Suede to Rest (21 page)

My mom had
turned to her side, her palms pressed against each other and sandwiched under her head. I covered her with the white eyelet afghan that had been folded at the base of the bed, and then crossed the room to the vanity and lifted the lid to the white shoe box and stared at the long-lost piece of jewelry Maria's boys had found. I scooped an assortment of charms with my left hand, forgetting for the moment that my mom was sleeping on the bed behind me.

All my life I'd believed that two men had broken into the store, robbed it, and committed murder. Even though they'd claimed that the store was empty when they got there and there was no money in the register, it all seemed too much like a lie. Of course they claimed they didn't do it. Of course they claimed they didn't steal anything. Of course they claimed they didn't kill my great-aunt. But no other evidence supported their claims, and they had gone to jail.

I'd found out more about that night in the past couple of days that I'd been back in the store than I'd known my whole life, starting with the knowledge that Mr. Pickers had witnessed something the night the original crime was committed. And now Mr. Pickers was dead, too. No way did I see that as coincidence.

Had Mr. Pickers been keeping a watch on the store because he wanted to know what he'd seen that night? I closed my eyes and fingered the real charm. The gold had turned warm next to my skin. As I slid my thumb and forefinger over the rough surface I tried to imagine what might have happened that night.

My aunt had stayed late at the store, waiting for Mr. Pickers. Someone broke in. She would have been scared, but she would not have made it easy for the robbers. She would have put up a fight.

But how had Vic McMichael gotten a charm from her bracelet? Had one fallen off while she was fighting for her life? Had whoever committed the crime given it to him as proof that the deed had been done, or had he committed the crime and kept a charm as a trophy?

I opened my eyes and regrounded myself in the apartment.

“John, is that you?” my mother murmured.

“It's Poly. Sorry I woke you.” I moved to her side and adjusted the afghan over her shoulders. She reached up and touched the charm that dangled around my neck.

“You took the bracelet apart?”

“No. Adelaide Brooks gave me this charm.”

My mom sat up and blinked her eyes several times. She reached for her glasses, left upside down on the nightstand, and focused on the charm once she had them on. “I always wondered what became of that charm.”

I pinched the medallion between my fingers. “What do you know about it?”

“Let's go downstairs.”

I followed my mom down the carpeted hallway and down the stairs. She paused by a wall of taffeta and pulled the end of a bolt of seafoam green that changed color to amber in the sunlight. I'd always been mesmerized by how taffeta could appear to be two seemingly unrelated colors based on how the light hit it. I wondered if that's what I saw now: a situation that had two different sides that appeared to be unrelated.

My mom let the taffeta fall from her fingers. It floated down and covered the soft blue shade below it. “This place really is magical, isn't it?” she said softly. “I spent so much time in here, helping Millie run the store. Your father used to go on business trips before you were born and I'd come here and help out because it was better than sitting home alone. I still remember how Millie lit up when a new shipment would arrive.”

“I thought they bought their fabrics on their trips?”

“The really spectacular fabrics, yes. But they also ordered from factories on the East Coast. This was before the Internet. She would talk to these men for hours, getting descriptions of their inventory. Occasionally something wouldn't be to her liking. But when something new, something special came in, she was like a little girl. It was so much fun to be around her! I think that's why people wanted to shop here. Some people came for the specialties, and others came for the company. More than a few times ladies would come in and have no idea what they were going to make. Millie would show them patterns, and she'd swirl around in her full skirts with her charm bracelet tinkling, and that would be it. She was so welcoming and gracious, women wanted to be like her. That was the secret of her success.”

Mom ran her hand across the rose-pink washed silk that hung on a roll next to the taffeta. Slubs of imperfections in the fabric made it rough and added to the beauty of the weave.

“Mom, you said something about this charm. What do you know about it?”

“Your father said he told you about the financial troubles at the store.”

“He said Aunt Millie went to Mr. McMichael for help and didn't tell Uncle Marius.”

“That was a hard thing for her to do, and ultimately it's what ended their friendship. Millie told me that rumors started about her and Vic. Marius was furious when he found out what she had done. She gave that charm to Vic as a way of thanking him and saying good-bye. She knew the friendship was over.”

“She and Mr. McMichael didn't . . . ?”

Mom shook her head. “Millie was so in love with Marius, it was as if he'd hung the moon and the stars. Don't you think for a second that she would have violated that love. The only reason she went to Vic for help was because she didn't want them to lose the store. It represented their whole life together.”

“That's why Uncle Marius could never let it go. Giving it up would mean letting go of their life together, but keeping it open would mean acknowledging that she wasn't there.”

I turned around and took in the magnitude of the store. So much more than material made up Land of a Thousand Fabrics. Commitment, dedication, passion, and love were evident, too.

“Does the idea of staying in San Ladrón offer you something you've been missing?”

“Yes. From the first moment when I was here and Ken tried to rush me into signing away the store I knew I didn't want to do what he expected. And then I found Mr. Pickers's body by the Dumpster, and it didn't seem fair. Here's this old man who's lived here his whole life who got murdered behind the store. And I have to know why. It wasn't random, I know that much. If it were, my car wouldn't have been vandalized. I wouldn't have been trapped in a shower, or threatened at a bar, either. I'd probably be at home having—what day is it?”

My mom's eyes rolled up for a second. “Monday.”

“I'd probably be at home having meatballs after a crappy day working for Giovanni. It would be just like any other Monday.”

“Poly, listen to me. A man died, and that's a tragedy. And I'm sure it's difficult for you to process, especially since you found his body. But just because it happened on your property doesn't make it your job to find out who killed him.”

“I told Dad I want to reopen the store. I mean it.”

My mom tucked my hair behind my ear. “Millie and Marius would be proud.”

*   *   *

It was ten
minutes till five, and Deputy Sheriff Clark expected me to bring him a timetable of where I'd been for the past few days. I pulled my boots on and jogged down the winding metal staircase, ducking out the back of the store.

The sun had dropped considerably, dropping the temperature with it. I crossed my arms tightly to stay warm as I walked through the alley behind the store. The parking lot at the end of the street was vacant now. I passed the parking lot and walked behind the gas station, coming out on San Ladrón Avenue next to the Waverly House. I stood on the corner, staring at the Victorian mansion. The sign out front advertised it as the perfect place for wedding receptions and Sunday brunch. Another, smaller sign, closer to the sidewalk, announced an upcoming murder mystery weekend. I had always wanted to do that, but Carson had pooh-poohed the idea. Unsure as I was about the circumstances surrounding my time in San Ladrón, I felt like I'd been trapped in a play that had yet to be resolved.

I crossed the street and walked around to the side of the office, to the door where Deputy Sheriff Clark had let me in on my previous visit. I wrapped my knuckles against the glass a few times and waited. When there was no answer, I knocked harder.

“I'm over here,” said a voice. I moved past the door to the parking lot under the carport. The deputy sheriff stood over the engine of one of the squad cars. The hood was propped up on a long metal arm. “You wouldn't happen to know anything about cars, would you?”

“Not really. Why?”

He pulled his sunglasses off and wiped the back of his arm across his forehead, then replaced his glasses and looked back at the engine. After shaking his head a couple of times, he pulled the arm out of the hood, laid it down in the track where I assumed it stayed, and closed the hood.

“My motor mounts are shot.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“See this metal thing? It holds the motor. There's a rubber cushion in the middle, gives the engine some give. Too many fast stops and starts, the rubber breaks, your engine just sits there. Whole car starts to shake.”

“Can't you replace it?”

“Sure. I can replace this one, piece of cake. Only, you have to replace all of them at the same time. I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to get up underneath the car to get the one on the bottom.”

“You have a mechanic across the street, you know.”

“Who, Charlie? She's otherwise engaged at the moment.”

I wanted to ask for details but didn't. I wasn't sure why we were standing by a police cruiser talking about motor mounts instead of going over my timetable, but I knew the reason I was there was to give information, not get it.

“Can we talk somewhere?” I asked.

“Sure. Follow me.”

I dropped in line behind the deputy sheriff and sat across from his wooden desk. He stood by the coffee station, shaking powdered creamer into a small Styrofoam cup. I sat patiently, waiting for him to offer me my choice of beverages like the last time I had been here. He didn't.

After he finished stirring the clumps of powder around with a thin brown-and-white striped straw, he ran it through his lips and tossed the stirrer into the trash. The silence grew uncomfortable as I tried to figure out what I was supposed to say or do, until finally I couldn't take it anymore.

“I think there's a secret in the fabric store that someone doesn't want to come out,” I said.

Deputy Sheriff Clark leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers behind his head. His eyes looked tired, but I could see the clarity in his stare.

“Interesting theory.” The deputy sheriff took another pull on his coffee and set the cup down. I leaned forward and started to speak, but Officer Clark held up a hand to silence me.

“A couple of days ago you were sure this was about you. To be honest, it looked to me and a whole bunch of other people that you were working pretty hard at making yourself look like a victim.”

“Why?”

“Because you kept crying wolf.”

“No. Why would I want to make myself look like a victim? I inherited the store. Legitimately. When I said no to Mr. McMichael, that should have been the end of it. Maybe he'd be persistent and up his offer, that's what businessmen do. Meanwhile, someone tried to send me a message by vandalizing my car. And then Mr. Pickers was murdered behind the store. Now people are coming out of the woodwork trying to buy the place out from under me. The reason I'm at the middle of your investigation is because all of this stuff started happening since I showed up. I don't completely trust the McMichael family, but I'm starting to think this isn't their doing.”

Clark raised his eyebrows and closed his eyes at the same time, nodding once, as though acknowledging that I'd made a point.

“You wanted a timetable of where I've been and what I've been doing? Here it is: I was trapped in Charlie's shower. I was threatened by construction workers when I went to talk to Duke. I went to see Mr. McMichael myself. If this is his way of hardballing me into selling the store, he's failing miserably.”

“You didn't tell me you knew Duke.”

“I met him yesterday. I stopped off at The Broadside Tavern. I thought maybe I'd learn something about Mr. Pickers.”

“Before or after your gate was vandalized?”

“Before.”

“Ms. Monroe, you aren't running an investigation here. I am. I should have you locked up for obstruction of justice.” Clark picked up a yellow pencil from the side of his desk calendar and tapped the eraser end on the last Friday of the month. “Do you have anything else I need to know?”

I considered what I'd learned about Charlie and Vaughn's relationship. I knew it wasn't common knowledge, but I wasn't sure how uncommon it was.

“No,” I finally said. I stood from the chair and shook Officer Clark's hand.

Outside, a crisp breeze blew my hair around. I wrapped my arms around myself and looked at the Waverly House. The majestic building beckoned me from across the street from the mobile sheriff unit, and a part of me wanted to walk right in, demand to see Adelaide Brooks, and lock her in an office until I got some answers. I took a deep breath for courage, exhaled, and crossed the street. A person stepped out from behind the carefully manicured shrubbery that lined the eastern property line of the historic building. Before I knew what was happening, a hand shot out and grabbed my forearm, pulling me into the foliage.

“You're going to
ruin everything for me,” Charlie hissed.

“Let go of me,” I said, shaking off her grip.

“Then stay still and shut up. They're about to leave and I don't want them to see me.”

“Who's about to see you?”

“Vaughn and the old lady.”

I followed Charlie's stare to the front steps of the Waverly House. Vaughn and Adelaide stood together. Her hand was on his upper arm. With one hand she reached up and pushed his hair off of his forehead, a maternal gesture that told me of their close relationship. I stole a glance at Charlie to see how she'd reacted. Her face looked stone-cold.

She was crouched down in the base of the shrubs, out of sight. Her heavy clumps of tangled, colorful hair were secured with a black rubber loop at the back of her head. When she'd pulled me back I'd landed on my butt. Moisture seeped through the seat of my jeans. I dug my heels into the ground and scooted backward until I was next to her.

“Why did you jump me?”

“Shhh,” she hissed again, waving me quiet with a flapping hand. Her face was locked on the scene on the steps of the Waverly House. I wondered what was going through her mind. Vaughn and Adelaide hugged, and he turned away and walked the length of the sidewalk and turned to the left. Charlie didn't speak, didn't move. I could have called out to Vaughn if I thought I was in any danger, but I wasn't sure which one of them was more of a threat.

Charlie made a noise next to me. I turned to look at her. She blinked several times. I suspected she was fighting tears but already knew she'd deny it.

My mind buzzed with questions about Charlie. She clearly had anger issues with her birth parents, not only that, she could easily have vandalized my car and locked me in the shower.

“I haven't seen much of you today. Are you ever going to finish my car?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

“Tomorrow.” She leaned forward, focused on the front door to the Waverly House. “Sometimes it's too much, hanging around this town where everybody's so proper, with their salon-styled hair and their afternoon tea. I don't belong here.”

“Adelaide is your mom, isn't she?” I asked quietly.

She didn't answer.

“Charlie, I know. I got pulled over while driving your truck and I saw the name
McMichael
on the registration.” I wasn't sure why I kept Vaughn's name out of it, but I wanted to hear what she had to say.

She turned on me. “Then you know what I know. My parents didn't want me. Do you have any idea what it's like, knowing you have two parents who wanted nothing to do with you? No, you don't, because you've lived a charmed life, Polyester.”

“Whoa,” I said, holding my hands up. “I don't know what's so charmed about losing a relative when I was in high school and being lied to about what happened.” Even though I left out the references to being suspected of murder, it seemed Charlie had a pretty odd definition of
charmed
. “You're right, I don't know what you feel like. I don't know anything about your past. But sitting out here watching your family from under a shrub isn't doing anybody any good. I'd say you have two choices: get out of town and move on, or figure out a way to reconcile with your family.”

“I found out Vic and Adelaide were my parents a long time ago. I've been living here for years and nobody ever had a clue.”

“How'd you find out?” I asked.

“I spent my childhood in foster homes. I don't really remember anything before I was four. There were at least three sets of parents before I turned eighteen. That's when I went out on my own. Got a job with a mechanic in Encino. I kept showing up and just helping. I think he thought I was crazy. One day he asked if I wanted to learn about cars. I said yes and he taught me what he knew.”

“So that's how you came to be a mechanic. How'd you come to be here in San Ladrón?”

“I remember telling him he was the father I never had. He asked about my real father and I told him I didn't know who he was. He asked if I wanted to know and I said I did. So he helped me figure out where the adoption agency was, we got into contact with the people who ran it, and I got my file.”

“I'm surprised they let you have your file.” Considering the distance Adelaide and Vic had put between themselves and Charlie, it seemed unusual that they would have left a paper trail that led back to them.

“It's not like I asked for it. I tracked them both to San Ladrón and found out they'd been divorced for a while. Pretty much my whole life. Vaughn was around four when they split. They divorced while she was pregnant with me, and I guess that's why she gave me away. She didn't want any reminders of him.”

She sat, staring at the Waverly House, silent. She pulled her knees up and started to rock back and forth. I didn't think she knew she was doing it. It was as if she was in a trance.

“Now everybody is going to know who I am and everything else is going to change.”

I stood up, silent, wanting to hear what else she might say, afraid if I prompted her she'd snap out of it and remember that I was there. I took another step back.

“Sooner or later, everybody's going to know what you did,” she said, staring at the front door of the Victorian mansion.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked before I remembered I was trying to be silent.

Her head snapped up and she focused on me. Her eyes were dark. She let go of her legs and planted her right hand on the ground, and pushed herself up. “There's something I have to do,” she said. “If you're smart, you'll forget you ever saw me here tonight.”

I stood my ground, my adrenaline racing. I didn't want her to know I was afraid of her, even though a part of me was. She looked at the front doors of the Waverly House, turned and looked across the street at the mobile sheriff's unit, then trudged past me to the sidewalk and headed west—the opposite direction of her shop—on San Ladrón Avenue on foot.

I waited until she vanished from sight, somewhere about three blocks away. If she was planning to double back and be at the fabric store, then I was going to get there first and make sure the doors were locked. I spun around, my heel skidding on a patch of mud, headed the opposite direction to the corner, and turned right.

My parents were in the kitchen. My dad tossed the crossword puzzle page from the newspaper on the small table that sat to my right. “Well, Helen, are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” I asked.

“To head back to Burbank.”

“You're leaving me?”

“We both have to work tomorrow, and traffic from San Ladrón into Burbank tomorrow morning is going to be a bear,” he said.

“Why don't you come with us?” my mom asked. “I'd feel better about you being with us than alone in this apartment. Your father can give you a ride back when your car is fixed.”

He shot her a look.

“I'll be fine.” I felt uncomfortable under her direct stare. “If things aren't any more settled by the end of the week, I'll sign Ken's paperwork and go back to Los Angeles.”

“Do you think that's what we want you to do?” she asked.

“I don't know. Isn't it?”

“We want you to do what you want to do. Follow your heart. That's what Uncle Marius would have wanted.”

I followed my parents down the hallway to the living room. My mom ducked under the long leather strap of her black handbag, wearing it cross-body style like me. She draped a scarf around her neck and scratched the tabby kitten's head.

The three of us headed down the stairs, through the store, and out the back door. The sun was dropping and the shadows were long. My dad's car was in the vacant lot at the end of the alley. I hugged them both when we reached it and promised I'd be careful. After my mom's parting words, which may have been about a haircut, I stepped away from the car and waved. I stood at the edge of the parking lot, staring at their receding taillights. They'd be back, I knew. I knew they'd be back because I knew I wasn't going to leave.

That meant I had two phone calls to make. I weighed the words I would say to Carson when he answered. If he answered. As much as I didn't feel like getting into a thing with him, I knew there was something that had to be said.

“It's about time you called. Where are you? Do you want me to start dinner?”

“No, Carson—well, you can start dinner, but make it dinner for one. I'm still in San Ladrón.” The other end of the phone was silent for a few seconds. “Carson? Are you there?”

“I'm here. You're there. Let's make this work for us. I called McVic after your meeting. Figured I'd do damage control. Here's what I found out: he wants the store. Badly. He's already lined up a couple of interested businesses, and I'm not talking mom-and-pop shops. Think big. Bull's-eye big. If you give me the go-ahead, I'll cut a deal with him. We can make a decent profit and you can leave your job if that's what you really want. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“I'm trying to meet you halfway here, Poly. I don't get your sudden interest in real estate, but let me help you with this. It's what I do best.”

“That's not what I meant, Carson. I don't want to quit my job. I mean, I do want to quit my job, but only because I want to stay here and run the fabric store.”

“I know the way I left wasn't good. I'm sorry about that—I shouldn't have gotten angry, so if this is about punishing me, putting me in my place and teaching me a lesson about your independence, then I get it. I love you, Poly. I didn't know you could be like this and it's a little bit exciting, I have to admit. But come home, honey, and we'll work this out. I'll be here waiting for you when you're ready for me.”

I took a deep breath. “Carson, I don't think I'm ever going to be ready for you.”

“I don't accept that, Poly. We're too good for each other, like yin and yang. I'm not going to let you go.”

“Good-bye, Carson.” I hung up the phone.

I thumbed through the contacts and called Giovanni's home number. If he was still at To The Nines, he'd be mad. Mad because I hadn't been there to put out fires and maintain productivity. Mad because he'd had to work for a change.

I pressed dial before I lost my nerve. He answered on the seventh ring.

“Poly? Jeez. You picked a heck of a time to have a family crisis. I'm going to need you at the workroom at seven tomorrow morning. The sewers need to see you working hard for me so they work harder for me. Got that?”

“I'm not going to make it to the workroom tomorrow, Giovanni.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm still in San Ladrón.”

“I don't remember approving an extended leave for you.”

“You didn't.”

I heard him grunt, and then cough twice, then clear his throat “This little fabric-store situation better be worth it. That's why you're still there, right? You're going through the inventory, figuring out what's salvageable? Your boyfriend should have told me you were going to be guarding the place instead of working here. Every day you're not here, I'm losing money. I'll give you today, but starting tomorrow I'm going to dock your pay for every hour you're gone. If you're not back by the weekend, you'll be paying me to have a job.”

“I'll save us both the effort, Giovanni. I quit.”

I pulled the phone away from my head and pressed the end call button. I turned around and chucked my already broken phone down the length of the parking lot. It landed a few feet past an ivory gift box that was propped against the back door to the fabric store. A creamy off-white ribbon was tied around the box. Both the box and the ribbon were familiar.

I grew wary. We hadn't locked the back door when we left and now, it seemed, I'd had a visitor. I looked up and down the alley for signs that I wasn't alone. Nothing. I crept past the store and picked up my phone. The glass broke apart into small, pebble-sized pieces. A couple of them fell out and landed in the gravel. The display of the phone was frozen on my home page.

Behind me, I heard a sound. I turned around and saw the toe of a sneaker by the back of the Dumpster. I fisted my keys. As I crept closer, I recognized the sneakers. Stan Smiths.

“You can stop hiding, Vaughn, I know it's you,” I called out.

I stood in the middle of the lot, between the trash receptacle and the back door of the store. Vaughn stepped out from behind the Dumpster and stood to the side of it. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was messier than when I'd talked to him at the donut shop. If I trusted him more, I might have asked if he wanted to talk about what had been going on, but I didn't, so I didn't.

“Before you accuse me of spying on you or threaten to call the police and report me for trespassing, I just wanted to give you that.” He pointed to the ivory box that was propped by the back door. “I've been driving around with it in my car since yesterday. It'll answer at least one of your questions about me.”

I turned away from him and approached the back door. Before I reached it, Vaughn called, “Poly, watch out!”

I felt his arms around me, pulling me backward. I stumbled and stepped on his foot. A heavy bolt of thick decorator fabric fell from the roof and landed on the ivory box, crushing it.