Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4)

Some Like It Haute

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Book 4 in the Style & Error Mystery Series

Diane Vallere

Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series

Dedication

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About the Author

Also by Diane Vallere

SOME LIKE IT HAUTE

Book 4 in the Style & Error Mystery Series

A Polyester Press Mystery

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.

Copyright © 2015 Diane Vallere

All rights reserved.

Print: ISBN 13: 9781939197108

Ebook ISBN 13 (mobi): 9781939197115

Ebook ISBN 13 (epub): 9781939197092

Printed in the United States of America.

Praise for the Style & Error Mystery Series

DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY:

“...the 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 For Old Times’ Sake

“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, 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, 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

BUYER, BEWARE:

“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

Dedication

To Cynthia, who taught me far more than what I needed to know to be a buyer.

Your advice and insights will never be forgotten.

1

The smell told me I wasn’t at home. Before I opened my eyes and saw the two concerned faces staring at me, before I heard the sounds of the monitors and medical equipment that sat close by, before I felt the scratchy sheets on the bed, I was assaulted by the scent of antiseptic cherry cleanser.

The faces were familiar. There was Eddie Adams, my close friend and confidant. And behind him, diverting her eyes, was Amanda Ries.

Not a confidant. Not even a sometimes friend. She was my ex-boyfriend’s maybe-former girlfriend.

The two of them looked at me with a mixture of concern, fear, and embarrassment.

“She’s awake,” Eddie said when my eyes focused on him. “Dude, are you okay?”

I scanned the room, taking in the medical equipment, heart rate monitor machines, and curtain that had been pulled back so I could see my visitors. I glanced down at my outfit.

Paper pajamas.

“Is this a hospital room?” I asked.

“Yes,” Eddie said.

“Am I the patient?”

“Yes.”

“Did I come here in an ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t think I’m okay.”

Amanda burst into tears.

* * *

Twenty-Four Hours Earlier…

Ridiculously tall and thin girls surrounded me. Okay, ridiculously tall and thin women. Okay, I wasn’t sure they were either. What I was sure of was that they were models. They pranced around nervously in stick-on bras and barely-there panties, waiting to be pinned and taped and glued and tied into the fashions that they would wear at the upcoming Amanda Ries runway show. Tonight was the dress rehearsal to check fittings, practice walking the runway, and generally make sure nothing had been left to chance. It was Fashion Week—or the closest thing that existed outside of New York City. Thanks to its proximity to the Big Apple, our little town of Ribbon, Pennsylvania hosted its own version of Fashion Week, often convincing buyers to make the two hour trek and check out the talent. It didn’t matter that we weren’t in the fashion capital of the country, but rather about 150 miles east. Fashion Week adjacent, if you will.

“Miss Kidd, where do we go after we’re done with our fittings?” one of the waifish models asked. A flashbulb popped in my face. I blinked several times, trying to restore my eyesight. “Miss Kidd?” she asked again.

“It’s Samantha, not Miss Kidd,” I lectured. I wasn’t that much older than they were. Well, maybe I was, but admitting your age at a fashion show wasn’t unlike telling your herd of cattle that you were the weak one. I pointed down a narrow hallway covered with bulletin boards. “Last room on the right.”

I felt a tug on my sleeve. “Excuse me, ma’am?” said a little girl voice. “I think there’s been a mistake with my second look.”

Ma’am? She couldn’t be talking to me. I looked at the model. Wide blue eyes, long blond hair, and a body of angles and bones. Sixteen years old was my best guess, only because anything younger would have been illegal.

I climbed up on a small stepstool. “Can I have everyone’s attention?” I hollered. Someone shushed and the crowd quieted down. “I am Samantha. Not Miss Kidd, not ma’am. If you have a question for me and you expect me to answer, you need to call me Samantha.”

I hopped down from the step stool and pushed it under the nearest table.

“She’s turning this place into a circus,” said a voice next to me. I turned and found an attractive man in an unstructured black and white tweed jacket and a pork pie hat. His thick gray hair seemed out of place against his youthful olive skin. “Warehouse Five used to be an artists’ studio. Now it’s a joke.”

“You don’t think fashion design is an art form?” I asked.

He watched the models. “It’s a money-making machine. Look at these people. Acting like any of this is important. They’re clothes. They’ll be in style for a couple of months and then everybody will forget about them. That’s not art.” He turned to me. “Are you part of the problem?”

“I’m here to help out, if that’s what you mean. Samantha Kidd,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Santangelo Toma.”

“You’re an artist?”

He nodded. “I do portraits and nudes. My studio is down the hall. Ever since these clowns showed up, I can barely hear myself think. It’s an insult to the rest of us that they’ve been allowed to take over.”

“The show’s tomorrow night, and then it’ll all be done.”

“For good, hopefully. I started a petition to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again.” He glared at the models and then turned around and left.

I glanced over my shoulder and looked for Amanda. I would have thought the last thing a designer would want in the panicked days before her first major fashion show was to learn that the tenants of the building wanted her out. The shy stick figure who’d called me ma’am was still next to me. She tugged on my sleeve again.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I think there’s been a mistake.” This time I focused my full attention on the girl. The outfit in question was a silver lamé kimono. It hung open, exposing her skinny torso and flesh colored panties. There wasn’t a high price placed on modesty backstage at a runway show, with models often parading around half clothed, but this girl didn’t have any goods to show off even if someone was interested. She held her arms out to the side, palms up, and raised her shoulders. Her hands were completely hidden by sleeves that were clearly too long for her limbs, sleeves that hung down to the floor.

I sighed. “Let’s go ask someone.” I looked around, over, and under bust forms, mannequins, and rolling rods, until I found an imposing black man who stood head and shoulders above the ridiculously tall models. He had a tailor’s tape draped over his shoulders, and was impeccably dressed in a tweed vest and trousers over a pressed dress shirt and navy blue plaid tie. We headed his way.

“Can you help her? This kimono doesn’t seem to fit right,” I said.

A few of the girls laughed amongst themselves. The man looked at me and then at the model.

“Are you Harper?”

The model nodded. The man turned to me. “All of the samples have been fitted and approved. That is how it’s going down the runway. Harper was specifically requested to wear it.”

The other models snickered again. Harper’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away from them.

I didn’t have the energy for this. If Amanda wanted Harper to wear the oversized and poorly fitting kimono, then who was I to override that decision? Just the unassuming ex-girlfriend of the designer’s maybe former boyfriend. At the moment, I didn’t have time to think about that. I had a model in the throes of an emotional breakdown and no Twizzlers in sight.

“If you have a problem, then you have to ask Amanda. It’s her show,” the man said.

Again I scanned the warehouse for the designer. The man pointed toward the back of the stage. Amanda was partially visible. She was talking to another person who I couldn’t see. Her straight black hair hung in a thick glossy sheath down her back between her shoulder blades. She ran her hand over the top, smoothing strands that had probably never been out of place in their life. No one would mistake her for a ma’am.

I thanked the large man. I headed toward Amanda with Harper close to my heels. When we reached the designer, I saw who was on the other side of the conversation. Amanda’s financial partner, a six foot tall Amazonian named Tiny Anderson. Tiny, as I’d come to learn, wore some version of the same outfit everyday: white oxford, gray sweater, dark wash men’s jeans, and brogues. Both unisex and unflattering, her uniform served the dual purpose of letting her blend into the crowd while being sure that nobody mistook her for anybody else.