Crushed Velvet (2 page)

Genevieve was a self-professed Francophile, and her shop
was a testament to her love of the country. I'd secretly been working on a makeover for her store, including curtains, cushions, aprons, placemats, napkins, and tablecloths from linen toile, gingham check, and other French fabrics. I even found a bolt of place-printed cotton canvas, too heavy to use for apparel, with images of roosters on it. I planned to stretch the images over wooden frames and suggest she hang them like art. I couldn't wait to surprise her with the concept, but I wanted to get it all together before it was done, and I wanted to find a way to use the new velvet in the design.

Genevieve was stacking sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper, sealed with stickers that featured the Eiffel tower on them, into a wooden crate.

“I hope you don't mind that I didn't go fancy. I'm low on a couple of supplies.
Jambon
sandwiches with brie and Dijon mustard on croissants, with a side of
pommes frites
. Is that okay?”

“That's not fancy?” I asked with a smile to my voice. “I think it'll do. What time is Phil expected back?”

“Hopefully soon. He left yesterday so he could avoid traffic and be at the suppliers first thing this morning.”

We loaded jugs of iced tea into a separate crate and packed them into the backseat of my Bug. I returned to the store and parked out front so we could unload. Two men lowered the scaffolding, and sign removal ceased while a line formed by Genevieve. I stood behind, assessing the work that was left. In the background, a white van turned the corner. It pulled up to the curb behind the flatbed. The logo on the side of the truck, a white rectangle that covered the area to the left of the passenger side door, said
Special Delivery
. Underneath it said
Have We Got A Package For You! Call Us 24 Hours A Day
.

The driver of the van cut the engine and got out. “Is there a Polyester Monroe around here?” he asked.

“I'm Polyester,” I said.

“Rick Penwald. Have I got a package for you. A bunch of fabrics?”

Genevieve approached the van. “My husband was supposed to pick up her fabrics. Where's Phil?” She looked at the logo on the side of the vehicle. “Where's his van?”

“This is his van. He called this morning, made arrangements for me to come get it and make the delivery for him. He said he had some business in Los Angeles and wasn't coming back right away.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Genevieve said. “Phil's a deliveryman. Why would he hire you to make his delivery?”

“Not sure.” Rick pulled his black mesh hat off his head and wiped his forehead with his palm. “He probably wanted to surprise you with something.”

He held out a clipboard with sheets of paper attached and handed me a pen. “Sign by the
X
s.”

I glanced at the form and then back at Rick. “I already paid for the fabric and I paid Phil for the delivery up front.”

“If I make a delivery, I have to have proof I made the delivery. This is proof of delivery. The form's in triplicate. You sign the top one and take the pink copy in the middle. Press hard.”

The top copy was white, the middle pink, and the bottom yellow. Along the upper left side, a white sticker with the logo, website, and phone number for Special Delivery had been affixed to each copy. Across the center of the page, written in ball-point pen in surprisingly neat printing that tipped slightly backward, it said “12 rolls velvet. Prepaid. Signature for delivery confirmation only.” I zeroed out the totals field and signed my name at the bottom. I tore the pink page from between the white and yellow and set the clipboard inside the open window on the passenger-side seat.

I folded the paper up small enough to fit into my pocket and followed Rick around to the back of the van. He flipped through a ring of keys and tried three in the padlock before
he found one that worked. He took the lock off and hooked it on one of the belt loops of his jeans, and then flung the back doors open.

Sunlight hit twelve large rolls of multicolored velvet, propped along the left hand side of the van. On the right were crates of vegetables, spices, and dry goods.

“Where you want it?” he asked.

“Inside the store,” I said. I unlocked the hinged metal gate in the front of the fabric store and propped the entrance open with a small black vintage sewing machine I used as a doorstop. Behind us, the colorful flannel army of construction workers sat alongside the building watching. Nobody volunteered to help. Rick grabbed a roll of velvet by the end and yanked on it, then positioned it over his shoulder and carried it inside the store. Behind him, Genevieve screamed. I ran to the back of the van and looked inside.

Jutting out from under the bolts of fabric was an arm.

I scrambled inside the van and rolled the fabric out of their stacked lumber formation to the side of the van with the dry goods. The arm belonged to a body that had been crushed under my new inventory.

And the body belonged to Genevieve's husband, Phil.

Phil's eyes were
closed and his face was an odd shade of green. By his head, an empty jug with the Tea Totalers logo rolled into the crate of dry goods. Crumbs and flakes from some sort of pastry were scattered around his outstretched hand next to unused white plastic zip ties. I checked his carotid artery for a pulse but found none. “Somebody call nine-one-one,” I called to the construction crew behind me. The foreman grabbed his phone from his belt and made the call.

Genevieve cried out again. Rick ran out of the store and put his arms around her from the back and held her still. She fought against his embrace until she went limp from exhaustion. He let her go but kept his hands on her upper arms, as if to keep her grounded. He guided her to the bench, where she collapsed.

I remained in the van with the body. Even though I silently urged the paramedics to hurry up and get there, I was sure Phil was already dead. Minutes later I heard the sound of sirens
growing louder until they were deafening. Strong hands landed on my shoulders and pulled me out of the van. Men and women in navy blue jackets and pants took my place. I stood on the sidewalk by the crack where my sign had landed earlier that morning and waited with Genevieve. Neither of us spoke.

Phil's body was taken from the van by gurney. It was covered with a dull blue-gray blanket made of thick felted wool that would have itched if Phil could feel it. His body was moved to the back of the waiting ambulance. Doors were shut and the ambulance drove away. The lack of lights told me one thing. There was no reviving Phil Girard.

I looked back at the bench where Genevieve sat with Rick. Her hands were over her face and her body was slumped down. My heart went out to her. She'd moved to San Ladrón because Phil had family here, and her life was rooted in the life he had already made for himself. Without him, she was an outsider like me. Did whoever killed Phil know they'd created a widow in the process?

A black-and-white police cruiser pulled into the space that the ambulance had vacated. Deputy Sheriff Clark, San Ladrón's resident police officer, who manned the mobile sheriff's unit, spoke to a few of the construction workers who remained behind, eating their sandwiches. The foreman looked at me and said something to the deputy sheriff, who looked at me, too. He said something to the foreman and shook his hand. He turned to Rick. They turned their backs to me and shared a few words. They parted ways, with Rick moving to the side of the scene by the construction crew, and Sheriff Clark walking toward me.

I'd met Deputy Sheriff Clark a few months ago when a murder behind the fabric store raised questions we both wanted to answer. When the truth came out, I accepted that he had been searching for the same information I'd sought. Deputy Sheriff Clark was here to do a job, and I respected that.

“Ms. Monroe,” he said.

“Deputy Sheriff Clark,” I said back.

“What can you tell me about the man in the truck?”

“He's dead, isn't he?” He nodded once. “He's Phil Girard, Genevieve's husband. He went to Los Angeles last night to pick up some fabric for me.”

“What kind of fabric?”

“I ordered twelve rolls of a special weave of velvet, and they arrived on Friday. The warehouse was closed over the weekend. I knew Phil and Genevieve could use the money, so I hired Phil to pick it up for me.”

“What makes you think they could use the money?”

“Genevieve is my friend and she told me,” I said. “It's not common knowledge,” I added.

“Did you pay his expenses?”

“What expenses? I hired him to pick up my fabric and drive back. His van is electric, so there's no gas expense. Besides, I don't think deliverymen expect you to pay for their gas.”

“I'm talking about his overnight stay.”

“No, he must have arranged that himself. Genevieve said he left yesterday so he could pick up dry goods for her first thing this morning, get my fabric, and get back before rush hour.”

“So he was already going to Los Angeles to pick up supplies for her store?”

“I guess so.”

“But you hired him anyway because they needed the money.”

“Sheriff, don't make this into something it isn't. If I were to hire a delivery service to drive to Los Angeles and drive back, it's entirely possible they'd be couriering something for someone else, too. That doesn't change the fact that they're picking up something for me. It's not like sharing a cab.”

“Ms. Monroe, I appreciate your loyalty to your friend.
I'm trying to establish a time frame for where this man has been. Is Mrs. Girard here?”

“Yes, she's by the food,” I said. I turned around, but Genevieve wasn't there. “She was here a second ago. Maybe she went inside to sit down?”

Clark followed me inside the fabric store, past the velvet that Rick had left there before we discovered Phil's body. I was in the process of figuring out how I wanted to lay out the interior for the best possible shopping experience. The walls were lined with white wooden shelving, stacked full of silk, taffeta, satin, moiré, and other luxury fabrics. The center of the store was filled with large bins, about five feet square, piled high with their own colorful assortments: brightly printed jersey, polyester, cotton, gingham, calico. I'd been lugging the fabrics in poor condition to the back door of the store so I could toss them in the Dumpster out back, but so far hadn't been able to bring myself to do it. Who knows, I reasoned, maybe once I peel off the first couple of yards, I'll find that I can do something with what's left.

When I didn't see Genevieve immediately, I called out for her. She didn't answer.

“I don't know where she went.” I said.

“She left?” asked Clark.

I turned around and found him standing by the velvet.

“I said I don't know where she went. Maybe the bathroom. With all due respect, Sheriff, she just saw her husband's dead body. She probably didn't take it very well.”

“Is this the fabric from Los Angeles?” he asked. He used the end of a pen to tap it.

“Yes.”

“You said twelve bolts. Where are the rest?”

“The others are probably still in the van out front. As soon as I saw the arm jutting out from under the bolts, we stopped unloading.”

Clark poked his head out the front door and beckoned someone over. “Tag this fabric and take it to the unit.”

“Sheriff—”

“Ms. Monroe, you know how this works. Until you hear otherwise, this fabric is evidence. Did anything else come out from inside the truck?”

“No.”

“If you hear from Mrs. Girard before I do, tell her to call me.” He headed outside to the truck and I followed him. He walked to the back doors and used his iPhone to snap pictures of the interior. I turned off the sound on my phone and did the same. He turned around, and, too late, I shoved my phone into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

“Ms. Monroe, what are you doing?”

I went with the truth. “I'm taking pictures of my fabric. I already paid for it. I know you have to take it, but I want proof of what I'm owed.”

He studied me for a moment, then, as if satisfied with my answer, nodded. “In light of circumstances, I'm going to have to ask you to reschedule the balance of your work on the exterior of the store.”

“But it's been rescheduled twice already!”

“That isn't a request.”

“Fine.”

I found the foreman and explained the situation. He communicated to his crew, who finished their sandwiches and then packed up their tools. Sheriff Clark spoke to Rick by the driver's side of the van. I tried to listen in to their conversation, but the sound of the construction crew loading up their truck with cones and hard hats drowned them out. Rick climbed into the van and pulled it away from the curb.

“Where's he taking the van?” I asked Clark.

“The police station. Like I said about your fabric, until we figure out what happened here, it's evidence.”

The men in flannel piled into the back of the flatbed and the foreman drove it away, leaving me alone with the store, the scaffolding, and a mess of parchment paper and empty tea containers. Clark's men carried the remaining roll of velvet out of the store. After I cleaned up the street, I went inside. I locked the front door behind me and climbed the stairs to the small Victorian apartment over the store.

Home.

I was met at the door by Pins, a small gray striped kitten I'd adopted after he and his brother were found in the Dumpster behind my store. He was about six months old and had grown out of his kitten appearance and into that of a frisky kitty. He maintained his playfulness, much like Needles, his orange tabby brother. I scooped Pins up, kissed him on his head, and carried him to the kitchen. He wriggled out of my arms and jumped onto the counter, onto a chair, and down onto the floor, where he buried his nose in his bowl. Needles scampered into the kitchen and joined him.

I fished my phone out of my pocket and called Genevieve. “It's Poly.” I paused for a second and thought about what kind of a message to leave. “Call me back as soon as you can.”

I poured a cold glass of lemonade and sank into a chair by the table. Phil's body in the back of the van sickened me to the point that I couldn't think about anything else. This wasn't the first time I'd experienced a murder since coming to San Ladrón. I'd learned how the small town treated its residents and its outsiders. It was one of the reasons Genevieve had become friendly to me in the first place.

I'd met Phil Girard on a few occasions, but I'd never gotten to know him other than through Genevieve. I had gotten the feeling that Genevieve would have been happier to have him with her in San Ladrón than constantly on the road. The rare times I'd seen him at her tea shop, he'd been less friendly than tolerant. I'd tried to overcompensate with
my own level of friendliness, but we'd never warmed to each other. Truth was, I didn't think he deserved Genevieve.

Phil had been Genevieve's ticket to acceptance in local circles. So what did that mean for her now? Was she enough of a part of San Ladrón's community to be accepted on her own, or was she an outsider like me?

I also knew her financial troubles were worse than she'd let on, and now—well, I didn't know what would happen now. I wanted to tell her that I would help her however I could. Friends need friends in hard times, I knew that. It was harder to go through something like this alone than with people to lean on. I had been lucky. Not only had I found a friend in Genevieve, but I had my parents to lean on, too.

I thought about what my dad had said when I first told him I wanted to reopen the store.
Land of a Thousand Fabrics is a thing of the past. The world has changed since the store's heyday. It won't ever be the same.
I knew he was right, but that didn't mean I couldn't make it something new.

In the weeks after inheriting the store, I wrote up a business plan, applied for a loan, and moved into the apartment upstairs. My parents gave up their nights and weekends and helped me get the interior into shape. I wasn't sure, but I suspected they were proud of my determination. Our hard work paid off, and the store was ready to open earlier than I'd planned. I thanked them with tickets for a cruise up the California coast. I assured them I could handle any last-minute emergencies that popped up. If only I'd known.

I spent the next couple of hours cleaning up the apartment. I didn't think of myself as a sloppy person, but living alone in my aunt Millie and uncle Marius's apartment, as opposed to living with my ex-boyfriend Carson in Los Angeles, gave me the freedom to toss my blazer on the sofa, leave my shoes in the living room, and only do the dishes once every couple of days. Tidying up turned into full-on cleaning. By the time the kitchen floor was scrubbed and all of the dark cherrywood
trim had been Murphy-oiled, I knew I wasn't just keeping up with neglected cleaning. I was burning off nervous energy.

I went downstairs. I'd been spending a lot of time getting the store ready to open, sorting through the inventory that I had, tagging some things with discount prices and acquiring others from my contacts in Los Angeles.

Inside the door was a wall of empty shelving. I'd taped a sign there a month ago.
Polyester Velvet
, it said. I wanted it to be the first thing people saw when they came into the store. But thinking about the velvet brought me back to thinking about Genevieve's husband.

I'd seen his body in the back of the truck. He'd been buried under a dozen bolts of fabric. What did that mean? You couldn't get a body under twelve bolts of velvet unless you started with the body first. That told me whoever had put the fabric in the truck had purposely stacked it on top of Phil. And that meant that person had something to do with Phil's murder.

Was he killed over the business opportunity that Rick Penwald had mentioned? Or did his murder have something to do with the food he picked up for Genevieve? Was my fabric a convenient way to hide the body, or had someone known what he'd be couriering? And why had Phil hired another deliveryman to make the delivery to San Ladrón? He could have called Genevieve and told her if he was running late or if something had come up. Why had it been such a secret?

I picked up the phone and called Sheriff Clark. When he answered, I identified myself.

“Sheriff, does the medical examiner know if Phil was dead before the fabric was put on top of him?”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Monroe; that information is part of my investigation.”

“It's just that, I was thinking, isn't there a thing called a death mask? Can't you test the fabric to see if someone was suffocated with it?”

“What are you getting at?”

“If you test my velvet, you should be able to determine if it was used to suffocate Phil Girard or if he was dead before the fabric was stacked on top of him.”