Free Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) by Diane Vallere Page A

Warehouse Five, but left out the part about Detective Loncar having no authority at the crime scene. Loncar felt like an unlikely ally, but in a way, I felt a loyalty to him. Weird. “Clive said you granted him unlimited access. Is that true?”
    “Yes. When we started the whole thing. Tiny set it up. She said, depending on what kind of pictures he took, we could use them for publicity. She had to get him access to the warehouse for when we weren’t there, too, because he said there would be times when he wanted the quiet before the storm, you know, when none of us were there. There’s not much he hasn’t seen.”
    “So Clive could have gotten into the warehouse and rigged the platform before your show?”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “I’m not asking why yet. I’m just asking if he could.”
    “Sure he could. But so could a lot of people. Your friend Eddie had access too. Tradava loaned me the mannequins that sat in the lobby. And the food service people came in early, and there are other artists that show their work in Warehouse Five, so they could have gotten in—”
    “I only want to know about Clive right now. Has he given you any footage so far? Any preliminary photos to approve?”
    “He gave Tiny some preliminary backstage shots to use early on. She handled everything that didn’t involve the actual collection so I wouldn’t have to be bogged down in details. She has his contract.”
    “Can you get it to me?”
    “Sure. Is that all?”
    “No. Dante Lestes is going to be your new photographer.” I chewed my lower lip and debated whether or not to tell Amanda the truth about Dante. “He’s a legitimate photographer, and you can trust him.” I made arrangements to come by her office tomorrow morning and ended the call. Phase one, complete.
    I started up the Stingray and headed back to my house. The smell of my clothes was making me ill. Or maybe it was something else. Since the breakup with Nick, I’d been keeping myself busy, trying not to think about how things had gone wrong. But trading one relationship for another didn’t feel right either. I hadn’t mourned the breakup, and a part of me wondered if a meltdown was lingering under the surface.
    Six weeks ago, things had been going well. Nick and I had moved into steady-date-Saturday-Night territory, and I’d stupidly traded on our relationship and asked him to put me on his payroll.
    Nick was a high end shoe designer. He had started his career working for a few top designers and eventually landed a position as creative director for a French couture house which was expanding from apparel into the accessories market. After he’d built up a name for himself, he literally sold off that name to a couple of financiers and launched Nick Taylor Designs. He’d received professional recognition and cemented his fan base, but felt he’d lost some of his creative control.
    Nick had been one of the designers in my vendor matrix when worked for Bentley’s New York. There’d been chemistry from the first time we met in front of his showroom but our positions in the industry kept us on our respective sides of the don’t-cross line. It wasn’t until after I left Bentley’s and moved to Ribbon that we reconnected. He had bought back distribution in his company and invested every dime he had into a relaunch of his brand. I’d given up my lucrative career at Bentley’s to become the trend specialist at Tradava. By all measures, we were both experiencing new beginnings, and the timing for a relationship finally seemed right.
    And then we’d found the body of the man who had hired me and I spent some time wondering if Nick was capable of murder. Turns out that’s a biggie when it comes to determining if a relationship is on the horizon.
    After that was cleared up—and after the six months he spent in Italy—I was ready to address my affections. Things were fine until I traded on our relationship for a job. Ultimately we broke up.
    And then he told