Crushed Velvet

by Diane Vallere

  I opened the front door and looked across the street at Jitterbug. As long as I knew Rick Penwald’s routine, it seemed a good idea to keep an eye out for him. There were no black trucks in sight. I closed the door and headed back through the kitchen and the back door and unrolled the carpet. Time for my experiment.

  I stood several feet away from the carpet and took pictures of it, establishing the appearance before I dumped tea on it. I went back inside and filled an empty container from the cupboard with water from the tap. An old bottle of green food coloring sat on a shelf with colorful sugar crystals and spices. If I was going far enough to conduct the experiment, I might as well make sure the results were easy to identify. I poured a small amount into the container and tendrils of emerald green bloomed in the water. I swirled the container until it was an even shade of St. Patrick’s Day.

  Outside, I poured half of the water on the carpet, set the container down so you could see it was still half-full, stood back, and took a picture. The stain wasn’t nearly as big as the stain in the back of the van. I dumped the rest of the green liquid on the carpet, set the container down, and resumed the photo shoot. I heard the latch on the gate out front as I took the last of the pictures.

  I didn’t want to have to answer questions about what I was doing. I shoved my phone back into my jeans and doubled the carpet over itself twice just as Kim pushed her bicycle around the side of the building.

  She seemed surprised to see me. “I didn’t expect you to be here already.”

  “I wanted to get an early start.”

  “If you want me to show up earlier, I can.”

  Considering we’d moved from can-Genevieve-still-afford-to-pay-her to will-Genevieve-turn-up-by-payday, I didn’t think it was in my best interest to extend the new employee’s hours.

  “You should stick to whatever you and Genevieve agreed to.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What are you doing with that carpet?”

  “It had a stain on it, so I’m throwing it out.”

  “Want help?” she asked and made a move to grab the end.

  “No!” I yanked it out of her reach. “I can handle it. I bought some sanding supplies, so you can work on the furniture.”

  “Okay. There’s one thing I have to do first.” She headed inside while I used determination and a good hard shove to move the carpet from the ground to inside the Dumpster. It stood on end, the bound edge jutting out above the rim. I rested the black rubber lid on top of the edge of the carpet. An opening of about six inches would allow us to fit in anything else we needed to toss.

  I scanned the area for traces of my experiment. Some of the green water had seeped through the carpet and left a splotch on the back sidewalk. I ran the bottom of my boot over it, but nothing happened. Maybe it was fresh enough for me to douse with water. I headed to the back door with the empty pitcher, prepared to fill it with tap water to flush the sidewalk clean.

  Only, I couldn’t get to the faucet. Kim stood hunched over the white double bowl sink, emptying all of the pitchers of tea from the refrigerator down the drain.

  Eleven

  I ran to the sink. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Kim pushed me out of the way. “I’m emptying out the fridge.”

  “Who told you to do that?”

  “The shop’s been closed for a few days and everything is probably bad. There’s no reason to have it sitting around.”

  I’d had the very same idea, dumping the tea that might have poisoned Phil. I hadn’t done it because I wanted to believe in Genevieve’s innocence. And now that the tea was down the drain, it didn’t really matter. If it was evidence of something against her, it was gone. Still, Kim’s actions bothered me. Why was she inside dumping the tea when her task was to sand and prep the iron furniture out back?

  I looked around the kitchen. “Did you throw away anything else?”

  “No, there wasn’t anything else to throw out. I figured you took care of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yesterday there was a big plastic bin with wax envelopes of tea. Croissants, too. Now they’re gone.”

  I turned my head to the right, and then to the left, scanning for traces of Genevieve’s tea. That’s what was wrong. The tea and the pastries that Genevieve moved from the front of the café to the kitchen each night when she closed were all gone.

  When I had first started coming to Tea Totalers, I watched Genevieve flip through a small repurposed French armoire filled with parchment-paper envelopes of loose tea. She sprinkled the contents of an envelope onto a square of cheesecloth, clamped it shut, and steeped it in hot water. She kept larger quantities of the dried tea leaves in rubber bins behind the counter and brewed them in batches to serve as the daily special. That’s what had been in the refrigerator. But today, the drawers of the armoire were empty and the rubber containers were gone. I opened the refrigerator and checked the plastic bins for the herbs that had been there on Monday. They were empty, too.

  I had an uneasy feeling that someone had been inside Tea Totalers between last night and this morning. Maybe Topo di Sali had broken in and stolen Genevieve’s tea when she refused his offer to buy. Or maybe Kim had thrown out more than she’d admitted to. If so, was she playing me to see how I’d react?

  “Vaughn and I cleaned up after you left yesterday. We carried out bags and bags of garbage. I wonder if we accidentally threw it away. I’ll have to ask him when I see him.”

  “Is he going to help us again today?”

  “No, today we’re on our own.”

  “Oh.” She stood by the sink, her back pressed up against the counter. Today her pink T-shirt had a picture of a kitten in the middle of it. Her ill-fitting pink jeans sat low on her hips, this time exposing the waistband of floral cotton panties.

  Being enamored of the fashions of the twenties and thirties as I was, I’d never been much of a fan of the whole show-your-underwear trend. It was so prevalent on the streets of downtown LA that I’d come to identify strangers by the brand they wore. White Cotton Boxer, Navy Blue Jockey. Little Red Devil was the only nickname I used to someone’s face. The guy who worked at the convenience store by the corner of my old apartment building gained notoriety—and the nickname—when his jeans fell down around his ankles while he was making change. From that day on he wore a belt, but the nickname stuck.

  “We should get started. I’m going to be in here working on installing the fabric I brought. Are you okay out back with the sanding?”

  “Sure.”

  Kim assembled the sander and found an extension cord. She ran it through the back door, which meant I couldn’t shut her out from inside. When I heard the buzz of the handheld device, I filled the steamer with water and plugged it in. I checked the photos of my experiment on my phone while the steamer warmed up.

  First I cued up the photo from inside the van and used my fingers in a reverse pinching action to blow up the detail of the tipped tea pitcher. Next I moved to the photos I took out back in my spilled tea experiment. It was obvious that the second photo, with the entire container of tea spilled on the carpet, was the stain that matched the inside of the van. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  I looked out the window. Kim had her blond hair up in a ponytail on top of her head. She wore a pair of clear safety glasses over her eyes and used the small sander to scrub away at the finish on the iron table. By the looks of it, she was absorbed in her project. I pushed a chair against the back door, making sure it didn’t blow open any farther than it was, and used Genevieve’s phone to call the sheriff’s mobile unit.

  “Sheriff’s office,” said a familiar voice.

  “Deputy Sheriff Clark, this is Poly Monroe. I have something I think you need to see.”

  “You’re calling from Tea Totalers?”

  “Yes. Can you come to the tea shop?”

  “
Is Mrs. Girard with you?”

  “No.”

  “How long are you going to be there?”

  “Most of the day.”

  “I’ll be there after noon.”

  After I hung up, I copied the photos to Genevieve’s hard drive and e-mailed them to myself as backup. I closed down the Internet window and turned off the monitor. It was slightly after ten. Time to get to work.

  I moved into the store and flipped through the curtain panels I’d made. At the time, it had been little more than a project to take my mind off bigger problems, but it had gotten me back in touch with my love of combining textiles, creating a warm, cozy world with fibers, fabrics, and imagination.

  The fabric colors and prints that I’d chosen for Tea Totalers complemented each other nicely. I used three different toiles de jouy: a pretty yellow, blue, and cream pattern; a cream and white; and a blue and white. I added a soft blue chambray and a cream jacquard. To add dimension to the color palette, I finished with a multicolored Provençal that captured the lush florals of France. Images of yellow roses and pink ribbons danced across a white background with green leaves. The curtain panels were all lined in a yellow-and-white gingham, which I also planned to use inside the store on the seat cushions and napkins.

  I measured the circumference of the existing curtain rods, folded the fabric toward the front, and pinned along the fabric, creating a pocket through which to thread the curtain rod. When I finished pinning, I stitched the fabric into place, threaded the rod through the pocket, and set the curtain rod back on the wall-mounted supports. I stepped down from the chair and stood back. Aside from the wrinkles, the curtain was close to perfect.

  I debated on whether or not it would be better to hang all of the curtains and then steam them, or hang and steam one at a time. I decided on the latter, impatient as I was to see how the curtains would look when finished. It took me longer to get from one window to the next, but by the time I had the west-facing wall complete, I could see how well my fabric choice complemented the butter color Genevieve had painted the shop when she first moved in. Alternating complementary fabrics created the effect that Tea Totalers had been here for generations. The mismatched fabrics worked together to give the interior warmth and timelessness, like a French cottage. I lost myself in the project and didn’t hear Kim enter the room.

  “It’s like another world in here,” she said.

  I was steaming out the last of the curtains and turned to look at her. The steam shot onto the back of my hand and I dropped the steamer. Water sprayed the bottom of the curtain.

  Kim rushed forward. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, just clumsy.” I stepped down from the chair and moved the steamer from the floor to the windowsill. “That’s probably a sign that it’s time for a break. What do you think? Do you want to stop and get some lunch?”

  “I’m kind of on a roll outside. But you can go get something if you want. I’ll stay here.”

  Before I had a chance to answer, I heard a knock on the front door. I crossed the room and opened it, finding Deputy Sheriff Clark out front.

  “Ms. Monroe,” he said. “May I come in and talk to you?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Kim, but she wasn’t there. To keep things confidential, I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me. “Let’s talk out here. The windows are all covered inside and it’s pretty dark.”

  I followed Clark down three concrete stairs. Like the morning, I scanned the lot across the street, looking for Rick’s truck. It wasn’t there. Clark looked around my head at the store and back at me. “Tell me again what you’re doing here?”

  “Renovations.”

  “I don’t see any paint cans.”

  “It’s not that kind of renovation.” At his confusion, I continued. “I’m making over the interior of the tea shop with fabric. Curtains, seat cushions, napkins, placemats. Serving trays, wall hangings.”

  “Is Mrs. Girard paying you for the fabric? Or for your time?”

  “I’m donating both.”

  “Seems like a costly donation.”

  “Genevieve is my friend, and this will help me out as much as it helps her. My store opens on Sunday.” I pulled a coupon out of my back pocket. “Maybe you want to stop by and check it out?”

  He glanced at the coupon. I kept it out in front of me until he finally took it. “This,” I said, gesturing to the curtains, “is advertising. It’s a perfect way to show people how important fabric is in decorating. When the store opens, I plan to run classes to teach people how to start with a concept and build a mood board and make it into a reality. Fabric is inspiring.”

  “What happened to her outdoor furniture?” he asked, looking at the bare yard. “Are you going to sew her a couple of tables and chairs?”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “It’s out back. It seemed as though it could use a freshening up to match the interior.”

  He nodded his head as though he agreed, but the slight crease in his forehead and the distant look in his eyes told me he hadn’t been paying much attention to our conversation. He appeared to be looking for evidence that Genevieve was there, or had been there, or was going to be there.

  “Sheriff, I have something to show you.” I cued up the photos on my iPhone and blew up the detail of the photo from the back of the van. “See this? It’s from the back of the van the morning Phil Girard was found.”

  A shadow crossed Clark’s face, probably because he didn’t like that I’d taken that picture. “Is this about your fabric again?”

  “No, it’s not.” I slid the photo to the side with my index finger and enlarged the image of the tea container. “That’s one of Genevieve’s tea containers.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, good. See this stain? That’s spilled tea. See the size of it?” He nodded. I flipped to the photos I took that morning. “I ran an experiment this morning. This is a carpet with half a jug of water spilled on it. And this next one is with all of the water on it. Notice anything?”

  I handed my phone to him. He stared at the phone and used his fingers in the same reverse pinch, blowing up the detail. I held my breath, waiting for him to reach the same conclusion I had. “Why’s it green?”

  “Food coloring.”

  After he’d flipped back and forth between the two pictures, he handed my phone back to me.

  “Ms. Monroe, what are you trying to prove here?”

  “That the tea in the container spilled into the back of the van. If Phil didn’t drink the tea, he couldn’t have been poisoned by it.”

  His expression changed with a flash of excitement, like a contestant on Final Jeopardy who is an expert on the category. “I thought you wanted me to check your fabric for a death mask. Why do you think poison was the cause of death?”

  “You said you were going to run a tox screen.”

  “Phil Girard’s stomach was empty, so I already know he didn’t drink the tea. That doesn’t interest me nearly as much as you suspecting that the tea Mrs. Girard made for her husband was poisoned.”

  “No! I didn’t say that. I was just saying if you thought he was poisoned, it couldn’t have been the tea, because he didn’t drink the tea. So you shouldn’t be concerned by the tea.”

  “The tea isn’t my concern. I already know it wasn’t poisoned. What concerns me is the fact that I have five witnesses who can place Genevieve Girard in Los Angeles on Sunday night.”

  Twelve

  It couldn’t be. Genevieve had told me she was afraid she poisoned Phil, but she’d never mentioned anything about following Phil to Los Angeles. Why would she confess to an accidental murder and not confess to any surrounding actions that placed her directly in the scope of means, motive, and opportunity?

  Clark pointed at my phone. “Ms. Monroe, those pictures indicate that you intend to disregard my request to stay out of m
y investigation in order to try to help your friend. If you want to help Mrs. Girard, tell her to talk to me. The longer she waits, the worse things are going to be for her.”

  I stood as straight as I could, which, at five foot nine plus the heels on my boots, put me eye to eye with Clark. “If I see her, I’ll tell her.”

  We stood in a Mexican standoff for a few seconds. “I mean it, Ms. Monroe: stay out of this, for your own safety.”

  I expected Clark to punctuate his command with an abrupt turn and departure, but instead he approached the building and opened the door. He leaned inside and scanned the interior. After a few seconds, he closed the door, descended the concrete stairs, and walked around the side of the building. I followed a few steps behind.

  When I caught up with him, he was running his open palm over the iron table. The mouse sander sat on the sidewalk. Kim wasn’t there. Clark looked at the fine white dust that covered his hand, and then smacked both of his hands together. Tiny particles of sanded-off paint exploded from his hands and filled the air. It smelled like chalk. It caught in my throat and I coughed.

  “Are you working on this renovation by yourself?”

  “No, I have a couple of helpers,” I answered.

  “Anybody I know?”

  I figured it was as good a time as any to name-drop. “Vaughn McMichael,” I said.

  He nodded. “That’s right, he mentioned that yesterday. Anybody else?”

  “You saw Vaughn yesterday? When?” He held my stare but didn’t answer me. “Yes, there is somebody else. Kim Matheson. M-A-T-H-E-S-O-N,” I spelled.

  He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and jotted the name down. “He? She?”

  “She.”

  “Is she here?”

  “She was. I don’t know where she went.” I considered things for a second. And then lowered my voice. “Sheriff, Kim showed up the morning Phil was murdered. When I told her she should try to find other work, she got very insistent that people expected her to be working here. And I don’t know if this means anything or not, but she has a parole officer.”