Suede to Rest (20 page)

“Charlie is your
sister?” I asked. “I don't believe you.”

“It's not common knowledge around San Ladrón, because she doesn't want it to be. I found out when I came back to help out my father. A couple of businesses were struggling and it was my job to approach the owners about selling. Many of them did, and that's when he bought up so much of the property around here. Charlie's auto shop was one of the businesses that was having trouble making the rent.”

“I know. She told me.”

“She was so protective of her business, of what she'd built. She refused help. Dad could have bought her out if he'd wanted to, but I didn't want that to happen. I made the back payments for her and told her to consider it a loan. She was so angry she accused me of working for him, trying to make up for giving her up, and said it was too little too late. I didn't know what she was talking about until she finally told me she'd been given up for adoption. That's when I learned I had a sister.”

“Why would she keep it a secret?”

“Pride and hurt. I'm not going to tell you her story. That's her story to tell. But Charlie is a proud woman. She never asked for a penny. She paid back the loan within months and she's never been behind on a payment since.”

I thought about Mr. McMichael appearing behind Charlie's Automotive the night the shower was sabotaged. Is that why he was there? He was a father looking for an opportunity to reconnect with his daughter? Or maybe they weren't as estranged as she pretended. Maybe she told him I was in the shower and he was responsible for my being trapped, not for my rescue.

“Charlie deserves to know that you know. Let's go find her at the shop.”

“I'm not going anywhere with anybody,” I said instinctively. “This building is filled with people who know I'm out here and they'll wonder what happened to me if I suddenly go missing.”

As if on cue, the sound of laughter rang out from the front entrance of the store. My mom and dad peeked around the side of the building and waved. “Poly, we're going back to the store to try to find those kittens,” my dad said.

“I'm taking this with me.” My mom held up the white shoe box with the bracelet. “See you later?”

“Mom, Dad, I don't think you should leave yet,” I said, pulling my eyebrows in and tipping my head slightly to the right to indicate that something was amiss.

“Is there something wrong with your eye?” my dad asked.

“She wants us to leave her alone, John,” my mom said to my dad. Whatever intuition I suspected she had learned back in mom school had either left her temporarily or was on the fritz.

“Seriously, wait up for me,” I said, jogging toward them. Right as I passed Vaughn I tripped over something and fell face down on the wet ground. Moisture seeped through the knees of my already filthy leggings.

“Let me help you up,” Vaughn said. He held out a hand, but I ignored it. He put his hands under my arms and helped me, even though I tried to shake him off. Our heads were close together. “I don't care if you're rude to me, and I don't care if you have it in for my father, but if you have any integrity, you'll keep Charlie's background a secret,” he whispered. His hands dropped from my body and he stepped backward, and then walked over to my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, I'm Vaughn McMichael. Your daughter is something else.”

I flushed. My mom fought a smile. “Can we leave yet?” I asked.

“Stay here with your friend, Poly. We both need a break.”

“But what if I don't want to stay here?”

My dad put his arm around my mother's waist and turned her away from us. “We haven't been in the store for a long time, either. Lots of memories have been shut in that apartment for years. Give us a chance to see what you saw when you first went inside.”

It was a fair request. “I'll be there in two hours. Two hours. If I'm not there in
two hours
,
come looking for me.”

“You want to be independent one minute and you want us to look for you the next. It's tough growing up, isn't it?” Mom said, pushing my hair away from my forehead.

“If I'm not at the fabric store in
two hours
, call Sheriff Clark. His number is on top of the dresser in the bedroom.”

“Poly, you're being dramatic.” Mom tipped her head back and looked down her nose at me. “You really do need a haircut, though. Take an extra hour and see if one of the salons around here will take a walk-in.”

They left me alone next to the donut shop with Vaughn. I suspected he was watching me. I braced myself for the look on his face when I turned around but was surprised to discover that he'd left.

Whatever action it was I feared, it wasn't being left alone on the lawn of a donut shop. I leaned forward and walked around the side of the shop, expecting Vaughn to be standing there hiding from me. He wasn't.

“You okay? That was a nasty spill you just took,” said Big Joe. He stood next to the spot where I had fallen down.

“I'm klutzy. I fall down a lot,” I said.

“Maybe you do, but that fall wasn't your fault.”

“Don't worry, I'm not going to sue.”

“Wouldn't matter much to me if you did. I saw the whole thing out the window, and it was pretty obvious the McMichael kid tripped you on purpose.”

“He tripped me?” I looked behind me to see if Vaughn had reappeared.

“Sure did. I didn't expect that of him. Seems you bring out a playful side that I've never seen.”

“Did you see where he went?” I asked.

“There's only one way to go if you don't go back out to Bonita, and that's around the back, through the alley next to the sheriff's office. The Waverly House is across the street from there, and I bet that's where he went.”

“So I have two choices? Leave out front or go that way and possibly end up following him?”

“There's a third choice. Come back inside and join the celebration, at least for a little bit.”

I knew I owed Big Joe and Maria. Leaving their impromptu celebration was borderline offensive. “Do you mind if I use your phone first?”

“Follow me.”

I went into the donut shop and followed Big Joe to the kitchen. He indicated a black wall-mounted phone with a rotary dial. “You need privacy?” I nodded. “Boys, let's go out front and see if your mother wants more donuts.” He corralled his boys through the saloon-style doors that separated the customer area from the kitchen.

I picked up the receiver and dialed Sheriff Clark. When he answered, I identified myself. “Deputy Sheriff Clark, Ken Watts is trying to buy my store.”

“I know. He told me.”

“When did he tell you? It's supposed to be confidential.”

I realized that even though this was a small town that rarely saw this assortment of crimes, the deputy sheriff was no dummy. He was putting two and two together faster than a room of kindergarteners who had just learned to add. “Mr. Watts told me his name might come up in my investigation based on his joint involvement with two other investors.”

“How can he do that? It's a conflict of interest.”

“You'll have to ask him.”

“I plan to.”

“Ms. Monroe, I found the guys responsible for the ketchup on your storefront.”

“Who are they?”

“Couple of regulars at The Broadside. They said it was a joke. Kind of a ‘welcome to the neighborhood' gag.”

“That's it? They say it's a joke and you're going to let them go?” I waited for a second. “That's vandalism. Isn't that a felony?”

“It's a felony if the damages cost more than four hundred dollars. They used ketchup because they knew it wasn't permanent. I figure it took a handful of rags and a bucket of soapy water to clean it up. I checked it out myself. Have to admit, the gate looks better than it has in years.”

“Did they confess to anything else, like vandalizing my car, abandoning kittens in my Dumpster, or locking me in Charlie's shower?”

“Ms. Monroe, their confession is a start. It's not the end. Like it or not, there's a difference between a practical joke and a felony. Give me something to work with and I'll use it.”

“I don't have anything else.”

“Give me a timeline of exactly what you've been doing since you arrived. Who you talked to, where you've been.”

“Friday: arrived in San Ladrón. My car was vandalized that afternoon. Saturday morning I found Mr. Pickers behind the store. Saturday night I was trapped in Charlie's shower. Sunday I met Adelaide Brooks, visited Mr. McMichael, and had my storefront vandalized. Do you want me to go on?”

“I want you to take some time and think about this. Bring it to me. I'll be at the mobile unit until five.”

I agreed to meet Deputy Sheriff Clark later that afternoon and hung up. I joined the Lopez family out front. It was evident that the hard work from the morning had morphed into a family affair, and I was little more than a stranger in the corner of the room for the next half hour. The attention that had been lavished on the boys when they'd presented the shoe box with the bracelet inside had worn off. While the women lounged against the tables, helping themselves to donuts from a tray on a table in the middle of the shop, Carlos and Antonio chased after each other.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Maria, sliding into the booth across from me.

I shook my head fast, trying to snap myself out of my thoughts. It only half worked, and I could tell from the look on her face that she expected some kind of explanation.

“I don't know what I'm looking for anymore,” I said. “I thought I wanted answers about my aunt's murder, but I've heard the story and it's not enough. I need to know about Mr. Pickers, why he was killed when I first arrived. Nothing I've learned since I arrived explains that.”

“When did you arrive in San Ladrón?” she asked.

“Friday morning.”

“Were you planning to spend the weekend?”

“No. When I left Los Angeles, I thought I was going to take a peek inside the store, sign some paperwork, maybe grab lunch, and leave.”

“Why didn't you?”

“My car was vandalized, so I had to stay.”

“You probably have a friend who would have come to get you, or you could have rented a car and gone home. What about the paperwork. Did you sign?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't want to.” All this time I'd seen the vandalism as the thing that kept me in San Ladrón. But maybe I had it backward. Maybe if I'd signed the paperwork to sell the store to Mr. McMichael, my car would have been left alone. Maybe the vandalism hadn't been intended to keep me in town but to punish me for not signing.

“Why did you stay? If you didn't know about the bracelet, then you couldn't have been looking for that. Why didn't you go home on Friday? Or Saturday?”

“Mr. Pickers's murder. I couldn't leave after that.” I didn't tell her that part of the reason was that Deputy Sheriff Clark had advised me not to. “I'm in control of the legacy of the store. I can't let that legacy be about murder.” It was the same thing I'd said to Adelaide.

“What do you want the store's legacy to be?”

“I don't know.”

“I think I do.” She leaned back in her chair and tucked her chin slightly so her stare was more direct. The action caused a double chin to appear above her neck. She blinked at me with thick lashes that could have been fake, then leaned forward and put her manicured hands on top of my own. “You came here looking for something, but you didn't know what. You found more than you bargained for. There are still questions, and you are still seeking answers.”

“But why? I have a job, a boyfriend, and an apartment in Los Angeles.”

“That might all be true, but it seems to me that you don't have a life.”

“Hey!” I protested. Two of Maria's sisters—I'd lost track of who was who by this point—stopped their conversation and looked at me. The donut shop grew uncomfortably quiet, until I responded to Maria in a low voice. “I have a life. I have people who depend on me. Who rely on me to run their business, or to get paid, or to make sure there's a parking space at night. I have people who think I make the best macaroni and cheese in the world. I'm not a loser,” I finished.

Maria sat back and held her hands up. “All I'm saying is that since you've been here your car has been broken into, you were locked into a shower, and your store was vandalized. People are whispering behind your back that maybe you had something to do with that man's murder. Your boyfriend and boss tried to convince you to go back to Los Angeles and you had a very lucrative offer to sell the store, but you're still here. I think I know why, too. It's as though you wanted something you could really care about to come into your life, and it did. Don't ignore that, Poly.”

I'd spent the
last ten years hating the men who had robbed the store and killed my aunt. I thought they were lying when they said they didn't steal her bracelet. Now I had reason to believe they might have been telling the truth. If they didn't steal the bracelet, was there any truth to the rest of their story? Was the real killer still out there? Was he watching the store, hoping for a chance to get in and find the valuable piece of jewelry? Had Mr. Pickers been keeping a lookout hoping to right a wrong, to catch the bad guys trying to break in a second time?

Big Joe and Maria would go home tonight with their boys and chalk today up to a roller coaster of events and emotions in their town, but for me, it was different. I was the catalyst for these random acts of violence in San Ladrón. They started when I arrived. I had a feeling they wouldn't stop until after I left.

“Thank you both for what you've done for me today. I don't know what I would have done—or how I would have done it—if it weren't for you two.”

Maria held out her hand palm side facing me. “Stop right there. If you were the kind of person who was afraid of a problem, you would have left days ago. This is how we do things in San Ladrón. When one person's problem is big, we help out. If we need help, you can return the favor.”

For a second I was rooted to the spot. The numb feeling in my chest was growing warm thanks to the friendliness of the Lopez family, and instead of saying anything else, I stepped forward and hugged each of them. I said good-bye and started my walk back to the fabric store.

It was after three. I crossed the street and passed a gas station before turning around and stopping inside for a bottle of Coke and a bag of popcorn. I added a jar of peanuts for my dad and a banana for my mom, wondered how fresh a banana from a gas station could possibly be, and retraced my steps to the store.

Deputy Sheriff Clark was right. The front of the store looked good. Not just because the ketchup graffiti had been cleaned away, but because years of grime had gone with it. I'd only been able to do so much on those first few days, occupied more with the task of getting the fence to open than the cleaning of the storefront. But now the surface was a whiter shade than it had been when I arrived. It was brighter than the stores on either side of it, finally the shining star on Bonita Avenue instead of the store thumb. I stuck my key into the lock and turned it, pulled the gate away, and unlocked the front door. The two kittens sat on the lower step of the stairs, staring at me. The gray one let out a peep.

“Hey, you two,” I said, scooping each up with a hand under their bellies and pulling them to my chest. “Has your day has been nearly as exciting as mine?” I planted a kiss between the ears of each of them and started my ascent up the stairs. “Mom? Dad? You can stop worrying now. I'm back,” I called.

My dad was sprawled across the sofa reading an old book. “Shhh. Your mother is taking a nap.” He set the open book on his chest and folded his hands behind his head. I set both of the kittens on my dad's belly. He moved the book to the floor and ran a hand over the fur of each of their heads.

“Where did you find them?”

“I didn't. Vaughn McMichael did. He heard them in the Dumpster out back the afternoon after the murder. It would have been a funny story if it hadn't happened that day. I caught him digging around inside the Dumpster and accused him of going through my trash.”

“Why would you have cared? Trash is trash. You threw it away, right?”

“I know, but I don't trust him.”

“Has he given you reason not to? Sounds like maybe you don't
want
to trust him.”

I stroked the gray kitten's head. “Now that I think about it, I still don't know if I believe he heard kittens in the Dumpster. They're not very loud, you know.” I sank onto the carpet and moved my dad's book to the side, then bent my right leg over my left and tugged off my dirty boot. “He came here the first day I was in San Ladrón. Just showed up and walked in like he owned the place. And then I find out that his father had put in a bid on the store, that he actually did think he owned the place, because he assumed I'd take the offer and go back to Los Angeles.” I stretched my right leg out and repeated the boot removal process on my left foot. “That all happened before Mr. Pickers was found dead out back.”

“Why didn't you take the offer, Poly?”

“That's seems to be the question on everybody's mind.” I was surprised by my father's question, considering he was one of the few people who should have understood. I put my boots together and tucked the toes under the sofa. “Doesn't it bother you that Uncle Marius kept this store for ten years to protect the memory of Aunt Millie? Or that the McMichael family wants to waltz in now that it's convenient and benefit from our family's tragedy?”

“No. What bothers me is that he kept it closed. If he wanted to honor her memory, he would have kept it open. Let people remember what it was she had built with him. I tried to ask him about it, but he was never willing to explain.”

“But it was just him. He couldn't run it by himself.”

“He knew your mother and I were willing to move here and help. This was the family business. It wouldn't have been the first time we'd pitched in and helped, and it wouldn't have been the last. The reality is that he didn't know how to function without her. Memories, if nurtured, have a life of their own. He made a choice to push the family away instead of letting us draw closer. And that's why we moved to Burbank.”

“I didn't know you'd offered to help him run the store.”

“For him, Land of a Thousand Fabrics ceased to be the day she died.”

“So why do you think he left it to me? What do you think he wanted me to do with it?”

“Nobody can answer that question now that he's gone, but I think he realized her memory would die with him unless he gave someone a reason to keep it alive.”

“Dad, I want to reopen the store.”

“If that's what you want to do, then you'll do it. You've always been determined, and I don't doubt that you're smart enough to make it work. But consider this: the success of the store once was because Marius and Millie had made it their passion, their life's work. If you try to make it what they wanted, it will fail. The only way it can succeed is if you make it what
you
want.”

The ping of a text message interrupted us. I looked at the broken screen of my phone.
Take a shower. Please
,
it said.

I moved from the living room into the bathroom. A trickle of water snaked down from the bottom of the faucet. I turned the handle on the sink and water spurted out in a rust-colored spray. The odd shade faded within seconds and soon a stream of clear water flowed into the basin.

I turned it off and called Ken. “It's about time,” he said in lieu of hello.

“Thank you.” I said. “I can't remember the last time I was so excited to take a shower. Or a bath,” I added quickly, remembering the shower incident at Charlie's.

“I think the whole town's excited about you finally taking a shower.”

Despite the favor he'd done for me and his joking tone, I couldn't help be angry about his secret business dealings with Carson. “Ken, why didn't you tell me you're trying to get a piece of the store for yourself?”

He was silent for a few beats. I pulled the phone away from my ear and checked the screen to see if we were still connected.

“That information was supposed to be confidential. Did your boyfriend tell you?”

“I found out on my own. I don't get it, Ken. You risked your real estate license to get in on his deal? Is the money that good?”

“I didn't risk anything. Your boyfriend convinced me he could get you to sell. I asked another agent in our office to draw up the paperwork so there wouldn't be a conflict if you took our offer.”

“So win-win situation for you? I sell to Mr. McMichael and you earn the commission, I sell to Carson and you get part ownership and a potential big payoff when you resell the property?”

“Something like that.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I wanted to tell you, honest. Your boyfriend said he'd have more leverage if you didn't know who the investors were.”

“Sounds like Carson.”

“How long are you planning to stick around?”

“I don't know. Are you that eager to get rid of me?”

“No, that's not what I meant. Felicity says I've been treating you too much like a client and not enough like a friend. She wants to invite you over for dinner.” He paused. “She said if I mention you selling the store I'm sleeping on the sofa for the next week.”

“I don't know how long I'm staying, but dinner sounds nice. Thank her for me.”

“If you do come over for dinner, be sure to take advantage of that running water first.”

“Good-bye, Ken.”

I disconnected and propped the phone on the back of the sink, then turned the bathtub jets to full blast. Warm, clear water gushed from the spigot. I opened the door and padded down the Oriental carpet runner in my stocking feet.

As I made my way back to the front of the apartment, I paused to stare at the geometric shadows that were cast on the wall from the sunlight cascading through the cutouts of the decorative window at the top center of the building. I hadn't noticed the beauty of the window before, and now I couldn't look away. There was a certain perfection in it, in the small round loops framed with black iron, the peak at the center, and the repetitive cloverleaf pattern that filled the border. Houses like these could be renovated to minimize their original Victorian state, but a window like that would, most likely, survive a battery of home improvements through the sheer matter of it being hard to reach.

The window was recessed about twelve inches into the wall, leaving a narrow curved ledge around it. I would have liked to curl up on that ledge, to pull my knees up to my chest and stare out the pattern of glass at the view of Bonita Avenue, watching my neighbors go about the lives they had before I'd come to town, but I couldn't. A now-familiar construction truck pulled past the store. I watched it turn on the side street next to The Broadside and pull into the back. Soon a ladder was propped up against the side of the building. Looked like Duke was getting his roof fixed.

I turned back to the living room and found my dad asleep on the sofa, with the orange kitten spread-eagle on his chest. One of my boots had been knocked over, and a small gray tail stuck out of the shaft.

I left my dad in the living room and started a bath. I lowered myself into the hot water and lathered my head with a bar of Ivory soap. After scrubbing every limb, twice, I lay back against the porcelain, closed my eyes, and inhaled the scent of clean. When the water turned from hot to tepid, I climbed out, dried off, and dressed in clean underwear, a hooded sweatshirt, and black skinny jeans. I sat at the kitchen table and started my timeline for Sheriff Clark.

Friday: Arrived in San Ladrón. Saw Mr. Pickers by store. Car vandalized. Went to Charlie's Auto.

Saturday: Found Mr. Pickers behind store. Got caught in Charlie's shower. Had dinner with Vaughn in store.

Sunday: Left Tea Totalers, caught ride with Charlie to auto shop. Went to talk to Duke, Charlie interrupted me. Discovered Charlie's relationship to McM family.

Monday: Found bracelet.

I couldn't help noticing how frequently Charlie's name popped up. Why was she everywhere I was? Except for today. Charlie had been one of the few people I knew who was conspicuously absent from the donut shop.

But something was missing. Sure, Charlie had a connection to the McMichael family, but was there a connection between her and the fabric store or her and Mr. Pickers?

I tiptoed into the bedroom for the scrapbook Vaughn had given me days ago. He said he had questions, too. Questions about what? His father's involvement? Were those questions related to Vic McMichael's guilt or innocence?

Careful not to wake up my mother, I hugged the book to my chest and sat on a spot on the floor that was painted with a ray of sun. My mom slept soundly, her breath almost, but not quite, a snore. The white shoe box from the donut store sat on top of the dresser next to the box of memorabilia I'd been digging through last night. I pulled the scrapbook onto my lap, and started to go through it a second time. These clippings were the closest thing I had to an account of what had happened in San Ladrón when my aunt had died. Now that I was past the shock of Vaughn's father's involvement, I might pick up something of importance from the clippings.

I scanned the titles again, flipping page by page past what I already knew. Vic McMichael had been suspected of involvement in the murder, but aside from gossip and innuendo, there had been nothing to link him to the crime. There was an article from the detective who had worked the crime that had a small red star next to it.

Based on the statement of the witness that placed Mr. McMichael's car in the area of the crime, the businessman
has been investigated in connection to the murder. No evidence linking him to the crime has been found. It is our conclusion that the two robbers acted of their own volition in a robbery attempt that resulted in homicide. Further claims of Mr. McMichael's involvement led to an additional search of the crime scene to look for corroborating evidence to place him inside the store. Nothing could be found. The LA County sheriff's office has closed this case. We suggest that once the people of San Ladrón have mourned the loss of their friend and neighbor, they close the case against Vic McMichael, too.

A nagging thought pricked at the back of my mind and kept me from relaxing. I couldn't forget the way Vaughn's face had looked the day I accused his family of buying their way out of problems. He'd told me his father had bullied people into agreeing to his terms. If Uncle Marius had repeatedly said no to his offers to buy the store, had he escalated his tactics from bullying to something more threatening? Had he arranged to scare Aunt Millie with the robbery in an attempt to change her and my uncle's minds?