Fahrenheit 501, p.1
Fahrenheit 501, page 1
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“...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
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“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
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“Combining fashion and fatalities, Diane Vallere pens a winning debut mystery...a sleek and stylish read.” -Ellen Byerrum, National Bestselling author of the Crime of Fashion mysteries
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“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
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“Fashion is always at the forefront, but never at the cost of excellent writing, humorous dialogue, or a compelling story.” -Kings River Life
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“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, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Domestic Diva Mysteries
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“Samantha Kidd is an engaging amateur sleuth.” -Mysterious Reviews
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“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
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“…be careful; you might just laugh right out loud as you read.” -3 no 7 Looks at Books
Book 12 in the Samantha Kidd Mystery Series
A Polyester Press Mystery
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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.
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Copyright © 2021 Diane Vallere
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e-ISBN: 9781954579262
paperback print ISBN: 9781954579309
hardcover print ISBN: 9781954579354
Fahrenheit 501
A Samantha Kidd Mystery
Diane Vallere
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For the cult of denim
I
Fahrenheit 501
1
Less than Auspicious Arrival
“Dress appropriately,” the invitation advised. Considering the invitation was for membership in a secret fashion society that I hadn’t known existed until I picked up last week’s mail, the definition of “appropriately” had more layers than the sweater shelf in my closet. These were my people, and I wanted them to accept me as one of them.
The secret fashion society called themselves the Fahrenheit Guild. Aside from the dress code and address, there wasn’t anything on the invitation to tell me much about them, so I’d turned my attention to the internet, where I’d found the phrase “secret fashion society.” I had to give them credit; they appeared to take the secret part seriously.
When my research about the guild didn’t net much, I’d turned my investigative talents toward the castle. I mean, why was there a castle in the middle of Ribbon, Pennsylvania?
The imposing stone structure in front of me had been built in the twenties by a German immigrant. Instead of the expected architecture of a Holy Grail-era castle, Braeburn Castle was a two-story edifice modeled after one in Bavaria. The castle keep was on the left, standing easily twice as tall as the rest of the building. Constructed of local materials and built by regional craftsmen, the castle was a testament to what the city of Ribbon was like during pre-World War II times. I loved these unexpected structures. They reminded me my town had a rich history that existed long before I was born.
After trying on half my wardrobe, I’d settled on a vintage Bonnie Cashin skirt suit. I smoothed the jacket and tapped the heavy iron knocker against the wooden door. The invitation said I would be greeted at the entrance, so I waited with the crisp chill of an October evening snaking around my legs. The more I followed the instructions from the Fahrenheit Guild, the more I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. For the briefest moment, I wondered if I should have commissioned a blue dress with white pinafore instead.
The door opened by a man who appeared to be a hundred and five. “Ms. Kidd, I presume?” he asked. He wore a black tuxedo, which I dismissed as a uniform for staff. He seemed unimpressed by my ensemble.
“Yes. I’m Samantha Kidd.” I reached into my handbag for my invitation, but he waved it away.
“The others are waiting in the clubroom at the end of the hall.” He turned his back to me and walked away.
“Wait,” I said. I pushed the invitation back into the depths of my handbag and reached out. The man turned back. I didn’t grab him, but my hand was headed toward his arm, and his eyes took in the possibility of contact with what appeared to be dismay. Slowly, I retracted my hand and pretended I’d made a perfectly acceptable gesture. “Can you tell me anything about them?” I asked. “The guild,” I added for clarification. “I assume they meet here regularly. I couldn’t find anything on the internet, but I guess that’s what makes them secret. What are they like to work for?” I smiled, hoping the elderly man would find me charming. (So far, nothing.) I lowered my voice. “Are they at least good tippers?”
“Follow me.” He turned and walked through a dark hallway made of exposed brick walls and ceiling. The man’s footsteps were silent on faded and worn overlapping Turkish rugs that appeared to have been there since the place was built. I scampered into the hallway to keep up with him, and the rubber tip of my heel caught in the rug. I bent to free it, noticing the carpet’s threadbare condition. The man turned, and I smiled, slipped my foot back into my shoe, and walked on my tiptoes the rest of the way.
I wanted to ask him to slow down, but I sensed I’d already done something wrong, and I didn’t want to compound my social gaffe. The hallway was poorly lit, and the man’s black tux made his figure harder to track. Eventually, I reached a heavy wooden door not unlike the entrance. The door was slowly closing, and my powers of deduction told me it couldn’t close without having been open first, so I took a calculated risk and yanked on the handle. It swung toward me easier than I’d expected, and I had to step back to avoid being hit. Inside was a room filled with the best-dressed people I’d ever seen in Ribbon, Pennsylvania.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Fahrenheit Guild, I’d like to introduce Samantha Kidd,” the butler said. “Though after her less-than-auspicious arrival, I may rethink the nomination of her as my successor.”
Successor? I thought this man worked here. Was this a job interview?
Did I ask him about tips?
My eyes had finally adjusted to the dim light in the room and I studied the man. I’d misjudged his age; up close he didn’t look a day over ninety-nine. He was about my height, and the lines of his tux offset the curvature of his spine. His eyebrows were drawn low over his eyes, indicating dissatisfaction. I’d like to say I knew what I’d done wrong, but I can be blissfully ignorant when it comes to my personal behavior.
A petite woman in a black St. John knit suit stood. “Hans, we’ve been through this.” She shifted her attention to me. “Welcome, Samantha.” She smiled warmly, and I smiled back.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m delighted to be here. I had no idea—”
The woman held up her hand to shush me, and I stopped talking. Was that another misstep? My smile froze in place, and I looked away from her and at the others. Someone in here would tell me what was going on. I’d approached the castle door feeling like Alice in Wonderland, but now that I was inside, the night felt more like Eyes Wide Shut.
The woman approached the front of the room. She was younger than Hans. I’d place her in her late seventies. Her hair was gray in the front and black in the back, cut in a razor-sharp angled bob that graced her angular jawline. Her suit was accessorized with a triple strand of Jackie-O pearls that filled in the collar, and her earrings appeared to be Paloma Picasso for Tiffany’s. (I didn’t always identify garments by designer, but I’d been studying as prep for tonight, and it seemed a shame to let the knowledge go to waste.)
“Samantha, I’m Cecile Sézane.” She held out her hand and I shook it. “We were finishing some business prio r to your interview. Would you mind waiting in the hallway?” She glanced back at Hans, who hadn’t dropped the glare from his expression.
“Sure,” I said. I turned toward the door and then turned back. “Am I early? The invitation said seven.”
“We’ve been discussing outstanding matters,” she offered. She extended her arm toward the door. “I can’t invite you to sit in until you’ve been properly vetted. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Yes. Of course.” I pointed to the door. “I’ll wait out here.”
The door to the room opened, and a woman entered with a tray. Cecile took it from her and set it on the end of the table. “Marguerite, can you show Samantha out?”
The woman nodded. “Of course,” she said. She left the room, and I followed.
“Are they always like this?” I asked.
“Like what?” she asked. I studied her face and wondered if she had no opinion of the group in the clubroom, or if her job depended on her allegiance to them.
I considered my choice of words, but before I discovered a politically-correct term for snobby, Marguerite spoke. “I’ve heard some heated discussions come from the clubroom when they have meetings. Hans is usually the instigator. But his bark is worse than his bite if you want my opinion.” She cocked her head. “You’ll do fine.” She smiled and then turned away and left through a door farther down the hall.
As the heavy door to the clubroom swung shut behind me, I stepped a few feet into the hallway and rested against a wall. It’s not every day you find yourself standing around the interior of a castle, and it appeared as though I was alone. I didn’t want to veer too far from the clubroom, but Cecile had asked me to give them privacy, so hovering in eavesdropping range seemed a bad idea. (The possibility that they were talking about me made it a tempting option, but this felt like one of those do-the-opposite-of-your-impulse moments.)
I eased my way a few feet down the hallway. A shadow moved on the ground in front of me. A few seconds later, a scruffy cat crossed the hallway and disappeared. I followed the cat to the vestibule and spent the next ten minutes trying to get him to trust me.
“Samantha?” I heard.
The cat ran away. A few seconds later, Cecile approached me. She gestured me toward her. “We’re ready for you now.”
I made my way back to the clubroom. As I tiptoed over the carpets, this time I heard muffled voices arguing. I passed a room whose door had been closed, and a surreptitious glance showed Hans reprimanding a young, red-haired man. I didn’t know the old man well enough to know if his crabby expression was his default, or if the younger man had done something worthy of Hans’s criticism, but I didn’t like what I saw.
On a whim, I stopped outside the door and poked my head in. “Hans?” I called. The interruption had the desired effect. Hans glared at me. His face was red, brow even more furrowed than it had been upon my arrival. “The guild is ready to resume the meeting. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
I hovered in the doorway and held my arm out in the direction of the clubroom. I forced a bright smile onto my face and maintained eye contact.
Eventually, Hans turned back to the boy, raised his cane, and shook it at him. “Watch yourself, or you’ll be next.” He put his cane back down and left the room, pausing next to me. “And you need to learn to mind your own business.” He raised his cane to waist-height and used it to push me back against the door. “One more strike and you’re out too.”
2
Brown Boucle After Eight
I stared at Hans’s back as he returned to the clubroom, and then turned to the younger man. His head was still down, and he didn’t look at me. “Crisis averted,” I said in a friendly tone of voice.
The young man looked up at me. There was a red mark on his cheekbone, visible above his facial scruff. I entered the room and approached him. “Did he hit you?”
He stepped back and put both hands up. “Just leave me alone, will you?” he said. “I don’t want to get into any more trouble.”
My Achilles heel was helping people, and in most cases, the recipients of my help didn’t want it. Now that I was somewhat self-aware, it was easier to recognize the trigger. The truth was, I don’t know what I’d seen while passing the room, and for all I knew, Hans had every reason to reprimand the guy.
Underdogs, though, were my second Achilles heel, probably because I saw them as kindred spirits.
I returned to the meeting. Half of the original group was gone, and this time a row of six chairs had been lined up behind a table facing the front of the room. We’d gone from Eyes Wide Shut to the audition scene in Flashdance.
Cecile closed the door and took a seat. A near-empty pitcher of water sat on a silver tray in the center of the table, and six glasses in various stages of full to empty sat in front of each seat.
Hans sat in a chair farthest from the door. Between him and the seat Cecile chose were a zaftig woman with bouncy blond hair dressed in a man’s dress shirt tucked into a black satin skirt, and a thin man in an embroidered western-style shirt paired with black tuxedo pants. On the other side of Cecile was an Asian woman. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her forehead was covered in blunt-cut bangs. She wore a flowy silk kimono printed with pink cherry blossoms paired with an ivory silk tank top and matching silk trousers. A vacant seat was between the Asian woman and the door, and a notepad, pen, and water glass occupied the table.
“Samantha,” Cecile started, “Allow me to introduce us.” She turned to her right and leaned forward. “You’ve already met Hans. Next to him is Lucy, and this is Buck.” The man in the embroidered shirt raised his glass, tipped it in my direction, and took a drink. Cecile turned to her left. “This is Ahn.” Each of the members smiled and nodded in turn. I immediately decided my first order of business, after being voted in, was to suggest nametags, because this many names in this short amount of time was a recipe for disaster.
Cecile continued. “Tonight’s interview is a formality. We call it an interview, but we’d like to get to know you as much as we want you to get to know us.”
“That’s great,” I said, feeling the adrenaline from my encounter with Hans subside. “I do have questions. How long have you been meeting? When did the guild start? How do you keep it a secret?”
“I told you not to tell her it was a formality,” Hans said, visibly disgusted. “She thinks she’s in. Look at her. Wearing brown after eight.” He shook his head in distaste.
I glanced down at my vintage Bonnie Cashin ensemble. It was a skirt suit made of heavily textured brown and ivory boucle trimmed in cognac leather. The skirt had an A-line, and the collar of the jacket was oversized enough to frame out my face. When I’d come across it in the Ribbon hospital resale shop, it had significant damage from an enthusiastic moth. I’d had it repaired and relined at a reweaving shop on the Main Line, and until this moment thought no one would notice.
“I wasn’t aware there was a dress code,” I said, addressing the group. “The invitation said you’re a fashion society, and I thought you would appreciate this choice. Bonnie Cashin is widely credited as being the pioneer of American sportswear.”
“Is that what you think this is?” Hans asked. “A forum to discuss who you, a non-member, think is an important contributor to American fashion?”
Heat rose over my cheeks. “I don’t know what this is,” I said. I quickly scanned the rest of the faces watching me and then directed my reply to Hans. “I received an invitation to join your club, which I—perhaps mistakenly—thought meant someone here thought I had something to contribute.” I tore my gaze from Hans’s crabby face and one by one looked each of the people seated at the table in the eye. “If that’s not why I’m here, then could someone please enlighten me to the real reason?”
