Crushed Velvet

by Diane Vallere

  “Are you all moved in?” Vaughn asked.

  “Not really. For now I’m making do with what my aunt and uncle left in the apartment.”

  “I guess your boyfriend will be bringing your stuff when he moves in.”

  “Carson’s not moving in.”

  “Oh. I figured he’d move to San Ladrón with you, but I guess it’s not that far of a commute from Los Angeles,” he said.

  “We broke up.”

  Vaughn layered a slice of cheddar on a piece of bread and set it on the plate in front of him. “Are you sad about that?”

  “Not as much as I thought I’d be. I guess I have too much to look forward to to be sad. Does that make sense?”

  He grinned. “It does to me.”

  We munched through a fair amount of the food he’d brought. It tasted so good that I ate more than I needed and felt the waistband of my sailor pants digging into my midsection. Soon enough, I had to stand up to relieve the pressure.

  “Okay, break time’s over. Back to work,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Vaughn packed up the empty containers and set the basket in the kitchen. I folded up the butcher paper and shoved it into the trash can by Genevieve’s desk. Within ten minutes, we had a plan for covering the windows. We started with the west-facing windows. Vaughn tore a piece of paper from the roll and held it in place with his hands on the upper corner. I ducked under his raised arms and secured the edges with tape. Vaughn tore off the next piece of paper and we repeated.

  When we reached the front door, I looked outside. A shiny black pickup truck pulled into the parking lot to Jitterbug. The logo for Special Delivery was on the side, and Rick Penwald was the driver. I whipped the door open. Vaughn was unprepared and the door whacked him on the forehead.

  “Ow!”

  “What?”

  He rubbed his hand over the red spot. “Nothing. Why’d you open the door?”

  “I saw someone I have to talk to.” I darted to the kitchen and threw a handful of ice into a towel, ran back, and thrust it at Vaughn. “Put this on your head. I’ll be right back.” Before he could stop me, I was out the door and across the street.

  Seven

  “Rick!” I called.

  He looked around the lot, his expression of confusion changing to recognition when he spied me. I jogged to where he was standing.

  “Rick, hi. I don’t know if you remember me from yesterday—”

  “You’re the fabric lady, right?”

  “Yes. Poly Monroe.” I glanced down at the cup he held. It was the largest cup of coffee I could imagine, putting a Starbucks Venti to shame. “Is the coffee here any good?”

  “I think it’s an acquired taste. Keeps me awake on long drives.” He peeled back the plastic tab on top of the cup and raised it to his lips. I got a contact jolt of energy from the bitter scent. “Good seeing you,” he said.

  “Wait!” I said. I put my hand on his forearm to keep him from leaving. “I wanted to ask you about yesterday.”

  He squinted his eyes and the creases that were already etched onto his face deepened. “What about yesterday?”

  “Can you tell me again how Phil arranged for you to make that delivery?”

  “Phil called me up and asked if I could take care of it for him. He said he had something cooking in Los Angeles and he didn’t want to blow it by leaving too early.”

  “Were you already in LA?”

  “What’s with all the questions? I was here, at a poker game.”

  I smiled, hoping to gain his trust. “Rick, Genevieve Girard is one of my friends. The police think she might have had something to do with Phil’s murder, and I don’t. I’m trying to figure out what happened so I can help her. I’m not trying to insinuate anything.”

  He took another pull on his coffee and coughed twice. He set it in the back of his truck. Not only was it the only thing back there, but the black plastic liner of the bed of the truck was brand-new, much like the rest of the vehicle. It was a serious upgrade from the van he borrowed from Phil from time to time.

  Rick shielded his eyes from the sun. The squinting lessened. “Phil called me early Monday morning and asked if I could make his delivery. He offered to pay me a thousand dollars. He told me where I could find the van. I made some bad bets Sunday night, so I figured if the van was there, great, I’d make up the loss. Phil said he’d leave the keys and the money with the manager of the motel where he parked. When I got there, the van was there, the keys were in the ignition, and there was a bank envelope on the driver’s seat with my name on it and ten hundreds inside. I grabbed a cup of coffee at the diner next door and drove back.”

  “You didn’t look in the back of the van to make sure it was loaded?”

  “I didn’t even know what I was delivering.”

  “Seems a little shady.”

  “A thousand bucks under the table isn’t a bad offer for a guy who lost more than that the night before. Sure, it was shady. Sometimes delivery jobs are like that. Phil told me I was picking up food and fabric. He said the van would be loaded when I got there. No reason to get involved.”

  “Did you tell this to Sheriff Clark?”

  “He knows what happened.”

  I sensed that Rick was holding back something. Otherwise, how could it be that he’d driven the van with a murdered man in the back and he wasn’t in custody, or at least being watched carefully as the main person of interest?

  “If you’re done with the interrogation, I really have to get going,” he said. His choice of words made it clear what he thought of me peppering him with questions about what happened.

  “Sure.” I stepped back and let him get to his pickup. I waited in the lot while he threw the truck into reverse, backed out of the space, and peeled away, the temporary paper license plate on the truck barely legible. His tires screeched from accelerating too quickly. Why was he in such a hurry to get away from me? Was he late for a job, or had I been sniffing around for information that he’d rather keep to himself?

  I returned to Tea Totalers and was pleasantly surprised that Vaughn’s work ethic had kept him busy while I was gone. I rejoined him, and we finished. The interior of the café grew darker with each window we covered, until eventually, it felt like midnight.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I asked Vaughn.

  He checked his watch. “A little after four.”

  That couldn’t be. I walked past him into the kitchen and looked up at the clock. “When did it get to be four? Where’s Kim?”

  “I told her to leave. She’s been at it as much as you have. When I saw her bicycle outside, I offered her a ride home. She turned me down.”

  “There’s something odd about her,” I said.

  “Because she turned me down? Nah, that’s happened once or twice before.”

  I laughed without thinking. “You can be done for the day, too, if you want,” I said.

  “Do you want a ride home?” he asked.

  I pretended to consider the question. “No, I don’t think so. A precedent’s been set for today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I can’t be here to help tomorrow. My father’s expecting me in the office.”

  “Sure, of course. I didn’t expect you to show up every day just because I am,” I said.

  “So you’ll be here all week?”

  “I don’t know. I have to take care of things at the fabric store, too.”

  “Did anybody ever tell you the side effects of all work and no play?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I have a suggestion. Tomorrow’s Wednesday, and the Villamere Theater shows movies from the thirties on the third Wednesday of every month.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. That was where Babs performed her burlesque show.

  “This week it’s a Mae West movie,” he continued.

>   “I love Mae West!” I said.

  “I thought you might. The movie starts at eight. How about I pick you up at Material Girl at seven?”

  I was so distracted by the mention of the theater that it took me longer than it should have to realize Vaughn was asking me out on a date. “Will your car be done by then?” I asked. “If not, I can drive.”

  “My car?”

  “I saw it at Charlie’s shop.”

  “I have more than one car,” he said.

  “Of course you do.” Maybe I should stop talking. Not talking seemed like a good idea.

  “So . . . seven?” he asked again. This time he seemed less sure of himself.

  “Seven sounds great.”

  “Great. See you then.” He let himself out the front door.

  A date with Vaughn. I caught myself smiling. I hadn’t expected him to ask me out, especially not on the same day that I’d knocked him on the head with the door. It was a good sign that he didn’t hold that against me. I think that’s why I was smiling.

  And then there was the movie: Mae West on the big screen. I took inspiration for the dresses I designed in my old job from the glamour of the thirties: Mae West, Jean Harlow, Myrna Loy, Ginger Rogers. Neither my ex-boss nor my ex-boyfriend had understood, though for different reasons. Giovanni was too cheap to produce dresses trimmed with feathers, fur, or exquisite beadwork. Carson simply lacked imagination.

  I called Charlie. “Quick question. You said you found a flyer from the Villamere in Phil Girard’s car, right? Do you still have it?”

  “No. Why? What do you need to know?”

  “It’s about Babs. Do you know when her next show is?”

  “Two shows every Sunday. You planning on going to one?”

  “I thought I’d check her out. I want to know if she figures into this whole thing.”

  “If Phil was in Los Angeles on Sunday, then she probably doesn’t figure in at all. She’s got shows at ten and twelve.”

  “That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have taken off after her second show and gone to LA.”

  “To do what? Murder her current squeeze? For all we know, he was the one keeping her in ostrich feathers and pasties.”

  “That’s what she wears?”

  “That’s pretty much what’s left by the time her show’s done.”

  I had second thoughts about booking tickets if the show ended in ostrich feathers and pasties. I said good-bye to Charlie and locked up the tea shop.

  I left out the back. Rush hour was full-on, and it would have taken longer for me to drive the four blocks to the fabric store than to walk them. Thanks to the renovation, I was beginning to feel pains in muscles I didn’t know I had, and all I wanted was to go home and take a long bath.

  I made it back to the fabric store in twenty minutes and went straight upstairs. Pins and Needles were asleep on the middle of the bed. I opted for a shower instead of a bath, changed into a pair of men’s black silk pajamas, and poured food into the cats’ bowl. After refreshing their water, I went downstairs to check things out at the fabric store.

  The sewing machine sat idle in the corner of the store, surrounded by bolts of fabric that I’d been using at Tea Totalers. Two placemats were complete on the right-hand side of the machine, and the materials needed for another eighteen were on the left. I didn’t have the energy to work on them tonight. My body was exhausted, but my mind whirred like a hundred sewing machines manned by workers on a deadline.

  It was nice, working on the French fabric renovation for Genevieve, but it had put me a day behind on my own goals of opening the store. I consulted my list of things I’d hoped to accomplish this week: Replace the sign. Stock special velvet. Set up sewing area. Plan craft projects. Phil Girard’s murder had derailed me from half of what I had left to do.

  I opened a file that I’d started with craft projects for weekends. I liked to think that once I had the store up and running, I could set up an area where people could spend their afternoon learning how they could change their life with fabric. It was the kind of environment I’d grown up in, and I wanted to create it for others. So far, the list was far from complete. Dog coats, tote bags, pillows, curtains, hats.

  I sat at the computer and pulled up my graphic files. In front of me was the sign I’d designed for out front. Material Girl, it said, the letters printed in a patchwork of fabrics that highlighted the offerings in my inventory. I’d had the logo painted onto a milky white plastic sign that was backlit with white tube lighting. After I’d gone through what had been left behind in the store and determined the fabrics with the highest worth, I’d photographed each of them and reprinted them in a flyer that I distributed around town. I used the same logo on my business cards and the promotional coupons I’d made up for the weekend. I wasn’t happy with the M in Material so I searched for my phone so I could try out other options. When the photos came up, I scrolled to the most recent pictures. The second-to-last photo was the interior of the van with Phil’s body alongside of the bolts of fabric.

  I hadn’t thought much about my fabric, but if it was in the truck with Phil’s body, there was a chance someone at the fabric wholesaler knew something about the murder. It wasn’t outside the realm of normal for me to call the fabric warehouse and follow up on the delivery.

  I checked the time. It was a few minutes before six. I might still catch someone. I rooted around through scraps of notes and business cards on the desk until I found one for Mack’s Fabrics. I called the number and got a recorded message.

  “Hi, this is Polyester Monroe. I arranged to have twelve bolts of velvet picked up from you yesterday. I’d like to talk to someone about that delivery.” I was halfway through leaving my number when a voice came on the line.

  “Hold on, gotta turn off the machine. Okay. I’m here. I close in seven minutes. You coming or what?”

  “Is this Mack’s Fabrics?”

  “Yeah, this is Mack. Listen, you gotta get this fabric outta here. It’s takin’ up too much room.”

  “I don’t think you understand.”

  “What don’t I understand? You’re Polyester. You ordered twelve bolts of velvet made up of ninety percent silk and ten percent polyester, like your name. You paid in advance, and you were supposed to get this stuff outta here yesterday. Am I warm?”

  “Okay, maybe I’m the one who doesn’t understand. I thought that fabric was already picked up.”

  “Lady, I’m looking at twelve bolts of velvet. They have your name on them. If you don’t pick them up by noon tomorrow, I’m selling ’em off to the highest bidder.”

  Eight

  “There must have been some kind of a mix-up,” I said. “Didn’t someone pick up the velvet from you on Monday morning? Someone from Special Delivery? Or Girard Trucking Company?” I pushed the papers around on the top of the desk, looking for the pink form Rick had given me, and then remembered it was in the pocket of the pants I wore yesterday. “I don’t have the paperwork here. The driver’s name was Rick Penwald. He said the fabric was already loaded in the van when he picked it up. Does any of this sound familiar?”

  “Whaddaya think, fabric reproduces like rabbits? I just said the velvet’s here. Been sittin’ here since Friday.”

  “So nobody came to pick it up on Monday?”

  “Jeez, this is like talkin’ to my wife.”

  “Don’t sell off the fabric. I want it.”

  “Noon tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He hung up.

  It didn’t make any sense. How was it possible that Mack had my fabric—and since it was tagged with my name and had the specific fiber content that I’d ordered, it sure sounded like my fabric—when Phil had been buried under the very same fabric in the truck?

  This new information raised a whole different set of questions, not the least of which was why Mack was
acting like nobody had been to his warehouse. Because if nobody had, then where exactly had the twelve bolts from the back of the van come from? And how did they connect back to Phil?

  If someone wanted to kill Phil when he was in Los Angeles, they might have followed him to the fabric district and jumped him while he was loading the van. Stacking the fabric on top of him would have served to hide his presence, but why would they have used the wrong fabric? Why would they have bothered with the fabric at all?

  The fact that Phil’s body was buried under fabric told me one thing: whoever killed Phil knew that he was going to show up at the fabric distributor. I already knew that Rick knew. He’d told me this afternoon. He could have murdered Phil and staged the van to fit his story.

  For every detail that I didn’t know about, there was one thing that I did. Fabric. I needed to see the fabric that had been in the van and find out for myself if it was what I’d expected to arrive in San Ladrón.

  Depending on how close the weave was to what I’d requested, I would figure out in no time if it wasn’t what I’d ordered. That was one of the benefits to growing up around material. My aunt and uncle had taught me the difference between weaves by the touch of my fingers. At first it was a simple identification game: close my eyes and name the fabric content. I mastered that at five years old. My mom thought it was cute, but Millie decided to cultivate my talent. We moved to the difference between pure fabrics and blends, and, when I mastered those, she challenged me to break down the fabric content by percentage. That’s how I knew the ten percent polyester in my velvet would increase the drape and help the material hold its color.

  If given the chance to inspect the fabric that Sheriff Clark was holding, I could determine if it was what I ordered or not, but that wasn’t what concerned me. What concerned me was whether or not there was an identifier like a warehouse name or a factory that would lead me to where exactly the fabric had originated, or whose hands it had passed through.

  Everything I’d learned about the murder of Phil Girard was scattered around me in a patchwork of information, like pattern pieces that needed to be assembled into a garment. It was up to me to figure out how they all fit together.