Diane Vallere - Style & Error 00.5 - Just Kidding (3 page)

Keep reading for an excerpt from

DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY
,

first book in the Style & Error Mystery Series

Excerpt from
Designer Dirty Laundry
,

#1 in the Style & Error Mystery Series

Chapter 1

WHEN YOU WEAR fishnet stockings to the grocery store, people tend to stare. Women look at you like you’re affiliated with the sex trade. Men pretend they’re not staring, doing so all the while. It’s probably because they’re thinking the same thing.

The last time I wore fishnets to the grocery store was weeks ago. It was then I met the man who changed the course of my life. Because of him I’d traded in the title senior buyer of ladies designer shoes at Bentley’s New York to become the trend specialist at Tradava, the family-owned retailer in Ribbon, Pennsylvania. I’d given up an apartment in Manhattan to buy the house where I grew up. And now, because of him, I sat in a police station explaining my actions to a homicide detective.

I still couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it all started to go wrong.

I changed clothes six times, then ultimately settled on the fashion uniform of black: satin motorcycle jacket cinched at the waist over a black lace camisole, pegged pencil skirt, fishnets, and stilettos. Elsa Klensch meets Catwoman. Patrick, the fashion director and my new boss, was bound to approve.

I topped off my look with a finishing blast of Aqua Net, powered up with coffee and a donut from a newspaper kiosk by my house, and headed to work earlier than I remember ever going to work before.

“I’m Samantha Kidd,” I announced to the Latina woman behind the Loss Prevention desk at the store. “Patrick’s new trend specialist. Do you know if he’s here yet?”

“He’s here but he didn’t say anything about you.” She picked up the phone and did a double take when she saw my fishnets. I heard the ring through the receiver. When no one answered, she hung up.

“Visitors gotta sign in.”

“But I’m not a visitor, I’m staff. Today’s my first day.”

“You got ID?”

I reached into my handbag and pulled out a quilted leather wallet, then held it open so my driver’s license showed through the plastic window.

“I meant a store ID.”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“That’s a New York license,” she said.

“You’re right, I moved. But it’s me, see?” I held the wallet up to my face and smiled at her in the way only a half-crazy person who is brimming with caffeine and adrenaline over starting a new job might. She reached her hands up and gathered her long wavy brownish-orange hair on top of her head then wound it around several times until it resembled a doorknob. The whole time she kept eye contact with me but didn’t smile back.

She handed me a clipboard and a red ballpoint pen.
Samantha Kidd
, I wrote with a flourish.
trend office, 7:37
. I snapped my wallet shut and put it in my handbag, then hopped out of the way of a flatbed filled with merchandise and headed into the store. Aside from security and shipping, the store was quiet and I was on my own.

I wasn’t a morning person. It was Day One of a new job and a new life, full of potential. My early arrival had less to do with my natural ways and more to do with my need to make a good impression. I was determined to be the best damn trend specialist Patrick had ever hired.

I wandered through the dirty gray hallway, through the shoe department on my way to the elevators, pausing by a round marble fixture that displayed a purple suede platform pump. My index finger traced over the black and white designer label that decorated the sock lining.

“Of all the shoes, in all the stores,
she
had to walk up to mine,” said a husky voice behind me. I turned and faced the man whose name was stitched onto that label. The man I’d once fantasized about during a layover in Paris and almost kissed a couple of months ago after a particularly late dinner that involved a good deal of Sauvignon Blanc and an unexpected serving of lemon meringue pie. My judgment is severely impaired when there’s lemon meringue involved.

Nick Taylor was a shoe designer. His showroom was charged with electricity, hot looks, and devastating style. His shoe collection wasn’t bad, either. He was one of the few people I thought I’d miss after leaving Bentley’s, that is, until I caught him flirting with the buyer from Bloomingdales and realized the only special thing we had was a gross margin agreement.

“You’re a long way from New York. What are you doing here?” I asked in lieu of hello.

“Same thing as you, probably.”

“I doubt that. I’m here to start a new job.” I cocked my head to the side and crossed my arms, the plum-colored laptop bag that hung from my shoulder banging against my hip.

“First day? Let’s get you into practice.” He stood directly in front of me and held out a hand. “I’m Nick Taylor. Shoe designer and all around good guy.”

I pursed my lips and took in his dark curly hair and his brown eyes, the exact shade of the three root beer barrels I ate in the car after finishing the donut. I met his outstretched hand with my own.

“Samantha Kidd. Former shoe buyer. Former angry New Yorker.” I pumped his hand twice to emphasize the word ‘former.’ “Current trend specialist for Tradava, on the cusp of a new life.”

He pulled me in, converting our handshake to an embrace. I lost my balance and fell against him. “I thought I might never see you again,” he whispered in my ear. As we parted I checked my reflection in the highly polished doors of the elevators for smudged lipstick and errant crumbs. “So, Tradava?” He held his palms up and looked to his left and right at the store. “From the big city to the small town. I knew you’d land on your feet, but I didn’t expect you to land here.”

“You make it sound like I vanished into the night,” I replied, blowing at a strand of hair that had gotten stuck in my lipstick. My cell phone buzzed from the depths of my handbag and I pretended not to hear it.

“You did vanish in the night. Out of my life, out of my dreams …” He reached out an index finger and freed the lock of hair, a trace of red lipstick remaining on his fingertip. “And now I find you haven’t even missed me. That hurts.”

“So you took it upon yourself to stalk me. Good to know.”

“C’mon, everybody needs at least one stalker in their life. It’s good for the ego,” he said.

Nick Taylor had captured the eye of more than one female at Bentley’s and rumors of his love life often permeated the otherwise work-heavy market weeks. More than once I’d wondered what would have happened if I’d given in to my post-pie impulse to kiss him after that innocent business dinner last May.

“So, what
are
you doing at the store so early?” I asked, wondering at the luck of running into him on my first day.

“I have some outstanding business with the buyer,” he said vaguely. “The only time he had available was this morning.”

“Did security make you sign in?” I asked, nodding toward the back hallway.

“Sure. They make everybody sign in before the store is open.”

The bell sounded. The doors attempted to open, then jerked shut. Nick stabbed the button with his index finger and the doors repeated their spastic motion. I had the other option to take the stairs but with a breakfast of highly concentrated sugar, fat, and root beer barrels coursing through my veins that wasn’t going to happen.

The doors jerked open again and I jammed the laptop between them. They beat an irregular rhythm against the plum nylon case but left a resulting opening large enough for my fingers. By now I had exerted more energy than I would have on the stairs, but I was determined to get on the damn thing.

I quickly changed my mind.

In the elevator was a well dressed man. His jet-black hair was held perfectly in place with pomade and his mustache was neatly trimmed. He wore a taupe suit with a violet windowpane pattern, a brown and purple paisley ascot knotted around his neck, and a crisp white shirt that no doubt had been laundered and starched by a team of professionals. Even though his body lay crumpled on the floor, the shirt was barely wrinkled.

Patrick.

I yanked the laptop out from between the doors. When I stood back up, the room spun. I put a hand out to steady myself and lost my grip on the computer bag. It fell from my shoulder and landed on its side. A sound escaped my lips, my knees buckled, and I followed the laptop to the floor.

Want to keep reading? Get your Kindle copy
here

About the author

Diane Vallere is a fashion industry veteran with a taste for murder. She started her own detective agency at age ten and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since.

You can find her at
www.dianevallere.com

Enjoy other titles in the Polyester Press catalog:

DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY

Samantha Kidd, ex-buyer turned Trend Specialist, designed her future with couture precision, but finding the Fashion Director’s corpse on Day One leaves her hanging by a thread. When the killer fabricates evidence that puts the cops on her hemline, her new life begins to unravel. She trades high fashion for dirty laundry and reveals a cast of designers out for blood. Now this flatfoot in heels must keep pace with a diabolical designer before she gets marked down for murder.

Book 1 in the Style & Error Mystery Series by Diane Vallere

Now Available |
Kindle Copy Here

BUYER, BEWARE

Out-of-work fashion expert Samantha Kidd is strapped. But when the buyer of handbags for a hot new retailer turns up dead and Samantha is recruited for the job, the opportunity comes with a caveat: she’s expected to find some answers. The police name a suspect but the label doesn’t fit. Samantha turns to a sexy stranger for help, but as the walls close around her like a snug satin lining, she must get a handle on the suspects, or risk being caught in the killer’s clutches.

Book 2 in the Style & Error Mystery Series by Diane Vallere

Now Available |
Kindle Copy Here

THE BRIM REAPER

When an over the top collection of vintage Hollywood costumes comes to Samantha Kidd’s hometown, it brings a hat box full of hype. Close friend Eddie is in charge of the exhibit, but when hype turns to homicide he turns to Samantha for help. Brimming with good intentions, she loops in the cops, but after one too many cloche calls, she’s soon in over her head. If she can tear the lid off the investigation, it might mean a feather in her fedora. And if she can’t? She might get capped
.

Book 3 in the Style & Error Mystery Series by Diane Vallere

Coming December 17, 2013

PILLOW STALK

Interior Decorator Madison Night has modeled her life after a character in a Doris Day movie, but when a killer targets women dressed like the bubbly actress, Madison’s signature sixties style places her in the middle of a homicide investigation. The local detective connects the new crimes to a twenty-year old cold case, and Madison’s long-trusted contractor emerges as the leading suspect. As the body count piles up like a stack of plush pillows, Madison uncovers a Soviet spy, a campaign to destroy all Doris Day movies, and six minutes of film that will change her life forever.

A Mad for Mod Mystery by Diane Vallere

Now Available |
Kindle Copy Here

THAT TOUCH OF INK

When mid-century modern interior decorator Madison Night receives a five thousand dollar bill in the mail, she knows it’s a message from her past. Doris Day movies help with inspiration for her business, but her favorite actress can’t help when Madison’s lover comes back. After finding a corpse at a local numismatist, she follows a circuit of rare dollars and common Sense to expose a kidnapping plot, a counterfeit operation, and the true price of her independence.

Book 2 in the Mad for Mod Mystery Series by Diane Vallere

Now Available |
Kindle Copy Here