Silk Stalkings (5 page)

“You're having a relationship with him, or I think you are. There's this thing people do when they're in a relationship. They talk about what made them the person they are. It's sometimes referred to as ‘getting to know each other,'” I said, using finger quotes.

“Clark knows I'm a private person, and he knows if he so much as glances at a background check of me, I'll kick him to the curb.”

“Clark's not dumb. He's going to look into anybody connected to Harvey Halliwell, and it won't take long for him to start asking questions. Why is Ned here? Why now?”

“I told you, I can't talk about that.” She looked up at me. “You're not going to turn this into your latest rescue mission, are you?”

“I'm just trying to find out the truth. Somebody killed Harvey Halliwell.”

“Ned didn't do it. Their argument was about something else. Let me talk to him first before you go to Clark.”

“I don't feel good about this,” I said.

“Ned's not a killer,” Charlie said. “I'd risk my auto shop on that.”

“Charlie, I have to tell you something about Ned that you might not want to hear.” I paused for a second to gauge how she would react. “After Harvey fainted, Ned took something out from Harvey's jacket. That doesn't look good.”

“What was it?”

“I don't know. It was dark and I couldn't see.”

“Did Vaughn see?”

“He said he didn't see anything.”

Charlie stood up and slammed her open palm down on her desk. “Did you tell anybody else about this?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should have,” said a male voice from the doorway. We both looked up and saw Sheriff Clark standing there, listening to our conversation.

“How long have
you been standing there?” Charlie asked.

“Long enough to hear what Poly said.” He turned to me. “Why didn't you tell me this before now?”

“Because I don't know what I saw. And Vaughn didn't see anything, so maybe it was my imagination. And what difference does it make? Harvey stood up and walked away. He was fine. I told him we were getting help and he said he was a tough old coot and not to make a fuss. And then he grabbed his cane from the tree and walked away.”

“How can I get in touch with this man?” Sheriff Clark asked. He looked at me, but I knew his question was directed toward Charlie.

I looked at Charlie. Her face was flushed a dark shade of red. “You have no jurisdiction outside San Ladrón. When Ned comes back, I'll tell him to call you. Until then, maybe you should try to find the real killer.”

Sheriff Clark's face went stone cold and his eyes went
dark. His brows lowered over his dark eyes and gave him a serious appearance. Whatever he might have felt for Charlie, it didn't involve her breaking the law or becoming an accessory to murder.

“Ms. Brooks, Ms. Monroe, I'll be in touch.” He turned around and left.

I was afraid to look at Charlie. First I'd told her Ned might have harmed Harvey Halliwell, and that caused her to suppress information to the police. Then Clark had referred to her as “Ms. Brooks,” all but eliminating the personal connection they had by adopting police formality. Any anger she might have felt five minutes ago would be magnified by a gazillion percent by now.

“Charlie, listen to me. I don't know anything about Ned. I only know what I think I saw, and that wasn't much. Why not let Clark worry about Ned? He may have had something to do with Harvey Halliwell's murder,” I said softly.

“You don't know what it was like to be all alone in the world, Polyester. Ned changed all that. I'm not going to let him take the fall for something he didn't do.”

She turned around and stormed away, leaving me and David Lee Roth alone in her office.

I left the auto shop and jogged across the street. There were no cars on the road and I assumed the police wouldn't mind a little jaywalking. They had more important things on their mind.

The thing was, I did, too. Charlie's relationship to Ned raised more questions than before. What exactly had transpired between him and Harvey? And when Harvey came back to consciousness, why hadn't he insisted that we get him professional help?

There was one reason people didn't want to involve the police. Because they were hiding something. But what could Harvey possibly have been hiding? And what had Ned taken from him? I didn't like it. I didn't like any of it. Was Charlie
so sure Ned didn't do it because she knew something I didn't, or was her total belief in his innocence because she couldn't bear to acknowledge he might be guilty?

I unlocked the fabric store, collected Pins and Needles, and went to my apartment above the shop. I carried a glass of wine and a blank journal to the living room, curled up under a quilt my great-aunt had made in the seventies, and jotted down everything I could remember about my conversations last night and this morning.

•   •   •

I woke up Monday morning on the sofa, my wineglass still mostly full on the table in front of me. Needles was asleep by my knees. The sounds of early-morning commuters floated up from street level: horns, engines, and the occasional talk radio station mingled with a top forty hit.

Something tugged at the side of the quilt. I looked down. Pins had his claws caught and was trying to free them. He yanked on the fabric, pulling it off me. Needles picked up his head and let out a lazy meow.

“Don't blame me, blame your brother,” I said. “I was going to let you sleep in.”

Needles meowed again. I leaned over and freed Pins's paw from the threadbare cotton, and he jumped up onto my chest and nudged me with his cold nose. Needles stood up, stretched, and walked up my torso until he was jockeying for attention, too. I bent forward and kissed them both on top of their heads, then got up.

After the cats were fed and I was suitably showered, dressed, and coffeed, I headed downstairs. My commute was a lot shorter than that of the people in the cars out front, but I used that time wisely. My contacts at the fabric wholesalers were on the East Coast, so if I wanted a chance to put in a bid on their closeout fabrics, I had to let them know before someone else in their time zone swooped in and bought their inventory out from under me.

The apartment over the store had belonged to my great-aunt and great-uncle back when they ran Land of a Thousand Fabrics. I loved the feeling of living in a time warp and so, for the moment, I kept technology restricted to the fabric shop, where my day-to-day business needed it. I set my coffee mug on my desk and cued up my e-mail. And there, in the middle of the twenty-seven unread messages, was an e-mail from Nolene.

Dear Poly,

Your check is ready to be picked up. I hope you're prepared to deal with a small army of pageant contestants!

Nolene Kelly

In light of the murder, the note took me by surprise. I called the number in Nolene's signature block.

“Halliwell Industries,” said a female voice. The words came out slightly nasally.

“Hello,” I said. “This is Polyester Monroe. I have an e-mail from Nolene Kelly that I wanted to clarify.”

“Nolene's out of the office right now. I'm Beth, her secretary. Hold please.” A button tone sounded in my ear, and then I heard her blow her nose. After a few more clattering sounds, the tone sounded again and she came back on the call. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I said. I didn't bother telling her that she hadn't succeeded in putting me on hold in the first place.

“Maybe I can help. What did the e-mail say?”

“It's about the pageant. I own a fabric store on Bonita, and—”

She cut me off. “Yes, the fabric store. Nolene told me all about your idea. What was your question in reference to?”

“I thought maybe she sent the e-mail before Mr. Halliwell
was murdered.” The other end of the phone went silent. “Hello?” I prompted.

“I'm still here, just shaken up. The e-mail is for real. The pageant was always so important to Mr. Halliwell that we're proceeding with it as his legacy. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure,” I said. Despite the circumstances, I welcomed the role I'd play in the pageant. Fabric was my business, and this was another opportunity to become a part of the San Ladrón community. Twenty young women would be consulting with me on the dress they planned to wear when the crown of Miss Tangorli was awarded. From what I'd been hearing, it was a big responsibility.

“Come by Halliwell Industries later today and I'll see that your check is by the front desk.”

I wrote down directions, then closed my e-mail and moved on to other business, which included thirty minutes studying a catalog of Christmas fabrics to determine what I thought I'd need to have in stock to get us safely through the holidays. I followed that up with phone calls to my favorite suppliers and scored several end-of-production bolts of designer material. The arrival of those fabrics would feel like Christmas, having purchased them sight unseen. But that was half the fun of running a fabric shop!

I opened the front gate at ten on the nose and glanced at my two neighbors. Flowers in the Attic didn't open until eleven, but Tiki Tom had the door to his Hawaiian ephemera shop propped open with a lava rock. Tom himself was in the window setting up a display of hula girl collectibles.

“Aloha, Poly,” he said. He backed out of the window, picked up a skull-shaped coffee cup, and met me outside. “Good day for a luau, don't you think?”

“You think every day is a good day for a luau,” I said.

“True. There's something special about a luau.”

I studied his face and wondered for a second if it was really coffee in his mug.

“I guess you heard about Harvey, didn't you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. For the moment, I kept quiet about being the person who found the body. “Was it on the news?”

“Anything that has to do with that darn pageant is news these days. If it weren't Harvey's murder, it would be a sneak peek at the pageant setup, or the judges, or a spotlight on a former winner.”

“How do you know so much about this? You're not exactly the pageant type.”

“If you spend any time in San Ladrón, you learn about the Miss Tangorli pageant. There was a big scandal when one girl lied about her age. They had to incorporate background checks, letters of recommendation, all sorts of stuff.”

“When was that?”

“Ten years ago? Maybe more? It was a big deal. All of a sudden the applicants had to have sponsors, pass psychological evaluations, provide legal documentation of their ages, the works. It's harder to qualify for that thing than to get a government job. High stakes don't always bring out the good in people, if you know what I mean. Ask Violet. Not a lot of love lost between her and Harvey. Can't say I'm surprised by what happened. She's had it in for Harvey Halliwell for years.”

“Violet? What's her
connection to Harvey Halliwell?”

“She's always blamed Harvey for what happened to her daughter.”

I must have looked confused, because Tiki Tom continued without my asking. “Her little girl was a contestant in Harvey's pageant. Elizabeth wanted no part of it, but Violet entered her anyway. She thought Elizabeth was going to win the pageant and get all kinds of opportunities that she never had herself. That's all Violet talked about. I used to hear them fighting over it from my shop two doors away.”

“Her daughter could have just said she wasn't going to participate.”

“Well, truth be told there's a little more to the story than what I've told you.” He took a sip from his mug. “I don't think it'll do anybody any good to stand around here gossiping about it. Best let sleeping dogs lie.” He pointed behind me
with the hand that held the skull mug. “Besides, looks like you got your first customer.”

I wanted to press Tiki Tom for more information, but he was right. A woman who looked to be in her midthirties entered the shop with a nervous Chihuahua in tow. The woman had brown hair streaked with chunky copper and blond highlights. Large square vintage sunglasses covered her eyes. I followed her and said hello. She turned and smiled a tight-lipped smile that told me she wasn't interested in small talk. She stopped by a fixture of green-and-white floral cotton twill.

I took a dog biscuit out of a Tupperware container that I kept at the wrap stand and carried it to the Chihuahua.

“May I give him a biscuit?” I asked. The woman nodded. I snapped the biscuit in half and the Chihuahua stood on his hind legs and reached for the treat.

“I'll take four yards,” she said, handing me the bolt of floral fabric.

I carried it to a cutting station. “I'm Poly Monroe. This is my store,” I said, and held out my hand. “What are you planning to make?” I asked.

The woman held out the hand not holding the dog's leash. “A tablecloth. I knew I could find something in here that would be prettier than anything I can find in a department store. Did you just open?”

“I inherited the shop from my great-uncle. It's been closed for ten years, so in a way, yes, I just opened.”

She looked around. “There are so many pretty fabrics in here. Lots of possibilities.”

“Yes. Do you sew much?”

“Oh, I can't sew!” she said. “I'm going to fold this over to hide the raw edge. When I want something made, I take it to a tailor. There's a lovely lady on Magnolia Lane who can make just about anything.”

Considering she was buying fabric, which was my trade,
I was happy for her purchase. I stooped down and fed the rest of the doggie biscuit to the dog.

“Who's this little guy?” I asked, ruffling his fur.

“That's Archie.”

The woman followed me to the register, where I rang up the fabric. I suggested she look at pattern books and notions, but she said she didn't have the time. After she paid, I thanked her and offered her a discount coupon if she'd sign up for my e-mail list. She wrote her name in and left.

That hadn't been the first customer who had purchased fabric to take to a tailor. A sale was a sale, but if I could find a way to help people discover the joy of turning their favorite fabrics into something themselves, I'd have a much more loyal customer base and I bet sales would soar. If only I knew how to do that.

I folded up the floral cotton twill and returned it to the fixture. I thought back to what Tiki Tom had told me. He'd hinted that Harvey had enemies because of the pageant. And here I was, officially employed by the pageant committee. If I could figure out who Harvey's enemies were while doing the job I was hired to do, then I could divert Clark's attention from Ned.

But no matter which way things went, one was certain. If I were to get involved with the pageant, the day-to-day running of the fabric store would suffer, and I couldn't let that happen. Even though things had been running smoothly for the past four months, I wasn't bringing in enough net profit to cover a second employee's wages. And that meant there was only one place I could turn.

Family.

I picked up the phone and called home. My mom answered halfway through the fourth ring.

“Hi, Mom, it's Poly.”

“Hi, Poly,” she said, panting heavily between words.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“I just finished taking out the trash. Almost didn't make it to the phone.”

“Why are you taking out the trash? Where's Dad?”

“Your dad and I have swapped household duties for the week. I wanted to prove to him that what I do around the house is just as difficult as what he does.”

“Okay, sure.” Every once in a while my mother flexed her equality muscles and used my dad as her opponent. I would have thought it was funny if I didn't recognize a little of myself in her actions. “Listen, Mom, I have to ask a favor. Do you think you could spare a couple of days to help me out at the store?”

“Sure, but if you've gotten that busy, maybe you should hire someone else?”

“It's not that.” I gave her a thumbnail sketch of the situation. My parents lived halfway between San Ladrón and Los Angeles. Every once in a while they threatened to up and move to one of the square states in the middle of the country, but I figured if they'd made it this long, mortgage paid off and standing Bunco games with the neighbors on Saturday night, they weren't going anywhere.

“How's tomorrow? I told your father I'd change the oil in the Ford this week. I watched a YouTube video on how to do it, but I need him to leave the house before I get started in case anything goes wrong.”

“Mom, I'm friends with the mechanic across the street. Drive the Ford here and I'll get Charlie to change the oil while you're working. Deal?”

“I'm not sure that's the proper way to prove my point.”

“Why not? Dad wants the oil changed. You're going to have the oil changed. He doesn't need to know the details.”

“Can you get me a little 10W40 to rub on my fingernails, make it look like I did it myself?”

“Mom . . .”

“You're right, too far.”

“Do you still have the keys to the shop I made up for you?”

“Right here. I'll be there after lunch.”

After we hung up, I checked my e-mail. Buried in my inbox among a conversation about tweed in my Yahoo fabric group was my monthly notice about my business loan. The first payment wasn't due for a few months, but I would need more than a steady trickle of customers to make the payment.

I dug a calculator out from a drawer under the register. Mr. Halliwell had been right about the cost of my fabrics. On average, I had a 60 percent markup from cost. That meant a twenty-dollar-a-yard silk cost me eight dollars a yard. His proposal would guarantee me the retail price for two hundred yards of silk. That was four thousand dollars, minus a cost of sixteen hundred dollars—click click click—equals a profit of . . . twenty-four hundred dollars.

Not too shabby!

I stared at the calculator for a few seconds, then typed the numbers in a second time to make sure I hadn't hit a wrong key. Same answer. Same answer! My involvement in the pageant would net me enough to exceed the first payment on my business loan. I stood up and spun around in a circle.

“Good news?” said Vaughn from the doorway. He held a paper take-out bag from Tea Totalers. “I know it's early but I thought maybe I could interest you in sharing your lunch break with me?”

I was so caught up in my happiness that I forgot my usual reserved nature. I danced across the floor to him, took his hands, and hopped up on my toes. “Halliwell Industries green-lighted my proposal for the pageant!”

Vaughn's smile froze on his face. “Your proposal?” he said. “I didn't know you were going to be involved in the pageant.”

“I'm not, I mean, I didn't know I was.” I dropped his hands. “Why, is that a problem?”

“I just thought, when I heard about Harvey, and about you finding him . . .” His voice trailed off.

At the mention of Harvey, my enthusiasm evaporated. It felt wrong to be happy in light of his death. “You're right. I shouldn't get involved.”

“I didn't say that. Maybe if you told me about the proposal, it would be different.”

“You're going to be a judge, right?” He nodded. “So you're involved with the pageant. But it's not a secret, and I can't see how it would hurt to tell you.” I stared at him for a second. “Okay. Really, it was Nolene's idea.”

I led Vaughn to the wrap stand. He unpacked the paper bag and doled out two roast beef sandwiches on a French baguette, a plastic cup of
jus
, and a small carton of
pommes frites
. The scent of the French dip mingled with the salty potatoes.

My mouth watered and I unwrapped a sandwich while I told Vaughn about the agreement I'd reached with Harvey Halliwell.

“When was this?”

“She talked to me on Saturday night, and Harvey and I finalized things on Sunday morning.”

“I don't want to be the voice of doom here, but in this particular case, a handshake agreement isn't worth the paper it's printed on.”

“That's what I thought, but I just got off the phone with Nolene's secretary, Beth. She promised me a check by the end of the day.”

“I'm surprised. I didn't expect you to be so excited about participating in the beauty pageant.”

“Mr. Halliwell guaranteed me I'd make retail on two hundred yards of silk. The profit from this one event will help me pay back the first installment on my loan.”

“Your loan,” he finished quietly. He reached forward and tucked a curl behind my ear. “It's okay. It's business. I wish you'd come to me for a loan, but I know you have history with other people in the financial world.”

Vaughn was referring to my ex-boyfriend, a financial
analyst in the heart of Los Angeles's business district. Which meant he didn't know the truth—that his own father had intercepted my loan application from the bank and cosigned it himself. I felt uncomfortable keeping a secret from Vaughn. I already knew the subject of money was a touchy one between us.

“The loan didn't come from Carson,” I said. “It came from your father.”

“You went to my father for a loan instead of coming to me?” Vaughn asked.

“No. It's not what you think. It didn't happen that way.”

Vaughn's face went pale and his jaw went rigid. “I have to go.” He set down his sandwich and walked out.

I watched his back as he left. There was no good-bye, no
Oh, okay, well that explains everything
. I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but whatever it was, I sure didn't get it.

Between wealth and working class, Vaughn and I had met somewhere in the middle. I never knew if our disparate backgrounds would keep us from sharing anything more than a couple of dates.

I wrapped up what was left of my sandwich and the fries, put the lid on the
jus
, and packed it all back into the carryout bag. My appetite was gone. Two days ago I'd been getting ready for the Midnight in Paris party and everything had felt perfect.

And it was all because of that accursed dress.

I didn't know why I'd worn the champagne dress instead of any of the others in my closet. When I first came to San Ladrón to sign the paperwork to inherit the fabric store, I'd been surprised by how inspired the luxurious fabrics inside the shop made me feel. They were a far stretch from the cheap poly satins that I'd grown familiar with at To the Nines, and one night, needing a respite from the drama that surrounded my arrival in town, I had let my mind wander into fantasy territory and I designed a dress for the likes of a glamorous
starlet from the thirties. I had set the sketch aside and returned to my real life filled with black, black, and black. Good for hiding grease, dust, dirt, and the glue stick messes that were so frequent in my former life.

Vaughn had seen the sketch. He'd had it made for me. I still didn't know who the seamstress was who had turned my sketch into a reality. And it struck me that the person he'd hired to make my dress would be perfect for helping with the pageant dresses. Only now, calling him would feel awkward, like I'd made up an excuse to talk to him.

Curses. I felt like I was in tenth grade.

•   •   •

By the time my mom arrived at the store, I'd placed all of my orders, restocked the thread fixture, and set up a display of bright floral cottons on a round fixture by the front door. Next to the fixture I moved a bust form. I cut two lengths of roughly six yards each and draped them over each shoulder of the form, cinching the fabric around the waist with a triple wrap of inch-wide yellow ribbon. I knotted it off and tied the ends in a big bow. Next to the form I placed a sign that said,
How does your garden grow? Summer florals, $9.99/yard.

“That's a nice display,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek. “But maybe if you actually sewed a dress out of the fabric, people would be more impressed. Who's going to drape fabric over themselves and tie it with a ribbon?”

I thought about the customer from earlier, who had purchased four yards of floral to use as a tablecloth. “That's not the point, Mom. Why do people need to start with the pattern? Why can't they fall in love with a fabric and just buy it and figure out what to do with it afterward?”

She held her hands up. “It's your store. You do what you want.” She walked to the wrap stand and tucked her small handbag behind the counter. “Do I smell roast beef sandwiches?”

“Help yourself. I have to run an errand and I'll be right back.”

I pulled my car around from the lot behind Material Girl to the curb in front of Charlie's Automotive. Charlie was on the floor, knees bent, running a dirty rag over a wrench. Black grime coated her palms. Not all that different from the sewing machine grease that ended up under my fingernails.