Designer Dirty Laundry (Style & Error Mystery #1)

Fantastically charming, funny and engaging and an absolutely delightful start to this series. It’s a well-plotted, fast-moving mystery with characters you will definitely want to know better. Samantha Kidd returns to her hometown thinking things will be quiet, less pressure, all that. Yeah, things are quiet all right, for about two minutes, until she finds her newboss dead in the elevator. She calls for help, but the paramedic who shows up takes the body away and leaves her trying to convince the police there really was a dead body, and then when the body is found she has to convince them she isn’t the killer. With that intro, she’s off - fearless, reckless, daring, and smart. The clues are there, although well hidden, and it’s show more great fun trying to find them before Samantha does. The plot moves smoothly and the fashion industry and shoe buying tidbits round it out nicely. And don’t forget the hot, hot, hot, sexy, sexy, sexy shoe designer. I definitely want to know him better. Designer Dirty Laundry is well-written, engaging and just a great read. Start the series and continue on. You’ll be glad you did. show less

Samantha arrives for her first day at her new job and finds her boss, Patrick, dead in the lift. Samantha resumes her work while she follows the case unintentionally as the people she talks to about her business do not want to associate with the business due to Patrick. On top of that, Samantha experiences over setbacks, such as suspected vandalism, and is regarded a suspect. The dialogue is stiff, going back and forth between characters. The book is also a slow burn. Nonetheless, it's great readers view the entire case from Samantha's perspective from start to finish.

I received a free copy of this book via Booksprout and am voluntarily leaving a review.

What an adventure! The more Samantha Kidd tries to get out of trouble, the deeper she digs herself in. Which man to trust, which designer to believe, which outfit to wear...and most importantly, how to stay out of jail. It’s all in a day’s work for Ms Kidd. I can’t wait to read her next adventure.

Samantha arrives for her first day at her new job and finds her boss, Patrick, dead in the lift. Samantha resumes her work while she follows the case unintentionally as the people she talks to about her business do not want to associate with the business due to Patrick. On top of that, Samantha experiences over setbacks, such as suspected vandalism, and is regarded a suspect. The dialogue is stiff, going back and forth between characters. The book is also a slow burn. Nonetheless, it's great readers view the entire case from Samantha's perspective from start to finish.


I received a free copy of this book via Booksprout and am voluntarily leaving a review.

Set aside a day for this cozy family-friendly mystery in which thirty-something Samantha Kidd leaves her high-pressure job in New York City for a fresh start in her hometown of Ribbon, Pennsylvania but do NOT read in public as chortles will ensue.

I received a free copy of this book via Booksprout and am voluntarily leaving a review.

Didn't realise that this was meant to be a humourous mystery.
Samantha Kidd goes back home from New York to live, and on her first day at her new job as a Trend Specialist she finds a body which later disappears.
Various silly events later all is revealed.

She expected the fashion industry to be ruthless. She wasn't prepared for it to turn deadly.

Designer Dirty Laundry is the first book in the feel-good Samantha Kidd mystery series. If you like witty protagonists, clever dialogue, and fashion-forward drama, then you'll love this chic story!



EXCERPT

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 of senior buyer of ladies show more 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.

​A week earlier . . .

I changed clothes six times, then ultimately settled on the fashion uniform of black: satin motorcycle jacket cinched at the waist over a 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 dialed an extension. 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 to show my driver’s license 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 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.

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 inclinations and more to do with my need to make a good impression. I was determined to be the best trend specialist Patrick had ever hired.

I wandered 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. The man I’d almost kissed after a business dinner that involved a good deal of Sauvignon Blanc and a serving of lemon meringue pie. My judgment is not to be trusted around lemon meringue.

​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,” I said. “What are you doing at Tradava?”

“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 now banging against my hip.

​“First day? Let’s get you into practice.” He stood directly in front of me and held out his 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. “So, Tradava?” He looked to his left and right as if making sure no one was listening. “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 transferred to 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.

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing at Tradava this early?”

“I have some outstanding business with the shoe buyer,” he said. “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 elevator 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 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.

My new boss.

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.

My knees buckled, and I followed the laptop to the floor.

*****

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