Crushed Velvet (5 page)

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.

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.

When he returned, I was in the front of the café taking the curtain rods down from the walls. Another couple walked up to the front door and tried to open it. The woman pressed her face up to the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes. I climbed down from the bunker where I'd been standing and walked over to the door. I tapped on the glass behind the sign and said, “Renovations.” She said something to the man she was with and they left.

“I don't want to tell you how to do what you're doing, but if you want the renovations to be a surprise, maybe you should block out the windows so people can't see inside.”

“Block them out with what? I only brought the fabric I'm going to use. Once the curtains are up, people are going to see them.”

“I can get you a roll of butcher paper from the hardware store and help you hang it. It'll take most of the morning, but it'll give you a bigger reveal once you're done.”

I studied Vaughn's face. As far as renovations went, he had a point. And blocking out the windows might not be a bad idea if anybody came snooping around the shop looking for Genevieve. Win-win.

“Thanks. Do you want some money?” I asked before remembering Vaughn's wealth.

“That's the nicest thing you've ever asked me,” he said. “But no, thanks. I think I can cover it.”

He left out the back door. I didn't know how long it would take him to return, so I had to act quickly.

I went to the back office. Genevieve's inbox was overflowing with invoices. I flipped past half a dozen and got distracted by a flyer announcing a party at the Waverly House.

The Waverly House was a restored Victorian mansion that housed an exhibit of photos and local memorabilia from the town's early days as a citrus supplier. The staff held a monthly murder mystery party and boasted one of the best restaurants around. Vaughn McMichael's seventy-year-old mother, Adelaide, ran the landmark-turned-museum.

Below the flyer were shopping lists and recipes. The piece of paper Kim had dropped still sat by the keyboard. In light of everything else going on, I wondered if there was another reason she showed up when she did.

I abandoned the inbox and jiggled the mouse. The files that had been left open were now closed. I launched an Internet browser and searched for a listing for “Special Delivery trucking company.” I couldn't find a website, but a handful of favorable reviews showed up on Yelp. As I scrolled through the reviews of Rick's delivery service, I heard a knock on the front door. I waited a few seconds, expecting the person to go away. The knocking became more insistent. I powered off Genevieve's monitor and went to open the door. A squat man in a navy blue jog suit that zipped up the front stood outside. He had short black hair worn in a Julius Caesar style.

“The shop is closed for renovations,” I said, pointing at
the sign. “Jitterbug is across the street and Lopez Donuts is about a mile down Bonita.”