Suede to Rest (5 page)

I looked up and down the street. A family of four walked toward me but entered the antiques store to my left. Cars were scattered along the street, but I didn't see a lot of people walking around. A gray-haired man in a wheelchair sat on the corner of the sidewalk across the street. If I was going to do this, then I was going to accept that people would notice. I turned back to the gate, dumped a couple glugs of motor oil onto a faded yellow terry-cloth rag, and set to work on the hinges. It was slow going until I developed a system.

After I oiled every hinge on the gate I gave it a tug. The fence cried out but one joint buckled, then two. I threw more of my weight into the project and placed a foot for leverage along the molding by the front door. It wasn't easy, but after an hour's worth of effort, the hinges gave way and the gate retracted.

It was with a sense of accomplishment and anticipation that I pulled the creaky gate open. I felt a surprising wave of emotion. I knew what I'd find inside—after all, I'd spent the night in the store—but this door hadn't been opened in a long time. Being the one to change that felt empowering. Not an investor or a new tenant but me: a Monroe.

I pushed the key into the lock of the front door and turned it, then pulled the door toward me. Beams of sunshine poured through the doorway, highlighting dust particles that floated through the air. I propped the door open with an empty jug of motor oil and went inside.

At the cutting station I found a broom and dustpan. Starting at the front corner by colorful bolts of cotton, I swept, working at a backward and diagonal pattern the way Aunt Millie had taught me to sweep when I helped out after school and on weekends. Sweat dampened my hairline, creating curly tendrils by the nape of my neck. I was due for a trim, but this wasn't the time to worry about my hair. I set the broom down and pulled a roll of black cotton off the shelf, preparing to tear off enough to tie over my head. At the last minute I changed my mind, going with a length of silver silk instead.

Every four feet or so the dustpan resembled a small furry animal. After three trips to the register to empty the dustpan in the trash, I brought the plastic trash bin with me and made it part of my portable cleaning unit. I found a stash of plastic bags under the register and started filling and lining them against the wall by the back door.

It took the better part of three hours to sweep the floor. I was more thorough because I knew quitting, and emptying the trash, involved me going out back and looking at the Dumpster. I was afraid to stop for food or for break, for fear my motivation would dwindle. I didn't know why cleaning the store was so important to me. If I sold it off, no doubt someone else would come in after I left, gut the place, and start from scratch. The only reason it made sense to clean the store was if I intended to open it for business, and it seemed like too much of a stretch to consider that. My life was in Los Angeles, wrapped up with my job at To The Nines, my boyfriend, Carson, and my boss, Giovanni. My car wouldn't be finished for at least another day, and the deputy sheriff had told me not to leave town yet. Cleaning the store gave me something to do. So for now, I was at a standstill in San Ladrón. I found myself thinking there were worse places to be.

I looked around the store at the inventory. Along the right-hand wall were bolts of once-bright cottons. Paisley, gingham, floral, and solids rested on tipped shelves, sorted by color. A film of dust sat on top of them, but I knew that dust sat only on the top layer of the fabric, and once I cut off half a yard of each, I'd expose an assortment that would make a quilter feel like a kid in a candy store.

Beyond the cottons were tables stacked high with longer bolts of decorator fabric. Each table had a sign in the middle.
France
,
Spain
,
Italy
,
England
,
Germany.
Since the building had been closed tight, no water or humidity had snuck in. A surprising number of the fabrics were still in good condition, though some were coated with similar layers of dust.

I could easily sell Giovanni the bolts of satin, silk, and taffeta. These would be a definite improvement to anything he could get from our regular suppliers. I could sketch out a collection that our team of sewers would produce quickly, that would bring in ten times what he normally charged for a dress. This could be it, I thought. This could be the key to me going from head designer of pageant dresses to something more suited to a graduate from FIDM.

I was running out of steam and needed a break. I gave myself a pep talk: Carry the trash out back, throw it out, and then you're done. I grabbed the tops of several bags of trash and leaned against the back door, pushing it open with my hip. I tossed the bags over the edge of the large metal box, and then screamed when I looked inside.

Vaughn McMichael was inside my Dumpster, rooting through my trash.

“Is this part
of the ‘run Poly out of town' plan? First some local yahoos vandalize my car, then somebody calls the cops on me, and now dig through my trash looking for dirt?” I said.

“I'm not looking for dirt on you,” he said.

“Then do you want to tell me what you're doing in the middle of my Dumpster?”

He bent down, disappearing from view. I approached the edge and set the trash down on the outside before looking in. He stood up, cradling two small kittens to either side of his chest.

“How did you know they were there?” I asked.

“I heard something coming from the trash. I have to be honest—considering what happened here this morning, I wasn't sure what I would find.”

“You must have been pretty close to hear them,” I said. “Are you sure you weren't here for another reason?”

“Like what?”

“Like looking for evidence from this morning?”

“That's not my job.”

“But rescuing kittens is?”

“Today it is.” Vaughn dropped his head and looked at the kittens in his hands. I couldn't tell if he was trying to think of an explanation or a cover story.

“Who would put two sweet helpless kittens in the Dumpster? In my Dumpster?” I looked to the left and the right of the parking lot at the alleyways that framed out the block. I don't know what I was looking for, but I saw nothing suspicious. “What about the police? They were here a couple of hours ago. They would have looked in there while they were—while they did their thing.”

“I don't know how they got here, but they might not have made it through the night.”

“What if you hadn't come along? The trash men would have taken them to—” I stopped, sickened by the idea. “And even if someone found them, they'd be in with my trash. People would assume I'd put helpless little kittens in my trash.” My voice shook with emotion.

“Hey, it's okay. They're okay now,” Vaughn said. The kittens nestled against his William and Mary sweatshirt. The gray one tried to twist around and stick his head under Vaughn's armpit. He was only mildly successful.

“I feel inadequately prepared for the situation. Care to help me out?”

“Sure.” I scooped the gray kitten out of Vaughn's hand and cuddled it to my chest, then took the orange one in my other hand. I wasn't exactly well endowed, but they managed to nestle together over the front center hook on my bra. I stole a quick look at Vaughn, who was staring at them. My face grew hot and I shrugged my shoulders forward and readjusted my arms to block Vaughn's view of my chest.

“They're cold,” he said.

“You have a lot of nerve pointing out something like that!”

“I'm talking about the kittens. What do you think I'm talking about?”

“My—the kittens.” Even without looking at them I could feel them shivering against me. “Can you get the door? I'm pretty sure I can give them a decent temporary home.”

Vaughn jogged past me and held the door open while I walked in. I set the kittens on the wrap stand and found the box that had held the motor oil, now empty. I lined it with several cuttings of faux fur. The zebra was getting low, so I cut a few strips of tiger fur as well, creating a patchwork jungle. I added a few more wads of fur—a leopard print and a long gorilla fur to round things out—and carried the box to the wrap stand. Vaughn set the kittens into the box where they cozied up to each other. I stroked the fur on top of each of them. They closed their eyes and started to purr very softly. We remained quiet, as if speaking would interrupt their peace.

“You've been cleaning,” Vaughn said, scanning the store's interior.

I nodded. I wasn't sure what he would make of my efforts, and I wasn't sure I could explain my motivation to do so even if he asked.

“Looks good. I see you got the gate open.”

I nodded again.

“How about the back room? Have you been back in there yet?”

“You mean since you pulled me through the window? No.”

“It's been a long time since anybody's been back there. A lot of people think there's something valuable hidden in that room.”

“What?”

“Your aunt Millie's bracelet.”

I'd forgotten about the rumors that the reason for the robbery that resulted in my aunt's murder was her gold charm bracelet. “I always assumed the robbers took it.”

“They claim they didn't.”

“And you believe them? They're crooks who killed my great-aunt. I don't believe anything they said.”

“There were still a lot of unanswered questions even after the police closed the case. We'll probably never know the truth.”

“The truth is that a couple of robbers broke into the store to steal whatever was in the register. They found Aunt Millie, killed her, stole the bracelet and money, and left. They probably fenced the bracelet before they got caught, or had it melted down into an unrecognizable lump of gold,” I said.

“The robbers have always maintained they didn't kill your great-aunt. They said they were hired to rob the place and were guaranteed that it would be empty. The police never found the bracelet and never recovered the missing money.”

“Why do you know so much about this?” I asked.

“Why don't you?” he answered back.

“It was my high school graduation. My family made a big deal about it because I'd gotten confirmation of a full scholarship to the fashion institute. Uncle Marius and Aunt Millie were supposed to come later that night after the store closed, but they never made it.” I was silent for a moment, staring at the kittens instead of looking at Vaughn. I'd never told anybody about that night, about how my family had kept the truth from me because they thought they were protecting me, and how sick I'd felt when I learned what had happened. I hadn't been back to the store since then.

“When did you find out?”

“Later. Nobody wanted to talk about it. Uncle Marius stopped sending me birthday presents, and he withdrew from the family. I think it was easier for everyone to try to pretend it didn't happen, but I couldn't.” I looked away from Vaughn, surprised and embarrassed that I'd told him so much. I felt him watching me and focused my attention on the kittens, running my open palm over the orange one's tiny head. He raised his head and bumped his little pink nose into my thumb.

“It must have been hard for you, Poly.” Vaughn's voice softened when he said my name. His eyes were wide, framed by lashes that were wasted on a guy. His hair had gotten mussed up when he was in the Dumpster and now flopped over his forehead. I had the urge to push it away from his eyes, but felt it was too intimate of a gesture to act on.

“I think it was harder for my family. This huge tragedy happened and nobody grieved properly because they were trying to protect me so I could have a happy graduation. But I didn't care about the graduation. Ten years went by and, because my uncle kept the store locked up and cut himself off from the rest of the family, I never had a chance to come back to the store, to make peace with Aunt Millie being gone. Nobody would talk about it. I wanted to know the truth, and now I'll never know, aside from a decade of rumors.”

“I might be able to help with that.”

“How?”

He checked his watch. “It's later than I thought and I have to be somewhere. I know this is last-minute, but can I take you to dinner tonight? I'd like to keep talking about this.”

His invitation blindsided me. “I haven't thought far enough ahead to know where I'll be tonight.”

“Then let me decide that for you. You'll be at the Waverly House at, say, seven thirty? I'll meet you out front.”

He got halfway out the door before I called out to him. “Vaughn, you didn't live here when the murder happened. If you had, I would have known you. So who told you? How do you know so much about that night?”

He looked at the ground and then at me. “Mr. Pickers told me.”

“Mr. Pickers told
you about my great-aunt's murder? Why were you talking to him about my family? What did he know about it?” I asked.

“Meet me tonight. We've got a lot to talk about.” Vaughn turned away from me and let himself out the back door. I wanted to run after him and ask more questions, but I didn't. His invitation to dinner was unexpected, and a part of me felt guilty accepting it while I had a steady boyfriend waiting for me back in Los Angeles. The more I thought about it, the more I questioned his presence at my Dumpster hours after the police had finished processing the crime scene. Had he really heard the barely audible mews of a pair of helpless kittens, or was he responsible for them being there in the first place? Like every other question from that morning, I had no answers. And I couldn't help but confront the other side of the question, too. If he
was
telling the truth, if he knew something that connected Mr. Pickers to the fabric store, then I didn't want to pass up the opportunity.

I said good-bye to the two sleeping kittens and went out the front door, locking it behind me. I didn't bother with the gate. Too much work had gone into removing it and, at least for the next twenty-four hours, it would stay retracted. I looked at the curb where I'd parked my car when I first arrived in San Ladrón. It wasn't there. I crossed the street and went to Charlie's Automotive. The same Van Halen CD was playing in the background. My VW was jacked up, but no feet stuck out from under the car.

“Hello?” I called out. “Charlie? Are you here?”

“Keep your pants on, I'll be right out,” said a voice from behind a door that blended in with the wall. A few seconds later a toilet flushed, water ran, and the door opened.

“I see you made good use of my present,” she said as she dried her hands on a wad of brown paper towels. “I like that about you. You don't just sit around talking about doing something. You dig in and do it.”

“I've been busy.” I glanced at my reflection, cringing when I saw the silver silk over my head and the grease stains on my face.

“I noticed. What was up with the three-ring circus this morning?”

“You don't know?”

“I know for the first time in years people are saying ‘trouble' and pointing at you instead of saying it about me. What gives? Did you turn up evidence in that unsolved murder?”

A pulse of panic shot through my chest at the thought of my aunt, alone in the store the night it had been robbed and she'd been killed. “No. A man was found murdered behind the store.”

“Who found him?”

“I did.”

“Seems the circus was in place before you answered the door.”

She'd been watching the store. Why? Curiosity? Or was there more to it?

“There was a mix-up. Why did you say my aunt's murder was unsolved? The robbers went to jail.”

“They say they didn't do it. That doesn't bother you?”

“That they lied? Criminals lie all the time. No, it doesn't bother me.”

“Even if it means the person responsible is still out there?”

I looked down at the tools that were scattered on the floor of her shop. She was giving me an opportunity to talk about my aunt's murder, just like Vaughn. The story had been kept silent in my family despite my desire to know the details. But what if? What if she and Vaughn were right, that the person responsible was still free?

And what if the murder behind the store this morning had something to do with it?

“You're here for your car, right?” Charlie said, pulling me from my thoughts. “I have good news and bad news. Bad news first. You need a new ignition switch. It's not that easy to find an ignition switch for an eighty-three VW Bug. I ordered the part, but best-case scenario, I won't have it until tomorrow, and I'm not a best-case scenario kind of person. You want to hear the good news?”

“Sure.”

“I'm going to charge you enough that I can afford to buy you lunch.” She smiled. Her thick hair was pulled back into a low ponytail today and hung down well past her shoulder blades. When she smiled, she looked pretty, in an “I could beat you up if I wanted” kind of way. I wondered if that got her many dates.

“Tell you what. I'll take a rain check on lunch if I can get a one-time use of your shower.”

“I didn't want to say anything, but you look like you just completed an oil-change marathon.” She sniffed the air. “I'm immune to the scent of 10W40, but I find it impressive that you haven't added any other scents.”

“Let's just say my twenty-four-hour deodorant is working overtime. Where can I get a couple of personal items?”

“Drugstore just past the intersection.”

“How about clothes?”

“I think you're asking the wrong questions.”

“Meaning what?”

“You got a building full of fabric and you're asking where to get clothes? I'd think you'd be asking where to get a sewing machine.”

“This is temporary. It's not like I'm setting up camp here.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the loud rumbling of a car out front. Ken climbed out of his black Lexus. By the sounds of it, he was in need of Charlie's services at least as much as I was. I was surprised to see him, considering his earlier warning about her.

“I need to talk to you. Alone.”

I looked at Charlie. She took a step backward and held her hands up. “He's talking to you. I think he's in denial about his muffler situation.”

“You're here to see me? About what, the offer? I already told you, I need more time.”

“That's not it. Things have gotten more complicated.” He looked over my shoulder. I followed his gaze to Charlie, who shook her head and walked away. “There's another offer,” he said after she left the room.

“Somebody else wants to buy the fabric store? Who?”

“Came in about two hours ago. I would have called you sooner but I wanted to check him out to see if he was legit. He's some finance guy in Los Angeles. Name's Carson Cole.”

“I need to use your phone.” I snatched Ken's cell from his hand before he had a chance to say no and dialed Carson's number from memory. I'd cycled through most of the entry-level curse words by the time he answered and was contemplating a couple of new ones.

“It's about time you called me back,” Carson said.

“What is wrong with you?”

“I've left about a dozen messages on your phone. What's going on?”

“My phone is dead. I've got about two minutes. You're trying to buy the fabric store from me? Why?”

“You heard about my offer. Good. I was wrong. You saying ‘no sale' to McMichael was a stroke of genius. I got together a couple of private investors. They'll sell off the inventory for you, then resell the building to McVic for a profit. I heard he's been in negotiations with a Walmart or a Target or somebody. These are big bucks. Don't sign away the store to him. We can make a lot more from this if we play our cards right.”

“We? Our? Us?”

“Poly, this is what I do. And the store, the fabric, that's what you do. It's the perfect project to bring us closer together. You should talk to your boss. I bet Giovanni would be interested in the fabrics even if they are dry-rotted. He'll get you to design some kind of appliqué to hide the flaws.”

“You didn't tell Giovanni about the store, did you?”

“You sound annoyed.”

“I'm tired and cranky and I need a shower and I have to get ready for dinner.”

“Your car's not done yet? You took it to a licensed mechanic, right?”

“I forgot this isn't my cell phone. I better go.”

“Wait,” he said as I was pulling the phone away from my head. I could have hung up, but I didn't. I felt bad about snapping at Carson. There was no way he could have known how I felt about the fabric store since being back inside of it. When I'd left our apartment yesterday, I'd expected to drive an hour to San Ladrón, sign some paperwork and maybe have lunch with Ken, and drive home. I hadn't expected the nostalgic pull of memories that made me think twice about selling. I turned away from Ken and dropped my voice. “A lot has happened since I got here yesterday, and to tell you the truth, I'm tempted to cancel my dinner plans so I can go to sleep early.”

“Who are you going to dinner with?”

I paused for a second. “Vaughn McMichael. The son of the man who wants to buy the fabric store.”

“Ooh, they're good. You know what they're doing, right? They're trying to soften you up, gain an edge. Whatever you do, don't cancel.”

“I don't think it's like that.” I thought back over how I'd felt when Vaughn was at the store earlier, when I'd found him in my Dumpster with the kittens. I blushed recalling how I'd reacted when I'd thought he was staring at my chest.

“Why else would he want to take you to dinner?” Carson said.

I bristled. “Don't worry, I won't agree to anything that will jeopardize our future.”

“Remember that. But this could be good for us. Act like you like him. That'll keep him from figuring out what we're planning.”

“Aren't you the least bit jealous that I'm going to dinner with another man?”

“It's pretty obvious he's interested in your property, not mine.” He chuckled.

“I have to go.”

I hung up and handed the phone back to Ken. He wiped it against the side of his pants like he needed to rid it of my cooties, then he pushed it into the back pocket of his pants.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“My boyfriend has taken an interest in the store.”

“Is he in the fabric business?”

“No. He's in the business business. He's your new offer.”

“Your boyfriend has the kind of capital to match Mr. McMichael's offer?” I looked closely at Ken and could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. “You think he'd want to buy property in San Ladrón?”

“He knows people.” I shook my head to myself. How could Carson be so quick to tap his contacts when he thought there was a good deal on the table, but so slow when it came to understanding how I felt about it?

“Relationships are tough, Poly. It'll work itself out,” Ken said. “I see your car's still up on the rack. Do you need a ride anywhere?”

I looked inside Charlie's shop. My yellow Bug was four feet in the air. Before I had a chance to ask Ken to drive me to the drugstore, Charlie appeared behind me.

“Yo—Polyester. Think fast.” She tossed a set of keys to me. I accidentally knocked them farther out of reach, and Ken snagged them from the air. He looked at them briefly then dropped them into my open palm.

“White Camaro. Out back. You can drive stick, right?”

“Sure,” I answered. I'd learned to drive on a stick shift, but it had been a long time. I hoped it was like riding a bike.

“It might look like a throwback to the greatest decade ever, but it's wired with an alarm. Customized. LoJack, too, and Lockdown. The gas gauge is broken, and I can't really say if that's going to matter to you or not. You might want to fill her up at the Circle K on the corner before you go too far.”

It took four stalls and restarts for me to get the feel for the muscle car's clutch. I drove to the gas station down the block and spent the better part of a hundred dollar bill to fill the tank. Genevieve's tea shop was down the next block. I parked the car in front of the store and went inside.

This time the store smelled like butterscotch. The line by the register was two people deep and I made it a third. I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent. By the time it was my turn I was willing to spend whatever it cost to get a piece of the mystery baked goods to go.

“I wasn't sure if I'd see you again,” said Genevieve. She counted out a stack of one-dollar bills and tucked them into the pocket of her faded apron.

“Did I tell you I was leaving?” I asked. “I don't remember saying that.”

“You're the fabric woman everybody's been talking about, right? Gabardine?” She cocked her head to the side.

“Polyester. Poly. Poly Monroe,” I said. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I was holding up the line, but no one had entered the shop after me. “Do I want to know what people are saying?” I asked.

“I'm sure you can imagine.” She studied me. “Okay, maybe you can't, but no reason to lose sleep over it. People around here like to talk.”

“People everywhere like to talk,” I added.

“Yes, but around here people make talking practically an Olympic sport.” She smiled. “What can I get you?”

“For starters, whatever it is that smells like butterscotch. I'll take one—two of them, and a cup of whatever tea you think would go best with it.”

“Two blondies and a special cup of tea coming right up. You can sit anywhere. I'll find you.” Her smile held a hint of sadness that I attributed to the empty store.

“I'm not staying this time.”

“You're leaving town already?”

“I'm not leaving San Ladrón yet, but I have to pick up a couple of items, so I'll need my order to go.”

“You've been bit by the rush-rush bug.” She totaled my sale, and wrapped two golden blondies in white wax paper, nestled them into a small white cardboard box, and folded it shut. She sealed it with a tan sticker that had a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it.

“How soon are you going to drink the tea?” she asked.

“As soon as it's cooled down enough to swallow.”

“Perfect.” She reached for a cardboard cup and fitted a corrugated sleeve over the bottom, then filled it with hot water. From an index card–sized box to the left of the register, she flipped through small white envelopes, pulling out one about a third of the way through a stack. She tapped the contents onto a square of cheesecloth, clamped a small metal ring around the top, and dropped it into the cup.