Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper Read online

  Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series

  Other Books in the Style & Error Mystery Series

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

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  About The Author

  Other Books by Diane Vallere

  The Brim Reaper

  Book 3 in the Style & Error Mystery Series

  Diane Vallere

  www.PolyesterPress.com

  The Brim Reaper

  Book 3 in the Style & Error Mystery Series

  Copyright © 2013 by Diane Vallere

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 0984965359

  ISBN 13: 9780984965359

  First Edition | eBook edition

  Expected Publication December 2013

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series

  “[T]he book is enriched by the author’s cleverly phrased prose and convincing characterization. The surprise ending will satisfy and delight many mystery fans. A diverting mystery that offers laughs and chills.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Overall, an impressive cozy mystery from a promising author.”

  —Mystery Tribune

  “A sassy tale told with warmth and charm, Diane Vallere’s Designer Dirty Laundry shows that even the toughest crime is no match for a sleuth in fishnet stockings who knows her way around the designer department. A delightful debut.”

  —Kris Neri,

  Lefty Award-Nominated Author of

  Revenge on Route 66

  “Combining fashion and fatalities, Diane Vallere pens a winning debut mystery. With a fascinating look behind the scenes at what makes a department store tick, Designer Dirty Laundry is a sleek and stylish read.”

  —Ellen Byerrum,

  Award-Winning Author of The Crime of Fashion Mysteries

  “In Designer Dirty Laundry, author Diane Vallere stitches together a seamless mystery. The story will have you on pins and needles. Samantha Kidd is a witty heroine that you will root for as she fashions a fresh stylish start in her hometown of Ribbon, Pennsylvania.”

  —Avery Aames,

  Agatha Award winner of nationally bestselling

  A Cheese Shop Mystery series

  “A captivating new mystery voice, Vallere has stitched together haute couture and murder in a stylish mystery. Dirty Laundry has never been so engrossing!”

  —Krista Davis, Award-Winning Author of The Domestic Diva Mysteries

  “Designer Dirty Laundry is a light, cozy-style mystery written in a breezy manner. The murder plot is nicely set up, the suspects all credibly drawn, and Samantha Kidd an engaging amateur sleuth.”

  —Mysterious Reviews

  “It keeps you at the edge of your seat. I love the description of clothes in this book … if you love fashion, pick this up!”

  —Los Angeles Mamma Blog

  “You may want to stay out of department stores after reading Diane Vallere’s second book in her Style & Error Mystery Series. Behind the scenes some deals are to die for.”

  —Sheila Connolly, author of the Museum Mysteries, the Orchard Mysteries, and the Country Cork Mysteries

  “Vallere once again brings her knowledgeable fashion skills to the forefront, along with comedy, mystery, and a saucy romance. Buyer, Beware did not disappoint!”

  —Chick Lit Plus

  “In Buyer, Beware, Diane Vallere takes the reader through this cozy mystery with her signature wit and humor. Buyer, Beware is a fast paced, humorous read with a clever, knotty mystery to chew on.”

  —Mary Marks, NY Journal of Books

  Other Books in the Style & Error Mystery Series

  Designer Dirty Laundry

  Buyer, Beware

  “Just Kidding” (e-short story)

  Acknowledgments

  It would be impossible to thank all of the people who have influenced the Samantha Kidd books because that list would involve every person I’ve met since high school (and a few I met long before then!).

  Thank you to Jen Schlegel, for helping me discover a sense of adventure at four years old and helping me keep in touch with it through college. Thanks to Jo Schlegel for suggesting the heading on the back of this book. John—you’re slacking.

  Thank you to my Sisters in Crime Guppies, the best group for writers out there. I never knew such a community existed and I don’t know I functioned without you.

  Thank you to Ramona deFelice Long, Monica O’Rourke, Elise Stone, Krista Davis, Kris Neri, Daryl Wood Gerber, Ellen Byerrum, and Jessica Faust, for contributing your own special flavors to the cocktail that is editing, proofing, supporting, and encouraging.

  And to my inner circle: thank you Josh Hickman for reminding me that there is life outside of the computer. Thank you Kendel Flaum for a friendship that transcends acknowledgments. Thank you to my parents for teaching me about hard work and goals. And pretzels. Thank you for teaching me about pretzels.

  Dedication

  To Gino

  1

  It was hard not to overhear the argument. Two deep male voices shouted at each other from the office of the art museum. I stood at the back entrance of the Ribbon Museum of Art by a rotating exhibit of influential fashions. I wasn’t sure if I should continue inside or pretend I hadn’t arrived yet.

  Across the exposed concrete floor was a flight of stairs that led to the main display space. I could cross the floor, get up the stairs, and pretend I’d been there all along. If I didn’t need to check in with someone in the office, I would have tried to do just that.

  “I don’t care how much publicity it will bring. I’m not doing it!” one voice said.

  “You might own your own store, but you forget who’s in charge here,” a second said.

  I took a tentative step onto the concrete.

  “I’m here because of my experience and connections. You want them, you let me do things the way I see fit.”

  “That wasn’t the arrangement.”

  “If you’d been up front about the arrangement from the beginning, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Had there been clothing on the naked mannequins that stood like sentries around the cavernous gallery, the sound might have been muffled. Instead, the voices reverberated off the walls and magnified like a conversation yelled across the Grand Canyon.

  “You don’t need to know everything I have planned.”


  “You’re right. I don’t need to know anything you have planned. I quit.”

  The man who stormed out of the office was red in the face, an unfortunate color combination with the royal blue glasses he’d probably chosen as a fashion statement. He was bald but had a sculpted white mustache and beard, and he looked like a patriotic ad for blood pressure medicine, or at least the “before” photo for someone who might need an intervention. He wore a black suit with a T-shirt underneath, no socks, and shiny black wingtips. The leather soles of his shoes made a snappy clicking sound as he crossed the marble foyer. He pushed both palms on the inside of the entrance doors, but it was Monday and the museum was closed to the public. The doors flexed outward a few inches and then, bound by the heavy chain and padlock, snapped back toward the man, knocking him in the head.

  “Are you okay?” I rushed to him, my sandals making their own staccato clicks and clacks across the floor.

  He appeared not to notice me. He cursed and slammed his balled-up fist into the back of the door. It looked like it hurt.

  “Who are you? My replacement?” he asked over his shoulder while massaging his hand.

  Since I wasn’t sure what my role at the museum was other than showing up to help a friend, I answered with an introduction. “I’m Samantha Kidd. I’m here to help with an exhibit of vintage movie costumes. Is your head okay? The doors whacked you pretty hard.”

  He fanned his fingers out and looked at the back of his hand, and then touched his forehead where the doors had whacked him. A red bump was already forming.

  “That man is an idiot.”

  Before I could answer, the bald man’s cell phone rang. He scowled at the display and let it ring several times. On the sixth ring, he tapped the answer button and held the phone out to me.

  I put my hands up and shook my head, but he nodded and held it closer.

  Before I decided to take—or not take—the phone, a voice came through. “Engle? You there?” Pause. “I want you and your stuff out of here by midnight tonight.”

  The bald man grabbed the phone. “Midnight is too late for me. I’m out of here now.” He shoved the phone into his pocket without hanging up. He looked at me. “If you want to help, tell your friend to get as far away from this exhibit as he can.”

  He left me standing by the locked front entrance and strode off in an angry path to the back door.

  I counted to ten before realizing I had to approach the man in the office, and then I continued counting to twenty-seven. When no other angry people appeared, I click-clacked my way to the office and tapped on the door. There was no answer. The door was cracked and I pushed it open.

  “Hello?” I called. The office was empty. “I’m Samantha Kidd and I’m here to help with the exhibit. Hello? I need a museum pass.”

  I stepped inside and looked behind the door and behind the desk. As far as offices went, it was bigger than I would have imagined. A row of white bookshelves filled with hardback tomes about costume design, fashion history, famous designers, and art covered the back wall. A steel desk sat in front of the bookcases, and an olive green ergonomic chair was pushed away from it like someone had stood up quickly.

  “What are you doing in here?” a voice behind me asked.

  I spun around and faced a thin black man. He pushed past me to the desk. A silver plaque bearing the name Thad Thomas sat by the back of the computer monitor. Like the angry man earlier, this man was bald, though I could tell his was a style choice, not an inherited trait. His bright green eyes were trained on me. I’d never seen eyes so green before. My money was on colored contacts.

  “I’m Samantha Kidd,” I said for the second time that morning. “I’m here to help with the exhibit.”

  “The exhibit is upstairs.”

  “I was told to check in with someone in this office.”

  As he looked past me to the desk and around the office, presumably to see if I’d pocketed anything while in the office alone, I took in his outfit. Blue and white checkered shirt with a yellow bowtie. Dark denim jeans. Frye boots.

  Frye boots?

  “Why didn’t I hear you?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Your boots. They should have made noise on the marble floor. Why didn’t I hear you?”

  “Rubber soles.”

  “Frye boots don’t come with rubber soles.” He stood straighter and focused on me. For the briefest second I regretted my black strapless jumpsuit, my silver leather blazer, and my lime green obi belt. The pink shoes I stood by.

  “Tell me again why you’re here?” he asked once his full-body scan was complete.

  “Eddie Adams asked me to help with the exhibit.”

  “You’re here to help Eddie? He’s upstairs. I’ll get you a pass this afternoon.”

  He pushed me backward and went behind the desk. I got the awkward feeling that I had been dismissed but wasn’t sure. After a couple of seconds, I left the office and climbed the concrete stairs.

  The Ribbon Museum of Art had been part of the city’s history since the late twenties. As a child growing up in Ribbon, I’d been on more than one field trip to the imposing building during elementary school. I discovered “Jazz Under the Stars” during my teens and had a few dates at the planetarium across the parking lot.

  The building was one of my favorite places in Ribbon. A spacious foyer, with admissions on the left and the gift shop on the right, gave way to a flight of wide marble stairs. Ten steps up was a landing, above which was a massive window that looked out over the impeccably groomed grounds. The staircase split into two additional flights, one to the left and one to the right, both leading to the upstairs gallery space where I found Eddie.

  Eddie Adams, visual manager for the local retailer Tradava and the extender of the invitation to come to the museum to work for no pay, was knee-deep in Styrofoam peanuts and Bubble Wrap. His hands were wrapped around a white mannequin he was trying unsuccessfully to anchor on a brushed-chrome pole base. Behind him stood an army of similar mannequins in various poses, some missing arms or legs. At least two were headless.

  “Hey, Dude,” Eddie called out to me. Beads of sweat had broken out on Eddie’s forehead. His bleached-blond hair, left uncut for the past several months, was tucked behind his ears. He planted his black and white checkered Vans on either side of the mannequin and tipped it to the side.

  “Hey. This place smells like garlic and moth balls,” I said, wrinkling my nose.

  “Can you help me out with this, please?”

  I waved my hand in front of my nose to dull the smell and walked to where he stood. I picked up a long white leg and snapped it onto the torso and then tipped the chrome pole and poked around under the butt of the mannequin until the pole slid into the opening. All in all, it was an embarrassing display of, well, visual display.

  As the base slid into the figure, Eddie shifted the weight of the mannequin toward me. I wrapped my arms around her slight waist, and my strapless jumpsuit dropped a couple of inches, threatening to expose my chest. I dropped the mannequin and hoisted up my neckline.

  Eddie grabbed the torso and staggered backward under the weight of the prop. He then pushed it back to a standing position.

  “Dude?” he asked.

  “I had to adjust.”

  He scanned my outfit. “I told you to dress appropriately.”

  “What’s inappropriate about my outfit?” I turned away and faced the mirror that was propped against the wall. Any regrets I’d momentarily thought when the man downstairs had given me the once over had vanished. The jumpsuit had been left over from my J.Lo phase in the early millennium. I’d cinched it all with a lime green belt, buckled into pink, patent-leather ankle-wrap sandals, popped a wide silver cuff on my left wrist, and topped it all with a silver leather jacket. Every piece had been rediscovered through a recent attempted closet purge, which resulted more in a rediscovery of treasures I’d forgotten about than any actual purging.

  I grabbed the base of the column, help
ed Eddie move it a few feet to the left, and then backed away as he righted it and lined the straight edge of the base to a perfect parallel with the wall behind him.

  “How’s the job search going?” he asked.

  “How much do you think I could get for a dozen satin cargo pants from the mid nineties?”

  “That well, huh?” Eddie flopped down on a pile of Bubble Wrap. A burst of popping sounds shot from under his tush while he rearranged his legs in front of him. He let out an exaggerated sigh.

  “The main problem is my recent work history. I was a buyer at Bentley’s for ten years, which was great, but it feels like another lifetime ago. After that I moved here and worked at Tradava for a week. Six months later I worked at Heist for something like that too. So basically my resume makes me look like a flake.”

  “I might have a lead for you. That’s why I wanted your help. I can’t pay you, but I thought I could be a reference. Give you something to fill in the gap in your employment until you find a job.” He kicked his feet out in front of him. “But it doesn’t really matter, I guess. This whole project has been trouble from the start. You showing up looking like an extra in a hip-hop video is just the icing on the cake.”

  I ignored his dig. “Why would my outfit have anything to do with your project?”

  “Because my project could very easily become your project.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Your major was the history of fashion, right? This exhibit encompasses that. We’re getting loans from some of the best private collections of clothing in the tri-state area, along with a couple of local hat stores and one designer from Hollywood.”

  I leaned forward. “The museum’s putting on an exhibit on the history of fashion? Here, in Ribbon? You’re in charge of it? The whole thing? I would love to be involved with something like this, but my experience is in retail buying, not visual.”

  “That’s where the opportunity comes in. I’m in charge of the installation. I’m giving you a foot back inside the door.”