“She told me about the DUI,” I said.
“Kim’s had a troubled childhood. Her mother passed away when she was thirteen. And with her father on the road so much, she went unsupervised. She fell in with a bad crowd and has been in and out of juvie. When she graduated high school and said she wanted to open a restaurant someday, we all thought it was a good idea to encourage her. Maybe the trouble was behind her. Two weeks after she turned eighteen she got her first DUI. The second came last month. California has harsh penalties for driving under the influence. If she gets a third, she’s looking at jail time, and we can’t protect her.”
“She said she wanted to help Genevieve because Genevieve helped her.”
“Even though her actions were illegal, I believe her intentions were noble. When she got the second DUI, she spent the night in jail. I think she finally got scared. Her father asked if she could stay with us. He thought it would be good for her to be around my wife and me—good for her to have female role models around. That’s why we asked Genevieve to help her out, too. Everything was planned to keep her busy and surrounded with strong women.”
“That’s why she said people were counting on her working there.”
“Poly, I’m Kim’s family. I know she’s been in a lot of trouble, but I choose to believe her. If what she said is true, and if she takes responsibility, it shows a turning point for her. She needs people to give her the benefit of the doubt instead of suspecting the worst.” He paused. “But I will make sure she tells the sheriff what she did. That’s a promise.”
I stood up. “Thank you for talking to me.”
I let myself out the front door and walked down the sidewalk to my car. The neighborhood was so idyllic, it was hard to believe that inside this one house was a troubled teenager who was one drinking-and-driving infraction away from incarceration. What other secrets were hidden behind the doors of San Ladrón? And which door held the secrets that I needed to expose to save Genevieve?
I drove to Material Girl. It took five trips to carry the decoupage supplies and wood inside the store. I set the bags on the wrap stand and carried the musty voile panels up to the washing machine. It wasn’t doing me any good to think about Genevieve. My brain was caught in a loop and nothing made sense. Maybe if I did something else to clear my mind, I’d be able to focus better.
I carried the bags of vinegar to the washing machine next. I fit as many panels into the machine as it would comfortably hold. It was about a third of what I’d cut earlier. I started the wash cycle and waited until the basin was filled with water, then added four bottles of white vinegar and a cup of Borax. In thirty-three minutes, I’d know if the vinegar treatment worked.
I set the timer on my microwave and went back downstairs. Pins and Needles followed. I thought it cute how they still didn’t venture far away from the other. I pulled the white school glue and Popsicle sticks out of the dollar-store bags and lined them up on the counter. At the bottom of the bag I found two felt mice: one royal blue, one yellow. Vaughn’s surprise had been for the kitties.
“Look what Vaughn bought you,” I said. I pulled the cardboard tag off each mouse and tossed them to the exposed concrete floor. Pins pounced. He caught the blue felt mouse in his gray striped paws and bit into the end with the string tail. Needles watched from a distance, as if he wasn’t going to get involved until Pins proved it was worth it. Apparently the proof was established within a minute, because that’s how long it took for Needles to join in the fun and attack the yellow mouse.
I pulled up a chair and stared at the supplies while the kitties batted the felt mice around the concrete floor. It was going on seven o’clock. How was I supposed to concentrate on crafting when my friend was in jail? It was for Genevieve, I told myself. I was working on this project for her as much as I was trying to find out who’d killed Phil.
I thought again about the shopping list on Genevieve’s computer. Clark would certainly use it to secure his case against Genevieve if he found it. I needed to show that Genevieve’s wasn’t the only restaurant in San Ladrón who ordered croissants. It couldn’t be that strange for her to order croissants, could it? If only I knew someone else in the restaurant business who I could ask.
But there was someone else I could ask: Topo di Sali.
I went through my messenger bag until I found his crumpled card. There was no address, only a website and a phone number. He answered on the third ring.
“Italian Scallion,” he said.
“Is this Topo di Sali?” I asked. “This is Poly Monroe. We met at Tea Totalers on Tuesday and you gave me your card.”
“I remember you. Cute girl in all black. Did your boss get my message?”
“My boss? I don’t have a boss. Wait a minute. Are you behind the attack on my boss?”
“I’m not admitting to anything, but like I told you, it’s a two-way street.”
Twenty-three
“What does that mean?” I asked. “And what does any of this have to do with Giovanni?”
“Who’s Giovanni?”
“My boss. Well, he’s my ex-boss now, but—wait, don’t you know?”
“I’m talking about Genevieve Girard. She wants to use my contacts, she’s going to have to pay the piper. I’ll give her a few more days while I’m in San Francisco, but you tell her I’m not going to wait forever. If she doesn’t do business with me soon, she’ll be out of second chances.”
“But, Mr. di Sali—” I started, but the call disconnected.
I stood up. I felt like I was three steps behind a master plan that involved a handful of unrelated people. I kicked the blue felt mouse across the floor of the fabric store. Needles chased it and pounced. He chewed on the tail while I chewed on my thoughts.
Topo sounded like he was threatening Genevieve, but he also sounded like she owed him something. Had they done business together that I didn’t know about? And if so, why hadn’t she mentioned it? Or worse—had Phil promised him something in private and now was taking that secret to his grave? That was something I might never know. What I did know was that I’d never gotten around to asking Topo about croissant suppliers. Even if he answered a second call, I didn’t want to be in the uncomfortable position of owing him something myself.
I leaned back in my desk chair and ran my hands over the mail that had accumulated over the past few days. A flyer for the Waverly House caught my eye. Adelaide. She oversaw every aspect of running the restored mansion, and that included their award-winning restaurant. Maybe she could help me. It was a five-minute walk from the fabric store, and if I left now, I might still catch her at the mansion. I left the washer washing and the kitties playing, ducked under the long strap of my black messenger bag, and locked up behind me.
The Waverly House looked more impressive at seven in the evening than it did during the day, thanks to subtle lights that had been placed along the front exterior to illuminate the Wedgewood blue of the Victorian mansion. Vaughn had mentioned that Adelaide was in the process of prepping the grounds for the annual Midnight in the Garden party, and I could see the results of that work. I wondered how the battle between his parents was going. Secretly, I rooted for Adelaide. I found her passion for running the Waverly House inspiring. I hoped when I was her age I’d be as enthusiastic about running the fabric store.
I walked up three concrete steps and followed the sidewalk to the front door. The large Victorian house had at least two dozen windows facing the street, all framed in soft ivory casing. A turret rounded out the left corner, and the roofline sloped with gently curved gables. The front door matched the ivory of the windowsills. The front door opened toward me and a man and a woman walked out. Their laughter continued as they passed me and walked halfway down the sidewalk. Before entering the restaurant, I watched them veer off the concrete into the grass. The man put his arm around her and kissed her temple. She snuggled into him and they stopped under the large
maple tree and hugged.
I gave the couple privacy and went inside. To my right was the pretty redheaded woman employed as hostess for the Waverly House restaurant. A few families stood outside the red velvet ropes, reading the captions on the black-and-white pictures that hung in the hallway. The pictures continued past the restaurant and into the historic building. Beyond the restaurant was a carpeted staircase that wound up one flight to the second floor, where bedrooms decorated in vintage Victorian design were available for viewing.
I threaded my way through the diners to the staircase, pausing only to take note of a film of dust on the dark wooden banister. I continued three doors down and stopped by the last door on the left. A light shone out of the door. I knocked lightly on the frame.
“Am I interrupting anything important?” I asked.
“Poly! What a nice surprise!” Adelaide said. She wore a mauve turtleneck sweater and a taupe pleated skirt that fell below her knees. A delicate gold-and-quartz chain hung around her neck, suspending a pair of reading glasses. She came around to the front of her desk, enclosing me in a hug. “You are exactly the breath of fresh air I need in here tonight.” She looked at a clock on her desk. “Goodness. It’s after seven? I haven’t eaten since eleven. No wonder I’m having such a hard time concentrating on this document.” She shook her head and the silvery-gray hairs that had already escaped her chignon waved around her face like filaments.
“I didn’t know if I would find you here this late.”
“It seems most nights I’m here this late.”
“Vaughn told me about the trouble you’re having with the city council.”
“My son wouldn’t have been that polite. He told you it was his father, didn’t he?”
Adelaide went to a wooden cabinet that sat on top of an antique dresser. She turned the brass key on top of the cabinet and lifted the hinged lid. From inside, she pulled a bottle of a peachy-pink liquid and two small cordial glasses out and turned toward me.
“I make it a habit to only drink socially. Your surprise visit is a sign. Join me in a Sauterne?”
The last thing I’d expected from Adelaide was for her to offer me a drink. “I’d love to,” I said.
She filled each glass with the rosy liquid. The label on the bottle read Petrus Sauterne in red letters across an aged cream label. She handed me one of the glasses and I waited to see what the proper Sauterne protocol was: Clink glasses? Let it breathe? Throw it down the hatch?
“Cheers,” Adelaide said. She raised her glass to meet mine and, after a delicate clink, she sipped at the beverage. I followed suit. It was sweet but also strong.
Adelaide spun the bottle so the label faced her. “Your great-aunt gave me this bottle forty years ago. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
I was embarrassed. I wasn’t at the Waverly House for a social call or even to see how Adelaide was doing in the fight against Vic McMichael, her ex-husband and the cosigner on the loan for my shop. I was there to ask her about croissants. Even though my mission was on behalf of Genevieve’s well-being, it felt self-centered. Adelaide was one of the few people in San Ladrón who had been personal friends with my relatives. They had been great friends once. My family was important to me—generations who had created the fabric store long before I was born in it, along with my own parents who lived only an hour away—and I needed to make more of an effort to build a bridge to the past, to the people in my new hometown who knew my roots. Temporarily, I shoved my own reasons for being there to the back of my mind.
“You’re right. Vaughn did mention that his father is the person creating problems for you and the party. I admit, I don’t really understand why he would do that, especially now. He must have known you’ve been planning the party for months.”
“Oh, he’s known, all right. He’s aware of the entire planning calendar. And believe me, that’s exactly why he waited this long. He added the change in the zoning bylaws to the city council agenda on the last possible day that he could. I’ve already spent months planning the party. It’s an annual tradition! If we don’t open our gardens for the midnight party, people will start to think that the Waverly House is having financial trouble.”
“Are you?”
“Truthfully, things have been steady. We’ve booked six weddings for the summer, and five of those parties elected to use our restaurant and bar service for catering. That helps us project our profits and losses. But the annual garden party has been the centerpiece of our promotional calendar for years. The people of San Ladrón love having an event they can get dressed up for, but we also draw people from neighboring towns as well.”
“Until I saw your flyer, I wasn’t aware of it.”
“It’s our fund-raiser. We charge a flat fee, fifty dollars per couple. We have the most talented gardeners and landscapers working on the flowers around the Waverly House. It’s simply amazing what they can do. For one night, the grounds are transformed. We add in outdoor bars, buffet stations, and a jazz quartet. Couples come expecting a romantic evening, and that’s what we try to provide. What we clear after expenses determines our operating budget for the upcoming year.”
“And Vaughn’s father is making it so you can’t promote the event. And by not promoting it, you’re not going to sell tickets. And by not selling tickets, you’re going to have to lower your operating budget.”
“You’re very astute, Poly.”
An idea formed in my head, slow and vague, like a cloud of steam from the dishwasher when the cycle was complete. I stared at the bottle of Sauterne, wondering if it had indeed given me remarkable insight and an idea that might help the people I cared about, or if it was a Toulouse-Lautrec-like thought, inspired not by absinthe, but a pinker beverage that had been aging for almost half a century?
“What if . . .” I started. My pulse ticked faster and I felt a buzz of energy. I looked up from the label on the bottle and made eye contact with Adelaide. “What if the garden party was held someplace else this once?”
“Dear, I don’t think you understand.”
“No, I think I do. I have an idea.”
Adelaide looked at me with an expression of “why not?” and I realized she was exhausted, her energy probably spent from fighting the battle with her ex-husband.
“Like I said, what if the food-and-drink portion of the evening was held at a different location in San Ladrón, but the Waverly House was still the beneficiary? The catering and the beverages could be someplace else that has the proper permits. Like a restaurant. And maybe for one hour—midnight!—the gardens are opened up for people to view. No food, no booze, no city council to fight. The gardens are outside. If the gardens are open, then nobody can stop people from walking on the grounds. I mean, as long as the gates are open, the Waverly House gardens are public property, right?”
“In theory, it sounds wonderful, but I’ve planned the party for several years now. A business would have to close down indefinitely to prepare for something of this magnitude. I couldn’t ask someone to give up business and expect the money to go to the Waverly House. I’m afraid it wouldn’t work.”
“I’m not finished,” I said, cutting her off. She looked taken aback, but she gestured for me to continue. “I’ve been helping to renovate a local tea shop with fabrics from my store. Are you familiar with Tea Totalers? It’s right around the corner. The store’s been closed for about a week now and it’s going to continue to be closed indefinitely. The hard part of the renovation is over: the measurements have all been taken and I’m using fabric from my shop, but what if the interior were transformed again? Instead of the French countryside look that I’m working on, we could do a temporary, one-night-only surprise setup? Your party is always called Midnight in the Garden. What if we called it Midnight in Paris, since the tea shop has a Parisian flavor? And ask other local businesses to get involved, maybe turn it into a festival down the length of Bonita Av
enue?”
Adelaide sat back against the crewel fabric that covered her chair. Her fingers worried the delicate quartz-and-gold chain that held her glasses around her neck, running back and forth over the small pink stones while her eyes studied me. She dropped the chain and picked up her glass, took a sip, and then set it back on a cut-crystal coaster.
“I think it’s a beautiful idea,” she said softly.
“And it will work, right? I’ll use different fabrics, velvet maybe, to take the new interior from day to evening. I can even use a heat-set technique to give the velvet a jacquard texture. The rest can be done with inexpensive glass votives and candles and flowers. I know Genevieve would want to help. We’re already using toile and Provençal and voile. It’s going to be beautiful,” I finished.
“And it’s going to cost you quite a bit.”
“No, it’s not. Like I said, I have the fabric in the store. I’ll donate it. There are a lot of fabrics that aren’t in perfect condition, and this is a great way for me to make good use of them. And it’ll be good press for me, too. People will connect my store to San Ladrón. Honestly, it’s a little self-serving, but if you don’t mind, and Genevieve doesn’t mind, then I’ll take advantage of the opportunity.” I didn’t realize I was leaning forward until I stopped talking. I consciously relaxed into my seat and folded my hands in my lap, waiting for her to say something. I couldn’t shake my nerves. I unfolded my hands and sipped the drink in front of me. Sweet apricot and honey flavors trickled down my throat, followed by a slight burn from the alcohol. I coughed once and set the glass back down.
“Adelaide, you probably know that Genevieve Girard’s husband was murdered earlier this week. There is a lot of evidence against her, but I don’t believe for a second that she killed him. I’ve been working on the store as a way to give her some distance, give her some time to deal with what happened. But the longer the tea shop stays closed, the more people are going to talk. Rumors of murder are going to be hard enough for her to shake. It would do her a world of good to know you agreed to this.”
Crushed Velvet Page 19