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

compact from it and went to work on her red eyes and nose.
    A flashbulb went off. “Excuse me, who are you and why are you taking my picture?” I asked.
    “Clive Barrington.” He held out his hand and I shook it. “Freelance photojournalist. Amanda agreed to let me document her show. I’m taking background shots tonight to flesh out the-behind-the scenes aspect.”
    Santangelo Toma had been right. This was turning into a circus.
    Clive leaned against a cutting table. He was a moderately built man who I’d place in his forties. Longish golden blond hair was parted on the side and tucked behind his ears. His camera dangled from a black strap around his neck. He wore a T-shirt, plaid blazer, cuffed jeans, and green bucks. Those were nice. I wonder where you got a pair of green bucks these days? Wait. I was getting distracted. I looked back up at his face and he winked at me.
    “I think we might want to go talk to Tiny about the pictures you’re taking. I don't think she'd be too pleased with your presence here.”
    “Tiny left to get the shoes,” Amanda said, having materialized from out of nowhere. “But Samantha’s right. Maybe you’ve taken enough pictures for tonight.”
    Clive adjusted his lens. “A few more shots and I’ll be out of your hair.”
    “Keep it brief. The models are going to do a run through, and they don’t need any distractions.”
    He turned to face me. “I’m going to sit in front of the runway. Where are you going to be?”
    “I can’t see how that matters.”
    Amanda, who had started to walk away, stopped and turned to face us again. “Actually, Samantha, maybe it’s you who should head out for the night. I think we’ve got it from here.”
    I was tired and didn’t really mind the idea of going home and collapsing in bed. “What time should I be here tomorrow?”
    “You don’t need to come tomorrow. We’ve got it under control.”
    “But tomorrow is the show,” I said.
    “That’s right. And we don’t need you anymore. You can pick up your check at my studio on Monday.” Amanda spoke with a finality that cut me to the quick. With one hand, she tossed her shiny black hair behind her shoulder. The gesture allowed her to look down her nose at me. I wasn’t entirely sure that hadn’t been the desired goal.
    I felt like I’d been stung center mass by a swarm of angry bumblebees. It was bad enough to have spent the past four weeks pushing aside petty jealousy in order to work with Amanda, but worse yet, she was firing me. If my back and knees and feet and shoulders didn’t hurt so much, and if the pot of coffee I’d finished a few hours ago wasn’t starting to wear off, then maybe I would have tried to establish my role backstage. But, all things considered….
    “Fine. I’ll get my handbag and coat. Good luck,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. None of this had been easy. Nor appreciated, apparently.
    I weaved through the same labyrinth of rolling rods, mannequins, and fabric bolts that I’d worked around for the past few weeks and collected my belongings. I bundled up into a wool coat and hat and braced myself for the blast of cold from outside. Good riddance.
    The main portion of Warehouse Five, where Amanda was putting on her runway show, was connected to the front foyer and adjoining galleries of other artists by a hallway that ran the length of the building. I turned right and headed past the picked over food service table toward the exit. Closer to the door, the lights were out. I flicked the switch on the wall next to the lavatories a few times, but nothing happened. No worries, I thought, as I trudged toward the glowing Exit sign.
    And then I noticed a figure hovering in the parking lot. Fear folded around me like a blanket. Act natural , I coached myself. Just keep walking. Your car is right outside the door.
    I fumbled for my keys, mentally kicking myself for not having them in hand already. The figure slunk back into the shadow. Adrenaline