Suede to Rest (8 page)

“I thought I was getting dinner.”

“Then I'm glad I delivered. Literally.”

“So am I.”

I set my plate down and spun to the side so I could hop down. Aches in my muscles were starting to announce themselves, from oiling the fence and cleaning the interior of the store, to knocking over the shower unit at Charlie's. I suspected I'd feel ten times worse tomorrow after a stationary night of sleep. I reached into the box and pulled out each of the kittens, then set them on the counter. Immediately they homed in on the scent of food. Vaughn held his plate up, out of reach. Mine was the more vulnerable one, or would have been if it hadn't been empty.

“Have you named them yet?”

“Not yet.” I stroked the head of the gray one. He looked up at me and meowed. He closed his eyes tightly and pushed his pink nose upward. “They sure are cute, aren't they?”

The kitten had climbed over Vaughn's calf and rested his paws on his knee, staring up at the plate he held.

“You think you'll take them with you when you go back to Los Angeles?” he asked.

“I haven't thought much about that.”

“About what, the kittens, or going back to Los Angeles?”

“Both. I haven't thought much about anything but the store for the past two days.”

“Do you like it here?”

“Here, where? The store? The town?”

“Either. Both.”

“I don't know much about the town. But the store—I love the store. I was born in here,” I volunteered.

“In the store? Seriously?”

“That's how I got my name. The story goes that my mom helped Great-Aunt Millie with the store through her pregnancy with me. I came earlier than anybody expected. She gave birth to me on a bed of polyester so that's what they named me—Polyester.”

“So the store is part of you.”

“Or I'm a part of the store. I don't know if it's because it's my family, or because I was born here, or because every year on my birthday Aunt Millie and Uncle Marius sent me five yards of one of their exotic fabrics, but I feel like it's in my blood.” I dropped my head for a moment as I realized I was explaining the very reason I'd turned down his father's offer on the store. “Now that the store is mine, I don't want to walk away from it too hastily.”

“You feel a connection to San Ladrón and the store because of your family.”

“That's right.”

“It's the same with me. I moved back to San Ladrón because of my father. He had a heart attack a couple of years ago. That's the only time in my life when he needed me. I would never have met you if it weren't for him,” Vaughn interjected unexpectedly.

“But your dad wants me gone.”

“He doesn't want you gone. He wants you to sell the store. Those are very different things.”

“Not to me, they're not.”

“I bet if I told him how I—” The light of the candles flickered over his face. He didn't finish his thought.

“How you what?” I said.

I looked at the empty plates, the open bottle of wine, the candles, and the ivory box with the white satin bow. I didn't know how I'd missed it when he first arrived, but suddenly Vaughn's intentions seemed clear.

“Your father knew about what happened to me tonight. He was there. Maybe he even had something to do with it.”

“My dad wouldn't hurt you to get what he wants.”

“But he's not above using you, is he? Are you going to tell him how you wined and dined me and made subtle suggestions under candlelight and wooed me with presents?” I gestured toward the gift box. “I bet he'd be proud of you—like you're a chip of the old block.”

“You think that's why I'm here?”

I set down my utensils and shook my head. “I can't believe I didn't see through you when you invited me to dinner.” I moved the gray kitten from my lap and jumped down from the wrap stand. “I know I said I didn't know what I was going to do, but I was wrong. You can tell your father I'm not selling. I'm going to stay in San Ladrón and reopen the store.”

Vaughn stared at me for a second or two, a pained expression on his face. He hopped down from the cutting station, too. “I wouldn't mind if you did stay, Poly, but don't do it to spite my family. My coming here tonight has nothing to do with what my dad wants. You said you wanted answers. I want answers, too. Look inside the box. And if you want to talk, call me.” He walked to the back door, easily undid the locks, and left.

I stormed after
Vaughn and threw the dead bolt and the bar lock into place, then turned around and leaned against the door. I did want to talk to somebody. And I wanted answers, too, to an ever-increasing number of questions. In the wake of the shower incident, I'd forgotten the reason Vaughn claimed to have invited me to dinner in the first place. He said my family wasn't the only one affected by Great-Aunt Millie's murder.

According to my half-charged cell phone, it was after eleven, and my body screamed with pain from the day's events. I blew out each of the candles, and carried the box of kittens upstairs with me, the ivory box Vaughn had brought now wedged under my left arm. After unlocking the apartment, I set the box on the floor by the sofa where I'd slept last night and sat down, pulling the blanket up over my legs. I slid the ribbon off of the box. I didn't know what to expect, but it most definitely wasn't the scrapbook inside. And when I flipped the cover open and read the headline on the first page, I knew I wouldn't be sleeping any time soon.

SAN LADRÓN ROCKED BY MURDER

Under the headline was a picture of Aunt Millie, and next to it was a picture of Land of a Thousand Fabrics. The paper was dated ten years earlier.

The city of San Ladrón was rocked by the murder of a longtime resident. The victim, Millie Monroe, was the wife of Marius Monroe and half owner of Land of a Thousand Fabrics on Bonita Avenue. The murder was the unfortunate end to a robbery at the store late Thursday night. Two suspects are being held without bail.

I flipped the page. The next article was dated about a week later.

THIRD PARTY SUSPECTED IN MURDER PLOT?

Last week's account of a robbery gone wrong that ended in the murder of San Ladrón resident Millie Monroe might be more complicated than originally thought. Robbers Joe and Pete Esterhaus, arrested hours after the body was discovered in Land of a Thousand Fabrics on Bonita Avenue, confessed to the robbery but maintained their innocence of the murder. In a statement by Joe Esterhaus, “We were hired to rob the place by some rich guy. He guaranteed the place would be empty and it was.” Police responded to an anonymous tip and discovered the body of Millie Monroe in the back of the store.

The cash register had been emptied of all monies. It was the third day of a weekend sale and according to the registry, the take had been just over four thousand dollars. Residents of San Ladrón and neighboring cities had flocked to the store to buy from the owner's wide assortment of international fabrics at a great discount.

I pulled the blanket further up my torso to counter the chill that snaked down my spine. The news clippings continued. They ranged in legitimacy from bona fide newspaper articles to letters addressed to the editor. The words blurred in front of my eyes but I couldn't stop reading.
Has anyone considered real estate a motive for murder?
asked one letter.
Who would benefit from Millie's death?
asked another.
Owner Closes Store but Refuses to Sell
,
said the next page.
Millionaire Asked to Front Reward Money, Refuses
followed by
Is there a murderer at large in San Ladrón?

The next headline was more to the point.

IS VIC MCMICHAEL CAPABLE OF MURDER?

Vaughn had hinted at the fact that my great-aunt Millie's murder had impacted his family, too. And where my family wouldn't talk about it, he had done the opposite: cut out every piece of noteworthy news and archived it in a scrapbook. I flipped the book shut, and then opened the back cover. The page was blank. I flipped from the back forward four pages until I found the last entry, a headline with no copy.

SAN LADRÓN DEVELOPER HOSPITALIZED AFTER HEART ATTACK

The date on the top of the newspaper was six months after Aunt Millie's murder.

I shut the scrapbook and lay back on the fur. Vaughn had moved back to San Ladrón because of his father's heart attack. I'd come back because of the store. But the store's past and the store's future were tied together in something that involved us both, or our families, at least. And now there had been another murder at the store.

Ten years after the fact. I didn't care what anybody said. I didn't care that they treated me as though I were the problem. I knew Mr. Pickers's murder wasn't a coincidence. I knew it had something to do with me inheriting the store. But what? I didn't remember anybody in my family ever talking about him. So what did he have to do with the store?

I opened the scrapbook and read the last article.

WITNESS STATEMENT CONFUSES INVESTIGATION

Local banker and longtime San Ladrón resident Tom Pickers's claim to have seen a figure leaving Land of a Thousand Fabrics the night of the robbery has left the police in search of a monster. Pickers, 63, is a thirty-year employee of The San Ladrón Savings and Trust. Two months after Millie Monroe's death, Pickers came forward with information about the robbery at the family-owned fabric store. He reported to the police that “Millie Monroe called me earlier that night. She wanted me to pick up the register take from the weekend sale instead of keeping it for the next morning. We made arrangements for me to pick it up after the store closed. I was late getting to the store. I saw someone leave by the back door. He was distorted, like a monster. I hid in the shadows and then ran. The next morning I went back to the store, but it was too late.”

The date on the newspaper was two months after Aunt Millie's murder. I wondered why Mr. Pickers had waited so long before going to the police. Had his fear over what he'd seen kept him quiet, or had he known more than he told? And how had that factored into his murder behind the store yesterday? I kept reading.

Tom Pickers has lived a quiet life in San Ladrón since the death of his wife. His statement has been disputed by residents who claim he was not of sound mind the night of the crime. Despite criticism, he has signed a statement that describes what he saw.

I closed my eyes and images of his body filled my mind. His cranberry socks, his navy-blue work pants, and beige shirt. The blue suede fabric over his head, the blood that seeped through it. I opened my eyes to make the image go away. The monster, if there was one, was the person who killed him. My return to San Ladrón had triggered something in the community. The vandalism to my car, the report that I was squatting on the property, the shower incident—all were connected by one thing, and it wasn't the store. It was me.

I thought about Mr. Pickers. He had started the Senior Patrol ten years ago, just about the time of the robbery. He'd been watching over the store—I saw him the night I arrived when Ken and I stood on the street—and I knew. Whoever had it in for me had it in for Mr. Pickers, too. Mr. Pickers knew something. And even though nobody believed him at the time, there was a chance my arrival had stirred it all up.

Maybe there was another reason Mr. McMichael wanted the property so badly. While Uncle Marius had closed the store but kept it as it was when Millie was alive, Mr. McMichael wanted it gone forever, obliterated from his memories. If our goals seemed at odds before, today they were flat-out polar opposites.

*   *   *

The next morning
I woke up with a stiff neck, sore shoulders, and a noticeable bruising around my midsection. It was eight thirty, and as inappropriate as it would have been, I half wished Charlie would show up and offer to buy me a drink.

I climbed from the sofa and stretched my arms as high as I could, then shook out each leg. I quickly scrubbed my fingers over my short hair then tucked the flyaway tendrils behind my ears. I ran downstairs to the fabric store and pulled a couple of new clothing items from where they hung, then dressed in the new black leggings and midthigh black jersey tunic with a shiny black vinyl square set in the middle of the front. I'd found it on the clearance bar yesterday and considered myself lucky that my tastes were ahead of the San Ladrón fashion curve. I did what I could with a tube of mascara and the strawberry lip gloss then pulled my black riding boots on over the leggings. After opening a second can of cat food for the kittens, I glanced at the remaining mess from last night's impromptu Waverly House delivery and then left.

I didn't get far. Parked in the lot behind the building was Carson's vintage Mercedes. With Carson standing next to the driver's-side door.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I figured I should come, check out my investment.” He stepped away from the car and walked past me to the back door. “This run-down building? This is it?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What, no kiss? Aren't you happy to see me?”

He turned back and leaned forward, lips puckered, expecting me to reciprocate. Instead, I turned my head and his kiss landed on my cheek.

“Okay, you're mad at me. Nothing new there. What's going on, Poly?”

“Nothing's going on. I just can't believe you drove all the way up here to check on me.”

“It's thirty miles. Not that big of a deal. And you were a little too noncommittal on the phone last night. I figured if this real estate deal really is our get-rich-quick scheme, I better come up here and get involved before you blow it.”

“There's nothing to blow. There's no deal. I'm not selling.”

“Nice, you're quitting your job now? Moving to this quaint little town? What did they do, slip a Mickey into your hot chocolate?”

“How do you know about the hot chocolate?” I asked.

“I was kidding. Did somebody really give you hot chocolate? I shouldn't be surprised. Where's your car?”

“At the shop.”

“Still? You really are a sucker, Poly.”

Carson dropped into step next to me. We were close to the same height, which made it easy to keep pace with each other. It also made it hard to make a good argument defending a pair of shoes over two inches high. Carson slung an arm around my shoulder. We took an awkward few steps until he dropped his arm to my waist. I altered my walk slightly so we were out of sync, making him lose touch with me altogether. It was a passive-aggressive move on my part and I knew it, but while I didn't like him invading my space, I didn't feel like getting into a fight about it, either.

“Why don't we go to the hotel? I can unpack and you can show me the town.”

“There is no hotel. I mean, there's probably a hotel somewhere, but I'm not staying at one.”

“You're crashing on somebody's sofa?”

“Not exactly.”

“Poly, where have you been sleeping?”

“At the store. That reminds me, I have to call someone about turning on the water.”

“I didn't want to say anything, but no wonder you look so bad.” He ran a hand over his hair, holding it back from his forehead, until he let go and it bounced down into place. The man had more hair than I did.

“Who says I look bad?”

“When's the last time you took a shower?”

“Last night.” I looked across the street at Charlie's Automotive. The
Closed
sign was still in the window. I needed to talk to her about last night's incident and find out when she planned to be done with my car, but not while Carson was hanging out with me. There was regular complicated, and there was capital-
C
Complicated. “Why don't you work out a hotel room and meet up with me later? There are a couple of things I have to take care of this morning. We'll get more done if we split up.”

“You sure you don't want to come with me? It's been a long time since we've been alone in a hotel room. I could help you get cleaned up. Could be fun.”

“Later,” I said, only half paying attention to him. “Meet me back at the store at, what time is it?” I patted my pockets for my phone before realizing I'd left it charging at the store.

“It's nine thirty.”

“Okay, meet me at the store at three.” I turned around and jogged down the alley, twisting my ankle on a piece of wood. In an awkward couple of steps I regained my balance and walked the rest of the way with his laughter ringing in my ears.

Last night, it was candlelight that illuminated the area, and today, it struck me that somebody needed to return the borrowed items to the Waverly House. I stuck my phone in my small cross-body handbag and set it by the door while I set about packing up the candelabras, the plates, the cloth napkins, and the silverware. It easily fit into one bag instead of the two Vaughn had shown up with now that the food was gone. I put both hands down on the counter and thought about last night. For someone I had just met, someone who had a very different agenda from my own, it had been remarkably easy to spend time with him.

He was the only person I'd ever met who was okay with me talking about Aunt Millie's murder. And more than okay, he had a vested interest in finding out the truth. Where my family moved from San Ladrón months after the tragedy, he had moved back. Where Uncle Marius's mourning split us up, his dad's health brought his family together.

I was embarrassed by my outburst. After reading the scrapbook he had brought for me to read, I was beginning to believe he really had wanted to talk. If nothing else, I wanted to call him to apologize and say thank you. I opened the drawer below the cash register and pushed the tape measure and chalk to the side in search of his business card, the one he'd given me that first day in the store. I found it easily in the mostly empty drawer and keyed his number into my phone. As it rang, I opened the sales log and idly flipped through the pages.

I hung up the phone when I realized that pages had been torn from the back of the ledger.