Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) Read online

  I pulled my small white lined notepad and Pritchard’s pen out and scrolled through mentions in Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and Glamour, pausing periodically to take notes.

  Jennie Mae Tome was a wealthy retiree who had taken up residence in Ribbon, Pennsylvania after leaving the fashion industry in the early part of the millennium. As a teen, she’d gotten her start as a model, but that wasn’t to become her career or her legacy. She’d been quick to spot ill-fitting garments on the other models before catalog shoots or runway shows, and learned to make adjustments with whatever was handy: tape, band-aids, bobby pins, and ultimately her own makeshift sewing kit. When one designer spotted her lowering the hem of a mini skirt, he fired her. There’d been no time to undo her alteration before the show, though, and the mini—now a midi—had walked the runway of the local ladies’ country club spring fashion show. The audience, delighted at the notion that there was an option for women whose knees appeared older than their well-cared-for faces and youthful wardrobes, placed orders for the skirt that broke records. The designer spent the next two days tracking down Jennie Mae Tome from the contact information on file with the modeling agency that employed her. It would have taken less time if Jennie Mae hadn’t lied about her age or her address.

  Jennie Mae quickly went from minor alterations to being asked for her opinion on new designs. Not one to conceive of clothes from scratch, she found it easier to tweak existing patterns than come up with entirely new ideas. She made samples of shirts with exaggerated sleeve fullness, culottes with wider legs and skirts that dropped to the floor. Her suggested tweaks to existing designs contributed to the success of many collections. While the designers received the recognition and the sales, Jennie Mae received their sample collections. Which, instead of wearing like they’d hoped, she’d tucked away in storage. Until now.

  I stopped reading. Jennie Mae’s vast wardrobe hadn’t been curated by her own personal sense of style. They’d been gifted to her, direct from the designers she had worked for. The value of those clothes, having been stored sight unseen, some for upwards of forty years, was incomprehensible. And until a few days ago, they’d been housed in the attic of her house in Amity.

  The pen fairly flew over the paper as I jotted the important details into my notepad and leaned back in the chair, thinking about what it meant. Jennie Mae hadn’t worked exclusively for one designer. She’d been ahead of her time. She’d touched many collections. She’d left her mark. Her eye for proportion and detail had changed the way that American women dressed. And almost nobody knew her name.

  But for every bit of information I found about Jennie Mae the model and the influencer of trends, I came up short on mentions of her personal life.

  Mere days ago, Nancie had spoken passionately about Retrofit’s first print magazine. Considering both she and Pritchard were MIA, it didn’t seem likely to happen. But if it did happen, if the photos of clothing from Jennie Mae’s archives became public, all of that would change. Jennie Mae would go from being a wealthy recluse to a cult figure. Was that a good thing? She must have seen it to be. Everything that had happened had started after she gave Nancie the green light to use her clothes in our premiere issue.

  Unless she hadn’t granted permission at all. She herself had told me that her butler was in charge of running her estate. It was very possible that he was the one who had been dealing with everyone and she’d been left out of the decision.

  I wondered, where was Mr. Charles on the day I showed up alone? Had he, too, seen me enter the attic or leave via the window? Had Loncar spoken to him yet?

  Lost in my research, I didn’t notice the passing of time until my phone alarm indicated that the one hour time limit on the reserved computer was about to run out. The computer clock said it was quarter to seven. Even if I renewed the hold on the computer, I’d eventually have to make a decision about where I was going next. It was getting late. I didn’t want to drive the streets of Ribbon in the dark in a dead taxi with nowhere to go. The only thing I knew was that I wanted to go somewhere I’d feel safe. And short of sleeping in the dead taxi in front of the police station, I didn’t know where that safe place would be.

  Except that there was one place...

  I closed out the article that I’d been reading and pulled up the website for the Motel 6. Minutes later I’d reserved a room through their online portal. I was about to check into a motel with nothing but the clothes on my back, and somehow that felt safer than going home. It appeared as though I’d reached a new low only days before my birthday.

  The Motel 6 was only slightly less welcoming at night. Approximately the same number of cars filled the lot as earlier today, only now they occupied spaces under the various street lamps. I pulled the dead taxi into a space by the front office and went inside to check in. The front desk clerk did not appear to notice my lack of overnight belongings. I requested Room 222 for kicks, but was told there were no vacancies on the second floor. He handed me the key to room 137 and told me it was next to the ice machine (and that I couldn’t miss it). I found the gift shop (a corner of the lobby) and purchased a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a new sweatshirt that said I Got Tied Up In Ribbon! across the chest in fuzzy white letters.

  I left the office and sought my room. The desk clerk had been right about the ice machine. The unit was set off by a glowing blue sign with ICE spelled out in eighteen inch tall letters. I bet you could see it from the street. The machine made an erratic electric buzzing sound. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Clunk. Bzzzzzzzt. I unlocked my door and was about to enter when somebody grabbed me from behind.

  Chapter 13

  FRIDAY NIGHT (LATER)

  “What’s going on, Kidd?” Nick asked. “Checking into a seedy motel without bags?”

  I looked around. “How did you find me?”

  “You said you were going to be at the library. That it was going to be a late night. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Surprise me how? I told you I was working.”

  “I was going to smuggle you a coffee and give you a thirty second shoulder massage. But when you left, I thought you were headed to my apartment and I followed you—until I saw you pull in here. A motel, Kidd?”

  “It’s not what you think,” I said.

  “Are you sure? Because I think you lied to me. You said you were working all night. You’re driving around in a beat up taxi, and now you’re at a motel—”

  “Okay, it is what you think. Mostly. But I can explain.”

  “I don’t want to hear excuses, Kidd. This—you and me—I thought we had a chance this time, but it’s never going to work if I’m the only one who wants it.” His voice rose steadily. His usually soft and comforting baritone voice was sharp, cutting through the otherwise quiet night.

  “Nick, keep your voice down. People are going to notice.”

  He ignored me. “I’m dealing with my father at home—do you know what it’s like to live with your father when you’re an adult? It’s crazy. I caught him binge watching Keeping up with the Kardashians today.”

  “Shhhh!” I said. I grabbed at his hand and he shook me off.

  “I told him to get out of the house. I told my own father to get out of the house. Because I wanted—no, I needed—one night to myself. For us. And you lied to me. And now I find you checking into a motel? Who is he, Kidd? That biker from Philly? I hope for your sake he’s worth it.”

  The door to the room next to mine opened and Detective Loncar came out. He was in a white crew neck undershirt and jeans. White socks with yellow reinforced toes on his feet. His thinning hair stood up on one side, as if he’d been sleeping.

  “What the hell is going on out here?” He looked at Nick.

  Nick looked at me.

  I looked at Nick and then at Detective Loncar. “I believe you two have already met,” I said. I turned and led them into my hotel room.

  Nick sat in the desk chair. Loncar brought a chair from his room into mine. I was the only one allowed on the bed. My room, my rules. Wh
en we were all situated with plastic cups of ginger ale from the vending machine, I short-handed my explanation of events to the two of them as best as I could.

  “Nick, I know you’re mad, but I’m not sneaking around behind your back. I’m trying to protect everybody I know. I thought the best thing to do was to distance myself from you, at least until the detective and I figure out why Pritchard Smith is after me.”

  “Whoa,” Loncar said. “We,” he motioned back and forth between himself and me, “are not figuring out anything. You,” he pointed at me, “are minding your own business.”

  “Minding my own business is exactly how I got into this mess. I hardly think it’s going to get me out of it. Besides, I start Citizen’s Police Academy on Monday, so I’ll be much more equipped to handle situations like this.”

  “About that,” Loncar said, “I tore up your application.” I inhaled sharply, ready to react. He held up his hand to keep me from talking. “That is not up for discussion. My job is to keep you safe. Not to help you graduate from the CPA. Letting you take that course would be bad judgment on my part.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair. You think I like sleeping in a motel while my wife and daughter coo over my granddaughter?”

  Nick chimed in. “You think I like knowing that my girlfriend would rather check into a motel than call me for help?”

  I looked back and forth between their faces. “Do you think I like going out in public in sweatpants?” I asked.

  Loncar stood up. “I’m not going to ask how you got the room next to mine or how you happen to be driving around in a retired taxi. What I am going to ask is that you don’t leave the motel tonight. Got that?”

  Before I could answer, Nick spoke up. “She’s not going to leave the motel. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Just how do you plan to do that?” I asked, crossing my arms in front of me.

  “We’re spending the night together.”

  Loncar seemed to think that was his cue to leave. Funny, I would have figured him to be more of the chaperoning type.

  Nine years working together. Nine years flirting with each other. Nine years of innuendo and then one year of foreplay. Sure, I’d dated other people during the time that I’d fantasized about Nick. But from that first day when I’d met him on a sludge-filled street in New York while he was unloading his truck of samples and I was out for my morning coffee, through the time we’d spent together at market (the week when buyers had appointments with designers to select their collections for the upcoming seasons), we both seemed to understand that there was a different sort of connection between us. That was a whole lot of build-up to dump onto a blossoming relationship.

  Maybe that’s why we crashed and burned the first time. Never mind the slow courtship. The following year had been too much, too fast. Nick had bought back distribution of his shoe collection and was making a go of financing it himself. I’d been new to Ribbon, trying to reestablish myself in the town where I’d grown up. He’d spent six months in Milan working with his factories. I’d cycled through two jobs, three homicide investigations, brought down one knockoff ring, and saved his maybe-former-girlfriend from failure at the hands of an arsonist.

  We’d both been busy.

  But it wasn’t just that. Since returning to Ribbon, I’d learned a lot about myself. The whole motivation for this move had been because I wasn’t happy in my job—a job that most people would think was glamorous and enviable. I was seeking something, some kind of satisfaction at the hands of my lifestyle strip down and rebuild, and I still didn’t know what it was. Deep, deep, deep down I was starting to fear that I was never going to be happy. That I was so busy looking for rush after rush after rush because it kept me from looking at the one thing I hadn’t bothered to change since I’d given notice at Bentley’s: myself.

  I’d spent two years keeping myself so busy with failed jobs and dangerous situations and living room rearrangements and closet cleaning that I hadn’t stopped long enough to confront the important question: exactly what was it that I wanted out of life?

  The clock on the fake wood table next to the bed indicated that it was nine thirty. Until tomorrow morning, there was nothing to take my mind off the fact that Nick and I were alone in a hotel room. Not even a deck of cards.

  “So, your dad is sitting in at your regular poker game?” I asked. I fished my toothpaste and toothbrush out of my bag and carried them to the bathroom. “I didn’t know you played poker. What are the stakes? Maybe I should join your game.”

  “Kidd, I don’t want to talk about my dad right now, and I don’t want to talk about poker.” He stood from the narrow chair and walked toward me.

  “Okay. How’s work? You’re due for a trip to Milan soon, aren’t you?”

  He was right in front of me. I could smell his aftershave—Creed’s Bois du Portugal, a heady mix of cedar and sandalwood. The heat from his body came off of him in waves, reaching me even though there were inches between us. I held up my toothpaste in one hand and my toothbrush in the other. “You can use my toothpaste if you want, but I only bought one brush,” I said quietly.

  He put his hands on either side of my face. Slowly he leaned toward me, until his lips rested right above mine. I tipped my head up slightly. We kissed.

  He didn’t need toothpaste.

  “Shhhh,” he said when he pulled away. He put his finger on my lips to emphasize the point. “You’re the most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. You’re generous,” he kissed me, “beautiful,” he kissed me, “and sexy.” He kissed me. “If you weren’t a touch crazy, you’d be perfect.”

  “I’m not perfect,” I whispered back.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s wrong with you?” His voice was barely audible. I leaned back against the bathroom sink for support. He put his hands on my hips and his lips made a trail from my earlobe, to my cheek, down my neck.

  “I have cellulite,” I blurted.

  He stood up and looked directly at me, the crinkles by his eyes deep with laugher. “It’s going to take more than cellulite to scare me away this time,” he said. His lips met mine again, and this time I felt it all the way to my toes.

  We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Nick’s hands tightened on my upper arms. “Shhhh,” he said again, but this time it had a completely different tone.

  “It’s your neighbor,” Loncar said through the door. “You guys want a pizza? I have leftovers.”

  Nick relaxed his grip and bent down, his forehead resting against mine. “You want his pizza, don’t you?”

  “I’m not going to turn it down,” I said.

  I stayed in the bathroom while Nick got the pizza from Loncar. The scent of his cologne was quickly replaced with tangy tomato, oregano, and pepperoni. No wonder Loncar’s wife was trying to change his eating habits. They were practically the same as mine.

  By the time the pizza was finished, I’d made a decision. “Nothing is going to happen tonight.”

  “That’s why I’m staying here. To make sure you’re safe,” Nick said.

  “That’s not what I mean. We’re in a motel room. Alone. We’ve never spent a night together before.”

  “You like to make up rules, don’t you?”

  “Actually, they’re more like guidelines,” I said.

  “Okay, a guideline has been established. Nothing will happen tonight.” He put his fingertip on my lower lip, and then slowly let it trail down my chin, my throat, my neck. “But if you change your mind, nobody is going to judge us for giving in to temptation.”

  I closed my eyes, aware only of his fingertip on my skin. Could I let go for one night? I opened my eyes and moved his finger away from me. “Detective Loncar is on the other side of that wall. I’d really rather not be preoccupied with him when we—if we—do that.”

  Nick looked at the wall between my room and Loncar’s. “Good point. That leaves one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Which side of the bed
do you want?”

  We slept in our clothes. I woke to an infomercial for some kind of exercise equipment. Nick’s arm was around me and my face was pressed against the buttons on his shirt. Our legs were intertwined. We were both on his side of the bed.

  He appeared to be sound asleep. This was going to be awkward.

  What was I supposed to do? Extricate myself and pretend I’d stayed on my own side of the bed? Or will myself to be still until he woke up and untangled himself from me? I felt a Charlie horse in my calf and moved my legs. He rolled toward me and put his other arm around me. “Mmmmm,” he said, burying his face in my tangled hair. “I decided last night that I’m not a big fan of guidelines.”

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t going to be awkward after all.

  Twenty minutes later, we were enjoying the complimentary breakfast buffet. Loncar came into the room, looked at us, and took a seat across the room. Maybe it was because he thought it best to keep his distance. Or because he saw me feed Nick a piece of bacon. You just never know with that one.

  “So, I’ve been thinking,” Nick said. He reached across the table and braided his fingers through mine. “Last night was…right?”

  “Right,” I said. “Except for the broken spring in the bed.”

  “I didn’t notice it.”

  “It wasn’t on your side.”

  He ran his thumb back and forth over mine. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “You’ve had too many close calls since you’ve been back in Ribbon. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  “I’m not going to let anything happen to you either,” I said. The gravity of the situation hit me. Bacon or no bacon, this was it. This was real. I hadn’t heard from Pritchard in days. Maybe he’d found what he was looking for and had forgotten all about me.

  “I’m going to go to my apartment to shower and change,” Nick said. “I’ll bring my laptop back and work from here for the rest of the day. Do you want me to bring you anything?” he asked.