Silk Stalkings

“Diane Vallere has stitched up an engaging new series with an intelligent, resourceful heroine in Polyester Monroe, plus a great supporting cast and a clever plot. Vallere's knowledge of the fashion business adds an extra layer of authenticity.
Suede to Rest
is a strong addition to the cozy mystery genre.”

—Sofie Kelly,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Magical Cats Mysteries

“Toile, taffeta, and trouble! . . . Diane Vallere skillfully blends two mysteries in this smart and engaging tale that will keep you guessing to the very end.”

—Krista Davis,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries

“Vallere weaves a tapestry of finely knit characters, luxurious fabrics, and . . . murder.”

—Janet Bolin, national bestselling author of the Threadville Mysteries

“Diane Vallere has fashioned a terrific mystery, rich with detail and texture. Polyester Monroe is a sassy protagonist who will win your hearts with her seamless style and breezy wit. The first in the series promises readers hours of deftly woven whodunit enjoyment.”

—Daryl Wood Gerber, Agatha Award–winning author of the national bestselling Cookbook Nook Mysteries

“I highly recommend
Crushed Velvet
as well as the Material Witness Mystery series. I especially recommend it to those who like fabric stores, kittens, a touch of romance, and endless possibilities. With delightfully engaging characters and riveting mystery, it is a series I am looking to see more of!”

—Open Book Society

Material Witness Mysteries

SUEDE TO REST

CRUSHED VELVET

SILK STALKINGS

Costume Shop Mysteries

A DISGUISE TO DIE FOR

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

SILK STALKINGS

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Diane Vallere.

Excerpt from
A Disguise to Die For
by Diane Vallere copyright © 2016 by Diane Vallere.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 9780698136106

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2016

Cover illustration by Brandon Dorman.

Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to the Hollywood
Orchard.

Thank you to my mom, Mary Vallere, for sewing lessons, trips to Levine's, and a handed-down passion for fabric. You're at the heart of every Material Witness book. Special thanks to Richard Goodman for feedback, both positive and negative, and to Kendel Lynn, the best friend I could wish for. Thank you to my agent, Jessica Faust; editor, Katherine Pelz; and the team at Penguin Random House for turning my manuscript into a book (though I stand by my suggestion to call this one
Satin Worship
). And to Josh Hickman, who sits silently by while I try to get it all done but instinctively knows when to break out that magic phrase: “Would it help if we had pizza
tonight?”

The clock would
strike midnight in two minutes. This was important for a few reasons, not the least of which was that the crowd of couples who filled the interior and exterior grounds of Tea Totalers, my friend Genevieve Girard's tea-shop-turned-Parisian-nightclub, would filter down the sidewalk of Bonita Avenue and make their way toward the Waverly House for their annual stroll through the historic mansion's gardens.

The other reason midnight was important was that the coordinators of tonight's event had synced every clock in our small town of San Ladrón down to the second. They were set to chime, ring, buzz, and otherwise announce the arrival of twelve
A.M.
It was one thing to imagine the impact of that type of alarm coordination, but it might be quite another to experience it. If the several hundred guests who sipped champagne and nibbled at petit fours and hors d'oeuvres at Tea Totalers had followed suit of the city and set their
cell phones to ring, too, we could be looking at the kind of noise level that might launch missiles over Cuba.

Genevieve approached me with a flute of champagne. “Poly, things turned out better than I had hoped! We've gone through almost seventeen pounds of Brie, and the crusty French bread disappears as fast as it comes out of the oven. I've served almost as much of my special blend of tea as I have champagne. And people are asking if I'll cater their parties. People who have lived in San Ladrón their whole lives are telling me they wish they'd come here earlier. This idea was genius. It's really putting me on the map.” She handed me a glass of champagne and clinked it with hers. “It's putting you on the map, too,” she added.

Genevieve had opened Tea Totalers a few years ago, with the help of her French husband. He was no longer in the picture, thanks to seedy business dealings with people who thought murder was an appropriate solution to a business dispute. Genevieve had been the number one suspect in her husband's murder, and I'd been instrumental in helping clear her name. In return, she'd been instrumental in helping me open Material Girl, the fabric shop I inherited from my great-uncle several months ago. Tonight we were both reaping the benefits of hard work and creative marketing.

Genevieve spun around her café's interior with her arms out. The champagne in her flute spilled from the glass, but she didn't seem to notice or care. “Can you believe it? It really does feel like we're in Paris at midnight.”

I followed her gaze around the newly made-over café. I'd gotten the idea to use French fabrics from my shop to build on the theme Genevieve had wanted for the interior. Long toile curtains framed out sheer panels of voile that had almost gone into the Dumpster behind my fabric shop thanks to a wicked case of mildew, but an intensive treatment with vinegar and fresh air had cleared the fabric of its musty scent
and brought it back to life. The chairs had been re-covered in gingham, provencal, linen, and even more toile, and napkins, place mats, and serving trays had been trimmed with the same fabrics. That was by day.

But tonight, for the Midnight in Paris party, I'd stepped things up a notch. Deep midnight-blue velvet covered the existing butter-yellow walls. I used a heat-set technique to create a fleur-de-lis pattern on the velvet that mirrored the pattern woven into the voile sheers, and I'd covered the chairs in luxurious velvet seat covers tied back with thick ivory grosgrain ribbon. Small tea light candles sat in clear glass votives on windowsills, tabletops, and counters inside the café.

The organizers of the city's part of the event—decorating the street between Tea Totalers and the Waverly House—had hung strands of tiny white twinkling lights around the exterior of the buildings and in an arch over the street, creating a blanket of stars under which people danced to the jazz quartet on the corner. The local high school had crafted a scale model of the Eiffel Tower that sat in the middle of the intersection of Bonita and San Ladrón Avenue. The roads had been closed for the night, so people could spill out into the street and enjoy the transformation of our small town.

“Are you heading over to the Waverly House when the bells chime? I bet Vaughn would love to see you in that dress,” Genevieve asked.

I blushed. Since inheriting the fabric store and moving to San Ladrón, I'd spent enough time with Vaughn McMichael to get past the unfortunate first impression where I fell through a window and knocked him to the ground. We'd dined together, worked side by side, and even gone on a date. We'd also accused each other of having ulterior motives, resulting in alienation. And by
we
, I mean
me
, but I'd rather not get into that right now.

“I don't want to talk about Vaughn,” I said.

“Didn't he have that dress made for you?” Genevieve asked pointedly.

“I don't want to talk about that, either,” I said to her. Much like the interior of Genevieve's shop, I'd stepped up my own appearance for the night. I usually wore black all the time, but I'd traded it for a shimmering gold gown with a sweetheart neckline, embellished on the shoulders with spirals of matte gold and silver sequins. The gown was fitted around my waist and hips and cascaded to the floor in a pool of fabric.

“Poly, you had just as much to do with the garden stroll at the Waverly House as you did here at Tea Totalers,” Genevieve said. “You have to go.”

I didn't know how to explain to Genevieve that I was nervous about showing up at the Waverly House for more reasons than I could count.

The Waverly House was the most significant historical building in the town of San Ladrón. A Victorian mansion turned museum, it had become a certified landmark years back and now boasted a restaurant, a monthly murder mystery party, and the most exquisite gardens in the town. Adelaide Brooks, the most energetic and elegant seventy-year-old I'd ever met, managed the building and the day-to-day business.

The annual party had been the landmark's major fund-raiser for years, and the money brought in from this singular party determined their operating budget for the following year. People flocked to San Ladrón for the night to consider the Waverly House for weddings and parties. All would have been fine, except that this year, the most powerful man in San Ladrón had raised questions about zoning and put a scare into the suppliers who donated food and drink. That halted any planning that could take place. It didn't help matters that the most powerful man in San Ladrón was Adelaide's ex-husband.

Or that he was Vaughn McMichael's father.

Only a few people knew that I'd been the one to come up with the idea of changing the location of the annual garden party to Genevieve's newly reopened shop. Food and drink distributors had been happy to make their regular donations, and Genevieve had been thrilled at the opportunity. After applying for her liquor license (ironic in a shop called Tea Totalers), she had been pleasantly surprised by the outpouring of support from suppliers who donated food and drink for the evening, and local restaurants who loaned out employees to help.

Ticket sales for the Midnight in Paris cocktail party still benefited the Waverly House, as did separate ticket sales to gain entrance to the exquisite gardens behind the Victorian manse at midnight. Adelaide had sidestepped the zoning regulations by leaving the restaurant and bar open for paying customers. Landscapers had been hard at work on the grounds surrounding the landmark, and whatever it was that they were planning to debut had been kept a well-guarded secret. All Adelaide would say was, “It's more magnificent than I ever could have expected.” The perceived success of the night would be determined to be true or false tomorrow when she would tally the money pulled in by selling tickets and subtract out any unforeseen expenses. I didn't want credit for the idea. I wanted everyone to get what they wanted—or needed, in the case of the Waverly House—from the event.

Bong-Bong-Bong-Ding-Bong-Chime-Buzz-Clang-Ring-Bong

Midnight arrived, announced by a cacophony of sounds that originated from a distance of several miles. The chimes, bongs, dings, and dongs were slightly off from each other, resulting in a white noise that mixed with the various cell phone alarms that went off from the pockets of people around us. A couple of people put hands over their ears, and a few kissed like it was New Year's Eve. Conversation became impossible.

The drummer struck up a rhythm on the high hat, and the man playing the upright bass plucked out a note for each strike of the clock. Cheers erupted from the crowd.

When the noise died down, I heard a voice behind me. “Let me guess. That's your cue to turn into a pumpkin?” asked Charlie Brooks. Charlie was the resident tough girl and my closest friend in town. As a full-time mechanic with her own auto shop, Charlie favored work jeans, chambray shirts, and rock concert T-shirts, but tonight she wore a man's tuxedo over a white fitted T-shirt. The jacket was boxy, but the T-shirt hugged her fit body. The pants sat low on her hips and broke over red Chuck Taylors. “I heard you tell Frenchy you weren't going to the Waverly house. Good call. Wanna grab a beer at The Broadside?”

“The Broadside's closed. Duke and his bartenders are working for Genevieve tonight. Didn't you notice?”

“I just got here. This kind of thing isn't my scene.”

“Which part don't you like? The free food or the free booze or the free ambiance?”

“The raising-money-for-rich-people part.”

Rich people who gave her up for adoption, I thought to myself, but I didn't say out loud. Not many people knew Charlie was related to the wealthy McMichael family, and she wanted to keep it that way. I didn't judge her for her animosity toward Vic McMichael and Adelaide Brooks, but I wondered if there would be a day when she regretted not forging a relationship with her birth parents.

This wasn't the first time I'd thwarted a plan of Mr. McMichael's. When I first inherited my family's fabric store, he tried to buy it out from under me. We'd gone toe-to-toe a couple of times since then. My ex-boyfriend, Carson Cole, was a financial analyst in Los Angeles and maintained a fantasy about becoming Mr. McMichael's protégé, even after our breakup. When the businessman had threatened Genevieve's tea shop, I'd called Carson to step in and save
the day. Considering Vaughn was on his father's payroll, he'd been more than a little hurt that I hadn't asked him for help. Yet another reason I wanted to keep a low profile tonight.

“You're a liar,” I said.

She raised her pierced eyebrow.

“Not a lot of people get away with calling me names.”

“If you didn't care about this thing, you wouldn't have bothered to dress up.”

“I'm meeting up with someone I haven't seen for a while. Thought I'd make an effort. Besides, you're one to talk,” she said, scanning my ensemble from top to bottom.

Again with the dress.

“So I'm not wearing black for one night. It's not like it's a religion or anything.”

She held her hands up and backed away. “It's a nice dress. You wouldn't be hoping to run into anybody while wearing it, would you?”

Before I could answer, Genevieve reappeared. “Hi, Charlie, are you coming to the Waverly House? I want to go and Poly won't come with me.”

Charlie crossed the interior of Tea Totalers and looked out the front door. People filled the street, laughing and carrying on. A few policemen stood on the corners, trying to remain serious but failing miserably. One lady walked up to the town's sheriff, took his hand, and twirled like a ballerina. He let go of her hand and adjusted his hat. Charlie went inside and we followed her. A few minutes later, the front door opened and Sheriff Clark walked in.

“Is this a closed party or can anybody join?” he asked.

“Well, hello there, Sheriff Clark,” sang Genevieve, who might have possibly had too much champagne. She must have been thinking the same thing, because she handed her glass to him. “Help yourself to champagne. I can't stand it anymore. I want to go see the gardens!” She hiked her dress
up so the hem wouldn't drag and ran out the front door. “Poly, lock up when you leave?”

“Sure,” I said.

Clark took the proffered glass and drank half. He lowered the glass and scanned me. “Nice dress,” he said. “You going to waste it by staying here in hiding?”

“You heard Genevieve, she asked me to lock up.”

“It takes about four seconds to lock a door.” He looked at Charlie.

“Yo, Frenchy, wait up,” Charlie called. She ran past Sheriff Clark without an acknowledgment and went outside.

I looked at Clark and shrugged. He shook his head and walked out front. I found Genevieve's keys and grabbed my beaded handbag from behind the counter. Sheriff Clark waited while I locked up the doors, and I said good-bye before trailing after Charlie and Genevieve.

Sheriff Clark and Charlie had had a secret romance that fizzled over a miscommunication. It was probably just as well that they steered clear of each other. When I pictured them being a couple, I was reminded of what happened to the gingham dog and the calico cat.

Genevieve, Charlie, and I were among the last of the people to reach the Waverly House. Volunteers from the historical society stood in front of a ten-foot-tall version of the Arc de Triomphe, fabricated for the evening by the employees of Get Hammered, the local hardware store, out of chicken wire. Green ivy and colorful flowers had been threaded through the wire. Couples walked under the arch to the luscious lawns behind the Waverly House, pointing at the gazebo, the white iron benches, and the brick pavers that had been carved with the names of each person who had made a donation when the building was in need of repair. They were trying on the location with their eyes, wondering how it would feel to celebrate a major event in the middle of all of this Victorian majesty.

“Excuse me,” said a woman to my left. “Are you Polyester Monroe? Of the fabric shop on Bonita?”