Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) Read Online Free

Mustard yellow, avocado green, chocolate, and teal side by side with paisley prints and batik prints. I recognized a few pieces that I’d seen in the old fashion magazines Nancie kept in the offices for our reference and a quick peek at the labels confirmed that these weren’t knockoffs. They weren’t a few years old. This was the real deal—flared, fringed, and funky. Judging from the condition of the garments and the photos hanging around the top of each hanger, these were samples from fashion shows that had taken place decades earlier. This was what Pritchard Smith had come to see without me.
    I fingered the silk of a yellow and blue paisley caftan, then ran my open palm over a suede blazer and matching tiered skirt. I’d never gone in much for western, but this was exquisite. I slipped off my shawl and velvet blazer, dropped them on top of the open trunk of scarves, had my right arm halfway into the sleeve of a turquoise silk peasant blouse with hand-painted feathers and Indian beadwork at the neckline and hem when I heard a voice.
    “I’m telling you, I heard her call my name.” The voice was unmistakably Pritchard Smith. I froze in place. The turquoise silk peasant blouse slipped from my fingers and landed on the floor. My brain scrambled to find a cover story for why I was there but came up empty. There was a stretch of silence, and then Pritchard spoke again. “I don’t know. But she can’t find out what we know. I risked enough to get here. If she ruins this, I’ll take her out of the equation. ”
    Suddenly, I was a whole lot less concerned with finding Prichard Smith. But I was trapped in a room filled with clothes. A fashion time capsule. Hiding in the closet wasn’t an option because the whole room was a closet.
    Pritchard’s voice grew nearer. “I’ll know in a minute. Hold on.” The one-sided conversation indicated that he was on the phone, but his choice of words didn’t inspire me to stick around.
    In the past two years, I have hidden behind a scrim, behind library shelves, and even—once—in a tree outside of a fashion industry event. But never have I gone out a window, three floors up from the ground.
    “All I can tell you is that if she finds out, it’s over.” The hinges on the door below creaked and I sprung into action.
    There’s a first time for everything.
     

Chapter 3
    WEDNESDAY , MID - MORNING
    I scooped my clothes and shoved them into my oversized hobo bag, threw the strap over my shoulder, and ran for the window. Truth be told, I’d hoped for a balcony. What I got was barely a ledge. I went through the open window. By the time Pritchard had reached the room, I was dangling by a shutter. Which brings us to reason #1 why spying on my coworker was a bad idea: Spying leads to impulsive exit strategies, and impulsive exit strategies rarely work out well.
    My fingers curled through the bottom slats of the shutter and I strained to hear the voices in the room. “She’s not here.” Pause. “No, I’m not going to calm down. Do you not realize what’s at stake?” Pritchard cursed. From my spot outside of the window, I heard what sounded like hangers moving along a rack and trunks being slammed shut. Whatever Pritchard didn’t want me to find was in that room, and I must have practically stumbled onto it. First chance I got—
    The screws that attached the upper hinge of the shutter to the brick exterior broke.
    As if in slow motion, the rectangular panel of slatted wood slowly pulled away from the building. The shutter moved diagonally, my weight pulling it off-center. Which would have been fine if the particular screech that comes from a metal hinge scraping a brick building hadn’t coincided with the movement.
    “Who’s there?” Pritchard asked. I pictured him charging to the window and looking down at me, dangling from a shutter in my amber velvet suit. Despite the fact that I didn’t want to get caught, I couldn’t jump. The ground was three stories down and the