Suede to Rest (22 page)

The bolt of
fabric, an almost-full roll of thick ivory damask wound tightly around a cardboard cylinder, probably weighed about twenty pounds. Had I been standing by the back door when it fell, I'd be looking at a bunch of little stars instead of a cloud of dust and a crushed gift box. I pulled away from Vaughn and looked up at the roof of the building, searching for an explanation where there was none. I crept closer to the fabric on the ground and looked at it from the side. A small, rubber-coated dumbbell had been jammed inside the cardboard core on the left side. I walked to the right side and found a matching dumbbell. Someone had weighted down the roll so it would do even more damage.

I needed to call the police. I knew the only way that bolt of fabric could be on the roof of the store, positioned to fall on me, was if someone went inside and carried it up there. Which meant someone might still be inside.

Or, that someone might be the person who had set the ivory box by my back door, knowing I'd hesitate before walking inside.

I turned on Vaughn. His back was to me and he was on his phone. “Yes, the fabric store. Just now. I'll wait with her. No. No, I don't think so. No. Definitely not.” He hung up and pushed his phone into his back pocket, then approached the bolt of damask.

“Who did you call?”

“The police.”

“Then I don't think you should touch anything.”

He pulled the crushed box out from under the bolt of fabric and walked it over to me. “You know that I put this here. I know that I put this here. And somebody else knows that I put this here. I will happily tell Deputy Sheriff Clark about it when he arrives, but for reasons I don't want to get into right now, I'd rather it not get carried away like evidence.”

“What is it?”

“A mistake.”

“Why, because you thought I'd pick it up and stand by the back door to open it and get knocked out by a bolt of fabric? Was that your plan?”

He ran his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”

Before I had a chance to respond, the blue and red lights of a police car hijacked our attention. Deputy Sheriff Clark pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. He nodded at me first, then Vaughn, and then walked past both of us to the bolt of fabric. He squatted by the end of it and stared at the five-pound dumbbells that had been shoved inside the cardboard tube. He looked up at the door, then back at the bolt, then at me.

“Tell me what happened.”

Vaughn and I started talking at the same time and the deputy sheriff held his hand up to Vaughn. “I want to hear from Ms. Monroe.”

“My parents just left. I walked them to their car, and when I came back I saw—” I looked at the box that Vaughn held, “I saw that box propped up against the back door.”

“Why isn't it propped up there now?”

“I pulled it out from under the fabric,” Vaughn said.

“What is it?”

“It's a gift for Poly.” Vaughn turned red. “I didn't want it to get any more damaged than it might be.”

Clark took the box from Vaughn. He slid the ribbon off and lifted the lid. I tried to look over his shoulder but only saw white tissue paper. Clark closed the box and handed it back to Vaughn. “What happened next, Ms. Monroe?”

“When I saw the box, I realized someone had been here in the short amount of time that I'd walked my parents to their car. I couldn't remember if any of us had locked the back door, so I looked around for signs that I wasn't alone. I saw Vaughn's sneaker sticking out behind the Dumpster.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I recognized your Stan Smiths.”

“I'm not the only person in this town to wear Stan Smiths,” he said under his breath.

“You probably are.”

“When you two are done discussing footwear, can we get back to my questions?” Clark said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Sorry,” Vaughn and I said at the same time.

“I told him I knew he was there and he came out. He said he wanted to give me the box. When I walked over to pick it up, the bolt of fabric fell from the roof.”

“That's not exactly what happened,” Vaughn interjected.

“You'll have your turn, Mr. McMichael,” Deputy Sheriff Clark said.

I looked back and forth between their faces. As far as I could remember, this was the first time the deputy sheriff had called Vaughn by his surname. I knew that was protocol, but in a town as small as San Ladrón, things were more relaxed. This felt like it meant something, only I didn't know what.

“What else, Ms. Monroe?”

“That's pretty much it.”

“What would you like to add?” he asked Vaughn.

“I didn't expect her to come back so quickly. I put the box by the back door. When I saw her turn around I ducked behind the Dumpster. I thought she'd pick up the box and carry it inside and I could leave.”

“But you didn't.”

“She said she saw me, so I came out. I noticed something out of the corner of my eye right before the fabric fell. I pulled her out of the way so she wouldn't get hurt.”

Deputy Sheriff Clark made notes in a small notepad. He walked over to the fabric bolt again, this time on the other side. The dumbbell hadn't been packed as well and it had jarred loose from the tube. He stuck the end of his pen into the cardboard and tried to lift the fabric, but it was too heavy to budge with such a minor effort. He put his head close to the roll and aimed the beam of a small flashlight inside the tube. Before I could figure out what he was doing, Vaughn touched my arm and spoke.

“I know you don't want to hear this, but I think you're in over your head,” Vaughn said.

I turned to face him. “You know what I think? I think your family is afraid of what I might find out. So what if the McMichaels have deep roots and deep pockets? Your family has been keeping secrets—from the world and from each other. Did you know your father tried to buy out the deed on the fabric store just like he tried to buy out Charlie? He thought his money made him better than Uncle Marius, but it didn't.”

Vaughn handed me the now-crushed ivory box and walked toward the curb. I watched his back as he left. Despite his stance that the box was a present for me, it felt more like a nuisance than a gift. Vaughn disappeared around the corner and I turned back to Deputy Sheriff Clark.

“Do you think he did this?” Clark asked, jutting his chin out toward Vaughn.

“He could have. He was here when I came back from saying good-bye to my parents. He was hiding. I don't know how he got into the store and got a bolt of fabric up to the roof, but he seemed to know it was going to happen. Maybe the goal was never to hurt me. Maybe the goal was to pull me out of the way all along, you know, so he looked like the good guy.”

“Let me show you something.”

Deputy Sheriff Clark gestured for me to approach the bolt of fabric. I walked to the left side of the tube where he squatted. With the click side of his pen, he lifted a small white tag that was attached to a piece of string that was tied around the roll. The tag said
Threads
in red ink, slightly lighter over the end of
decorators
, as if it had been done with a stamp and equal pressure hadn't been applied to the process. Under the imprint, in handwriting, it said
$12.99/yd
.

“Does that look familiar to you?”

“No.”

“Have you had a chance to look at the inventory in the store? Do you know how they're tagged?”

“I've looked at a couple. My aunt had a list of prices in a journal by the register. There are signs around the store, and the more mainstream bolts of fabric—the calicos, ginghams, florals, and other basics—all come with the price printed on the end of the bolt. I've never seen a tag like this.”

“Have you ever heard of Threads?”

“Sure. They're based out of Los Angeles. It's a giant warehouse filled with partially used fabrics, mostly the kind people would use to make curtains or bedspreads, or re-cover sofas.”

“Is it possible Millie or Marius bought inventory from them to stock the store?”

“No way. Five years ago they were called Wholesale Decorators. They changed the name a few years after I started working for To The Nines. I only remember because they changed their focus and we weren't able to get cheap dress fabric from them anymore. Giovanni, my boss, wasn't happy. I don't think he ever paid the last three invoices that came under the Wholesale Decorators name because he figured the new owners wouldn't notice.”

Deputy Sheriff Clark stood slowly. “I'd like to take a look at the fabrics inside.”

“Sure.” I yanked on the door, still not sure if it was locked or unlocked. The door didn't budge, and I realized my earlier fears about Vaughn possibly getting in were unfounded. I fumbled with the keys until I found the ones that unlocked the two locks, and then pulled the door open and let Clark enter before me. I hit the light switch on the wall and nothing happened. I clicked it up and down a few times. When the result remained the same, I checked the breakers. One had blown. I flipped it back to on and the store became bright.

“First time that happened,” I said, and rejoined Clark by the wrap stand. I set the crushed ivory box on top of the counter.

“Can you show me the decorator fabrics?” he asked.

“Follow me.” I led Deputy Sheriff Clark to the front right corner of the store, where large rolls of damask and tapestry lay on their sides, stacked by color. One table held shades of blue, green, and purple. Another held red, orange, yellow, A third held the neutrals: ivory, camel, brown, taupe. A full bolt of damask not unlike the one outside sat next to a collection of toile. Again, I thought of a French bakery, and how a couple of yards of fabric could help Genevieve reenvision her shop in the style she wanted.

“I don't know fabric like you know fabric, but that looks like what we saw outside, doesn't it?” He pointed to the damask.

“It looks like it, but it isn't the same. This one is silk and cotton. The one outside has a synthetic blend. It's a cheaper fabric.”

“How can you tell?”

“From the way it feels.”

He looked like he didn't believe me.

“I grew up in this world. I played with these fabrics. You can blindfold me and I can tell the difference between a silk/linen blend and a cotton/linen blend, the same way a sommelier can tell the difference between a cabernet/merlot blend and a cabernet/shiraz. Different people can do different things. That's what I do.”

“I thought you designed prom dresses?”

I didn't defend my job or offer an excuse for why I did what I did. I knew why I'd taken that job. Security. And there was nothing wrong with security, only, since I'd arrived in San Ladrón I'd felt the polar opposite of security and discovered it made me feel alive.

“That bolt of fabric outside, where did it come from?”

“Up.”

“The roof?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you been to the roof since you've been here?”

“No. I wouldn't know how to get on the roof.”

“Ms. Monroe, I'd like to take a look upstairs inside your apartment.”

“Follow me.” Halfway up the stairs I stopped and turned to him. “Watch out for the kittens.”

I turned the knob on the front door and it swung open easily. I stood back and let the deputy sheriff enter. “I'm guessing you want to go to the kitchen.”

“Why's that?”

“It's the room above the back door to the fabric store.”

“Lead the way.”

I wasn't sure what I expected to find when we reached the kitchen. An open window? Evidence that someone had pushed a bolt of fabric out of a narrow opening in the hopes of clobbering me? Or something worse? But when we arrived in the small room, I saw the empty juice glass I'd drunk from earlier and the kittens, who swatted at water that dripped from the faucet. The window was shut, and the collection of Spritzdekor pitchers that lined the shelf were untouched.

Deputy Sheriff Clark looked around the room. “Is this how you left it?”

“With the exception of the kittens, yes.”

He nodded and looked around again, as if he was making a video recording of the interior with his memory. “Attic?”

“Pull-down stairs in the hallway.”

He turned around and left. I stroked the tabby kitten and stared out the back window. I hadn't spent much time in the kitchen and didn't realize I could see the Waverly House from this vantage point. I turned to the left and watched a couple of cars drive down a side street. Men in hard hats and construction vests packed orange pylons into the back of a pickup truck, between a bucket filled with rope and a ladder. I recognized one of the men—the one in the red-and-black buffalo checked shirt and faded denim vest.

“Deputy Sheriff Clark—” I called out. I set the kitten down and ran to the hallway. The stairs were extended, and Clark's feet were visible on the second rung from the top. He climbed back down and looked at me. “I just saw a bunch of construction workers pack up a truck. They had a ladder. I recognized one from The Broadside. I saw him yesterday. Didn't you say those guys were responsible for the ketchup on the gate?”

He folded up the stairs and went back to the kitchen. “You sure it was the same guy?”

“Yes.” I pointed to the road. “Wasn't there some construction around here?”

He nodded. “Duke's having his roof shingled.”

“So whoever was doing the work on Duke's roof would have had the ability to get up on my roof. Right?”

“I'll check it out.” He pulled his hat off and scratched his head, then replaced the hat unintentionally askew. “Ms. Monroe, are you planning to stay here tonight?”

I nodded.

“You wouldn't rather go to a hotel?”