Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) (9 page)

I stifled a giggle. Mo had been making great effort to use the correct words, and I didn’t want him to think I was laughing at him. “I think you used the wrong word. ‘Graveyard’ is a place where they bury dead people.”

“Taxi graveyard, that is what the other drivers call it.”

“Taxi graveyard. That’s a new one,” I said. I suspected the other cab drivers were having fun at Mo’s expense.

“No, it is a place for old taxis. When a driver can buy new taxi, an old taxi is retired. It is parked into the lot behind the Ribbon High School until it is auctioned off or demolished. That is taxi graveyard. Lots and lots of old yellow taxis. It is sad to see them except that they have done their jobs well. I applaud them.”

“That’s a nice thought,” I said. I leaned back against the gray fabric interior and relaxed my head against the head rest. “They have done their jobs well. You’re unique, Mohammed. You’ll be successful because people will remember you.”

“You are also unique, Samantha. I think people will remember you too.”

I met his smile. “I’m only unique because of the way I dress. If I put on regular clothes like everybody else, I’d blend into the crowd.”

“But your car would not blend in, so you would still be unique.”

I barely heard what he said, because another, more important thought had hijacked my attention. He was right. If I dressed like I dressed and drove what I drove, I would be easy to track. But if I didn’t, if I changed my appearance, my vehicle, my residence—drastically—I would blend in. I could come and go and Pritchard Smith wouldn’t be the wiser.

“Mo, if I wanted to not stand out and be unique and maybe borrow a taxi from the graveyard, do you know who I should talk to to make that happen?”

Mo beamed at me from the rear view mirror. “I do. My brother owns the taxi graveyard.” His face turned sad. “But if you drive a dead taxi, I can no longer drive you as a client.”

I smiled. “I think we can work something out.”

It didn’t take much for me to convince Mo that I would still need a driver from time to time. It took even less to convince him to give me the keys to his newly retired cab. He followed me and my Honda del Sol back to my house, waited in the driveway out front while I filled a suitcase with items from the box of painting clothes my parents had left behind. They were relics of former decades: jeans printed with sea shells, sweatshirts with cigarette logos, T-shirts featuring Starsky and Hutch, and
Royal Tenenbaums-
esque jog suits with contrasting stripes down the sleeve and pants. I was hoping Nancie would grant me a little leeway on the dress code. It might not be work attire, but no way would Pritchard recognize me dressed like this.

I left my car in the garage and climbed into Mo’s taxi. He drove me to the taxi graveyard and wished me luck. His old vehicle was easy to identify; it was the cleanest of the bunch. If Mo took half as good care of his new taxi as he did his old one, it wouldn’t go to the graveyard for a very long time.

I pulled on a baseball hat and followed him out of the parking lot. He waved to me before we turned different directions at the light. It was still early. I drove to Tradava and parked behind the store. Inside, I went directly to the sporting goods section and picked out several sweatshirts and sweatpants in shades of gray, maroon, hunter green, and navy blue. I added a rust-colored nylon backpack and stuffed my purchases into it after I paid. I left out a different door than I’d entered and strode across the parking lot to the doors to
Retrofit
.

I hadn’t given much thought to how Nancie would react to the news about Pritchard. She’d made no secret of the fact that she thought he was fantastic, and here we were, her dynamic duo, on seemingly opposite sides of the law.

I’d given a little thought to the curious case of Pritchard Smith and had reached one conclusion: if he’d intended to fly under the radar and wheedle himself into Jennie Mae’s good graces, then my showing up at her house and discovering the empty attic had put a crimp in his plans. The cops knew about the theft. So did the media. Once the Ribbon website was updated and the local news went on the air, the whole town would have heard about it. Since Jennie Mae’s collection was so important to our premiere issue, Nancie must be in full-on panic mode.

Sounds from the back of the offices indicated that I wasn’t alone. “Nancie?” I called. There was no response.

Something didn’t feel right. I regretted having called out because if the interns or Nancie were there, they would have answered. Whoever was in the offices with me wasn’t feeling chatty.

I tossed my backpack in my cubicle and crept down the hallway to the back of the
Retrofit
offices. I kept my back to the moveable walls, one hand in front of me and one behind, and took small steps down the makeshift hallway. As I approached, I confirmed that the person in Nancie’s office wasn’t Nancie.

It was Tahoma Hunt, the executive director of Bethany House, who had been meeting with Nancie the night she’d first told me about the Seventies magalog.

Chapter 10

FRIDAY
AFTERNOON

I hovered in the hallway, watching Tahoma move about Nancie’s office. If he knew I was there, he was doing a good job of ignoring me. Today he wore a loose faded army green jacket over camouflage pants in shades of desert sand, day-old avocado, and baby puke. His head was covered by a red knit hat pulled low over his strong forehead. The hat was the only shot of color in an otherwise drab outfit.

He appeared to be searching Nancie’s office for something but worked slowly and systematically, returning everything he touched to the spot where he’d found it.

I was too close to get away without alerting him to my presence, so I leveraged the element of surprise. “Where’s Nancie?” I asked with more courage than I felt.

Tahoma looked up, startled. For a fraction of a second, we locked eyes. I tensed, not willing to guess at his next move. His hands rested on top of a spiral bound notebook on Nancie’s desk. It was the
Retrofit
bible that she had shown us the night she pitched the project. It contained every ad, every story, every column, every concept she hoped to incorporate in her vision. Nothing about the way she’d presented it to Pritchard and me had indicated that it was anything less than top secret.

“I don’t know where Nancie, is,” he said, pulling the red knit hat off of his head and stuffing it into his pocket. “We had an appointment. I’ve been waiting for her for a few minutes now.” He stood up straight and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his camo pants.

“How did you get in?”

“The door was open. I figured she ran out for a second and intended to return right away.”

“That sounds like Nancie,” I lied. It sounded nothing like Nancie, but warning bells sounded. We were alone in the
Retrofit
offices, and it seemed better to play along. I reached across the desk and slid the bible toward me. I held it up and smiled. “This is what I needed.” I held it to my chest. “Do you want me to call her? See what’s holding her up from your meeting?”

His eyes didn’t leave the bible. “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll reschedule with her for another day.”

I stepped backward and left room for him to pass me. He paused for a moment, and then left Nancie’s office. I held my breath and watched his back as he went out the door. On a whim, I ran after him. I didn’t know which way he’d gone, left or right, but there was no sign of him. I went back inside and grabbed my backpack.

I’d lied when I said the unlocked front door sounded like Nancie. She wouldn’t leave the offices unlocked during the day, not with all of our files and records here. And where were the interns? Something was very wrong. No way was I staying here.

If it had been a mere suspicion before, now I was sure. There was a connection between Nancie’s Seventies project and the theft at the Tome house. But for the life of me, I didn’t know what it was. Add that to my growing list of questions.

I returned to Nancie’s office and left her a note.
Nancie, Need to talk about project and PS. I have the bible. –Samantha

I wanted to warn her that something was up, that because of her project, she might be in danger, but I didn’t know how to convey it on a Post-it note. I called her cell and left a message. I added
Be Careful
under my name, and then, I was outta there.

In addition to Tradava and
Retrofit
, the Ribbon East strip mall included a movie theater, a vitamin store, a revolving door of local crafty businesses, and a pizza place called Brothers. They served the best pizza in all of Ribbon and had been the location of the majority of my high school dates. This was not the time to question the lack of imagination of the boys who had taken me out, nor was it the time to order a pizza. I found myself in need of a bathroom, but not for the obvious reasons.

The good thing about being something of a regular at a pizza place over the course of twenty-or so years (give or take the time I’d spent at college and working in New York), was that they didn’t kick you out when you went past the booths directly for the door marked “Ladies.” The other good thing was that they didn’t comment when you emerged in an entirely different outfit only moments later. I left with my peasant blouse and brown bell bottoms in the backpack and one of my new poly-cotton sweat suits on my body, looking not unlike Danny Zucko the day he tried out for the gymnastics team in
Grease
. If I hadn’t been able to come up with a movie reference for the outfit, I might never have come out of the stall. I went straight for the dead taxi and drove away before anybody could recognize me. Incognito or not, I had a rep to protect.

There was a certain freedom in driving around in a taxi. Other drivers made way for me, as if expecting aggressive navigation from my vehicle. I drove home and parked in the driveway. Who cared if Pritchard saw it there? He’d assume that I was being dropped off or picked up. He’d never guess that it was my new mode of transport.

I went inside and checked my messages. Most of the world had given up the idea of an answering machine. I kept mine because it reminded me of my parents, from whom I’d bought the house. It was an Eighties model, and, like the phone, a sort of Hershey bar brown. The red light blinked repeatedly. I pressed play and sat on a brown wooden bar stool that tucked under the counter.

Beep!
Dude, it’s Eddie. Thought you’d want to know that Logan and I bonded over a Catwoman movie last night. All is well with the world. What’s up with you?”

Beep!
Hey, Kidd. It was good to see you the other night. My dad’s going to take my seat at my poker game tonight. Since the apartment will be empty, I thought maybe, you know. If you want to. Call me.

Nick played poker?

The tape in the machine let off a whiny squeal and then shut itself off. I opened the compartment and pulled out the tape. Strands of caramel-brown cassette tape innards had failed to retract into the opposite side of the tape, and now created a knotted up mess inside the player. It seemed that it had finally come to the end of the road.

I wound the strands of tape around the cassette and tossed it in the trash. Did they even still sell answering machines? Did I need one? I had my cell. If anybody wanted to find me, they could use that. If they didn’t have the number, I probably didn’t want to talk to them anyway.

While Nick’s message lingered I my mind (I knew exactly what Nick was implying, and yeah, I wanted to, but I also knew that meeting up with him would be a very bad idea), I called Detective Loncar.

“This is Samantha Kidd,” I said. “I have some information for you.”

“You remember something?”

“Not exactly. Is there a place I can meet you to talk? Not the police station.”

He was silent for a moment, and I braced myself for one of his this-is-not-a-joke conversations. He surprised me. “Meet me in the lobby of the Motel 6 on Fairmount.”

“Be there in twenty minutes.” I pulled a Philadelphia Phillies baseball hat on over my ponytail, grabbed the keys to the dead taxi, and left.

Detective Loncar was sitting at a table in the back of the lunch buffet. Over his head was a muted painting featuring a boat docked in a remote alcove, all painted in shades of mint green and mauve. On the coffee table in front of him was a partially eaten hamburger, fries, and two chocolate chip cookies. Last I’d heard, his wife had put him on a restricted diet to control his diabetes and his weight. Seems at least on one level, he’d found a way to appreciate the break from her, too.

“That’s a new look for you, isn’t it?” he asked, glancing at my poly cotton blend sweat suit and Phillies baseball hat.

“I’m trying not to be noticed.” I slumped down a bit. 

“Does this have to do with my investigation?”

I pulled the bill of the baseball hat down further over my eyes. “Yes.” I looked side to side. “I thought you said the lobby?”

“This looks less suspicious.”

“That was good thinking,” I said.

“Not my first rodeo,” the detective replied.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Six months ago if you’d have told me that I’d be sharing a table at a motel with Detective Loncar—laughing, no less—I would have told you that you were crazy. My life had changed in immeasurable ways, and now, crazy was the new normal.

“Whaddya got for me?” Loncar asked.

I took a deep breath and exhaled. The only thing it accomplished was to distract me with the scent of his burger. I looked at the salad bar. They had chicken wings and potato skins, and, “Is that a nacho station?”

Loncar cleared his throat.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” I tore my attention away from the food and back to the detective. “Like I told you, I’m currently working at
Retrofit
Magazine. So far, it’s been an online publication, but my boss got the idea for us to put together a print magazine. Our whole concept is to look to past decades for fashion inspiration and then teach people how to interpret the trends.”

He took a pull of his coffee. I couldn’t help notice that it was the exact shade of beige that I liked. “Go on,” he finally said.