Suede to Rest (9 page)

I had sketched
in that sales ledger just last night, and I knew it had been intact. And there had been only one person in the store since then. Vaughn.

My mind buzzed like a switch had been thrown and electric current flowed through it. I'd taken notes in that ledger just the night before. What had I written?
Mr. Pickers/Senior Patrol/fabric store/connection?
It meant nothing to me at the time. But it must have meant something to Vaughn. And if there was something in there that pertained to his father, he would have had good reason to remove the pages. I kicked myself for thinking for a second that Vaughn and I were looking for the same answers. We might both be playing the information game, but most likely for opposing teams.

I put the ledger back under the cash wrap and carried the Waverly House belongings out back. The historic residence was about three blocks away, not far by a long shot, but being loaded down with borrowed dinner items made it a more difficult journey.

I arrived in front of the historic Victorian mansion a couple minutes later. Last night, I'd noticed the outline of the house, trimmed in tiny white lights, making it look like a gingerbread house. In the daylight I could take in the magnificence—both in size and in color—of the restored landmark. Two floors topped with peaked gables, a round turret on the left corner, and at least two dozen windows that faced the street. The siding had been painted Wedgwood blue and the trim in white, like a vintage cameo. I knew Victorian style was colorful and I appreciated the subtle sophistication of the building, true to its heritage but in no way loud or garish. The building stood like a queen might have: tall and majestic, anchoring the corner of the town.

I took a deep breath and walked up the small flight of stairs that led to the front door. The interior was dark, lit only by hanging bronze chandeliers that matched the style of the exterior but shed little light. A hostess stood outside the restaurant flipping through pages of a guest book.

“Excuse me. This is going to sound odd, but I have some of your kitchen items that were borrowed last night—”

The woman looked up. She had a round, cherubic face set off by bright blue eyes and pink cheeks. Her curly red hair was pulled back from her face, though a few tendrils had escaped and framed her forehead and cheeks.

“Who are you?” she asked rather abruptly.

“Poly Monroe. I just want to return these things—”

“Wait right here.”

Before I could protest, or rather, while I was in the middle of protesting, she went down the hallway and into the last door on the left. A busboy appeared inside the restaurant and I flagged him over. He seemed nervous, as though he thought he'd get in trouble for talking to me.

“Hi, I just want to return this stuff. It was borrowed last night. Can you put it in the kitchen, or wherever it goes?”

He shook his head rapidly and moved away from the velvet rope that separated us. Just as I was about to set the bags down and leave, I was addressed very formally.

“Ms. Monroe?” said a tall, thin woman in an ivory sweater, black-and-white skirt, and rust-colored double-faced wool jacket. I guessed her to be in her seventies. A pair of eyeglasses hung from a silver chain around her neck, and her dark gray hair, streaked with white, was swept away from her face into layers that ended above the collar of her shirt. “Ms. Polyester Monroe?”

“Yes, I'm Poly Monroe. I want to return these items—” I started for the fourth time.

“You're Helen and John's daughter?” she asked.

“Yes. I'm sorry if this is a problem, but someone borrowed these things for me last night—”

She turned to the young redhead who stood by the hostess desk. “Sandra, Vaughn borrowed these things from us last night. He phoned me earlier today and said Ms. Monroe would be returning them. Please return them to the kitchen.”

At the mention of Vaughn's name, the redhead turned red. The older woman took the bags from me and handed them to the hostess. She did a poor job of concealing her curiosity over the contents of the bags. The gray-haired woman waited until Sandra was well out of earshot before she turned to me.

“Ms. Monroe, would you come with me?” She stood sideways and held one hand out toward me, palm side up, and another in front of her, indicating a direction. There was nothing threatening about her, though I felt a little as though I were about to get lectured on the inappropriateness of borrowing kitchen supplies from an establishment as formal as the Waverly House.

I took a tentative step in her direction and she smiled. She led the way down the hallway, back to the last door on the left. She held the door open and again gestured her open palm toward one of the beige needlepoint chairs in front of the oak table that served as a desk. After sitting down, I was surprised that she sat in the chair opposite me instead of taking the more expected leather chair behind the table.

“I didn't mean to cause any trouble,” I offered.

“There's no trouble. Everything was arranged with our permission.”

“Then why am I here?”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, exposing her ankles and low-heeled black patent leather shoes. “I would have known you anywhere. You look just like her.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“Like Millie.”

“You knew my great-aunt?” I asked, sitting forward.

“I did. There was a time when she and I were very good friends. I do miss her, still.” She held out a hand for me to shake. “I'm Adelaide Brooks. I thought you might be interested in talking about her.”

“Absolutely, I would love to.”

The door opened and a man in a white shirt and black pants entered, carrying a silver tray that held a small ceramic pot, two cups and saucers, tea, lemon wedges, and a pitcher of milk. He set it on the desk and the woman thanked him. “Tea?”

“I would love some.”

She poured a cup of hot water for me and held out a selection of packets. I chose the first one that had
zing
in the title. I added a bit of milk, something I'd once seen in a movie, and neglected the lemon. She smiled at my actions then did the same thing. I didn't know if I'd impressed her with my preference, or if my actions were so far off that she wanted to make me comfortable by not making it obvious.

“I imagine it's been an emotional couple of days for you. May I ask what the fabric store is like after all these years?”

“I think a healthy layer of dust preserved the place. I spent yesterday afternoon cleaning it after I got the front gate open.”

“If you intend to sell the property, your efforts were unnecessary.”

“You're probably right.”

“Do you intend to sell the property?”

“I don't know what I intend to do. I don't intend to make a quick decision, I know that much. And whatever happens, I don't want the fabric store remembered as the scene of a homicide. Not again.”

“It's possible that Mr. Pickers was the victim of a random act of violence, just like your great-aunt was.”

“You don't believe that, do you?”

“There are reasons I should. Very strong reasons.” Adelaide Brooks studied me for a moment.

“What have you been told about that night?” she asked after we'd each took a sip.

“Nothing. Well,
almost
nothing.” I took another sip, and set the cup on the saucer that rested on my lap. “The store was robbed. The robbers claimed they were hired and told that the store would be empty. But she was there. They killed her and took the weekend's cash from the register. Four thousand dollars. My great-aunt died over four thousand dollars.” My voice dropped to a whisper when I said the last part.

“My dear, that is the account that some people believe, so I can't fault you for thinking of it as the truth. But there is more to the story of Millie's murder.” She took another sip, then cradled her cup on the small saucer that rested on the desk in front of her.

“Millie had a bracelet that she wore almost all the time. An heirloom charm bracelet that Marius brought back from the war. It had a thick chain filled with charms the size of silver dollars—many of them made of gold. Those not made of gold were made from coins of the time, coins worth their own small fortune to collectors. He said the bracelet came from a wealthy family in Europe, a gift for him helping them hide when the Germans came into their mansion. He dressed in the uniform of a German soldier and posed as one of the enemy, pretending to search the house. It was a risky move on his part, and it saved the lives of several people. They showed their gratitude with a gift, the bracelet that had been in their family since the fifteenth century.”

“I remember the bracelet. I used to play with it when I was little. It tinkled when Aunt Millie moved. We always knew where she was because of the sound it made. And even when she worked, she wouldn't take it off. It had little gold spools, a tiny pair of scissors, even a sewing machine. When I was little I used to say the bracelet matched her.”

“That bracelet was worth a lot of money when Marius brought it stateside, and it has only increased in value.”

“But the robbers stole it.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” she said. She hooked one finger through the loop on the side of the floral teacup in her lap and studied me carefully.

I folded my hands in my lap and looked at them. I could tell there was more to her story, and I waited for her to go on. As the silence grew, from polite to awkward, I felt the need to say something, anything.

“Ms. Brooks, I appreciate the tea, and I appreciate everything you have told me. But I'm afraid I can't take the word of the criminals as easily as you can. Two men were arrested for robbing the store. They confessed to being there. They probably stole the bracelet right before they killed my aunt. She was a fighter, I believe that. But the two men who were arrested are probably the two who did it.”

“What about Mr. Pickers's murder?”

“What does Mr. Pickers's murder have to do with anything? He wasn't part of my family.”

She stood up and walked around to the back of the desk, slid the top center drawer open, and pulled out a small key on a pink ribbon. She leaned over and opened the bottom drawer of the desk and extracted a small jewelry box. She inserted the key in the box and opened the lid.

A faint scent of roses wafted from the box and the melody of a song, vaguely familiar but not entirely recognizable, played as the small figure of a woman twirled on a pedestal inside. Ms. Brooks lifted the corner of the faded green velvet lining and reached under it, extracting a sizeable gold coin trimmed in an elaborate braid of tarnished metal. A loop dangled from one side, as though it had once been worn as part of a piece of jewelry, perhaps a valuable charm bracelet like the one my great-aunt used to wear. She set the coin in front of me and studied me. I didn't pick it up. After a few seconds of eye contact I looked away, uncomfortable under the heat of her stare.

“Ms. Monroe, do you know what that is?” she asked.

“I think I do,” I said. “How did you get it?”

“Someone I once cared for very deeply gave it to me. He asked me to put it in a safe place and never speak of it.”

“This is from her bracelet, isn't it?” I whispered. Chills tickled my neck and ran down my back like a snowman was playing piano on my spine.

“I believe that it is.”

“And you never told anybody you had this?”

“I never believed it would do any good.”

“But—”

“Ms. Monroe, I don't believe the person who gave me that coin was the murderer. I believe someone who has never been caught has been living with the crime. The murder yesterday all but proves it. I believe the time for secrets has come and gone, and that while it's important to honor the past, it's imperative to protect the future. When I heard that Marius had left the store to you, I hoped you would take an interest in it, and it seems you have. But you will never be entirely free to live in this town, to pursue any kind of a future from what lies between those four walls, if you don't first pursue the questions that surround your family.”

I picked up the coin and turned it over, then pressed it into my palm and squeezed my hand shut. I closed my eyes and wished for an answer, a sign, a feeling that Aunt Millie was there with me. But she wasn't. I was alone in the office of a strange woman who wanted to fill my head with town gossip that should probably have stayed quiet. I opened my fist and set the coin on the desk.

“But what does Mr. Pickers's murder have to do with my family?”

“Mr. Pickers wasn't related to you, but he's a part of your family history,” she said.

My eyes darted to the left for a split second then back to her face.

“Millie had made arrangements for Tom Pickers to come by the store and pick up the deposit for the bank. In order to make things easy for everyone, she accumulated the cash from Friday and Saturday. He was to pick it up the weekend take on Sunday and deposit it on Monday.”

“I remember when she made the plans. It was because it was my graduation weekend. She and Uncle Marius were going to close up the store and come to Los Angeles Sunday night. They couldn't be at my graduation because of the sale.”

She sat straighter in her chair and looked directly at me.

“My dear, Tom Pickers didn't make it to the store that night. The money was never found.”

“What else can you tell me about Mr. Pickers?”

“There's not much I can tell you that doesn't come from the rumor mill.”

“I don't want rumors. I want facts. Did you know him?”

“Not very well.”

“But somebody must have, right?”

“Ms. Monroe, thank you for taking time to talk with me today. If nothing else, you've given me a chance to talk about something that I've long kept secret.” She gestured toward the coin. “Take it. It might lead you to some answers.”