Silk Stalkings (7 page)

“I'm sorry we
took so long, Ms. Monroe,” Vic McMichael said. “I understand you learned some information about Harvey Halliwell's estate. For the purposes of finding out who killed him, I asked Sheriff Clark to come here so we could discuss it together.”

Clark wore his discomfort like a Halloween mask that pinched his nose. He took off his hat and stood by the side of the room. Mr. McMichael gestured to the glass table and chairs that sat in the corner of the room and Clark took a seat. Vaughn looked at me and tipped his head that direction, too. I moved from the chair opposite the desk to a chair at the table. Vaughn stood behind me and pushed my seat in. I blushed and looked up. Mr. McMichael watched his son but didn't say a word.

When we were all seated, Mr. McMichael spoke. “Sheriff Clark knows he has my full cooperation in the investigation of Harvey's murder. Harvey was my first business partner.
We parted ways early on, but that doesn't mean there was bad blood between us. On the contrary; I respected him immensely. He was a risk taker, a gambler, and a man who built an empire out of a trip to China and a transplanted tree.”

“The Tangorli tree,” I said.

“Yes. Harvey and I were at a point where we needed to either invest significant money into our business with no promise of return or dissolve. We disagreed on which direction to go and so, in the spirit of leaving it up to luck, we flipped a coin. I won. I bought out his shares and he took his money and moved to China. There was a lot of revenue coming from the Far East at the time, and the government was just starting to address the tariffs. Harvey lived in China for a few years and put his money in fruit. All of San Ladrón was built on the citrus trade, though most of the original citrus fields had been replaced by buildings, many of them mine. Harvey started with a small plot by San Ladrón Canyon. He'd brought seedlings from China and set about splicing them together to create the first Tangorli trees in the United States. That was in the seventies. When it became clear that they would thrive in our soil, he came to me for a loan.”

“But that would mean you were a part owner—” I interjected.

Mr. McMichael held up a hand. “No. Harvey was adamant about that, and I agreed with him. We'd been in business together once. We viewed things differently. He didn't want a partner, silent or not. He had a very specific business plan that involved the purchase of twenty acres of land, equipment, and the costs of importing the seedlings. The Tangorli tree doesn't grow overnight, so the investment wouldn't pay off for at least ten years, if at all.”

“That doesn't sound like a good business investment,” Vaughn said.

“Sometimes you take risks for reasons other than financial,” Mr. McMichael answered softly. “Harvey was a friend
who understood my drive. In many ways he was like me. In some, he was the opposite. You learn to appreciate the people who think you're normal when the rest of the world thinks you're a monster.”

I was silent. When I'd first arrived in San Ladrón, I was one of the people who thought of Mr. McMichael as a monster. He had been friends with my great-aunt and great-uncle, and the friendship had dissolved along the way. I knew part of that reason was Mr. McMichael's financial success and Uncle Marius's inability to accept the subsequent generosity offered to him. And when my aunt had been murdered in the fabric store, a lot of people suspected that Mr. McMichael had orchestrated the crime as a scare tactic to gain possession of the real estate.

“A few years ago, Harvey moved his financial accounts to our firm. He suspected that someone inside his organization was embezzling money. We drew up a short list of people who would have access to his accounts in the event he was unable to make decisions for himself. Vaughn was given strict instructions to come to me if anyone asked about Harvey's money. I doubt any of us thought that person would be you.”

I had been concentrating so hard on what Mr. McMichael was saying that I hadn't stopped to think about what Sheriff Clark or Vaughn thought about me showing up and asking about Harvey Halliwell's money. I looked at Clark, and then at Vaughn. Vaughn smiled.

“I just came from Halliwell Industries. Nolene's secretary said all of the checks she wrote today bounced. She said someone at Halliwell Industries had cleaned out Harvey's accounts,” I said.

“In a way, that's true. Per Harvey's instructions, after his death, the business account that his employees drew upon was moved to a private account and frozen.”

“Per his instructions?” I asked. “If he left instructions in
the event of his death, wouldn't that include a will and inheritors?”

“In most cases, yes, it would. The problem here is that Harvey has long suspected that something like this might happen. Harvey has no wife, no children. No family to inherit his fortune. His legacy is the pageant. His instructions were designed to help identify who would try to benefit from his murder.”

“But, Dad, Harvey didn't bank with us,” Vaughn said.

“His banking was his business, and he asked me to make it my business, so I did.”

“But he'd be in the system. The kind of money you're talking about, he'd easily rank at the top of our privileged client list. I would know about it.”

“We couldn't risk anybody finding out.”

The room went silent. I felt Clark's eyes on me, but I didn't look at him. Vaughn studied something in a folder. I suspected he didn't like the fact that he'd been left out of something so important that pertained to the business, especially since his father was supposed to be prepping Vaughn to take over.

“So what does this mean for the pageant? Is it going to be canceled? And if so, who's going to make that decision?” I asked.

Mr. McMichael spoke. “The pageant will continue, and it appears as though Harvey and I will do business together again.”

“Meaning what?” Vaughn asked.

“Harvey left terms to ensure the pageant goes on,” Mr. McMichael said.

“How are you going to do that?” Vaughn asked. I looked back and forth between their faces like I was watching a tennis match.

“Harvey was very specific about the conditions of moving
his accounts to us.” Mr. McMichael paused for a second. “It seems I'm about to inherit a beauty pageant.”

I was pretty sure the emotion that crossed Mr. McMichael's face was fear.

•   •   •

When the meeting ended, Vaughn walked me to my car. “You didn't have to make an appointment with my secretary,” he said. “You could have just called me.”

“Not after how things ended this morning. You misunderstood me when I told you about the loan. You thought I didn't respect what you do for a living.”

“Your business is your business,” he said.

“Yes, but in this case, my business is also your business. As in, money. If you needed advice on fabric, I'd like to think you'd come to me.”

“So you're saying I should cancel the appointment I made with the decorator for this evening?”

“You hired a decorator?”

“I'm kidding!” he said.

I pretended to be hurt, but I couldn't stifle the smile. “Okay, fine. We're even.”

“We're nowhere close to being even,” he said. This time his face was serious. “You went to my father for a loan. I'm not going to pretend he's not good with money, but I never thought in a million years you would have gone to him instead of me.”

“You might want to check your facts before you decide to hold that against me. I didn't go to your father. I went to the bank. I met with an advisor and turned in my five-year plan. I deposited my Vanguard fund as my start-up cash and applied for a loan to float me through the first year. When the loan application was approved, your father was the cosigner.”

“You didn't know?”

“I would have gone to another bank if I had.”

Vaughn looked up at the sky and squinted at the sun.
After a few seconds he looked away, in the direction of the building, and then finally dropped his gaze to my hands. He took them in his and stepped closer. “Temporary truce?”

“We're nowhere close to being even,” I said, and raised one eyebrow. “But that shouldn't stop you from trying to even the score.”

“Is this how it's always going to be with you?”

“Maybe.”

Sheriff Clark cleared his throat on the other side of Vaughn's car. We stepped apart and dropped hands. Clark tucked his chin and stifled a smile. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Poly, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”

“Sure.” I said good-bye to Vaughn. He headed back inside and I turned to Clark. “I thought you took some kind of oath to always call me Ms. Monroe.”

“When I'm conducting official police business, yes. You are Ms. Monroe.”

“If this isn't official police business, then what would you call it?” I asked.

“I don't want to talk to you about Harvey Halliwell or the beauty pageant. I need to talk to you about Charlie. That man that's been hanging around her shop over the past few days, I don't trust him. But like I said, I'm not talking to you as a cop, I'm talking to you as a man. Is there something I should know about?”

“I don't know
how much you know about Charlie's past, but I don't think it's my place to violate her privacy,” I answered truthfully. “To be honest, it's hard to say what's going on with her. There's a good chance you know her better than I do.”

“No. I know her differently than you do, but not better. She and I have spent some time together, but because of my job, I don't think she'll ever completely trust me. She considers you a friend. She trusts you.”

“Sheriff, if you know Charlie well enough to say she trusts me, then you should have figured out the reason she does is that she knows I won't talk about her behind her back. I know you two have something—I still don't know what it is—but I don't think it's a good idea to put me in the middle of it.”

“I'm worried about her. And because of this investigation, I can't be there for her the way I normally would want
to. I'm not asking you to tell me anything I shouldn't know. Just keep an eye on her, would ya?” he asked.

It was the exact same thing Charlie had asked me to do about Clark. Regardless of what was going on with her, I recognized that she wasn't just thinking of herself.

“Sure,” I said. I watched Clark walk away. So Charlie hadn't told Clark about the role Ned played in her life. Why? If she wanted to protect him, she'd tell Clark who Ned was to her. She'd give him a reason to look for other suspicious people in the murder investigation. But she wasn't doing any of those things. Was it because deep down, Charlie had questions herself, questions about Ned's arrival in San Ladrón?

•   •   •

By the time I got back to Material Girl, it was close to eight o'clock. I went directly upstairs to the apartment and found Needles sitting on the other side of the door as if waiting for me to come home. I scooped him up and scratched his orange ears. “Did you miss me?” I asked. He meowed and nuzzled his head backward into my hand.

I followed the scent of tomatoes and cabbage to the kitchen and found my mom stirring juices in the Crock-Pot. “I didn't know how long you would be. I made halupkies.”

“Just like Aunt Millie used to make,” I said. I lifted the lid to the Crock-Pot and smelled the tangy tomato sauce. Halupkies—or cabbage rolls as some people called them—had long been a family favorite. Ground beef and rice, seasoned with spices, wrapped in leaves of cabbage and slow-cooked with tomatoes and sliced kielbasa. I speared a piece of kielbasa with a toothpick and popped it into my mouth. My mom rolled her eyes. I pulled a white bowl from the cabinet and scooped out three cabbage rolls before she could admonish me for eating from the pot. She poured me a glass of wine and sat in the chair opposite me while I ate.

“I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to head back to Burbank. Your father said something about painting the living room and I don't think I can let that happen.”

“But I thought you two were trading responsibilities for the week?”

“Poly, I can't let him decide what color to paint the living room! Can you imagine if he chooses the wrong shade of beige?”

“Yes, I'm sure civilization as we know it will come to a screeching halt.”

“You inherited his sarcasm.”

“And I inherited your good looks,” I said. “Go. I'll be okay here. You were a big help today.”

“I'll see what I can do about coming back later this week.” She kissed me on the cheek and left.

I finished my bowl of halupkies, considered having more but decided against it. I stacked the dirty dishes in the sink and then went downstairs to the store.

I tallied the sales figures for the day and put away the bolts of fabric that had been left by the cutting station. The cats ran around the store, swatting small felt mice across the expanse of concrete floor like expert soccer players angling for a goal. I let them play and opened the front door to look at Charlie's Auto. The lights were out and there was no sign of life.

The opposite could be said for The Broadside. Neon signs advertising a variety of American beers lit the windows and colored the sidewalk. A group of men covered in dirt approached the door. The one in front was Xavier, the head landscaper who had designed the gardens at the Waverly House. Strains of music spilled out the front door when he opened the door. Duke didn't have any problem pulling customers into his bar. Maybe I should take a page from his playbook to capture the afternoon shoppers.

I found my phone and called Genevieve. “Any chance you're up for a night out?”

“Poly, the tea shop has been so busy since the Midnight in Paris party. I don't think I have the energy for much more than sitting on a bar stool.”

“Perfect, because that's what I had in mind.”

“You want to come here and sit on a bar stool with me?”

“No. I want the two of us to go to The Broadside.”

“You know something? That's just about the only place I could see going in my current state.”

“Perfect. Park behind the fabric shop and we'll walk over together.”

I changed out of the suit I'd worn for my meeting with Vaughn and into a pair of jeans and a black V-neck sweater. When Genevieve's car pulled into the back parking lot, I tucked my phone and wallet into a small bag, met her downstairs, and we left.

Genevieve bubbled over with good news about Tea Totalers. I wouldn't admit it to her, but after her husband had been murdered, I'd worried about her future in San Ladrón. Like me, she was an outsider when she moved to the small town. But something beautiful had happened during her mourning phase. She had blossomed in a way that only women who find themselves newly single can do. It wasn't just the new cut and color of her curly blond hair, either. Her whole personality had expanded to match her curvaceous figure and the joie de vivre that now shone through in her laughter and her gaiety. It was infectious. People who had been little more than strangers six months ago had become regulars of her shop and she counted many of them among her friends.

“Poly, you wouldn't believe how great things are. This morning the line was out the door! I can't believe it. I really can't. It's like a dream come true.”

“It isn't
like
a dream come true, it
is
a dream come true. It's
your
dream come true,” I said.

She wrapped her arms around herself and tipped her head back. “It
is
my dream come true!” She pulled the door to The Broadside open and followed me inside. Laughter mingled with the occasional snap of billiard balls. I led the way to two vacant bar stools. The bartender, a muscle-bound man in a tight Harley-Davidson T-shirt and torn jeans, was busy filling a row of shot glasses with tequila for a man who looked like he'd spent the day playing rugby in a muddy field. Dirt was dried and caked on his shirt and jeans. In contrast, his hands were clean, as though they were the only body part to see a bar of soap all day. One by one the dirty man picked up a shot glass and a lemon and handed it to someone behind him in a similar state of grunge.

“This place is going to be out of control in an hour,” said a voice from behind the bar.

I turned to look for the voice and saw nobody. “Down,” said the voice. I looked down and saw Duke in his wheelchair.

“Sorry. It's dark in here and I wasn't thinking—”

“No worries. I get a lot of that. Makes it easy to sneak back here when I need to refill the pretzel jar in my office. Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

I glanced at the row of beers on tap, unsure how Duke would manage to tap them if we were to order one. Before I could work it all out in my head, Genevieve leaned forward. “Do you have anything bubbly back there?”

“You're the French girl, right?”

“I'm not really French. I'm just drawn that way.” She giggled.

“You're cute. Poly, you should bring this one around more.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Duke rolled his chair to a small wine cooler and pulled
out a bottle of champagne. “Hope you don't mind. It's made in California.”

“So was I,” she said without missing a beat.

Duke popped the bottle, the sound only temporarily piercing the low-level noise. He poured the contents into two wineglasses—I assumed he didn't have champagne coupes or flutes lying around—and handed one to each of us. A cheer went up from the dirty men, followed by the sound of shot glasses being slammed onto tables.

“Florists,” he said with a shake of his head. “They come into town every year when this pageant takes place. Commandeer the greenhouse on Mr. Halliwell's property. Next thing you know, the whole town turns orange.”

“Tangorli,” I said.

“What?”

“It's not the color of orange, it's the color of Tangorli fruit. Right?”

“Between us, I don't know how anybody can tell the difference.”

In the background, I heard a glass break. Duke excused himself and rolled out from behind the bar. I sipped at my champagne and relaxed for the first time in days.

“He sure knows how to throw a happy hour,” Genevieve said.

“His only problem is that his current clientele is going to keep him from getting a new clientele.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Look around. Not counting us, what do you see?”

She spun her bar stool 180 degrees so she was facing the interior of the bar. “Lots and lots of men. Big men. Dirty men. Loud men.” She spun herself back. “There's a lot of flannel in here,” she added.

“If you wanted to go out for a drink, would you come here?”

“We
are
here.”

“Without me.”

“I'm not the type to go out to a bar drinking by myself. Neither are you. For women, drinking is social.”

An idea tickled the back of my mind. “Genevieve, you're a genius. You know that?” I raised my glass to hers and clinked it. After taking a sip, I grabbed a couple of cocktail napkins and a pen and scribbled
fabric store—happy hour—craft project
. If I could build off what I saw in this room but draw in my target audience, I'd have something pretty unique!

Genevieve excused herself to the restroom and I scribbled more notes on my napkin. Duke returned. “You're not stealing my secrets, are you?”

“Only the good ones.”

He called to the bartender and gestured for him to refill our glasses and pour one for himself.

“So, are you still going to judge the pageant?” I asked. “I know Nolene asked you to be a judge, but with Harvey Halliwell being murdered and all, I didn't know if you were going to stay involved.”

“The pageant's still going to happen, I know that much,” he said.

“I need a crash course in this beauty pageant,” I said, my eyes still on him. “What can you tell me?”

“This pageant makes the women around here go crazy. I know one family who took out a second mortgage on their house so their daughter could compete. And you'd think somebody would have done something after what happened with Inez Platt, but it all just got brushed under the rug.”

“Who's Inez Platt?”

“Former winner. You might have seen her picture on the side of the Tangorli juice cartons. She was a very pretty young lady: exotic features, dark eyes, long black hair. Her mother was from Trinidad and her father was from San Ladrón. She looked nothing like the women you see around here today.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don't know the details, but there was an accident when she was out in the Tangorli fields. Some kind of acid exploded and scarred her face and her hands. Chemical burns that discolored her skin and changed her appearance.”

“Did she sue?”

“I don't think so. She dropped out of the limelight after the accident. Harvey still uses her image on the side of his products, which is odd considering how many winners there have been over the years. If I were one of the more recent winners, I'd wonder why he wasn't updating his advertising. But since then, the entrance qualifications have gone through the roof and the judges have to sign a nondisclosure agreement. This pageant has gotten more exclusive than a country club.”

“I don't get it. It's a beauty pageant, right? Women get judged by how they look—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop right there. I'm going to do you a big favor and advise you to never say that outside this bar.”

“But it's a
beauty
pageant, right?”

“The winner gets a position on the board of directors at Halliwell Industries. That's enough to boost anybody's résumé. And before you say it's all about appearances, it's not.”

“So even though Harvey was murdered, the show goes on.”

“Yep. Nolene already called to make sure I was locked in. Me, Maria Lopez, and your boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend.”

“He could be if you'd let him.”

“Can we not talk about Vaughn McMichael for one second?”

“If that's how you want to play it, sure. So what did Nolene want from you?”

“Nothing really. I'm going to donate some fabric to the contestants and consult with them on their dresses for the opening ceremonies.”

His brows pulled together. “They've never done anything like that before,” he said. I shrugged, like being a pioneer
on the pageant program was no big deal. “You better relax now, because come tomorrow, you won't know what hit you.”

“Why's that?”

“The preliminary screening is complete and the list of the final twenty contestants is going to be published in tomorrow's paper. That's one of the reasons I'm trying to kick back tonight.”

“You act like the town's going to go crazy.”

“Pretty much. First, you get the contestants and their families. They're happy for about five minutes and then they go into either bribery mode or watchdog mode. This bar will be swimming in muffin baskets by the end of tomorrow.”