Silk Stalkings

by Diane Vallere

  “Violet, how are you?” I asked.

  The woman stood up and ran her hand over her long ash-blond ponytail. “Poly,” she said, “I’d stay away from that pageant if I were you.”

  “Why?”

  “For starters, Nolene’s a bit sexist in her choice of judges for the pageant. I understand why she’d go to Vaughn McMichael, but Duke? That’s a stretch. I was hoping she’d tapped you to keep things balanced.”

  “What’s wrong with Duke as a judge?”

  She cut me off. “Duke is a bar owner”—she said the words like she was saying he had leprosy—“and The Broadside isn’t the nicest bar in San Ladrón. Have you seen the clientele?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “You’ve frequented The Broadside?” she asked. Her hand fluttered to her chest and her eyes went wide.

  “Yes. They serve a good burger.”

  “I didn’t realize you liked to fraternize with the dark side, but I should have known when I saw you spending time with that mechanic across the street. Honestly, Poly, you should think twice about who you become friends with. My sister and I are just on the other side of that wall and we’re more than happy to help you out when you need it.”

  “Violet, was there something specific that you were looking for today?” I asked. “I saw you looking at the clearance bin.”

  “Just being neighborly,” she said. I suspected there was a better chance that she was trying to overhear our conversation. “So, what did she want to talk to you about? Something to do with the pageant? That woman does have a one-track mind,” Violet said.

  She wasn’t the only one!

  “She was impressed with what I accomplished by using fabrics at the tea shop,” I said. It was true, and I didn’t think it wise to tell Violet any details about my conversation with Nolene.

  “Yes, it was impressive. Lilly was surprised you gave away that much fabric, but I told her you were probably just being nice, considering the poor French girl’s husband had been murdered.”

  I refused to engage in Violet’s gossip. “Is Lilly running the store today?” I asked, hoping to prompt Violet to leave.

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you. We’re not opening today. Nobody shops the day after the garden party. Everyone who is anyone brunches at the Waverly House. That is, anyone who gets up before noon.”

  “Are you headed that way?”

  “Of course,” she replied, as though I’d suggested she didn’t count. She pulled a pair of tortoiseshell cat-eye sunglasses out of her small handbag and left.

  Even though I considered closing the store after Violet’s visit, I didn’t, and it was a good thing. I sold two sewing machines to a pair of women who had been impressed with the transition of Tea Totalers, and ten yards of purple ultra suede to a couple who wanted a wall of fabric in their bedroom. My fourth customer would prove to be trickier than the first three. It was Harvey Halliwell.

  Today he wore a white linen suit and orange bow tie. “Good morning, Mr. Halliwell. Welcome to Material Girl,” I said.

  “So you’re Polyester Monroe,” he said.

  “Yes, but I go by Poly,” I said. “Mr. Halliwell, how’s your head?”

  “My what?” His eyes rolled up as if he were trying to see what might be wrong with his head.

  “I saw you last night in the Waverly House gardens. You said—”

  “Never listen to an old man with a flair for the dramatic. I’m fine, my head’s fine. Everybody’s fine. Now listen. Nolene told me about your idea and I think it’s a squeeze!”

  “It’s a what?” I asked.

  “A fine squeeze—like a perfect piece of fruit ripe for the picking. Our pageant is ripe for your idea. Ripe, ripe, ripe, I tell you! I love it and I came here to give you the green light personally.”

  “Mr. Halliwell, are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you should be resting.”

  “No time to rest, young lady. Not when there’s work to be done. Do you think the fruit takes a day off?”

  “No.”

  “That’s right. My business is built on fruit. If the fruit doesn’t get a day off, then neither do I.”

  I hoped the expression on my face didn’t give away my thoughts, namely, that Mr. Halliwell was as fruity as his produce.

  “Now, the pageant. I’ve decided to create a second prize this year. The winner will receive a seat on the board, like always, but the runner-up will get a chance to work as my traveling companion. Right on the front lines, I tell you.”

  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but do you think that’s fair? The winner is on the board but the runner-up is your assistant?”

  “My dear, the board position is an unpaid seat with no voting privileges. My current assistant gets a six-figure salary. Which would you prefer?”

  “And the trip to China?”

  He studied me for a moment. “You know quite a bit about our little pageant, don’t you? Too much?” He smiled and rocked backward on his feet. “Just kidding. Yes, the winner goes to China for a publicity opportunity. Four days of press junkets, interviews, and staged photos. But I fly to China four times a year and I don’t like to travel alone. Nolene’s been coming with me, but I believe it’s time to branch out, like a Tangorli tree! And offer the experience to someone new. And let’s just say, whoever travels with me doesn’t have to keep track of their expense account.” He winked.

  “I had no idea,” I said.

  “Not many people do. Now, let’s talk about your role in the pageant. Something about silk?”

  I walked Mr. Halliwell to the wall of silk. The colors popped against each other like colored pencils in an artist’s tool kit. I couldn’t resist a new bolt of silk in a pretty color and had stocked us with sixty-four different shades. Thanks to my experience working with silk at To the Nines, I could speak to the ease of working with the luxurious fabric but could also steer customers away from typical mistakes like using too big a needle or too thick a thread.

  “You wanted something to help level the playing field, so to speak. My idea was that each contestant sketches a dress and buys ten yards of silk to make it from.”

  “They aren’t all sewers like you.”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not the best sewer in the world. To keep things equal, I think the contestants should not have to worry about making their dress, only about designing and selecting the fabrics. After all, that speaks to taste level and them each knowing what suits their individual style. If someone is skilled in sewing, then of course they should be able to make their own garment, but I don’t think that should be a requirement.”

  “Where do you expect these seamstresses to come from?” He looked around, his sights settling on the empty chairs by the sewing station.

  “I have contacts in Los Angeles, and I can arrange for some of them to come here for a week,” I added.

  “Do you think your former employer would be willing to work on this?”

  “If you were willing to give his workroom credit for the gowns, I think he might. In addition to reproduction rights of the gowns.”

  “Tell you what I’m going to do. How much does this silk cost?” he asked.

  “Twenty dollars a yard,” I said.

  “At ten yards per dress, that’s a two-hundred-dollar investment.” Harvey Halliwell got a faraway look in his eyes. “How about you sell it to these women for ten dollars a yard and I make up the difference direct to you?”

  My mind raced to keep up with what Mr. Halliwell was offering.

  “If you get low, you order more. I’m a gambling man, Polyester, and I’d be willing to wager that you get your fabric for a lot less than you sell it for. You’ll get your twenty dollars a yard. That’s four thousand dollars gross, minus your costs, guaranteed. In exchange I want you to consult with these women, treat them fairly, and make sure they all have u
se of equally talented seamstresses. You got that?”

  “Sure,” I said. My head was spinning from the calculations and the potential profit.

  “Good deal.” He shook my hand. “I’ll have my lawyers draw up the paperwork and drop off a contract. If you have any questions, you can come to me.”

  “Sure,” I said again.

  Mr. Halliwell was halfway to the door when I remembered the prescription vial I’d found the night before. “Mr. Halliwell,” I called out. I pulled the vial from my pocket and held it out to him. “I just remembered. I found this on the ground last night. You must have dropped it when you stood up.”

  He took the vial and stared at the illegible label, then tucked it into the inside pocket of his linen jacket. “Good day, Ms. Monroe,” he said.

  A handful more customers, tipsy after their champagne brunch, pushed me over my sales quota. I closed the shop fifteen minutes early. Curiosity had gotten the best of me and I wanted to check out the events at the Waverly House.

  I corralled Pins and Needles from where they were swatting a felt mouse by the tables of fake fur and secured them in the wrap stand. Pins jumped from the floor up to the counter and meowed. He was a striped tabby like his brother, only Pins was gray and Needles was orange.

  “Take care of each other,” I said to him. He meowed again and jumped to the ground, where he nosed his brother Needles, who swatted him like a southpaw.

  I headed out the back of the store and walked through the alley. After moving into the apartment above the fabric shop, I quickly learned that the alleys were the best shortcuts for getting around town in a jiffy. They ran behind all of the businesses, and the shrubbery had been trimmed back to allow people to pass through from one property to another. I cut through the bushes and ended up behind the majestic Victorian mansion.

  The landscapers who had taken such care to turn the gardens into the impressionist floral masterpiece it had been last night were tending to the flowers, replacing last night’s lilies with new ones in each of the glass vases. The head landscaper, a heavily tattooed bald man with a patch of beard in a neatly shaved line that ran down his chin, instructed the other men in Spanish. He saw me watching them and approached me.

  “Si? Hay problema?”

  “No problema. Are you in charge of the gardens? They’re beautiful.”

  His expression changed from wariness to pride. “Si. I’m Xavier. I designed the landscaping for this year.”

  “It’s amazing,” I said. “How long will it stay like this?”

  “We’ll be maintaining it for a week, and then it’s up to the Waverly House whether they want us to tear it down.”

  I watched the men move their tools and leftover lilies to the wheelbarrows that lined the far end of the property. Xavier smiled at me, and then turned away and joined the others by a pile of sod squares. A few men knelt down and swapped out an existing patch of sod for a new one. The seams were visible, leaving the appearance of a patchwork blanket—at least the parts that weren’t bald patches of brown dirt did. Now, that would be a great idea for a backyard, I thought. Patches of sod in varying shades of green, whipstitched together with a biodegradable twine to look like a quilt!

  The alley had been handy for getting me from Material Girl to the Waverly House grounds, but I hadn’t given much thought to my gladiator sandals and the exposed soil. Already grains of dirt had found their way under my toes. I took a long step over a patch of overturned ground and put my hand against the tree where Vaughn and I had stood last night. I held a branch for balance and tapped the toe of my foot against the trunk, trying to shake the dirt loose.

  And that was when I saw that I wasn’t alone. Lying on the ground behind the tree was Harvey Halliwell.

  His white linen suit was rumpled in a way that only linen can be. His tangerine bow tie now dug into the folds of his skin. An orange knife jutted out of his side.

  Five

  I knelt down beside Harvey. His head fell to the side. I felt for a pulse at his wrist. There was none. Something dark and sticky transferred from his body to my arm. I moved my fingers to his throat, hoping to find some sign of life, but already I knew I wouldn’t find any.

  I looked around for someone—anyone—whom I could instruct to call the police. Two landscapers stood by the far corner of the grounds. I yelled as loud as I could, but neither looked up from his task. Wires ran from their ears to their pockets and I knew they couldn’t hear me.

  Gently, I set Harvey’s head back down on the ground and ran to the front of the Waverly House. Once inside, I found Sheila Bonham, the red-haired hostess in charge of seating people, and pulled her away from the crowd. “You have to call nine-one-one. Harvey Halliwell is out back and he’s—”I paused. “Call nine-one-one. We need the police.”

  She stared at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “He’s what?”

  “He’s dead. I’m going back outside to wait with him. He’s behind the weeping willow tree. Hurry.”

  I didn’t wait to see Sheila make the call. Already, my actions were alarming patrons of the restaurant. A crowd of tipsy brunchgoers trying to sneak a peek at the dead man would be the worst thing for Sheriff Clark to discover when he arrived.

  I ran down the hallway, out the side exit, and down the exterior staircase. I raced over to Xavier and pulled at the headphone cords until the ear buds fell out.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “There’s a man over there under that tree. He’s dead. Can you help me block off the area so people can’t get too close when they come out of the restaurant?”

  “How much champagne did you drink, lady?” he asked.

  I heard the sirens in the distance. “Please. That’s for him. I’m not lying.” I tipped over a garden gnome and lugged him to a spot ten feet from Harvey’s body. The landscaper followed and laid an assortment of small gardening tools down end to end. I added the rake and the hose to the chain of items. When we were done, we’d effectively completed three quarters of a circle around Harvey’s body. The intersecting hedge behind the tree served as the barrier behind him.

  Patrons trickled out of the Waverly House and approached our makeshift crime scene barrier. What started as a few people soon turned into a crowd. A black-and-white pulled up alongside the curb and Sheriff Clark got out of the driver’s side. A young man in a brown sheriff’s uniform got out of the passenger side and followed Clark to where we stood.

  “Ms. Monroe,” he said. “You made the nine-one-one call?”

  “No, Sheila did. Inside. I’m the one who found him. He’s behind the tree.”

  He glanced down at the makeshift barrier of gardening utensils and gnome that lay on their sides, marking off the circle around Harvey’s body, and then looked up at me.

  “I didn’t want people to get too close,” I said.

  A woman with short spiky gray hair and earrings made of fruit clusters broke away from the group. “Mr. Halliwell?” she cried. “Mr. Halliwell!” She dropped to her knees on the ground next to his body. Sheriff Clark ran forward. He put his arms on her shoulders and said something to her. He helped her stand, put an arm around her, and led her back to the sidewalk to the other officer, who escorted her to a wrought-iron bench away from the view of the body.

  Sheriff Clark stepped over the rake handle and walked to the tree. Harvey’s feet stuck out in front of him, two orange socks showing from between the cuffs of his white linen pants and the brown oxfords on his feet. Clark turned around and waved the uniformed officer forward. The young man stepped over the gnome and the two of them spoke in hushed tones. The new guy nodded and turned around to the crowd.

  “I’m going to need to get the names and contact info for everyone here,” he said. The crowd groaned collectively. “If you could all join me over by the steps to the Waverly House I’ll get started.”

  A few couples started to back away
toward the street. Charlie appeared from the curb. She held her arms out on either side of her and blocked their path. “I don’t think you heard the officer correctly. He said to meet by the steps,” she said. The grumbling continued but the patrons turned back and followed the officer. Charlie looked past me to Clark and flashed him a smile.

  “What’s happening?” she said to me.

  “Harvey Halliwell. Did you know him?”

  “Used to. Drove a silver Infiniti that had all kinds of problems. Traded it in for a hybrid and now I never see him. Electric cars are going to be the death of my business.”

  I cringed at the use of the word death and told Charlie what had happened. “I cut through the shrubs between the alley and the Waverly House and there he was. Who knows how long he’s been there.”

  “Could have been there since last night,” she said.

  “No. He was at my store this morning. Only a couple of hours ago.”

  I studied her face for signs that she knew something. She met my stare and held it. If I hadn’t had a chance to learn Charlie’s body language, I might not have noticed how tense she was when I told her about Harvey, and the subtle shift that occurred when I mentioned that I’d seen him alive and well today. Her eyes dilated for a second and she bit at her lip.

  “You said you talked to Harvey Halliwell earlier today?” asked Sheriff Clark, approaching us.

  “That’s my cue to leave,” said Charlie. “Come on over when you’re done here,” she said to me. She finger-waved at Clark, who turned red, and then walked away.

  Clark watched her leave, then turned to me. “What can you tell me?”

  “Harvey was at my store earlier today. We were meeting to discuss the pageant. Who was that woman?”

  “Which woman?” Clark asked.

  “The gray-haired woman who broke down.”

  “Beth Fields. Works for Halliwell Industries.”

  “She seems pretty shaken up.”

  “Sometimes that happens when people see a murder victim.” He moved a few steps to his right, blocking my view of the woman. “What time did Mr. Halliwell leave your shop?”