Crushed Velvet (14 page)

“Where is Big Joe?” I asked.

“I sent him and the boys on an errand. Now, what did you come for?”

“A dozen glazed.”

Her expression changed to one of fear. “I can give you six. We better hurry.”

•   •   •

I tucked the
box under my hip and walked back to Material Girl. The white van was gone. Lilly Garden was wrestling a faded tin umbrella stand outside the doors of Flowers in the Attic. The narrow container held several faded floral umbrellas. At least two of them showed exposed metal frames and threadbare fabric. There was no call for rain in the forecast, so it was just as well.

“Hi, Lilly,” I said. “Did you see a white van here?”

“Was that man a friend of yours?” She stood up straight and her hand toyed with the pearl buttons on her flowered maxi dress. “I didn't know what to make of him when he came out. Are you planning to have lots of men up to your apartment?”

I rolled my eyes. “He's my old boss. He made a delivery for me from Los Angeles and it was late, so he crashed on my sofa.” Why was I explaining this to her? “Did you see where he went?”

“Poly, I'm not the type to sit around watching where people go and what they do.” She bent down and adjusted the placement of the tin umbrella stand a few inches to the left. “By the way, did I see Genevieve Girard behind your shop last night?”

“I don't know what you saw last night. I was out on a date.”

“So many men,” she said, shaking her head. She turned around and went back into her shop.

A parking enforcement cart was parked at the curb. A woman in a white uniform stood behind the silver Porsche that had been there last night. “Did I hear you say you were looking for the man who drove a white van?”

“Yes. Did you see him?”

“About five minutes ago. He ran out of there.” She pointed the pen to the door of Material Girl. “He threw a twenty at me and took off around the back.”

“He might have a parking ticket situation in LA.”

“Lucky I didn't run his plates. Sounds like it would have been worth more than twenty dollars.”

I balanced the donut box on one hand and tried the knob of the store with the other. It was locked. I unlocked the gate and the door, juggled the donuts against one hip, and managed to turn the knob. Just as the door swung open, Charlie showed up.

“Nice juggling act. You need a hand?”

“Your timing is impeccable.”

I handed her the pink bakery store box and went inside. “There are only six donuts in there and my old boss will probably take four. So if you're hoping for a donut, you'd better act quickly.”

“Your old boss? The Italian guy who drove the van?”

“Yes.”

“Real charmer. He offered to take me out for drinks if I could recommend a cheap happy hour.”

“Classic Giovanni. Did you see where he went?”

“He said you were taking too long.” She waved her hand. “He dumped your velvet out back and took off.”

“You're serious?” I
looked up and down the street. “How could he leave? He was going to talk to Clark. He knew I was getting him donuts.”

“Yeah, I hear they don't have donuts in Los Angeles.”

I headed to the back of the store, slowing only to take the donuts from Charlie and set them on the cash wrap. Charlie stayed behind and opened the box while I unlocked the back door. Twelve rolls of velvet, each bagged in heavy plastic and secured along one end with a plastic zip tie, were propped up against the exterior wall of the fabric store. I wrapped my arms around one and stepped backward, and then pushed it back toward the wall, where it knocked into two other rolls, crashing them to the ground like dominoes.

“Yo, Polyester, keep your pants on. Did you ever think of asking for help?”

“I thought I could handle it. When you get enough sugar coursing through your veins, will you help me with these?”

“Sure. But you're the fabric expert. Shouldn't you know how much a roll of velvet weighs?”

“It was heavier than I expected,” I said. “Make sure your hands are clean first.”

“Are you afraid I'm going to dirty up the plastic?”

She finished her second donut and wiped her hands on her jeans. I found a dull pair of scissors I'd been meaning to have sharpened and sliced through the plastic that covered the forest-green velvet. I fed my hand through a narrow opening and ran my fingertips over the nap. It was as soft as I'd anticipated. I reached a few inches in from the selvage edge and tugged gently on the material, testing the gauge. It had a little spring to it. I pulled my hand out of the opening and taped the plastic back together. A shot of excitement pulsed through me. This was my very first order of custom fabric. Rich, elegant, unusual. But the ten percent polyester gave it my personal stamp.

She studied me. “This is like Christmas for you, isn't it?”

“It's amazing, you know? This fabric represents the beginning of what I'm going to do here. And it represents what my aunt and uncle passed along to me. It's so much more than material. I can't wait to open for business and let people see how fabric can change their lives. Help me with the rest, will you?”

She followed me out back. I tipped the navy blue bolt toward me and took careful steps backward, until it was at a thirty-degree angle with the floor. Charlie wrapped her arms around the other end, dropped into a partial squat, and stood up. I walked backward into the store and tripped over the welcome mat. The end of the roll fell from my hands. Charlie anticipated my klutzy move and tried to overcompensate by lifting her end up high. She tripped over the same carpet and the roll dropped to the floor. She bent down, grabbed her ankle, and hopped around for a couple of seconds.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I'll live.”

“Sit down. I'll get the rest myself.”

“Sure, right after you down a can of spinach.”

“Don't underestimate me. I've been carrying rolls of fabric practically my whole life.” I headed outside and squatted in front of the burgundy, wrapped my arms around it like I was hugging a tree, and stood. I staggered backward for a few steps until I was able to hoist it onto my shoulder. I carried it inside and bent forward, letting the plastic slide over my shoulder onto the ground.

Charlie seemed to have no compunctions over sitting on the wrap stand playing with Pins and Needles while I made multiple trips outside and in. After seven trips I was out of breath and needed a break. I washed my hands, grabbed a donut, and sat on the concrete floor, my feet thrust out in front of me.

“I would have helped, but you seemed like you had it under control,” she said.

“Sure, no problem. I could tell you didn't want to get your hands dirty.”

She held her hand in front of her with her fingers splayed and looked at her fingernails, blackened around the cuticles from working on cars. “You're right. I might be due for a manicure.” She laughed. “WD-40 works wonders for the skin, though. You should try it. I bet my hands are softer than any of those prima donnas who fill the salons around here.”

“You have a real thing against the salon crowd, don't you?” I asked between bites.

“I just think it's silly that we have more salons than restaurants. What's the point? There are better ways to spend money.”

“Like what?”

“Like oil changes and fabric.” She ruffled Pins's fur from his neck to his nose, leaving it standing up in little spikes. “Have you seen Frenchy recently?”

I considered whether or not I should tell Charlie that I'd spoken to Genevieve last night and decided I should. “Yes. She's okay—she just had a few things she had to take care of.”

“She could have told me.”

“She said she saw you with Sheriff Clark at The Broadside. She got spooked.”

Charlie looked surprised. “She knows about that?”

“She didn't know what it meant. I figure there's a perfectly good explanation. There is, isn't there?” I asked.

“I told you two to let me take care of Clark. I was taking care of Clark. She thought I was throwing her under the bus?”

“I don't know what she thinks. What I do know is that she's afraid to trust anybody right now, not just you.”

I headed back outside for the next roll of velvet. Charlie hopped down from the wrap stand and joined me, and together, we carried the remaining rolls inside. When we finished, Giovanni's van pulled into the lot.

“I thought you went back to Los Angeles,” I said.

He parked his van at an angle a few feet from the Dumpster. He rolled up the window and hopped out. “I changed my mind. I don't want to pass up the opportunity to check out this fabric store of yours.” He aimed his remote at the van and then pocketed his keys. “The next time you need a favor, I'd like to know what to ask for in return.”

I turned to Charlie and dropped my voice. “This is a limited window of opportunity. I don't care how you do it, but get Sheriff Clark here fast. Giovanni won't make a statement, so we have to use the element of surprise.”

“I'm on it.” Charlie wiggled her fingers at Giovanni and hiked out of the lot.

“Where's she going?” he asked. He leaned over backward and watched her walk away.

“She'll be back. Promise. She said something about thinking you were cute.” I glanced at Giovanni's face and was vaguely surprised I didn't choke on my words.

“You could learn a thing or two from a woman like her,” he said. “I bet she doesn't take orders from anybody.”

I fought the urge to comment. What was the point? The
more important issue was keeping him occupied until Clark arrived.

“Come on inside.”

Giovanni followed me inside. I opened the fuse box and turned on all of the lights, illuminating the entire interior of the store. Until I was open for business, I tried to use only the lights I needed in order to conserve electricity and keep the bills at a minimum. Today, I needed the distraction of my full inventory to keep my old boss from getting antsy and leaving before Sheriff Clark arrived.

Giovanni headed straight for the donuts and picked up one with each hand, the heels on his sea-foam-green oxfords clapping against the concrete floor. He owned the shoes in four colors: lavender, light blue, orange, and sea foam. They'd been a gift from the men's store at the end of our block, in exchange for the loan of two of our seamstresses. It had been classic Giovanni to not think twice about taking the garish pimp shoes as a thank-you.

He stopped in front of the silk charmeuse. When I'd started cleaning and organizing the store, I'd come across thirty-five bolts in various colors. They'd been on a shelf, stacked horizontally. The only thing you could see were the ends of the round cardboard tubes that the fabric was wound around. Because I was light on inventory and interested in maximum visual impact, I'd moved them to a wall of shallow bins and set them up like soldiers, vertically, mixing the shades. Now the colors popped against each other: acid green, poppy red, cornflower blue, lemon yellow, tangerine. Even the more subtle colors had their own muted intensity: olive green, navy blue, rich sienna, and maize. I could picture a one-shoulder Grecian goddess dress cut from one of these fabrics. It would be a simple enough pattern: drape the fabric from front to back over one shoulder, gathering it with a vintage brooch. Side seams to finish it off, and belt at the waist. The expense
of the dress would be in the fabric, not in the workmanship. Giovanni would never go for it.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said with his back to me. “You and the girls think I can't appreciate fine fabrics. You're wrong.” He ran an open palm over the row of colors, stopping by the acid green, and felt the weight of the fabric between his thumb and forefingers. “How much are you charging for this?”

“Fifteen dollars a yard.”

He dropped the corner of the fabric. “Call me when you mark it down ninety percent.”

A car pulled up in front of the store. Sheriff Clark got out. It was ten minutes past the restricted parking hours, so I had no reason to ask him to park in the back other than my concerns that the businesses on either side of me were going to talk about the regular police presence in front of my store. I greeted him before he reached the door.

“Sheriff,” I said.

“Ms. Monroe,” he replied. “Charlie said you had urgent information.”

“You know, I'm not going to report you to your superiors if you call me Poly.” I stared at him and he crossed his arms. “Fine. I asked my old boss to go pick up my fabric from the warehouse in Los Angeles. He went last night and he was jumped in the parking lot.”

“Is he here? Can I talk to him?”

From out back, I heard the sound of an engine starting. Curses! I raced across the interior and looked into the parking lot. His van was gone. I thought about Giovanni being knocked out when he picked up the fabric and what his attacker had said.

“Sheriff, how about we go sit down and talk this over?” I grabbed the box with the one remaining donut and headed upstairs. Sheriff Clark followed me. “You want some coffee? A donut?” I asked.

“He wants both,” Charlie said, appearing behind Clark. “I'll get the coffee. Cream, two sugars, right?”

“Right.”

She winked at him, he turned red, and she went into the kitchen. I set the donut box in the center of the coffee table.

“Maria and Joe got the situation under control today?” he asked, nodding at it. “Yesterday it seemed like the laws of supply and demand were a little out of whack.”

“They're fine today. They're handing out samples of croissants to keep the patrons happy.”

“Croissants?” He perked up. “Doesn't sound much like Maria to give away food.”

“She's a smart businesswoman. She knows people will come back if they're treated well.”

“Takes a different setup to make croissants than it does to make donuts.”

“I don't think she's planning to branch out. Your donut supply is probably still safe. There's one left. Do you want it?” I asked.

“No, I think I'll head that way when I'm done here.”

“Suit yourself.” I told Sheriff Clark about the attack on Giovanni at the warehouse in Los Angeles. “He said they told him to make sure they got their money this time. He told them the fabric had already been paid for and the guy hit him.”

“Probably wasn't smart for him to get involved.”

“Giovanni's been in the garment business forever. He probably really thought someone was trying to get me to pay twice. When it comes to saving money and not getting swindled, it's second nature to him.”

“Did he report the attack when it happened?” he asked.

“No.”

Clark took off his hat and ran his hand over his hair. “Why not?”

“I get the feeling it's not the first time Giovanni's been
punched, and I'd be willing to bet it's not going to be the last.” I'd had my own share of impulses to pop him one when I worked for him.

“So he picked up the fabric, got punched, and still drove the fabric here? Must have been some way you made it worth his while, considering what you just said about him. What'd you pay him?”

“He's still trying to replace me as senior concept designer for his store. I offered him some supplies and agreed to do a little freelance work for him in the meantime.” I thought about his request for children's outfits inspired by trees.

Clark stared at me for a couple of seconds, but I didn't offer more information. Charlie rounded the corner and bumped Clark with her hip. He looked startled. She raised her eyebrows and handed him the mug.

“I'm going to want to talk to this Giovanni. Can you give me his contact information?”

“Sure.” I went to the kitchen and found an index card and a Bic pen in the junk drawer. I scribbled the phone number for To The Nines on the card and carried it back to the living room.

“You'll have a better chance getting him at the shop than if you call his cell phone or home phone. Even better, ask for Eiko. She's the Korean lady who works there. She speaks the best English. Tell her you're my friend.” I paused, thinking about the improbability of me and Clark actually being friends. “Tell her you need to talk to Giovanni. She'll get him on the phone without making him suspicious.”

Clark tucked the index card into the pocket of his suit jacket. “Nothing you told me here changes the fact that Mrs. Girard is my number one person of interest.”

“I know you think you have some kind of motive worked out for Genevieve killing her husband, but what possible reason could she have for wanting to take out my old boss?”

“Not sure. That's why I need to talk to him.”

“There's no connection through Genevieve. It's something else.”

“Money's tight at her store. Maybe she figured out a way to boost her bottom line. Who knows what she's moving along with tea.”