Silk Stalkings (8 page)

I raised an eyebrow.

“I may have let it leak that I have a thing for Genevieve's French pastries,” he said.

“I don't think it's her pastries you have a thing for.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “See, now, I don't have a problem agreeing with you. She is a pretty woman.”

“Back to the pageant,” I said.

“Sure, the pageant. There's the unspoken belief that the judging starts from the moment the list is announced. Those young women will be on their best behavior until Miss Tangorli is crowned.”

“And you're really okay with all of this? Being asked to judge a woman based on her hairstyle and how well she walks with a book on her head?”

“You're not seeing the good that comes from it, Poly. The winner doesn't win because she can walk with a book balanced on top of a hundred-dollar hairstyle. She wins because she's articulate. Poised. A role model. She demonstrates an ability to talk to people from all walks of life. She's interested in bettering herself and she's interested in representing San Ladrón. And she wins because we choose her to represent
our small town when she goes out there into the world and becomes a big success.”

Duke was right; I didn't get it, but I was starting to. Twenty was an age when most young women were starting to think about how to transition from girl to adult. When this winner was crowned, she'd be afforded the kind of opportunities that were rare without strings being pulled. Her life would be changed forever and the citizens of San Ladrón could stand behind her proudly.

Genevieve returned from the restroom. “This place is crazy!” she said. “No offense, Duke, but you might want to think about something other than a can of Lysol and a bar of Dial in the ladies' room.”

I smiled to myself. I had a feeling Duke would be at Bubble, Bubble, Toil, and Trouble, the local bath shop, before he opened his doors for business tomorrow.

•   •   •

The next morning, I woke early, fed the cats, and hopped on the Internet. After making an offer on several designer remnants and updating my spreadsheet with the store sales for the previous week, I spent a little time designing our next coupon, hopped onto Facebook and updated the store page, and jumped into a conversation on Yahoo about silk charmeuse. When the clock approached ten I left the computer and unlocked the front door.

Standing out front was a small crowd of women. Each one wore a badge that said “Miss Tangorli Contestant.”

This whole pageant thing was about to get very, very real.

Nolene Kelly elbowed
her way through the crowd until she was directly in front of me. She thrust a large wicker basket filled with citrus into my hand. “These are for you.”

I leaned close and spoke directly in her ear. “Who are these people?”

“These are the contestants. I hope you're ready. Are you ready?”

“Why are they here?”

“We published the list of the twenty competitors at midnight. They were told to be here this morning. Are you ready?”

“Sure, but I thought there was a problem with the money.”

“How'd you hear that?”

“Beth,” I said.

Nolene pulled an envelope thick with cash from inside her folder and handed it to me. “Don't pay her any attention.
Here's your payment. Four thousand dollars, like we discussed.”

“Cash?”

She waved her hand back and forth in front of me. “Easier than dealing with this bank situation. That's not a problem, is it?”

“No, I'll deposit it when I have a chance.”

“Great. Take my packet, too.” She thrust her envelope at me. “You'll need it to take roll call.”

“Sure, yes, great.” I scanned the room, which was quickly filling with energetic women in their early twenties.

“Don't worry, it's not that overwhelming. Every contestant gets the same packet. They probably memorized the rules last night. They all have a name badge that they are to wear every day between now and the event. Not identifying themselves is cause for disqualification.”

“That seems kind of strict,” I said.

“There's a big prize waiting for one of these young ladies. They will follow the rules. It wouldn't be fair to let them interact with the public like everyone else. They could gain favors with the judges, create a swell of public opinion for themselves or against a competitor. I want a clean competition, and this is the only way.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“You bet it does. Now, the clock is ticking. I hope you ate a big breakfast. You're going to need your energy.”

I checked my watch. I had about five minutes before the store was technically supposed to open. “Can you give me five minutes to make a phone call?” I asked.

I shut the door behind me and wondered exactly what I'd agreed to. I dialed home and willed my mom to answer. Instead I got my dad.

“Hi, Dad, is Mom busy?”

“She's hanging drywall in the basement. What's up?”

“Dad, I need help at the store today.”

“I did the grocery shopping and the laundry yesterday. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Dad—” I said, but he had already hung up. It seemed I was going to have to work within the confines of their role reversal.

The low-level buzz outside the shop grew, not unlike a swarm of bees growing closer and closer to the store. When I opened the door again, the crowd had doubled in size. Twenty contestants huddled close to Nolene. A group of onlookers had collected, residents who wanted first glimpse at the young ladies who would compete for the title of Miss Tangorli.

I ushered the contestants inside and answered as many of their questions as I could, until finally I gave up. I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled. The shrill sound pierced the hum of girlish excitement. When all eyes looked at me, I climbed up on top of the wrap stand and addressed the crowd.

“May I have your attention?” I said. I waved my arms around over my head and then clapped my hands twice. To the far left of the store, Nolene stood next to her makeshift table watching me.

The young women quieted and stared at me. I auditioned a couple of opening lines to my impromptu speech, but it seemed inappropriate to acknowledge that I didn't know what I was doing.

“First, congratulations to each of you. Being chosen to compete in the Miss Tangorli pageant is an honor.”

“We weren't chosen. We qualified,” said a blonde in a pink sweater and black cropped pants. On her shirt was a “Hello My Name Is” sticker that said “Tiffany” with a heart over the
i
.

Oops, she was right, and I knew that. “That's what I meant to say. Congratulations for qualifying. I know the exams are—” I saw a few expressions change. I glanced over at
Nolene. Very slowly she moved her head to the left and then to the right. “Let me be honest. I'm new to San Ladrón, and I don't know anything about the exams. What I do know is how to imagine a dress, and that's why you're here.”

The expressions changed. I peeked at Nolene again and this time she nodded once. I continued. “My role is to consult with each of you as you sketch a dress that you'd like to wear for the opening and closing ceremonies. You will each get ten yards of the silk of your choice, and I'll have a seamstress turn your sketch and your fabric into your dress. I know—I imagine—you'll be busy with activities all week, so I suggest we start with your sketches as soon as possible. Once the cutting and sewing starts, you will schedule an appointment for when you'd like to come back for a fitting.”

The young women buzzed among themselves. I scanned them collectively. Most fit the Gap ad profile: brightly colored shirt and neutral pants, or brightly colored pants with neutral shirt. Flat sandals. Hair in ponytails. They looked like young, clean-cut American women. It would be interesting to watch their transformation over the course of the week.

The front door opened and my dad walked in. I had never been so happy to see him in my life. I hopped down from the wrap stand and met up with him.

“Is this because of the pageant?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What can I do?”

I thrust the list of contestants at him. “Roll call.”

I moved through the crowd and asked the young women to check in with my “assistant,” John. They eagerly formed a crowd around him but quickly fell into a single-file line. I chalked their behavior up to the adrenaline rush they must have experienced from learning that they were the final twenty competitors.

While my dad checked off names, I carried a sketch pad
and a calendar to the register. Sheila, the redheaded hostess from the Waverly House, walked in and stood in the back of the line. She looked my way and I waved. I wanted to congratulate her but knew it would send a message of favoritism to the other contestants so I didn't.

It quickly became evident that I couldn't be open for business while working on pageant business. I wrote
Temporarily Closed for Private Event
on a piece of paper from the printer and taped it to the outside of the
Open
sign. I peeked across the street at Charlie's Auto. The shop was dark and a police car was parked in front.

There was no time to worry about Charlie for the rest of the day. It took an hour to check the contestants in. When they were done, they waited by the wall of silk and studied their color choices, and finally, each met with me for a fifteen-minute consultation. I answered as many questions as I could in the short window of time and made quick sketches of their initial thoughts. A few knew exactly what they wanted. Most were overwhelmed with the idea of designing a dress. I knew not to suggest ideas to them but instead advised them to take the night to think about what they wanted and come back to see me in the morning. The longer it took for them to decide what they wanted, the less time we'd have to make it happen.

Hours later, the group left. My dad tossed a clipboard with a list of crossed-off names onto the cutting table, and we both collapsed into chairs by the sewing machines.

“I can't do this by myself,” I said. “Can you move in for the week?”

“I'm afraid not. Your mother surprised me with the oil change, but now she's mumbling something about replacing the fan belt on the Ford. I think I should be there in case something goes wrong.”

I leaned forward, propped my elbows on my thighs, and held my head. My dad kissed the top of it. “I'm afraid you're
going to be on your own tomorrow. Do you think you can handle it?”

“I'll do my best.”

He went upstairs to use the bathroom and returned with Pins and Needles in his hands. He set the cats on the wrap stand. While they sniffed around for their bag of tuna treats, I walked him to the car. We said good-bye, and I went back inside.

The wall of silk looked like it had been mauled by a pack of wildebeests. I straightened the bolts, taking care to rewrap the fabric and secure the end with a small straight pin first.

When I was finished, I called Nolene. “It's done. Things got a little crazy for a while, but they turned out okay. Twenty contestants, twenty sketches, twenty fabric selections. I'm officially exhausted.”

“Are you sure there were twenty? I only counted nineteen when we arrived at the store.”

“Hold on,” I said. I sandwiched the phone between my head and my shoulder and quickly counted the stack of sketches. “I have twenty.”

“Good. That means the last one checked in.”

“I bet it's a relief for you that this part is over. Now you can start your vacation.”

“Vacation? Don't be silly. Who can go out of town at a time like this?”

“Beth told me your car was filled with luggage, and I just assumed you were going on a vacation.”

“No vacation for me. Not for three years now, and especially not this year. She's right, though, my car was filled with luggage. I ordered a set on the Internet but the quality wasn't what I expected. I left the office early yesterday so I could get it boxed up and sent back for a refund. Now, enough about me. Go pour yourself a glass of wine and put your feet up. You'll have another day of it tomorrow. Check your e-mail for the details of your involvement and get me a signed copy
of your agreement as soon as you can. If anything comes up along the way, we'll work it out. This is going to be great!”

She hung up and left me thinking about what she said about the luggage. It all made sense, except for one thing. Why would a woman who didn't take vacations need a new set of luggage?

I took Nolene's
suggestion and poured a glass of wine, but in lieu of a long shower, I filled the tub with water and bubble bath and soaked for close to an hour. The silence, after a day filled with the particular decibel level of twenty beauty pageant contestants let loose in the fabric store, was delightful. When I got out, I pulled on a thick silk nightgown and a matching duster, selected a book from the bookcase, and flopped on the sofa. I got through two chapters before I realized I hadn't registered a word from the last ten pages.

I had only been involved in the pageant for one day and already I saw what everyone had been talking about. Those young women had an energy about them. I'd heard about women who could light up a room, but that group could have lit an auditorium. The reality was, I was no match for them, and I wouldn't be by tomorrow morning. I needed backup.

Darn it, I needed my old boss, Giovanni. I found my phone and made the call.

“Poly, just the woman I wanted to talk to,” he said in a jovial tone of voice. “How are things going in your lovely little fabric store?”

“Who is this and what have you done with Giovanni?” I asked.

He chuckled. “I trust you're getting along nicely. You always did have a mind for business. I heard about your involvement in the Miss Tangorli pageant.”

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
Everything—his polite tone and his uncharacteristic compliments—suddenly made sense. In a flash, I realized our entire conversation could have a very different outcome to what I had originally expected.

“Didn't I tell you? Yes, I'm going to be working with the contestants. It'll be a nice boost of publicity for the store, don't you think? The winner is guaranteed to be photographed in a dress made with fabric from Material Girl. Isn't that great?”

“If you can pull it off, you'll see exceptional results. To the Nines made the dress for a Miss Tangorli winner back in the early days. Sales were up thirty percent for the next year.”

I leaned back and put up my feet. “That's good information. I'll look forward to the additional revenue.”

Giovanni cleared his throat. “Poly, have you thought about how you are going to have the dresses made?”

“It's not like I don't know how to sew,” I said. I waited a few beats for him to suggest an alternative solution. He didn't. “I mean, that would be even more publicity, wouldn't it? The fabric and the craftsmanship from one store. It is a lot of work, though, and I'd probably be willing to share the credit . . .”

“Done.”

“What?”

“You know what. My girls are at your disposal. We'll drive up tomorrow.”

“Women, Giovanni,
women
.” He grunted. “And what
exactly is it you're offering?” I asked. I suspected I knew, but in Giovanni's case, I also knew it was best to have him spell it out.

“Your fabric. My seamstresses. To the Nines will have the rights to produce the winning dress for the public. With a photo of the winner wearing her dress in our window, of course,” he added.

“I'm not in a position to agree to that. What I will agree to is to give To the Nines credit for crafting the dresses. But won't you lose business by coming to San Ladrón?”

“Poly, my dear, do you remember when Inez Platt won the contest?”

“Inez Platt?” I'd heard that name before. “The woman whose face is on the side of the juice cartons?”

“Yes, that's her. She was a true beauty. That dark hair, those dark eyes, and her tan skin. She was like a native princess. When she won the Miss Tangorli pageant, the whole country sat up and took notice. She was a shoo-in to become Miss California and possibly even Miss America.”

“For a dress shop owner, you seem to know a lot about her.”

“She changed my life. She came to my shop and hired me to make her dresses. She came from a long line of migrant workers who eventually settled down in San Ladrón. In between helping the family, she studied. She was a true rags-to-riches story,” he finished. His voice had grown soft, unlike the usual I'm-in-charge rasp and bark I was familiar with.

“So she won the pageant. What happened after that?”

“She asked me to make her dresses for the press trip to China. She had a sponsorship at that point. She could have walked into a store and paid retail for her wardrobe, but she didn't. She came back to me. She was photographed in every one of those outfits, and To the Nines got credit. That was the difference between me making it and closing my doors. Until that point I didn't know what direction to take the
shop. Thanks to her, we became a destination for pageant dresses.”

“Did she come back to you after she returned from China? When she went on to the other pageants?”

“She didn't come back. I heard she moved to China and worked as a public relations liaison for the man who ran the pageant. I don't know what became of her.”

“She continued working for Harvey Halliwell?” I asked. I wondered if any other winners had gone on to find employment in one of his companies. And if so, what would become of them now that he was no longer alive? Had he established a contingency plan for his employees as he had for his money?

Giovanni and I hammered out the details of our joint project. He was to supply his talented staff of seamstresses and I was to supply the equipment. For the briefest moment I imagined Giovanni driving a truck filled with half a dozen women of Mexican, Polish, and Korean descent, all geared up for a road trip to San Ladrón. I wondered if he knew what he was in for.

It wasn't until after I hung up the phone that I realized I was ill-equipped to host a workroom of transplanted seamstresses. We'd be fine from the hours of ten until six, but there were small details like food and housing that I hadn't thought of. Giovanni might have expected to drive home tomorrow night much as my parents had done for the past two days, but I suspected the work would require more than an eight-hour day. For food, I could count on Genevieve. For lodging, I'd need a different favor.

I called the Waverly House and Sheila answered the phone. She was clearly stifling sobs. I asked for Adelaide Brooks and was placed on hold. When Sheila returned, she told me Adelaide was unavailable and asked to take a message.

“Sheila?” I asked. “This is Poly Monroe. Are you okay?” When she didn't answer, I continued. “You should be happy,
not sad. Getting into the Miss Tangorli pageant is a very big deal.”

She sniffled. “Please don't tell anybody about the pageant, Poly. If you do, I could lose my job.”

“I don't see why Adelaide would fire you for participating in the pageant,” I said.

“Poly, can you come here tonight? I did something really bad and I need to talk to someone.”

“Sure,” I said, sensing the distress in her voice. “I'll there in ten minutes.”

I changed into a black cardigan and shirtdress and reapplied my lip gloss. The kitties, who had been given a chance to express their particular fondness for exploring the fabric shop, followed me back upstairs. I left the front door of the apartment open and went downstairs. Pins passed me halfway down the stairs.

“Slow down there, camper,” I said. “Do I have to install speed bumps?”

Needles thumped his way down the stairs behind me. Paw, paw, jump. Paw, paw, jump. He made up for what his brother lacked in caution.

“That's more like it. A little decorum,” I said. “Pins, why can't you be more like your brother?”

Needles reached the bottom step and took off across the floor. He pounced on Pins, wrapped his paws around Pins's gray neck, and flipped him over in a move that would make a pro wrestler proud. Low-level growls emanated from both of their throats.

“Boys,” I said, and left them alone to play.

I left out the front. I wrapped my cardigan around my body and walked quickly down the street, picking up the pace between streetlights. On the way I passed an older couple whom I recognized as being members of San Ladrón's Senior Patrol. I nodded and smiled and kept going. If I gave them a reason to question what I was doing or where
I was going tonight, it could very easily turn into tomorrow's gossip.

I cut through the gas station parking lot by the corner of Bonita and San Ladrón Avenue, glanced across the street at the sheriff's mobile unit, and kept going. Within minutes, I was in front of the majestic Waverly House.

Having grown up in an area of Southern California that had blossomed during the tract housing boom in the fifties, I was continually impressed with the majesty of the Waverly House. The Victorian-house-turned-museum was two stories tall, topped with peaked gables, a round turret on the left corner, and at least two dozen windows that faced the street. The siding had been painted Wedgwood blue and the trim in white, like a vintage cameo. The lines of the roof had been trimmed for the garden party in tiny white twinkle lights that had yet to be removed. It gave the building a fairy-tale quality.

I walked down the sidewalk. Small tea light candles sat in glass jars alongside the edges of the path. When I reached the end, I climbed the three stairs leading to the porch that ran around the front and sides of the building. The wooden slats of the patio had been painted white to match the window casings and perfectly set off the porch swing and the wooden rocking chairs that sat to the left of the front entrance. I pulled the door open and let myself in.

Sheila stood behind a wooden lectern next to the restaurant. A brass lamp was attached to the fixture, curving around from the back and lighting the reservation book in front of her. Many restaurants had transitioned to computerized systems to track guests, but the Waverly House hadn't. I thought it was a good decision. The clicks and beeps that came with a computer would have ruined the Victorian ambiance that had been so meticulously maintained.

“Hi, Sheila,” I said.

The pretty redhead wore her regular uniform of black dress and white pinafore trimmed in white lace. A white
cap was pinned to the back of her head, setting off thick red sausage curls and framing her peaches-and-cream complexion. Traces of powder around her nose and eyes barely hid the redness left behind by her earlier tears. She fidgeted with her hands behind the lectern. She looked much like I'd seen her on every other trip I'd made to the Waverly House. What struck me was the one thing I didn't see.

I leaned in. “I don't know how the rules work, but aren't you supposed to be wearing your pageant name tag?” I asked. “I was told the contestants have to wear them constantly between the announcement and the pageant. I don't think Adelaide would want you to get disqualified.”

She looked up at me and her eyes filled with water. A fat tear spilled down her cheek and she made no move to wipe it away. As it tracked its way down her cheek, she took a breath that hiccupped. “Poly, please don't say anything about the pageant to Adelaide or to anyone else. Please,” she begged.

“Okay, but why? From what I understand, it's an honor to pass the entrance exams and be named a contestant. You should want people to know you've been selected.”

This time she swiped her hand against her cheek to wipe away the tear. “But that's just the problem. I don't have a name tag because I'm not a contestant. I didn't pass the entrance exams!”