Suede to Rest (2 page)

Vaughn dropped my hand and looked at Ken. “Sorry if I jumped the gun. Take your time. I'll be in touch.” He turned around and left through the wooden door that had kept us from being inside the hidden room.

I followed him out of the store, keeping a few steps behind and watching to see where he headed. He approached the black sedan that had been idling in the adjacent parking lot, tapped twice on the back window, and the door opened up. Before he got inside he turned around and looked directly at me. I went back into the store as the car pulled away.

“What was that all about?” I asked Ken.

“That, my friend, was the son of the man who owns half of San Ladrón.”

“How did he get in? And why was he here? And why did he say that I was on private property, and that his father owned the store?”

Ken ignored my questions. “Come with me.” We walked to the front of the store and Ken unlocked the door from the inside. Again the metal fence kept us prisoners inside the store. In the distance, I heard the rapid-fire rhythm of a jackhammer against asphalt.

Ken cursed. He led me out the back door, around the block, and back in front of Land of a Thousand Fabrics. “See that?” he pointed to the vacant building on the left of the store. “Mr. McMichael owns that.”

“So?”

“See that?” He pointed to the building on the right of the store. “Mr. McMichael owns that, too.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“See that?” Ken continued, ignoring me. “And that? And that?” he said, pointing to various buildings around the fabric store. “He owns them all. In fact, there's only one building on this street he doesn't own. Care to guess which one?”

“Okay, so he's interested in buying the fabric store. Why did his son act like he already owns it?”

Ken pulled a folder out from the bottom of the clipboard and balanced it on the back of a metro bench next to us. He flipped through a few sheets of paper until he reached a piece of thick stationery with a monogram on the top.
MCM
, it said, just like the license plate.

“When Mr. McMichael heard you'd inherited the store, he made an offer. A generous offer. I know you're only here through the weekend, so I took the liberty of drawing up the paperwork.”

Ken was either the most efficient real estate agent I'd ever met, or I was being rushed into making a decision. Not one to be bullied, I crossed my arms and dug in for answers.

“What does Mr. McMichael plan to do with the store? Is he connected to the fashion industry? Does he even like fabric? Can he tell the difference between wool challis and gabardine? Did he know Uncle Marius and Aunt Millie? Or my parents? Does he know my parents? Has he talked to them about this?”

Ken signed. “Are you going to stop for a breath? Poly, this is business. He's not asking for your hand in marriage. Mr. McMichael is a developer, and this property is worth a lot to him. He can't do anything with the rest of the block unless he has this one location.”

“How does he know I own it?”

“It's public knowledge. Besides, this isn't the first offer Mr. McMichael has made on the property.”

“So Uncle Marius wouldn't sell to him?”

“Apparently not.”

I looked across the street at the bird-poop-stained façade. “Then maybe I shouldn't sell, either.”

“Don't be stupid. What are you going to do—give up your job in Los Angeles and move to San Ladrón?” He stepped back and scanned my outfit, from boots to turtleneck. “No offense, but you don't seem like the small-town type.”

“I probably don't seem like the type to make a rash decision, either. Give me the night to think it over.”

Ken folded the letter into thirds along already-established creases and handed it to me. “Mr. McMichael has brought a lot of jobs to the city by the properties he's developed. This would be no different. Consider that along with his offer. It's not all about you, but it's partially about you. That money might give you a chance to quit producing pageant dresses and do something real with your life.”

I had a choice. Defend my crappy job with the steady paycheck or admit that I wanted to do something more with my life. I did neither. Instead, I folded the paper in half again, and tucked it into the back pocket of my dusty jeans.

“The keys?” I asked.

Ken removed three keys from his full key ring and dropped them into my open palm. “I'll call you tomorrow. Noon?”

“Sure,” I answered.

“Poly, just because your uncle got caught up in what the store meant to him doesn't mean you have to get caught up in it, too. Do the sensible thing.” Ken turned away and unlocked his shiny black Lexus by remote. He drove away seconds after getting into it and left me standing on the sidewalk, staring after him.

I watched him drive away. Maybe Ken was right. Maybe the sensible thing was to sign away the store and go home. It had been ten years since I'd last been in San Ladrón, and it had changed a lot in that time. I looked up at the façade of Land of a Thousand Fabrics. To the right of it was an antiques store that specialized in Polynesian collectibles. To the left was another antiques store divided into cubicles of stuff left over from a hundred different garage sales. I didn't remember either of those stores being there the last time I was here. I looked up and down the street, at a hardware store, a salon, and a gas station. The only thing I remembered from this vantage point was the traffic light at the intersection of San Ladrón and Bonita Avenue.

I walked down the block to the meter where I'd parked my own car, a semiautomatic yellow VW Bug from the early eighties. I'd bought it with the first thousand dollars I'd made at To The Nines. Even though Los Angeles was filled with people driving perfectly maintained luxury cars, I liked everything about the one I owned: the ecru leather interior, the chrome handles, the small round gearshift.

But at the moment, there was something new about my car, something I definitely didn't like. The cluster of colored wires dangling from the steering column.

I stuck the
key into the ignition and turned it, even though I had a pretty good idea what would happen. A whole lot of nothing. And a whole lot of nothing was exactly what I got. I pulled my AAA card from my wallet and called the number. As I waited for the phone to connect, I noticed a faded sign farther down the street,
Charlie's Automotive
.

I disconnected and hopped from the car, pulling a man's black oversized suit jacket from the backseat and shrugging into it before slamming the door shut. The door required slamming. After a minor encounter with a particularly narrow parking space, I'd dented it by the hinges and never bothered having it fixed. And now the dent in the door was certainly not my priority.

I looked up and down the street for signs of vandals. Should I call the cops to report the crime? That's what Carson had done when his car had been vandalized last year, but it hadn't done any good. Vandalized cars fell pretty low on the scale of crime, and as far as I could tell, nothing was missing. I looked back at the automotive shop. Getting the car fixed seemed to be the higher priority.

The afternoon sun was behind the auto shop, casting the building in a shadow. I hurried to the lot in front but saw no cars. If it weren't for the pair of legs sticking out from under a car in the garage and the Van Halen blaring from the small CD player, I would have considered it closed and walked away.

“Excuse me,” I said. “My car's about half a block up the street and it looks like somebody got creative with my wiring.”

The round toes of the heavy black work boots moved slightly, as did the blue pant legs above them. I leaned down, closer to the bumper. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

I would have walked away if it weren't something of an emergency. Instead, I crossed the concrete floor and unplugged the CD player. When I turned around, the person under the car was halfway out. Seconds later I was staring down at a woman in a dirty blue zip-front jumpsuit.

“Oil changes for twenty-five dollars. Barely pays the rent on this place.” She wiped the back of her arm across her forehead and left a grease stain on her pale skin. “You got a problem with your car or are you looking for directions?”

“My car. It's parked across the street. Looks like someone tampered with the electrical while I was otherwise engaged.”

“Where were you?”

“In the fabric store.”

She made no secret of the once-over she gave me, looking at my riding boots, my dirty velvet jeans, my turtleneck, and my oversized man's blazer. I ran my fingers through my auburn hair, tucking a few tendrils behind my ears while she stared at me. I'd long since chewed off my trademark cranberry lipstick, but at least I knew my eyeliner and mascara had been applied as generously as hers.

“How'd you get into the fabric store?”

“The back door.”

“I mean, how'd you get permission? I don't think anybody's been in there for ages.”

“I inherited it.”

“Who are you again?” she asked. She sat upright.

“Poly Monroe.”

“As in Pollyanna?” she asked.

“As in Polyester.”

“I'm Charlie.” She held out a hand and I pulled her up. Her thick, wild black hair was held in a messy ponytail on the top of her head. Her features were angular but sexy, full red lips and dark eyes. Her eyeliner was heavy on the upper lids, drawn into a point at the edge of each eye, Cleopatra-like. She wiped her hands on an already filthy rag and extended her hand a second time, which I shook.

“Polyester Monroe.” She tipped her head slightly as she considered this. “Related to Marius and Millie Monroe?” she asked.

I nodded.

“You say your car was vandalized?”

“Looks that way.”

She craned her neck and looked outside. “Yellow VW Bug?”

“That's the one.”

She slammed the hood on the car she was working on, unzipped her jumpsuit, and stepped out of it. She wore a faded chambray shirt and jeans underneath. She hung the jumpsuit on a hook by a calendar of half-naked firemen. “It's time for me to close up. Watch the joint while I take a powder?”

“What about my car?”

“I'll fix it in the morning.” She pulled down the hinged metal doors in the front of her shop and threw the locking mechanism. Before I could answer, she disappeared behind a small door on the back corner of the garage. I stood in the front, not sure exactly what it was I was supposed to be doing. I heard a knock on the front door and turned around to find two men in the doorway. The one in front wore a dirty white T-shirt and faded jeans and steel-toed boots. The second one was dressed the same except his T-shirt was black. They both held yellow hard hats.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I don't know. Where's Charlie?”

“She's closing up. If you want to talk to her about a job, come back in the morning.”

“Sure, yeah, that's why we're here. About a job.” They laughed.

The air felt crisp with tension. The two men stayed at the door, but I sensed if I weren't there they would have come inside. I crossed the shiny garage floor and stepped directly in a trail of oil that led to the drain. The guy in the white T-shirt stood in the doorway.

“Like I said, she's closed for business.” I put one hand on the door and the other on the frame. I was the same height as the guy in front of me and I looked him straight in the eyes. I kept my voice steady. I pointed over his shoulder to a gas station where a black-and-white police cruiser was parked. “Looks like there's an on-call mechanic across the street. If it's an emergency, they can probably accommodate you.”

White T-shirt stepped back. He looked at his friend. “It can wait.”

We stood face-to-face. The guy in the front stepped backward and the two of them started down the street. I waited out the better part of a minute before I stepped back and locked the door. It was then that I realized how hard my heart was pounding in my chest.

“I asked you to watch the place, not lock the doors,” Charlie said behind me. She unlocked the door and poked her head out. I suspected the two guys were within her sight, but didn't know for sure. She stood upright, then shut and relocked the door.

“They came here?”

“They said they had a job. I said you were closed and recommended the mechanic across the street.”

She looked out the front door at the police cruiser parked in the gas station lot. “You told them to go there? That's rich.”

“Why? Who were they?”

“Our very own local bad boys, or at least that's what they'd like you to think. They tend to fly under the radar with small stuff that nobody reports.”

“Like tearing the wires out of my car?”

“Could be. That's their idea of fun.”

“What did they want from you?”

“I've got flies buzzing around me all the time. The more you swat 'em away, the more they keep coming back. Comes with the territory,” she said, tipping her head toward the interior of the auto shop.

“If your flyswatter doesn't work, you can always get one of those electric bug zappers. Might leave more of an impression.”

She studied me. “Polyester Monroe, you just got a whole lot more interesting. Follow me. Happy hour's on. You have someplace to be? Need the number for a rental car company?”

I looked across the street at Land of a Thousand Fabrics. When I left Los Angeles, I'd led my boyfriend Carson to believe I was coming to San Ladrón to sign paperwork to inherit the store, and then sign paperwork to give Ken power of attorney to sell it. But I hadn't counted on how it felt to be inside the store after all these years. It might be nice to stick around, spend the night in the apartment over the store, and pretend my great-aunt and uncle were still alive.

“You said you can fix it tomorrow?”

“I won't know for sure until I look at it, but nothing's going to happen tonight.”

“That's fine. I think I'm going to spend the night in San Ladrón.”

“Great. Since you're not going anywhere, you want to join me for a drink?”

What the heck, I thought. It wasn't like I had any other plans, And if a couple of local bad boys wanted to scare me into leaving, they were pretty dumb to tamper with my car.

Charlie led the way past Antonio's Ristorante, past two hair salons named after someone named Angie and someone named Susie, a dentist's office, and a hardware store. The fabric store was across the street and I slowed my pace and stared at the front of it. It was flanked by antiques stores, both of which sported bright white trim and welcoming exteriors. Land of a Thousand Fabrics looked like the equivalent of the creepy house of the neighborhood that spawns stories to be told around a campfire.

Charlie noticed that I wasn't keeping pace. She retraced her steps until she was next to me and followed my stare. “I bet the inside is something else,” she said.

“It is.”

“C'mon, you can tell me all about it.” She nudged me forward with her elbow and I dropped back in step.

We crossed a side street and entered an unmarked building through a back door. The interior was dimly lit. Two men shot darts next to a vacant pool table. A mirror behind the bar was painted with the words
The Broadside Tavern
in gold paint. Charlie took a seat at the bar and gestured for me to sit next to her. When the bartender appeared, she ordered.

“Irish Car Bomb. You want one, too?” she asked me.

I wasn't sure exactly what it was, so I shook my head. “I'll have a beer,” I said, even though I'd never developed a taste for it.

The drinks arrived. A shot glass and a tall mug of dark brown beer for her, and a pale ale for me. Charlie dropped her shot glass into her beer and drank half of the resulting mixture.

“So, what was it like?” she asked.

“What was what like?”

“The store. You said you were inside. I've always wondered about that place.”

“Why?”

“I've been staring at the gate since I opened my auto shop.”

Staring at a closed gate was a pretty lackluster excuse for what seemed to be more than passing interest in the store, but if I weren't sitting in the bar talking to Charlie, I wasn't sure where I'd be. The possibility existed that I'd be sitting in the bar by myself, and that wasn't something I was used to doing.

“It's still filled with fabric, though there's a good chance most of it's damaged. I'll have to go through the inventory pretty carefully to see if any of it can be salvaged, but that's a big job.”

“You actually care about the fabric?” she asked, taking another pull of her drink. Her eyes flickered to my barely touched beer and I gulped as much as I could, satisfying my thirst before the bitter taste kicked in.

“I work for a dress company in Los Angeles. There's a big market for stuff like that, even if it's damaged. Depends on how bad it is. The inventory has been in there for a while, so I don't really know what I'm going to find when I start digging through it.”

“So you plan to stick around long enough to dig through the inventory?”

“As opposed to what?”

“Selling and going back home.”

It was like she and Ken had compared notes and agreed to push the same buttons. “That store has been in my family for a long time. I'm not selling until I know what I'm selling.”

“Interesting.”

I bristled. “I don't think it's all that interesting. I think most people would do what I'm doing.”

“That's where you're wrong, Polyester. Most people would take the money and run.” She took another drink. “It's an old store that's been closed for a decade. Hard to believe there's something in there that might be of value.”

“Even harder to believe at one time the metal gate actually opened.”

“Rust?”

I nodded.

“Nothing a little motor oil and determination can't fix. I bet you have bigger problems than the gate.”

“Like what?”

“You'll find out soon enough if you stick around. And if you don't want to stick around, I'm sure you can find a buyer.”

“I've already had an offer,” I said, my lips loosened by the beer. “But I don't want to make a rash decision. I feel like it's my heritage, my family. My great-uncle left it to me, and I don't want to rush into any kind of deal that takes it away from me.”

“That's smart. You should take your time, do your thing. Check out the inventory and decide what
you
want to do with it. Maybe you should keep it and move here. This town needs another Monroe. With your uncle Marius gone, it's up to you.”

“You knew my uncle?”

“I knew
of
your uncle. Smart man.” She finished off her dark brown drink and motioned to the bartender for two more before I had finished half of my first.

“What do you mean by that?”

“He was willing to take on old man McMichael. It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it. A word of warning, though. Be careful.”

“Of what?”

“Of things that go bump in the night,” she said mysteriously.

I knew she wanted me to ask what she meant, but I wasn't going to take the bait. Inheriting the store felt personal to me, and talking about it like this, over beer and Irish Car Bombs, devalued the importance of it.

To make a good showing with my new tough friend, I drank more of my beer. I wasn't accustomed to drinking quickly and I already felt it in my system, the alcohol making my arms sluggish and my head woozy. I hadn't eaten much since arriving in San Ladrón. Drinking my dinner didn't seem like a very good idea.

The bartender carried two red plastic baskets past us, each filled with a burger and fries. He set them down by the men playing darts. The greasy scent called out to me like a bouquet of roses. I took another sip before realizing I'd already decided not to do so.