Silk Stalkings (3 page)

“That's what happens when you let someone bring you a drink. They're all out to get me. Me and my money. You probably are, too. Now get out of my way.”

“Don't you want to wait until the police arrive and fill out a statement? They'll need it to find the person behind this.”

“Missy, this town has been out to get me for years, and the leader of the pack is that man's father.” He pointed the end of his cane in Vaughn's direction. “If he ever succeeds, the joke will be on him.”

I heard footsteps behind me and turned. Vaughn was headed in my direction. When I turned back to face Harvey, he was gone.

Vaughn reached me. “Where is he?” he asked, looking around the ground.

“He left. He said— He said he was a tough old coot and he didn't want to wait to make a statement.” I looked behind Vaughn. “Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“We have to report what we saw.”

“What did we see, Poly? Two men having a discussion. One man fainted. He regained consciousness and left of his own volition.”

“But the other man took something from him. Didn't you see that?”

“It's dark and I don't know what I saw. If Harvey wanted to get up and walk away, we can't really stop him.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Besides, I didn't want to spoil my mother's event. I went inside hoping to find Sheriff Clark.”

“I don't think he's here.” I thought back to Sheriff Clark at Tea Totalers, and Charlie leaving him there. I didn't know if Vaughn knew about that relationship. If it even
was
a relationship.

“Neither is Mr. Halliwell.”

“I don't understand it. He looked so weak, and then when you went for help, he got up and left. I told him to stay so he could give the police a statement, but he didn't want to. And he just disappeared. How could he vanish in that orange tux jacket?”

“I don't know.”

I stepped back onto the lily pad pavers and walked around the gardens. The temperature had turned chilly, and with the drought we'd been experiencing, it was borderline cold. The surreal aspect of the garden stroll combined with the victim who had gotten up and walked away left me with a disoriented
Alice in Wonderland
feeling of having sipped from the container that said “Drink me.”

The grounds of the Waverly House had thinned down to almost nobody. Here and there a couple stood, arm in arm, pointing to the white trim on the restored blue-and-white Victorian house, or the gazebo that sat at the edge of the property, or the paths that were illuminated with small, battery-operated tea light candles, providing light without risk of fire hazard. The families had long gone home, and the
waiters and waitresses who had woven through the crowd offering flutes of champagne had long since packed up their stations.

Something shiny rested in the grass where Harvey had been. I bent down and found an amber pill vial. The prescription was for nitroglycerine, but the name on the label had been smudged beyond legibility.

I slept until
eight the next morning and was showered and dressed by eight twenty. My short layered auburn hair and minimal makeup application kept my routine under thirty minutes, as did my all-black wardrobe: today a tank dress and gladiator sandals. The glorious dress from last night was still spread out on the chaise. It spoke of a side of me that I wasn't ready to acknowledge. I tossed a throw blanket over it, fed the cats, Pins and Needles, and headed out to Lopez Donuts to grab a bite before opening the store.

Lopez Donuts was a small shop about three blocks east of Material Girl. It was owned and operated by Big Joe Lopez, the nicest former Marine I'd ever met. His wife, Maria, ran a cleaning business called Neato but kept enough of a hand in the donut business to let everyone know who really wore the pants in that family. They were the go-to destination for anyone who needed sugary glazed treats or powdered puff pastries filled with cream to start off their day. My eating
habits ran toward local fare, but the way I saw it, the Lopez glazed donut ring was as local as the citrus the city had been known for. My status as a locavore would not be threatened, at least not until the next time I was pressed for time and opted for a burger and fries from The Broadside Tavern.

Big Joe stood behind the counter straightening a wire bin of donuts. The case was already full, and he had to maneuver the tray to fit it between the others. He looked up when I walked in and the tray tipped precariously. Parchment paper slid to the side and several donuts plopped from the tray, bounced off his pant leg, and landed on the floor. He shook his leg repeatedly, then stood up straight, set the tray on top of the counter, and shook his head.

“Darn party made everybody sleep in. Now I have too many donuts. Sure wish you were a family of ten,” he said. “Not that I'm not happy to see you.”

“Tell you what. I'll take two dozen iced with multicolored sprinkles and a carafe of coffee. I bet anybody who trickles into the fabric shop would appreciate the pick-me-up.”

His brow furrowed. “Since when do you like iced with multicolored sprinkles?”

“I don't. This way I won't eat them all by myself.”

Big Joe assembled a pink bakery box and used the handy metal tongs to transfer the donuts from their tray. After the unfortunate donut drop that had taken place upon my entrance, I thought it best not to distract him with small talk.

“You have fun at the party last night?” he asked as he poured fresh coffee into a black-and-silver urn.

“Tea Totalers was so busy I didn't have time to think about whether I was having fun. Were you and Maria there? I didn't even see you.”

“We had to wait until the boys were tucked in before we could leave. We missed Genevieve's but went straight to the Waverly House.”

“Those gardens sure were pretty, weren't they?”

“Not as pretty as you in that gold dress.” He flashed a broad smile, white teeth that stood out against his dark skin. “If you'd worn black like you always do, I might not have seen you in the dark. You should wear gold more often.”

I sank into a booth and he joined me. We were the only two people in the shop and by the looks of things, it was going to remain that way for a while.

“Did you see a man in an orange tuxedo jacket? With orange hair?”

“Harvey Halliwell? Nope. Was he there? Makes sense, I guess. His pageant's coming up soon, so he'd want to make an appearance. Why are you asking about him?”

“Vaughn and I were there pretty late, and we saw Harvey pass out. But then he got up and walked away like nothing happened.”

“Did you call the police?”

“We tried to get help but Mr. Halliwell didn't want it. He grabbed his cane and took off.”

Big Joe crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You got something on your mind. Let me get us a couple of crullers and some coffee and we'll talk.”

He went to the counter and returned with a dark green plastic tray that held two disposable cups of coffee and two paper plates with a glazed donut on each. There wasn't a multicolored sprinkle in sight. I took a plate and a cup, added some half-and-half to my coffee, and bit into the donut. Man-made perfection.

“If donuts like this grew on trees like Harvey Halliwell's fruit, you'd be a very rich man.”

“I'm rich in the ways that count. What's on your mind, Poly?”

I sighed. “Do you think Mr. Halliwell is of sound mind? He seemed a little kooky.”

“You said he passed out?”

“Maybe he's not well. It just seemed so strange that one
minute he was talking to someone, and the next minute he was on the ground.”

“He collapsed? Just like that?” Big Joe snapped his fingers.

“He had a glass of orange juice, or at least that's what it looked like. He drank it and then stumbled backward, and then he collapsed.” I pulled the amber pill vial out of my pocket. “And I found this on the ground.”

Big Joe looked at the amber vial. “Nitroglycerine tablets. Standard for anybody who's had a heart attack, but I don't remember hearing anything like that about Harvey Halliwell. He's been the picture of health around these parts. Credits that darn Tangorli juice he's always drinking. You say Harvey dropped this?”

“I found it on the ground where he fell. I assumed he dropped it, but maybe it wasn't his.”

Big Joe pursed his lips and seemed to consider this. The chimes over the door rang. Duke maneuvered his wheelchair inside.

“Hey, Big Joe,” Duke said. “Can I get four chocolate glazed?”

“You keep packing away these chocolate glazed, you're gonna need a bigger chair.”

Duke wheeled himself backward and forward a few times. “Maybe I'll trade up to the Rolls-Royce model for the Miss Tangorli pageant.”

“You're involved in the pageant?” I asked.

“You're looking at one of this year's judges.” He looked at me and winked.

Duke owned and operated The Broadside Tavern, which sat almost directly across the street from Material Girl. I'd been inside on more than one occasion and had determined that while they served a good burger, the regular clientele was slightly too threatening for my tastes. But despite the atmosphere of his bar, I liked Duke. He was a straight shooter
like Big Joe. If I needed backup in a dark alley, these were the two men I'd call. But only if Charlie was unavailable, because I had a sneaking suspicion she had a mean left hook.

“Polyester Monroe,” Duke said, pointing a finger at me accusingly. “You cleaned up pretty nice last night. Don't see many dresses like that around here. What do you call those beads?”

“Bugle beads.”

“Yeah, those. You don't see many bugle beads around here.” He looked at Big Joe and they both smiled. “I know one person who was happy you wore it.”

“I don't want to talk about Vaughn McMichael,” I said.

“Vaughn? I'm talking about Nolene Kelly. When she heard you designed the thing, she got very excited.”

“Why would she care about my dress?”

“Maybe she wants you to make her one.”

“But I didn't make my dress,” I said. “I only designed it.”

“Then maybe she wants to employ the birds and the mice you keep in the store who turned your sketch into reality,” Duke said.

Men.

“Why don't you ask her?” he continued. “She's been standing in front of your shop for the past twenty minutes.”

“How do you know?” I looked out the window toward the store, though it was too far to see.

“I passed her on my way here.”

I stood up. “Business awaits, gentlemen.” I loaded myself down with boxes of donuts and the carafe of coffee and backed out the front door. “Big Joe, put this on my tab,” I said.

“You got it.”

Bonita Avenue was empty, so I cut across the middle of the street, covered the blocks between us, and called out a greeting to Nolene when I got within what I hoped was hearing range. She followed me into the store and waited while I set the box of donuts up on the wrap stand. She glanced to
her left and right, scanning the shelves, and then advanced to where I stood.

She idled by the register, picking up flyers I'd printed with coupons and craft ideas, then setting them back down. The last thing she picked up was an announcement about the Midnight in Paris party at Tea Totalers and the afterparty at the Waverly House.

“May we sit?” she asked.

“Sure. Follow me.” I led her to the front corner of the store where I had set up sewing tables and sewing machines. There were twelve in all. Initially, I had hoped to fill the space with women who were eager to learn how to sew, but I had yet to figure out the right time slot to try to draw in a crowd.

I sat in one of the chairs and swiveled to the side until I faced Nolene. She tapped her square-cut fingernail against the side of the sewing machine—
tap tap tap
pause,
tap tap tap
pause—through several cycles, until finally she dropped her hands into her lap and faced me.

“You indicated that you're not familiar with the beauty pageant circuit, so I'll apologize now if I tell you things you already know.”

“I don't think an apology is going to be necessary,” I said.

“I've been involved in the planning and management of the Miss Tangorli pageant for the last twenty years. What I've seen appalls me. Every year the competition to outdo each other becomes more and more fierce, to the point where the young ladies who should enter the pageant don't because they can't afford to.”

“How much does it cost?”

“There are entry fees, of course, that run about five hundred dollars. That's to be expected. But when you add on gowns, costumes, salon services, coaches, well, that number gets well into the thousands.”

“Thousands of dollars?”

“Yes. And that's just the opening figure. Frankly, it's gotten out of control.”

I started to get the uncomfortable feeling that Nolene Kelly was inching her way around to asking me for something, though I couldn't figure out what. She'd already said she had her judges, and Duke said something about my dress.

“Nolene, I'm not sure how I can help you with your pageant,” I said.

“Your fabric store is new to the area, and from what I saw last night, I can tell you're interested in gaining exposure and trying things that are outside the box. Would you consider making dresses for the contestants?”

“How many are we talking about?”

“We usually get about a hundred entrants, but by the time the screening is over, we're down to about twenty.”

“I can't make twenty dresses myself. Not to the level the contestants would want.” I'd left the pageant dress business behind when I quit my job at To the Nines, a cheap dress shop in downtown Los Angeles. To the Nines' business had depended on moving inexpensive gowns quickly in order to make payroll. What Nolene suggested would have been a snap if I had the ladies of the To the Nines workroom at my disposal. My job as senior concept designer had been to do just that. My great-aunt Millie had taught me about fabric at an early age. Soon after that she taught me to frequent thrift shops for damaged dresses that could be used to create patterns. It was that skill that had gotten me a scholarship to the Fashion Institute of Design + Merchandising, known as FIDM, and ultimately landed me the job at To the Nines.

“Nolene, some people have a natural aptitude for design and others don't. I can oversee the sewing and I can make sure a garment is crafted properly, but the dress design will be limited to the imagination of the contestant. Would that be fair?”

“It will be more fair than allowing a contestant in a five-thousand-dollar dress go head to head with a contestant in a
hundred-dollar dress. These young women are competing for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It is my job to make sure they each feel like they have a chance to win. Limiting the expense of the dress won't make that much of a difference. People can easily rent, borrow, or claim hand-me-downs. Two years ago we had a scandal when one contestant wore her dress and returned it to the store when the competition was over.”

“You should know that construction isn't my strong suit. I can design, but I've always had a staff of sewers at my disposal to turn my designs into wearable garments. What if each girl got an allotment of fabric and I consulted with them on color and design? I can sketch out each concept and someone else can make the dress for them.”

“They are young ladies, not girls,” she said as if it was a trained response. She tipped her head and looked just past me, apparently at nothing in particular, while she thought. “I see a unique learning opportunity here. You tell me what kind of workers you need to make this happen, and I'll talk to the board about funding.”

“The board? I thought Mr. Halliwell was in charge of the pageant.”

She laughed. “Poly, that man hasn't been in his right mind for years. We don't need him to make decisions. We don't even need him to be present. If we could convince him to give us power of attorney, we wouldn't even need him to sign the checks.”

“Is that a possibility? That he'd give your board the power to write checks in his name?”

“Officially? Not that he'd ever agree to, but unofficially? I have a stack of signed checks in my desk and I've been using them for years. And trust me, if those ever ran out, I know his signature well enough that I could fake it in my sleep.”