, typewritten note was a handwritten postscript:
Kidd, I’m sorry it worked out this way.
I folded the paper and looked at the sky. A storm was on its way. I knew Nick was talking about the job, but I couldn’t help reading between the lines. Nick wanted me to play things safe. He wanted me to be the person he thought he knew. But I knew that person wasn’t me, and I knew until he could accept that, we weren’t going to get anywhere together.
A fat droplet of rain hit the windshield. I rolled up the windows and closed my eyes. I relaxed into the seat and listened to the sudden storm pelt the car. I knew it would pass in a matter of minutes. The intensity of the rainstorm matched my churning emotions.
When the rain subsided, I opened my eyes and looked back at the letter from Nick. I reread it and noticed a second note, written on the back.
S: I figure I owe you a job lead. Amanda Ries, my friend from design school, needs help putting together a runway show. I gave her your name.—N
I set the letter on the passenger seat and started the car.
Halfway home I noticed Dante’s motorcycle two cars behind me. I parked in front of my house and waited for him to catch up. Seconds later he pulled into my driveway. He flipped the visor of his helmet up, exposing his face. The rain had all but stopped, leaving a film of mist in its place.
“You don’t look surprised to see me,” he said. His leather jacket was wet, the water beading and running down into the flames.
“Should I be? Oh, you think I didn’t notice you in my rearview mirror.” I shrugged. “I could pretend to be surprised, but really, what’s the point?”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“That I’m finally on your radar.” He flipped the visor back into place. “Call me when you’re ready, Samantha,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
He backed his motorcycle out of my driveway and took off down the street.
About The Author
Diane Vallere is a textbook Capricorn who writes the Style & Error series and Mad for Mod Mystery Series. Currently at work on the upcoming Fabric Shop mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime, she is represented by Jessica Faust of Bookends Literary. She started her own detective agency at age ten and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since. Find her at
www.dianevallere.com
.
Other Books by Diane Vallere
Style & Error Mystery Series
Designer Dirty Laundry
Buyer, Beware
“Just Kidding” (e-short story)
Mad for Mod Mystery Series
Pillow Stalk
That Touch of Ink
“Midnight Ice” (novella in
Other People’s Baggage)
Short Story Anthologies
“Identity Crisis”
(
Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology)
“Dress for Success”
(Fish Nets: The Second Guppy Anthology)
Table of Contents
Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series