Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) (6 page)

How exactly was I supposed to compete with that?

I scanned the other unread emails in her inbox. One popped out at me. The subject read:
Need to talk to you about Pritchard Smith
. I clicked the email, but the body of it was blank.

I clicked reply and wrote:
Nancie asked me to follow up on this. When can we meet?
I added my name, email, and phone number. I waited ten minutes but there was no reply.

Our
Retrofit
computers were on the same network so we could access each other’s work without difficulty. Nancie wasn’t nearly as organized as Pritchard, and it took me almost an hour to find the files related to our project. When I did find
Retrofit
Mag 70s (filed under “Projects,” in a folder called “
Retrofit
Dream Projects,” sandwiched between “Rags to Riches,” and “Romeo Must Die,”) (???), I realized why Nancie had been singing Prichard’s praises.

The photos that he’d sent were simple but effective. Each picture contained an outfit, completely accessorized. To the left of each hanging outfit was a sheet of paper with a handwritten number. All in all, there were photos of outfits 1-37.

The mother lode, indeed.

I scrolled through the pictures, recognizing items that I’d seen while doing my own research. He’d labeled each photo with the number, which was perfectly fine in terms of organization, but would require a lot of extra work to backtrack and determine the designer, the season, the year. A lot of work that would have to be done on the premises.

Again I thought about the phone conversation I’d overheard. Pritchard had seemed intent on finding something in the attic and not letting me know about it. Whoever had been on the other end of the phone call was in on it. This project had a chance to put us on the map and reestablish my place in the fashion community, but only if he didn’t shut me out.

Pritchard clearly had no intention of asking me to the field to help him with Jennie Mae’s sample collection. Whatever he was up to, he planned to milk his side of the project for all it was worth, spending hours upon hours with his private collector friend, emailing bits and pieces of info that would keep me buried in busy work.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

What Pritchard hadn’t taken into consideration was that I wasn’t the type to sit back and let someone else get all the glory. Especially since:

A) I was just as qualified as he was, and

B) this was my first steady employment since I’d left Bentley’s New York, and I had every intention of ensuring that “steady” meant more than four months.

I’d had my share of distractions in the form of criminal investigations. A niggling voice in my head had started to tune into the fact that my involvement in such situations wasn’t coincidental—that I sought excitement the same way I used to seek out opportunities for risk taking in business. But two years of pinching pennies had changed my priorities, and I vowed to focus on my job. This project was the kind I could sink my teeth into, and I intended to do just that.

I grabbed my handbag, put out fresh water and a disposable litter box for Logan, and slid a portable white baby gate into place by the open door to my cubicle. “I’ll be back in two hours,” I told him. I texted Nancie that I changed my mind on lunch after all and told her that Logan was best left alone while he slept off the narcotics the vet had given him. I locked the office doors and left.

It didn’t take me long to arrive at the house where Pritchard was working. This time I followed the long, gravel driveway to the set of spaces at the right of the building. I parked my Honda del Sol and walked to the front door. I rang the bell by the screen door, even though the interior door was open. When no one answered, I leaned forward and pressed my ear against the screen, straining to hear conversation from inside.

Maybe that’s why I jumped so high when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Chapter 6

THURSDAY
MORNING

“May I help you?” asked a mostly bald gentleman. He was formally dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a gray vest. His face was lined with wrinkles that had been etched into his skin over time and his nose turned up ever so slightly. He easily stood four inches taller than me, and I was wearing platform shoes.

“I don’t know. I work for
Retrofit
Magazine, and I’m here to look at the collection of clothes.”

The man raised his thick gray eyebrows but said nothing. He reached past me and opened the door. He stepped back and gestured with his other hand for me to go first. I did.

The room hadn’t changed much since I’d been there yesterday. Heavy curtains hung by the large picture windows that faced the front, blocking the light. The man in the suit pushed the front door shut behind me and the room went dark. It took a second for my eyes to adjust. I suspected that was the desired effect.

“Ahem.”

I blinked a few times and scanned the room again. I spotted a woman seated on the divan. Beside her, round bolster pillows had been pushed aside, covering the tufting on the cushion. She was dressed in her own loose paisley caftan, not dissimilar to my own. Both her legs and her arms were crossed, legs at the knee, arms at the wrist. She held a pair of glasses in one hand. She looked more curious than threatened by my presence in what appeared to be her house.

“I wasn’t expecting any visitors,” she said. Her voice held a faint accent. Russian? Slovakian? It was hard to pinpoint.

“I’m Samantha Kidd,” I said. “I work at
Retrofit
Magazine. I understand you gave permission for us to view your collection—”

The elegant woman stretched out her right hand. “Hello, Samantha Kidd. I’m Jennie Mae Tome.” I shook her hand. Light tinkling sounds came as a collection of gold bangle bracelets on her wrist rushed against each other. Judging from the way the gold shone, even in the dim room, I guessed them to be at least 18K gold. At a glance, I estimated that there were fifty of them. Whoever Jennie Mae Tome was, she wasn’t poor.

“Mr. Charles, why don’t you bring Miss Samantha and I some tea?” she said to the man in the suit. I looked at him and found him scowling at me. His expression changed slightly, though he didn’t go out of his way to hide his opinion of my unannounced visit.

“Right away.” He disappeared into the next room, presumably the kitchen. Jennie Mae gestured toward a rocking chair. “Please, have a seat.”

I lowered myself onto the wooden chair and felt something brush my ankles. When I looked down, I saw a black and white cat skulk across the room, his tail pointed straight up in the air. Another cat sat in the corner by a large canister of six-foot-tall peacock feathers. A third came out from a narrow opening that I already knew led to the stairs that led to the attic.

Jennie Mae reached down and scratched the black and white cat’s head. “I hope you’re not allergic,” she said. “I’ve always loved cats. They keep me company in a way people don’t.”

I reached out and stroked a calico that jumped onto the arm of the divan. “I understand completely. My cat knows more about me than anybody else.”

“Ah, you’re a cat person too. And clearly you have style.” She smiled. It felt funny sitting in the dark with her, both of us dressed in caftans with head wraps. I wondered if this really was what the Seventies were like. Surely more than one person dressed like Rhoda, didn’t they? Did anybody care that while they sought individuality, they often weren’t the most unique person in the room? Come to think of it, it wasn’t that different from today.

“Now, what brings you here?” she asked.

“Like I said, I work at
Retrofit,”
I said, expecting her to put two and two together. She didn’t react, so I continued. “The online magazine that focuses on looking to the history of fashion in order to predict the future?”

“You enjoy fashion, don’t you?” she asked.

“I do. It’s what I’ve wanted to do as long as I can remember.”

“I must admit, I’ve never heard of this magazine.”

“I thought—I understood that you gave permission for us to view and photograph your collection.”

She leaned back against the divan and ran her hand over the head of a fluffy white Persian cat. “My friend Mr. Charles must have arranged that. I leave anything involved in running the estate to him.” She looked at the cat, who settled in next to her. “Tell me about this project.”

“It’s to be our first print magazine. The concept behind
Retrofit
is to show people how to take items from the past and incorporate them into the present. Our premiere issue is going to be dedicated to the style of the Seventies, highlighting the top designers, showing how things were worn then and how to interpret individual items now.”

“It sounds fascinating,” she said.

“We’re relatively new. My boss officially launched it last year. But what Nancie has been able to accomplish in that time is amazing. She’s a visionary. I’m lucky to be on her team.”

Mr. Charles reappeared from the swinging doors. He held a tray filled with two tea cups, a ceramic pot, and a small canister for sugar cubes and for milk. A saucer of lemon wedges sat next to a plate of sliced bread. From the scent, I guessed it was banana. He set the tray down between us.

“Will that be all, Jennie?” he asked.

“For now.”

He looked at the tray, and then at me. His features looked less friendly than judgmental. I felt like he was trying to send me a message. It might have been don’t-overstay-your-welcome, it might have been get-out-of-here now. Hard to tell.

He left the room through the door that led to the upstairs.

“Jennie, how well do you know Mr. Charles?” I asked, wondering how I was going to go about implying that her employee was possibly involved with Pritchard.

“I know him better than I’ve known anybody in my whole life.” She patted the afghan on her lap and the fluffy white cat woke up. “Have you been formally introduced to my kitties? This is Navajo.” She scratched the cat’s ears and the cat tipped its head back, exposing an exquisite turquoise and red Indian beaded choker around its neck. “The tabby is Harvest Gold, and the calico behind the piano is Bohemian Rhapsody.” She smiled at them. “You can take the girl out of the Seventies, but you can’t take the Seventies out of the girl.”

“Has Mr. Charles been in your life all along?” I asked. Not that I didn’t enjoy meeting the cats, but Jennie Mae was either trying to distract me or was getting off topic.

She poured the tea into her cup. “We lost touch for a long time. Quite by chance, he learned that I was living in Amity and he looked me up. We discovered that a friendship remained in place of what we’d once had. Plus, he knows exactly how I like my afternoon tea,” she said. “I hope it’s not too strong for you.”

“Strong? I’ve always been more of a coffee drinker, but I’m sure this’ll be fine.”

She filled my mug and set the pot back onto the tray. She added a few sugar cubes to her mug and stirred, and then took a sip. Her eyes closed and she sat back against her chair, a smile on her face.

I reached for my own mug and blew on the hot liquid. I set the cup on the saucer and looked at Jennie Mae.

Her smile grew more broad. “A good cup of tea does make a difference, doesn’t it? This is just the pick-me-up I needed.” She took another sip, and then another. Before I’d even started my mug, hers was empty. She refilled her cup and drank half of her second mug.

That must be some good tea. I lifted the mug to my lips and swallowed a gulp.

Whoa! That wasn’t tea, it was bourbon!

My eyes went wide and I coughed. Jennie Mae opened her eyes and tipped her head. “It’s an acquired taste, I admit,” she said. “But you’ll soon find that no other tea compares.” She drained her second mug and sat back. Navajo jumped onto her lap and she closed her eyes and stroked the cat’s fur.

Now, I’m not the type to judge people by their clothes, surroundings, or pets, but the combination of all three of these very things, in addition to the spiked tea, was making me wonder if I’d stumbled through the looking glass. I stood up and immediately felt the booze all the way to my knees. I sat down. Maybe it would be a good idea to eat something.

I ate two pieces of banana bread before I stood up again. The room spun. I was what the kids called “a lightweight,” and drinking bourbon on a mostly empty stomach at one thirty in the afternoon was an unfamiliar experience. And on top of all of that, I had to pee.

“May I use your bathroom?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said, keeping her eyes closed. “It’s at the top of the stairs through the white door.”

I carefully stepped around the furniture. My platform shoes made slight indentations in the plush carpeting. I kept one hand on the wall to steady myself until I reached the stairs and was able to grab the wooden banister. This didn’t feel right. My head was cloudy and my feet felt like they each weighed fifty pounds. I reached the landing. The bathroom was in front of me, just like in my own house at home. But the staircase that led to the upstairs attic—the attic that Pritchard had chased me out of just yesterday—was right there.

Right. There.

Which brings us to reason #4: No good can come from spying while you’re buzzed on bourbon.

I looked around. No signs of Mr. Charles. No signs of Pritchard Smith. No signs of Jennie Mae Tome. If everybody was so busy, where were they?

I opened the door that led to the staircase that led to the attic and listened. Nothing. If Pritchard was up there, then he was doing a very good job of pretending he wasn’t. And why would he want to do that? Because he knew I was there and he didn’t want me to catch him doing whatever it was that he was there to do.

Slowly, I crept up the second set of stairs, careful to keep my footsteps silent as I ascended. I wanted the element of surprise when I reached the attic and discovered him.

But as it turns out, the element of surprise was for me. Because the fabulous attic-turned-walk-in-closet that I’d seen the first time I was there, jammed with racks, dressers, and trunks of vintage fashion, was empty.