Crushed Velvet Page 5

  • • •

  The alarm went off at five thirty. I was already awake, thanks to the sunlight streaming through the windows that faced Bonita Avenue. I liked waking up with the sun and kept the curtains open for that very reason. I shifted to the middle of the bed and stretched my arms out on either side.

  Most of the apartment had been decorated with Victorian antiques that matched the style of the building, but the bedroom had, at one point, benefited from Aunt Millie’s taste and talent in the form of her own glamorous fabric makeover. When I wasn’t sleeping in the queen sleigh bed, it was dressed in a white-on-white jacquard duvet cover, accented with an ivory velvet throw blanket lined in washed silk. The headboard was an elaborate piece of inlaid walnut and chestnut. The armoire matched the headboard and the two nightstands that flanked the bed. Smaller accent pillows trimmed in marabou, ostrich feathers, and fringe, decorated with vintage pins, were stacked on the chaise.

  Aunt Millie had taught me that glamour didn’t need to be relegated to the closet, and the same ideas of personal decoration that women had relied on in the first half of the last century could be applied to home décor. I believed it was why she and Marius each had standing valets to hang their garments on. Their clothes acted as part of the room design.

  I kicked my feet against the cool cotton sheets. Pins and Needles were curled up by the foot of the bed, their fur pressed against each other. Pins had his gray paw wrapped around Needles’s tawny head. I liked seeing them so close. Even with the great expanse of the queen-sized bed, they wanted reassurance that they still had each other, like they did the day Vaughn McMichael had found them in the Dumpster behind the fabric shop.

  The first time I met Vaughn, he helped me get through a very narrow window. Along with the unexpected push from behind, I popped through the window and crashed into him, knocking us both onto the floor. Since then he’d brought me dinner, given me answers about my family, and seen me in my underwear. I didn’t have him figured out yet, but I’d seen more to him than what was on the surface. And because of the underwear thing, he could say the same about me.

  The sheets were cool and soft against my skin, and still smelled of the clean fresh air that had dried them after I’d hung them out back. And even though I was learning to sleep in the middle, sometime during the night I gravitated to the right, the side I’d usually slept on when I had shared a bed with my now-ex-boyfriend in Los Angeles.

  Waking in this apartment felt like waking in a different era. It was one of the reasons most of my belongings were still occupying a storage unit in Burbank by my parents’ house instead of here. I didn’t want traces of my old life to creep into my new one. Breaking up with my boyfriend, quitting my job, and moving to San Ladrón were all part of my future. I hadn’t even been looking for a new life, but when it had found me, I couldn’t deny it.

  I tossed the covers back and sat up. In addition to the scent of the fresh air that clung to the sheets, I detected something new. Coffee. And sugar. I stood up and slid my feet into plush slippers. I gathered my nightgown in my hands and scampered across the hallway to the living room, where Genevieve had fallen asleep on the sofa. The covers were folded in a neat pile.

  “Genevieve?” I called out.

  “In the kitchen,” she replied. I followed the aroma and found her dredging slices of bread in an egg bath. “Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “No, the sun woke me. What’s this?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Preparing food calms me.” She poured a mug of coffee and handed it to me. “After what I told you, I figured you wouldn’t want tea,” she said.

  “I’ll drink your tea any time you want to make it for me.” I took a sip of coffee. She turned her back on me and pulled two slices of bread out of a skillet. She picked up a piece of paper that had been formed into a cone shape along one end, tipped it, and a dusting of sugar sprinkled onto the toast. She set the plate on the table in front of me.

  “I didn’t see any powdered sugar, but I prefer granulated sugar with French toast.”

  “What’s that paper thing?”

  “Makeshift shaker. I used toothpicks to poke holes in the end of the paper, and I turned the other side into a cone. I pour the dry sugar into the cone and shake it out on top of the toast. When it’s all done I pour the sugar back into the bag and throw the paper out. Sanitary and effective.”

  I sliced into the toast with the side of the fork and bit into it. “Mmmmm. This isn’t like any French toast I’ve had before,” I said with my mouth full.

  She rinsed the bowl and the pan and slipped them both into the dishwasher. “I added a little cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla extract to the egg wash. It adds something special.”

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I can’t eat when I’m nervous.”

  Genevieve’s lack of appetite worked out well for me. I finished off a second helping of French toast, transferred my coffee into a to-go cup, and set my dirty dish and mug into the sink. Somehow, even though Genevieve had whipped up the most delicious breakfast I’d had in months, she managed to clean up as she went. My dirty dish was the only thing left out.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” I said to her.

  “I can’t take a chance on that being true.” She fidgeted with her sleeves for a second. “I’m going to call Mr. di Sali about selling one of my recipes. That’s the only way I can see paying the bills now.”

  “I don’t think you should make any rash decisions. Charlie said you can stay with her temporarily, until we figure things out. Give me a couple of minutes to get ready and we’ll leave.”

  I selected what amounted to my daily uniform: a composite of black, black, and black. My old job in the garment district of Los Angeles had taught me that a working fashion institute graduate was a dirty fashion institute graduate, at least at first. Black hid stains from the grease on sewing machines and drips from glue guns. It was utilitarian in a non-army sort of way. My former boss, Giovanni, had made it his business to corner the market on cheap, gaudy pageant-slash-prom dresses in colors intended for shock value. Cornflower blue, saffron yellow, hibiscus red, and bright green were fine for floral arrangements and tropical fish, but if I never saw another electric prom dress, it would be too soon.

  I traded my nightgown for a clean bra and panty set and pulled on black sailor pants and a close-fitting black boat-neck T-shirt. I slipped my feet into white deck shoes and ran down the stairs. Genevieve played with the cats in the living room. She pulled a hat down low over her blond hair and wrapped her jacket tightly around her shoulders. Out front, a police car sat in traffic. We gave him ample time to reach the light at the end of the street before running across the street to Charlie’s Automotive.

  Five

  Charlie met us on the sidewalk and ushered us into her shop. She looked up and down the street before pulling the door shut behind her.

  “Go into my office. We’ll talk there.”

  I headed past the pit, pausing for a few seconds when I recognized Vaughn’s black Mercedes. It was a coupe version of the S Class Sedan his father drove and was two feet off the ground. Tools I didn’t recognize were scattered underneath. I turned around when I reached the office and saw Genevieve standing in the middle of the garage, staring at the calendar of scantily clad firemen that hung on the wall. I doubled back, grabbed her by her elbow, and pulled her along after me.

  I’d been inside Charlie’s Automotive before, but never in her office. It was a small room, about four feet by six feet. A two-foot shelf attached to one wall served as a desk. It held a monitor, a keyboard, a clock, and a set of bobblehead Pep Boys. Pegboard hung on the far wall, holding half a dozen sets of keys, each marked with a small white tag. The desk was covered in invoices, as was a shelf above the computer monitor. A few colorful folders were sideways, on top of catalogs as thick as the yellow pages that advertised car parts I’d never heard of
.

  The door to the office shut behind us. I turned around and saw Charlie watching Genevieve. Gen was holding a five-by-seven frame that she’d picked up from the shelf. The photo showed a pinup girl in a short white sailor outfit. She saluted the camera, her smile as radiant as the sunlight captured in the background.

  “Is that you?” Genevieve asked Charlie.

  Charlie shrugged. “I used to do some modeling.” She took the frame from Genevieve’s hands and set it face side down on the shelf. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Tea Totalers is going to be closed for the week. Renovations. I’m going to handle that. Did you mean it when you said Genevieve could stay here?”

  “Why can’t I stay with you?” Genevieve asked me, confusion clouding her expression.

  “It would be too easy for the Garden sisters or Tiki Tom to notice, and you can’t take that chance.”

  “But I can’t stay here,” Genevieve said.

  “Yes, you can. There’s a guesthouse out back,” Charlie said.

  “What am I supposed to do all day?” Genevieve asked.

  “File your nails. Play solitaire on the computer. Practice how to say ‘I didn’t kill my husband’ in French.” Genevieve glared at Charlie. “Sorry, that was in poor taste, even for me.” She put her hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. “Most people leave me alone to do my thing. Use that to your benefit. Nobody’s going to come looking for you here.”

  “But—”

  Charlie looked at me. “A little help here?”

  “Charlie’s right. This place is safer for you than anywhere else. We both know you didn’t hurt Phil, but that means someone else did. Until we know who or why, we don’t know if you’re in danger. You can trust Charlie. I can vouch for that.”

  Genevieve looked back and forth between our faces. “So that’s it?”

  “For now,” I said. I waited a few seconds. “Charlie, can I talk to you for a second? Out front?” I asked.

  We left Genevieve sitting in Charlie’s black leather swivel chair, staring at the blank monitor. I closed the office door behind me.

  “Did you find out anything else from Sheriff Clark?” I asked.

  “Nope. He’s waiting for a report from the medical examiner. He’s being tight-lipped on this one.”

  “Did he talk to the van driver?”

  “He didn’t say. He’s still bent on talking to Frenchy, I know that. What’s her plan?”

  “She’s not thinking rationally. She’s so scared of losing everything, she’s actually considering selling her tea recipes.”

  “Probably not a good idea for her to sell out the day after her husband was murdered.”

  “I know. She’s terrified. You heard her last night; she thinks she killed Phil.”

  “How exactly does she think she killed him? She was here and he was there.”

  “She sent him off with a picnic basket of food and tea from the shop. The tea was made from catnip mixed with other spices and she’s afraid that’s what did him in. She doesn’t want to talk to Clark because she thinks he’s out to get her.”

  “Leave Clark to me. I’ll make sure he stays out of her hair.”

  “I don’t think ignoring the police is a good idea,” I said.

  “Oh yeah? And what if word gets out that he’s testing the tea at her store? I’m guessing that won’t be good for business.”

  I didn’t answer her, because I’d already thought through what she was hinting at. Even a hint of scandal involving Genevieve’s tea would destroy Tea Totalers, and probably any offers to buy her product would be pulled from the table.

  I turned my head away from her and stared at the car up on the rack. “That’s Vaughn’s car, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.”

  “He’s been here recently?”

  “No. He dropped off the keys last week. He said he was heading out of town and wanted me to check it out. Something about an oil leak.”

  Vaughn McMichael was the son of the richest developer in San Ladrón, which also made him Charlie’s brother. Mr. McMichael owned half of the town and had tried to buy the fabric store out from under me when I first inherited it. He’d used aggressive tactics that led me to believe he was a dangerous man. One day, teetering on the edge of independence, I showed up at his office and let him know I was not only capable of running the store, but intended to do so.

  Since then I’d written up a business plan and applied for a bank loan. The loan had come back approved, cosigned by Mr. McMichael. I didn’t know if a thank-you was in order for a favor I hadn’t requested, so I continued with my plans. On one hand, it was nice to know the businessman believed in my abilities. On the other, I knew if I failed, the store belonged to him.

  When I first met Vaughn, I was on my guard. Rich boy with a fancy college degree who thinks he can buy his way through life. Turns out I was so far off base I was like an outfielder in the minors two blocks away from the game.

  “He asked about you,” Charlie said.

  “What did he say?”

  “What is this, fifth grade?”

  “Sorry. Doesn’t matter; I really don’t care.”

  “Which is it? Does it not matter, or don’t you care?”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “Forget what? I’m the one who brought it up.”

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “I told him some things don’t change and some things do, and if he really wants to know how you’re doing he should ask you himself.” She picked up a wrench and tossed it into a pile with other tools. Metal clanged against metal and resonated against the walls. “He’s supposed to pick up his car this morning, but it’s not done yet. I’d expect a visit if I were you.”

  I turned away from her so she couldn’t see my expression. When I turned back, she had one eye narrowed and her head was tipped to the side. I felt scrutinized like a specimen in a Petri dish.

  I left the auto shop and returned to Material Girl to pick up the completed items for the French fabric makeover, and then drove the short distance to Tea Totalers.

  A cluster of people surrounded the front doors to the café. I parked around back, left the fabric in the car, and joined the crowd. I recognized a few local patrons. “Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me,” I said. I taped a handwritten sign that said Closed for Renovations to the front door. “Tea Totalers is going to be closed for the week. It’s getting a face-lift.”

  Amongst cries of “You’re kidding,” and “Figures,” I politely asked people to find another place for their morning tea and croissant fix. Several people left. One lady commented, “Renovations at a time like this! Her husband just died, poor thing. I bet she can’t even think straight.”

  “She has a point,” said a voice to my left. I turned and faced Vaughn while the crowd of annoyed customers left in search of another breakfast option.

  “Do you make a habit of popping up unexpectedly?” I asked.

  “Only when I want the element of surprise to work in my favor.”

  “I’m not that surprised. Charlie said I might see you today.”

  “You asked Charlie about me?” he asked. A half smile crept into the corners of his mouth.

  “Not exactly.” I blushed.

  His expression grew serious. “I heard about Phil Girard on the news this morning. How’s Genevieve?”

  “She’s fine.” I studied Vaughn’s expression and told the truth. “That’s a lie. She’s not fine. She’s a mess. I told her to take a few days away from the shop and let me do something nice for her while she deals with what happened.” I knew I was editing the events of the last twenty-four hours into a sanitized version of why I was there, but it was all true. It was a good place to start.

  “So . . . renovations?” he asked. He pointed to the sign I’d taped on the front door. “Do you have time for
a project this size, considering you’re opening your store this weekend?”

  “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”

  “I saw your ad in the paper and the flyers you left at Charlie’s and at Lopez Donuts. I have to admit, you advertise at all the right places.”

  I unlocked the front door and went inside. “Grand opening is under control. This is something I’ve been working on for Genevieve for a while. I wasn’t going to tell her until it was done, but in light of everything, I think it makes for good timing. If you’re not busy, I could use some help.”

  Vaughn followed me inside. Without the scent of brewing tea and pastries baking, the café lacked the warmth I’d come to expect from the usually cozy interior. The lights were off, and the mismatched faded floral curtains blocked most of the natural light. Dust had settled on the chairs that were upside down on the tables scattered around at random. I flipped the pass-through up and walked behind the counter, pushed aside the floor-to-ceiling curtains that separated the counter from the kitchen/office, and unlocked the back door. I transferred the pile of fabrics from my car into a wooden crate and carried it inside. When I reentered the kitchen, Vaughn stood by the desk with a glass of tea in his hand.

  “Don’t drink that!” I dropped the crate and rushed across the kitchen. I slapped the glass out of his hand, and it crashed to the floor and shattered into a thousand tiny, wet glass shards.

  “What did you do that for?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” I turned around and looked for a broom and dustpan. I expected Vaughn to press me to explain my odd behavior. He didn’t. He stooped down and picked up a few of the bigger pieces of glass and tossed them into a plastic trash bag, then mopped the spill up with a wad of paper towels and threw that into the plastic bag as well. He carried the bag out to the trash while I swept up the floor. His face was drawn into confusion, like he was trying to rationalize my actions but, short of declaring me unstable, couldn’t explain why I’d done what I’d done.