Suede to Rest (4 page)

“Last night.” I thought about it for a second. “I had trash.” I looked around the floor of the register area, then at the back door.

“What were you throwing out?”

“Trash,” I repeated, then continued. “I got takeout from the bar on the corner. A white plastic bag from last night's dinner, and whatever else was in the trash can. Looked like notes and receipts. A couple of scraps of fabric. I tied it all up in a couple of yards of blue suede and threw it away.” I felt the color drain from my face.

Officer Clark went to the back door and pushed it open. I watched his head turn slowly as he scanned the lot. “You find a bag of trash?” he asked someone. I didn't hear an answer, but after a pause he continued. “Can you tell what's inside?”

“A takeout bag from The Broadside. Couple of squeezed-out packets of ketchup. A strip of zebra fur like the one she's wearing,” said another voice.

“Any blue suede?”

The technician pointed to the body of Mr. Pickers. Officer Clark's head nodded and then he let the door shut again and returned to me at the wrap stand. “So you went out the back door to throw something out. What happened next?”

“Nothing. I saw—there was a man watching me. I came back inside and called my boyfriend.”

“Where's he?” He looked past me to the interior of the store.

“He's in Los Angeles.”

“What did you expect him to do?”

Why did everyone think I wanted Carson to do something? “I was unnerved. My car was vandalized yesterday and I wanted to hear a familiar voice.”

“Did you report the vandalism?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. Nothing was stolen and I already know my insurance won't cover it. It seemed like more of an inconvenience. I thought it was smarter to use the time to see if the mechanic could get it fixed so I could drive home.”

“Where's your car now?”

“Charlie's Automotive.”

The officer wrote something in a notebook. “So you called your boyfriend. Then what happened?”

“Nothing. We hung up and I went to bed.”

“You don't remember anything else?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Ms. Monroe, when you threw your trash out, did you hear anything, see anything, smell anything unusual? Do you remember any other movement out there?”

“No.”

“Think about it.”

I started to answer, then stopped, realizing what he was asking of me. I closed my eyes and stood for a second, reimagining the scene as it had unfolded. “I opened the door. I was holding the trash. It was cloudy. I coughed twice, then opened the Dumpster and threw my trash inside.”

“What do you mean, cloudy?”

“I don't know why I said that. Is it overcast?”

The officer headed to the back door and pushed it open again, looking at the sky. When he didn't close the door, I followed him and looked up. The sky was so uniformly blue it looked like a background someone had Photoshopped onto the otherwise disturbing scene. A construction truck, like the one I'd seen yesterday, drove through the alley. As it disappeared past the row of shrubs that marked off the edge of the property line, a cloud of concrete-colored dust filled the air.

“Cloudy like that?” asked Clark.

“Yes,” I said, stifling another cough. “What does it mean?”

“Ms. Monroe, it means if you're thinking of staying here, you better start locking all the doors. And if you're thinking of leaving, I'd advise you to ignore the impulse.”

“Do I have
to stay at the store?” I asked.

“You can stay wherever you want, but we need your contact information in the event of more questions.”

“No—I don't mean that. Do I have to stay here right now? While you're doing this?” I waved my hands in big circles to take in the team processing the crime scene. “Because I'd really rather not.”

“We'll be through here in a couple of hours.”

I gave the Deputy Sheriff my contact info. He paused, as though he expected me to tell him where I was headed, but when I offered nothing else, he clicked the back of his pen and tucked it into the breast pocket of his uniform.

I collected my messenger bag and cell phone from the apartment upstairs where I'd spent the night, and kept my head down as I left out the back door of the fabric store and headed to the alley. Ken caught up with me as I rounded the corner.

“What are you doing, Poly? Why are you still here at the store?”

“My car was vandalized yesterday. I have to stick around until it's fixed, probably later today.”

“You slept in there, didn't you? We have hotels, you know. If you're planning to stay in San Ladrón for any length of time, you might want to find another place to spend your nights.”

“As a matter of fact, Charlie offered me her sofa to crash on, but I turned her down.”

He turned to face the auto shop and thumbed over his shoulder. “
That
Charlie?”

“Yes, that Charlie.”

“I wouldn't get too friendly with her if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“She's trouble. Take it from me.”

“She seemed perfectly fine yesterday when I asked her to fix my car.”

“I'm sure she did. She probably saw
sucker
written across your face. You said your car was vandalized? Don't let her talk you into a bunch of work you don't need.”

“Is that why you don't like her? She overcharged you for service on your Lexus? Serves you right for driving a fancy luxury car.”

“Be careful who you make friends with, Poly. That's my only piece of advice.” He got into his car and drove away before I had a chance to regret insulting his vehicle and passing up the opportunity for a ride.

The annoyance from yesterday, the fear from last night, and the shock of the morning had left me numb. Twenty-four hours ago I was on my way to an appointment with a high school friend who was going to help me navigate the inheritance of the fabric store. The events of the past day were gears to a machine that had been shaken too hard and no longer fit together. I couldn't focus on the bigger decision of selling the store or keeping it. I couldn't process Ken's annoyance. I didn't know what to do so I limited myself to the simplest of decisions. Turn left? Turn Right?

I turned left.

I walked down San Ladrón Avenue, past the gas station on the corner, through the light. Across the street, a few doors down from Charlie's shop, was the visitor's center. Catty-corner from me was a coffee shop named Jitterbug, and directly across the street was a beauty salon and a dentist. This town sure has a lot of salons, I thought. The light turned green and I crossed to the salon but kept walking. I passed a veterinarian, a scrapbook supply store, and a consignment shop before I discovered a small shop called Tea Totalers.

The building was a small white stucco storefront. Faded floral curtains hung inside the windows. A patio of mismatched wrought iron tables and chairs were arranged in front of the door covered with brightly colored seat cushions that didn't quite fit the chairs. A young couple exited the door and the scent of cinnamon exited with them. I waited until they'd reached the sidewalk where I stood before retracing their steps to the door of the shop. I could use a cup of tea, I thought. I could probably use something stronger, but the name of the store suggested I'd have to go somewhere else for that.

A bell chimed as I entered. Customers sat on stools that faced the faded curtains, checking their e-mails on laptops and cell phones. A
Free Wi-Fi
sign hung on the dark wood wall next to a small painting of a rooster. A shelf lined with large glass jars sat below the painting, each jar filled with crushed leaves. Masking tape labels on each jar indicated
Darjeeling
,
Chamomile
,
Earl Grey
, and
Proprietary Blend
. A stout woman in a floral dress that looked as faded as the curtains lifted the lid of the Proprietary Blend and leaned close, inhaling the scent. Even from my position by the door I could smell lemon and ginger wafting from the jar.

“May I help you?” prompted the woman behind the counter. Her hair was pulled back into a soft blond ponytail. An oval-shaped plastic pin with the name
Genevieve
in curly black handwriting pierced the strap of her apron. The outside of the
G
was faded, as if she'd gradually rubbed bits of it off while pinning it on.

I looked around at the other patrons. Everyone else was holding a cup or a mug, so I knew she was talking to me. I stepped forward and scanned the chalkboard menu.

“I'd like a cup of tea, please,” I asked. “I smelled cinnamon from the street but I don't see it on the board.”

She smiled. “You smelled our cinnamon scones, not our tea.”

“Busted. I'd like one of those, then. And a cup of tea, too.” I scanned the chalkboard again. “Chamomile, I guess.”

Her head tipped to the side. “I don't think so.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can read people. At least I can read their tea needs. You're not one of our regulars, so I don't know anything about your life, but you look as if you need something stronger than chamomile. I have just the thing. May I surprise you?”

“Sure,” I said, half wondering if she served spiked mugs of Lipton from the back room.

I paid for my food and inquired about the restroom situation. A few minutes and a very necessary detour later, I returned to the restaurant and found a vacant seat under a poster of a black cat. Whoever had decorated the shop had attempted French countryside with dashes of French kitchen and French provincial thrown into the mix. The effort was not entirely successful but charming nonetheless. It succeeded in distracting me from the murder behind Land of a Thousand Fabrics, and a part of me wanted to ask if they had a vacant apartment upstairs so I could take up residency in pseudo-France.

The woman carried a wicker tray to my table. “This is ginger tea. If you don't like it I'll bring you something else, but I think it goes nicely with the cinnamon scone.”

“Sounds yummy,” I said. I picked up the plate with the scone while she set a small ceramic teapot in the center of the table. Cheerful blue and yellow flowers were painted under the glaze. A small chip in the handle gave evidence that it wasn't brand-new.

“It's nice to have a patron who isn't in a hurry. Are you taking a break from a road trip?” she asked.

“Not exactly.” I wondered how much about my situation I should offer up to her. “I had a meeting in the area. It ended earlier than I thought, so now I have some spare time.”

“Spare time. I don't remember what that feels like. Too many people rush, rush, rush around. We put up the Wi-Fi signs and doubled our business, but I still think the place was nicer when it was just tea, scones, and people reading books.” She turned her head to the side and looked at my messenger bag out of the corner of her eye. “You should tell me now if you have a computer in there so I can stop before I embarrass myself.”

“No computer,” I said. “Just a wallet and a phone and some paperwork.”

She smiled. “I'll let you get to it, then. Stay as long as you like. The morning rush is over and we're going to be slow until lunchtime.”

I poured a mug of tea and added a scoop of honey from a jar that sat on the table. The scone delivered on its promise of cinnamon goodness and I considered ordering another. I pulled the file of paperwork that Ken had given me out of my messenger bag and started reading through it as I ate. I had a hard time concentrating. At first I thought it was the legalese, but the general unrest I felt whenever I thought about selling the store told me that wasn't it.

I leaned back and took a sip of tea. I focused on the white eyelet trim that edged the faded curtain. White eyelet, just like the dress Aunt Millie had made me for my ninth-grade dance.

It was my first grown-up dance. The other girls in my class had taken trips to Los Angeles's shopping centers, returning with garment bags of colorful dresses and matching shoes. The boys talked about renting tuxedos. Aunt Millie asked me to come to the store after school, said she had a surprise for me. When I arrived, she had seven bolts of creamy white eyelet leaning against the side of the cutting station. She'd bought the fabric in Lyon, France, several years earlier. She'd imagined women coming in for custom bridal dresses, but the cost had kept it out of reach of most incomes, especially for a dress that might take upward of ten yards of fabric.

Next to the fabric was a mannequin dressed in an off-the-shoulder cotton dress. It was unlike the styles that were sold in the stores around town. It was from the late thirties. It was moth-eaten in several places, beyond repair. Aunt Millie asked if I wanted to learn how to deconstruct a garment and use it as a pattern for something new. The idea intrigued me. We started the project that day, snipping invisible threads and marking pieces of the collar, bodice, skirt, belt, and interfacing. I spent two hours after school every day for the next two weeks working side by side Aunt Millie on that dress. When it was done, it was perfect.

I wore it to my ninth-grade dance. I'd never forget how it felt to move around the dance floor, the full, multilayered eyelet skirt swishing around my ankles. I'd been taller than most of the boys by that time, and had only been asked to dance twice, but it hadn't mattered. It was the first time I'd helped construct a garment for myself. It was the first time I recognized the transformative power of the luxurious fabrics from my aunt and uncle's store.

I was lost in the memory when a bell sounded over the door to the tea shop.

“Vaughn, so nice to see you this morning,” the woman said.

“Hi, Genevieve. What's good today?”

I looked up from the file to see Vaughn McMichael approach the counter. He hadn't noticed me sitting along the side of the store yet. I closed the folder and stuffed it into my messenger bag. Vaughn's back was to me. I stood up and slung the bag over my right shoulder, wiped my mouth of crumbs, and headed to the door. The strap from the messenger bag caught on the scrollwork of the white metal chair and pulled it two feet forward with me. I jerked back and shrugged out from the strap, wrestling it free before stepping away. When I turned to see if anyone had noticed, both Vaughn and Genevieve were staring.

“I'm sorry for the noise. Thank you for the tea. I just realized I'm late.” I hustled out the front door to the sidewalk, then turned left and walked three more blocks. I found a wooden bench under a blossoming dogwood tree and collapsed.

My phone vibrated with a call from an unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

“Ms. Monroe? This is Officer Clark.”

I exhaled. “Officer Clark,” I repeated.

“We're all done. You can go back to the store whenever you want.”

“Thank you.”

I leaned back against the bench and stared at the clear blue sky. My choices were most unsavory. Return to the fabric store, where a man had been killed, or wander the streets of an unfamiliar town, waiting for news of my car. I chose the lesser of two evils and walked back to the fabric store. Unlike the streets of San Ladrón, I had a connection to the store.

A cardboard carton sat in front of the rusted metal fence. There was a blue bow stuck to the top, the premade kind with the adhesive sticky back that came in a bag of a dozen. When I got closer, I saw an envelope jutting out from under the bow.
Polyester Monroe
, it said.

I opened the envelope and pulled out an invoice from Charlie's Automotive. Written in pen across the center of the page was a message:
Welcome to the neighborhood. Need more time with your car. Let me know if you're short on determination.—C

I unfolded the flaps of the box and exposed four bottles of 10W40, a handful of rags, and a gallon jug of water. Ken could say whatever he wanted, but based on the evidence in front of me, Charlie was A-okay.

Thanks to the discovery of Mr. Pickers's body, I had new motivation for addressing the “how to enter the store from the front” situation. If I were at home, I would have changed into jeans and a T-shirt before tackling the task of oiling the fence, but I wasn't. After tripping three times and sleeping in my clothes, I was less concerned about getting grease on them and more concerned with what I would change into after the project was done. Stains didn't matter to me much; they were the reason I wore black most of the time.

Working for my boss, Giovanni, on any given day I could be repairing sewing machines, scouring fabric distributors, gluing embellishments onto a dress, or delivering a rolling rack of garments to a vendor on Santee Alley. Only on my first couple of days had I made the mistake of dressing like I thought someone in the fashion industry might dress: heels, skinny jeans, a fitted blazer, and a vintage scarf. After the scarf got chewed up in the serger and the low-rise waistband of my jeans left a welt around my midsection, I adopted a simpler uniform: black, plus black, plus black. My short auburn hair and trademark cranberry lipstick provided the color. My low-maintenance routine allowed me to leave the apartment ten minutes after getting out of bed if necessary.

My wardrobe was funereal but functional. Someday I'd show off my glamorous side with one of the vintage 1930s dresses I bought from eBay. I told Carson they were inspiration for the dresses I designed at To The Nines, but there was a reason I only bought the ones that would accentuate my figure. My hips had developed somewhere around puberty but the rest of my figure didn't get the memo. I'd been wearing the same bra size since high school. I'd heard that eighty percent of women were wearing the wrong size bra, but when I assessed what God gave me, I couldn't believe I'd advanced any further into the alphabet.