Silk Stalkings (11 page)

Under any other
circumstances, I would have canceled where I was going and gone back inside with Charlie to get the story. Today, I couldn't. Across the street the twenty contestants were filing into Material Girl. There was no way I was leaving my business in the hands of Giovanni.

“We need to talk about this. I'll come to your shop tonight. Don't make plans,” I said.

“I already have plans. Don't expect me to be alone when you show up.”

The walk signal changed to a countdown. I withheld the reaction Charlie had no doubt wanted and jogged across the street before the light changed again.

Giovanni met me at the door. “You didn't learn about long lunches from me,” he said.

“Get out of my way.”

The afternoon activities were simple. The seamstresses
mocked up versions of the dresses from the muslin and checked the fit. Once that step was complete, the contestant was free to go—if she wanted. The seamstresses would continue to work until Giovanni called it a day. Depending on how far we got, I'd have to call in my ace in the hole and get rooms at the Waverly House. I had a feeling we were going to need them.

After working things out with Adelaide, I leaned backward and spun the phone around, then started to dial again. I stopped before I finished and turned to Giovanni. “A little privacy, please?”

“Does this have to do with the pageant?”

“It has to do with business,” I said. “What did you do at To the Nines while we were all working?”

“You'd be surprised.” He walked to the wall of silk and rearranged a couple of colors.

I called the number. Beth Fields answered. “How's everything going today?” she asked.

“It's great. The girls are working with the seamstresses now.”

“They're young ladies, not girls.”

“I'm sorry. Nolene told me that but I keep forgetting. I didn't mean anything derogatory—”

“I know,” she said. “It comes down from our legal department. We can't stop what the public says, but everybody attached to the pagent is to only refer to them as ‘young women,' ‘young ladies,' or ‘contestants.' We don't want anybody saying that there's an impropriety attached to the competition.”

I thought back to the first time Nolene had corrected me, and the story I'd heard about Violet's daughter. “I'll make more of an effort. I think we're going to be working well into tomorrow, so I made arrangements for the seamstresses to stay over at the Waverly House.”

“That's a good idea. Send me the bill and we'll reimburse you. Or do you want a cashier's check? I can leave it with the security guard and you can pick it up tonight. How's that?”

“There's a security guard at Halliwell Industries? Until what time?”

“We keep a guard around the clock.”

“Does anybody else work late?”

“Until the pageant is over, Nolene will be here most nights. The crew setting up for the pageant has been putting in extra hours, and there are a couple of people in the labs and the greenhouses, too. The rest of the offices empty out at six, six thirty. Why?”

“No reason,” I lied.

“I'll leave the money at the security desk. You can pick it up any time.”

I thanked Beth, and hung up.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of colored silk, thread, and an assortment of languages. Most of Giovanni's seamstresses spoke English as their second language, and in the interest of making sure the dresses were exactly what each contestant wanted, there was a lot of overcommunication. By the time six o'clock rolled around, I was sure everyone in the workroom had picked up a few new words, whether they were Russian, Chinese, Korean, or Mexican. Giovanni, of course had defaulted to his usual Italian repertoire of “
Basta!
” and “
Piu veloce!
” which we'd all come to learn he used for “done” or “speed it up.”

Even though I'd barely moved during the course of the day, by the time the young women left, I was exhausted and needed a shower. I wanted to get back to Charlie's to find out more about her relationship with Lucy, and I was more than a little curious about my trip to Halliwell Industries.

I scanned the workstation. The seamstresses showed no signs of stopping. “Quitting time is usually five o'clock. How long are they going to keep working?” I asked Giovanni.

“As long as it takes.”

“I made arrangements for them to stay overnight at the
Waverly House. You can have dinner there, too. The whole thing's being paid for by the pageant, so you don't need to worry about the expense.”

“They can knock these dresses out by”—he looked at his watch—“ten o'clock tonight.”

“This isn't
Project Runway
. Someone could win or lose based on her dress. I don't want the women to spread themselves too thin and make a mistake that ends up costing someone the crown. The muslins are complete, and the young women have had their first fitting. They're not due back until noon tomorrow. We have all morning to get the dresses sewn. Why not let them enjoy themselves for an evening?”

“What's to enjoy?”

I looked back at the ladies in the workroom. Jun was comparing notes with Eiko, a Korean lady. They were about the same height—less than five feet tall—and were laughing like long-lost friends. Another lady pulled several plastic containers of candy out of her tote bag and passed them around. This wasn't just a job for them, this was a mini-vacation. A break from the workroom where they usually spent their Monday through Friday, a break from the families they tended to when they went home, a break from the cheap fabrics Giovanni expected them to use, and a break from the repetition of producing the same gown in a range of sizes.

“They seem so happy. What did you tell them before they came here?” I asked.

Giovanni grumbled something.

“Excuse me?”

“I told them we were coming to work with you for a few days.” I couldn't have suppressed my smile if he'd paid me. “You don't have to be so happy about it,” he said.

I left Giovanni with the women and went upstairs to freshen up. Throughout the course of the day, the seamstresses had
come upstairs to use the powder room. I hadn't known it at the time, but many had left small presents for me. I found a container of freshly baked cookies on the kitchen counter and a Tupperware bowl of fresh tamales in the fridge. A jar of sun tea sat on the windowsill next to the Spritzdekor pitchers my aunt and uncle had collected in the thirties. And dear, sweet Eiko, who knew my real weakness, had brought a box of cream puffs from Beard Papa's. Good thing I'd already worn the champagne dress. When I finished eating their presents, it would never fit.

The dress had been hung on the valet stand next to the closet—I probably had my mom to thank for that. I ran my fingers over the delicate beadwork on the shoulders. I finally knew its history. Vaughn had taken my sketch to Jun to have the dress made.

“Mister Vaughn say you look very beautiful in the dress,” said Jun. I hadn't heard her approach.

“You did a wonderful job interpreting my sketch. But how did you know it would fit me?”

“I watch you when you first come to San Ladrón. I like fabric and want to see inside of shop. When I see you, I understand Mister Vaughn's description.”

I refused to take the bait. I remembered the woman who had been in Material Girl earlier in the week. “Do you have a lot of regular customers?”

“Ladies in San Ladrón bring me fabric to make dresses for their families. I happy you have pretty fabrics. I send many ladies to you.”

“Did you send a woman and her little dog to me?

“Yes. Your shop good excuse for me to get her here.”

An idea came to me, much like the idea of a happy hour that I'd had at Duke's. “Jun, earlier you said you might want to retire soon. If you did, would you consider coming here one day a week and being available for walk-in projects? I'd pay you, of course. I could advertise your services to people
who didn't want to learn to sew themselves, and you could have your own space here so you wouldn't have to carry your table and sewing machine back and forth.”

Jun smiled. “The ladies with the loud man say you will be nice to me. I like idea. I think about it.”

“Thank you.”

While Jun took her turn in the bathroom, I hunted through the apartment for the cats. I found them curled up on shelves in the hall closet. Pins was on the third shelf up and Needles was one above him. How they'd gotten to where they were, I'd never know.

•   •   •

After escorting Giovanni and company to the Waverly House, I showered and changed into a black hooded tunic, leggings, and black-and-white checkered sneakers. I hopped in my car and drove to Halliwell Industries. It was after eight. The sun was dropping and the temperature went with it. I was happy for the warmth of my hoodie. This time the lot was more empty than full. Most of the cars were parked by the edge of the lot closest to the path that led to the buildings. I eased into a vacant space.

A sidewalk ran down the center of the complex, with a building in front of me and one on either side. What I could see of each building's foyer was dark. If there was a security officer somewhere on the premises, he wasn't exactly visible. But it didn't make sense. Why would Beth have told me that it was fine to come tonight if it wasn't?

I stepped off the main path and crossed over the grass to the right of the building in front of me. In the distance, I spotted a greenhouse, and behind it were rows of orange chairs lined up facing a small platform stage. As I neared it, I noticed strands of white lights strung above the chairs in row after row. When plugged in, they would provide ample illumination for the pageant.

In contrast to the dark buildings, light spilled out of the glass panels that made up the greenhouse. As I grew closer, I saw the shadowy silhouette of a woman inside, moving along the length of the interior. She noticed me at the same time. She walked to the door and threw it open, and faced me, holding a large silver machete in her fist.

“Who are you?”
she demanded. She wore a white surgical mask, and her words came out muffled. “What do you want?”

Moisture seeped out of the greenhouse. Combined with the drop in temperature, it left me feeling cold and sticky. I rubbed my hands over my arms to try to warm up. I was too close to turn around but too unsure of my situation to advance forward.

“I'm Poly Monroe. Beth Fields told me the security officer was holding money for me, but I don't know which building I'm supposed to go to.”

The woman stood still for a few seconds, then turned away and set the machete on the edge of a wooden table in the middle of the greenhouse. She waved me forward. “It's gotten cold outside and I can't keep this door open for long.”

I stepped into the greenhouse and she shut the door behind me. She reached up to her face and pulled the surgical mask down so it dangled around her neck.

“I'm Inez Platt,” she said. “I work with the plants.”

Giovanni had described Inez from when she was Miss Tangorli, and, aside from a series of scars on her cheeks, her beauty had not diminished with age. Her thick black hair was secured in a low ponytail and wide brown eyes were framed with long lashes and expertly shaped brows. She had an oval face with high cheekbones.

But the scars would have been hard to hide. A series of hash marks ran down the side of her cheeks. I didn't want to stare, but I couldn't imagine what had happened to leave the odd pattern burned into her flesh.

Inez walked in front of me toward a row of trees. She indicated the greenery that filled the interior of the greenhouse. “You haven't heard of me, have you?” she said.

“Only a little. I recognize your name, but to be fair, I'm not from San Ladrón. I've only moved here recently, and I've never seen you before.”

“If you plan to spend any time in San Ladrón over the next week, you'll hear about me.” She ran her fingers over the hash marks on her face, as if she needed to feel the scars to remind herself they were there.

“What happened?” I asked.

“An explosion at one of the factories in China. It was a publicity trip. Harvey and I were supposed to both be in the field but he asked me to stop off at the greenhouse to check on the plants. It was hot that day. The sun was so very bright. It was a freak thing, really. The scientists who had been working had left out a vat of acid to use to clean the grafting equipment. Nobody realized the heat lamps in the greenhouse were aimed at the acid. When I picked up a basket of Tangorli, the vat tipped and spilled on me. The acid ate through my skin and left me—like this.”

“But the marks—they're like an imprint—”

“It was the texture of the towel I used to blot my skin.
The acid burned away my flesh. The grid from the weave left an impression on my face.”

I winced as she told me the story, imagining the sensation of the acid eating through her skin.

“I was rushed to a hospital, but it was too late. They were able to do a few skin grafts to minimize the scarring, but we all knew I'd never have the face I had when I won the pageant.”

“Were you angry?”

“At first I was—very. But imagine the irony. I wouldn't have been in that field if not for my face, and being in that field at that moment was what destroyed my face. It was almost poetic. I knew I had a chance to take my position and teach people that beauty is more than skin deep, which was why I entered the pageant in the first place. There was an insurance settlement, which I used for my education. I studied genetics and fruit splicing and Mr. Halliwell gave me a job in his laboratory.”

“Do people know you work here?” At her confused expression, I clarified my question. “The pageant contestants? The media? Your story is so special.”

“People know. The last time the media paid attention, they wrote a whole article about me. Do you want to know the title? ‘The Tragedy of Inez Platt.'”

“Tragedy? But because of the contest, you became a botanist and now you work for the very company that sponsored the pageant. I would think you'd be an inspiration.”

“People see different things when they look at me. I wanted to be an inspiration to women. I wanted to make a difference. Now I make my difference from behind the scenes.”

I glanced down at Inez's hands. The scarring had marred the flesh on her hands as well as her face. A discoloration of pigmentation snaked up over her fingers, as if she'd dipped them in paint. She balled her fists up and stuffed them into the pockets of her lab coat.

“It took a long time, but I understand why people treat me the way they do. It's one of the reasons I work in the greenhouse. I'm one of the truly lucky people. I'm surrounded by natural beauty every day, and the trees don't mind that I have a few scars.”

She walked to the wall and flipped a switch. I heard a series of sounds, like metal against metal, followed by the flush of water. Within seconds, a light mist filled the air.

“I hope you don't mind the moisture,” she said. “It's warm in here, but the plants require water almost constantly.”

“As long as it's warm, I'm okay,” I said, remembering the chill to the air earlier.

While she tinkered around, adjusting the nozzles on the misters, I wandered the perimeter of the greenhouse. She was right; it was like a jungle. The dry chill from outside had been replaced by a tropical climate. Coupled with the view of the lush green trees that lined the walls of the greenhouse and the plants that hung from bamboo rods suspended across the interior, I felt like I'd left San Ladrón and arrived in South America.

“I don't want to disturb your work. It's getting late and you probably want to finish what you're doing and get home.”

She laughed. “This is my home.” When she saw my shocked expression, she laughed again. “I don't mean that I live here, I mean that working with these plants has become my life.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“For Harvey? Since the accident.” She gestured toward her face. “I know what you must think. Why would I want to work for the man who basically disfigured me?”

“I wasn't thinking that at all,” I said.

“Why shouldn't you? Everybody else does. When I do head into town, I hear them. It gets worse during pageant time, so I mostly stay here. My name comes up in conversation, or in the occasional ‘Where are they now?' feature in
the newspaper. At least it did until Harvey made them stop. I never liked being the center of attention. Even before the accident.”

Inez moved around the plants on the tables in the center of the room and adjusted branches and vines here and there. Wooden skewers sat on the end of the table, along with a black marker and a pile of index cards.

“Still, it's getting late. Can you tell me where I can find the security guard?” I asked.

She turned her back on the plant. “The security guard went home hours ago.”

“But Beth told me there was security around the clock.”

“There used to be. I don't know, maybe Beth thinks there still is. Six months ago I made arrangements with Mr. Halliwell to be alone at night while I conduct experiments for him. Since then, it's been just me and my staff. We keep an eye out on the place.”

“Where's your staff? I didn't see anybody else here.”

“The trees are my staff,” she said with a laugh.

I was starting to wonder if Inez had lost more than her beauty-pageant looks during her accident. I backed away from her. “Can you tell me which building I'll want to go to for my check tomorrow?”

She pulled the surgical mask off from around her neck and set it on the table. “There's no need for you to come back. I'll take you there myself.” She pulled a set of keys from a small box behind a bowl of small river rocks and tucked them into the pocket of her white lab coat. “Follow me.” She went around the back of the greenhouse. A small golf cart was parked behind the building.

“This will be faster than walking,” she said. She started up the cart and drove us to the building on the farthest side of the site. She parked on the grass next to the front door and let us inside.

In the foyer of the building was a large marble semicircle,
behind which was an empty black cushioned chair. A coffee mug sat on the desk. Inez moved around to the back of the desk, opening and closing drawers until she found one with a white envelope. “Polyester Monroe,” she said. “Your full name is Polyester?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was born in the fabric store, on a bed of polyester.”

“It could have been worse,” she said. “You could have been born on a bed of fleece.”

She had a point.

I took the envelope and peeked at the contents. Inside was a cashier's check from Halliwell Industries made out for half of the sum we'd discussed. I folded the envelope and put it into my bag.

“Is that all you need?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you should go. I need to get back to the plants. Are you parked close?”

“In the lot out front. I can take it from here.”

I said good-bye to Inez and left. She stayed behind. As I drove back to Material Girl, I wondered about her private access to the lab at night and how she'd arranged for the security guard to be gone. I wondered if she really was okay with having been scarred at a photo shoot. I wondered how hard it must be for her to see her pre-accident likeness used on the side of Tangorli juice containers all over the state.

And I also wondered about the mug of coffee on the desk of the absent security guard.