“But the phones won’t stop ringing. We were supposed to release the results of the preliminary screening exams to the pageant entrants tomorrow and I can’t even find them. The newspaper has been holding space for us to announce the contestants. And if word gets out that there’s no money for the pageant, the whole thing will fall apart. What am I going to do?”
“Don’t answer the phone, don’t send any e-mails. Don’t try to pay anything.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.” I thought for a second. If there was no pageant, there was no proposal and no money to pay off my first loan payment. But a canceled pageant would affect far more people than me. The businesses around San Ladrón. The hopes and dreams of the women who had wanted to compete. And the legacy of Mr. Harvey Halliwell, who had brought so much to the city.
“Beth, can you close Halliwell Industries early today? I don’t think anybody would question it considering what happened to Mr. Halliwell.”
“I could do that. There’s only a few of us here, and I do have to get to a doctor’s appointment.”
“Cold?” I asked. I stepped back in case she was contagious.
“No. I have a condition.” She sniffled again.
I took down her personal cell number and e-mail and promised to be in touch. I hung up the phone. There was a definite disconnect between what Nolene had told me and what everyone else said. It occurred to me that I knew as much about her as I did everything else connected to this pageant, which was not very much at all.
• • •
The door to the fabric store was held open with a vintage black iron sewing machine. Inside the store the lights were bright. My mother had rearranged the wall of quilting cottons by color. The top shelf was green; the second shelf yellow. The third and fourth shelves were bare, and colorful blue and pink bolts of fabric were scattered around her on the floor. The customer with the Chihuahua was back. She stood by the floral cottons again, this time unwrapping each bolt, letting the fabric fall from her fingers while she assessed the pattern, and then moving on to the next.
“She says she’s just looking,” my mom said. “You should go chat her up.”
“I got this one. Why don’t you take the Ford across the street for that oil change we talked about?”
“Okay, fine, but I’m prepared to let you boss me around if you need to.”
“That won’t be necessary. Go.” I pointed at the door. My mom had the best of intentions but Charlie was waiting. I only hoped she wouldn’t give my mother any ideas about doing her own transmission flushes.
I approached the woman with the Chihuahua. “Back so soon?” I said.
“I shouldn’t even be in here. I was planning to visit the antiques shop next door. Your employee approached me before I entered and told me to come in.”
“Did she badger you?” I asked, casting a wayward glance at the door.
“I wouldn’t say badger, but she was persistent. This really is a cute shop. If I knew how to sew I’d spend a lot of money here.”
“You can always learn,” I said.
“I don’t really need any more fabric right now. I should really be going,” she said. She tugged on Archie’s leash and they left. I followed her out front. She glanced at Lilly, who was arranging vintage umbrellas in a tall narrow vase in front of her shop, and then hurried in the other direction down the street.
“Hi, Lilly,” I called out. “Just a heads-up, my mother—Helen—is going to be helping me out at the store over the next week or so.”
“Oh? Business is that good?”
“It’s not that. My time is going to be split. I’m involved with the pageant and she’s going to handle the day-to-day sales in the fabric store.”
Her head snapped up. “You’re working on the pageant? Does Violet know?”
“I don’t know who knows. Why?”
“I can’t believe that pageant keeps on going after what happened.”
I stepped forward. “I admit, I was surprised, too. Did you know Mr. Halliwell?”
She picked up the metal umbrella stand and slammed it back down on the ground. “Harvey Halliwell was as much a part of the problem as anybody. To think how he profited from that dog-and-pony show. He deserved what he got, and now maybe somebody will shut that pageant down for good.”
She stormed inside. The fabric shop was empty and there was no sign of anybody on the street. I followed Lilly inside her shop. “What did you mean by that?”
“That man profits from putting young women on a stage. Once a year his pageant turns our town into a big orange joke. Those young ladies should be thinking about graduating high school or entering college, not becoming a beauty queen and taking off for China to hang off a rich man’s arm in photo opportunities. At least it’s all over now.”
“It’s not over. The pageant is going to continue without Mr. Halliwell. In fact, Halliwell Industries considers the pageant to be his legacy.”
She glared at me, her eyes narrowed into slits. “That can’t be true,” she said.
“It is. That’s one of the reasons I need more help this week.”
Lilly picked up a rag and turned her back on me. I stood there for a few seconds but finally said an awkward good-bye. I needed to find out what had happened to make the Garden sisters hate Harvey Halliwell as much as they did.
• • •
The afternoon was quiet. My mom returned at four, and I ran upstairs to the apartment to use the bathroom. When I came out, I saw the champagne dress on the chaise lounge. The throw blanket I’d tossed on top of it was on the floor, and curled up on top of the blanket were Pins and Needles, sleeping in a patch of sunlight. The dress reminded me once again of Vaughn, and, once again, I questioned whether we could get past our differences.
But then I thought about why Vaughn had been upset. His area of expertise was money, and on more than one occasion, when I’d had money problems or questions, I’d gone to someone else. Was he hurt by that? Did he think I didn’t respect him?
I considered things from a different angle. Vaughn and I were still just getting to know each other. But if he had questions about fabric or about making a dress, I would like to think he’d come to me. How would I feel if he didn’t? I didn’t even have to finish the thought to know the answer. It seemed I owed him an apology.
I cued up his office number and stared at the screen for a few seconds before making the call. His secretary answered.
“Hello, I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Vaughn McMichael,” I said. “To discuss a private business matter.”
She hesitated for a moment. “He has an opening tomorrow morning at eleven and tomorrow afternoon at three.”
“Does he have any time today?”
“I can fit you in at four forty-five, but that doesn’t give you much time,” she said.
“I’ll be there.” I gave her my name and phone number and hung up. I knew as soon as Vaughn saw my name he’d think something was up. The sooner I arrived, the less time he’d have to cancel.
I pulled a blazer over my tank top and traded my jeans for a pair of trousers. Already the temperature had been hitting the eighties, but I knew if I wanted him to take me seriously, I had to take myself seriously. I stepped into low-heeled shoes, put pearl stud earrings in my pierced ears, and moved my wallet, keys, and money from my messenger bag to a small leather purse. I was back downstairs fifteen minutes later, and I had less than twenty to get to Vaughn’s business and find a parking space.
“Mom? I have to run to the bank. It’s a last-minute thing. You can handle things?”
“I think I can manage to not badger any more customers,” she said with a smile. “Besides, I think you lost your window of sales to happy hour. I just watched four people go into the bar across the street.”
I glanced outside. Duke was outside The Broadside with a te
nt sign on his lap. He rolled himself to a spot on the sidewalk and set up the sign, then rolled himself back into the bar.
“You can close and lock up at six. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you for helping me out today.”
I made good time to Vaughn’s office. McMichael Investments was only a couple of miles from the fabric store, almost a straight shot down San Ladrón Avenue. It was a two-story office building, beige siding with dark brown trim. The parking lot sat off to the side, only a handful of cars occupying the numerous spaces. Vaughn’s car was parked next to his father’s in the lot, the full size and the mini-me versions of silver BMWs. His father’s plates said MCM; Vaughn’s had the combination of letters and numbers that had been assigned to him by the State of California. The space next to Vaughn’s was marked Visitor, so I pulled in, hoping he didn’t have a view of the parking lot from his office. I’d at least like to make it inside before I was asked to leave.
I signed in with security and was directed to the second floor. The lobby was quiet. I gave myself a pep talk as the elevator climbed. When the doors opened, Vaughn stood in front of them, arms crossed.
“Security called and said you were on your way up. What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I have an appointment.” His face went blank. “With you.”
“No you don’t,” he said.
“Ask your secretary,” I challenged.
He turned around and walked down a blue-carpeted hallway. I followed, assuming this was the way to his office. He stopped by a woman in a blue sundress. “Do I have an appointment this afternoon?” he asked her.
“Yes, sir, with Poly Monroe.”
“I’m Poly Monroe,” I offered.
“Oh!” she stood. “Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?”
“Poly doesn’t need anything,” he said. He turned back to me. “Do you?” he asked.
“Only my appointment.”
“Follow me.”
Vaughn led us past his secretary to a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside I could see the row of purple jacarandas spilling their blossoms onto the parking lot.
“Don’t you think this is a little extreme?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have a financial matter to discuss, and I’ve heard you’re good with money.”
He stared at me. The sunlight from his windows picked up the gold flecks in his otherwise green eyes and highlighted strands of his light brown hair that had been bleached by the sun. I sat straight and pretended I was on a job interview. No jokes, no flirtation. Just business.
Vaughn stood up and walked past me, and, for a second, I thought he was going to open the door and ask me to leave. He didn’t. He opened a small refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. He handed me one, set the other on his desk blotter, and pulled two cut-crystal glasses from a cabinet.
“Tell me about your financial matter.”
“It’s not my financial matter. It’s Harvey Halliwell’s financial matter.”
“Harvey Halliwell isn’t one of our clients.”
“Harvey Halliwell isn’t anybody’s client anymore,” I said, “but that didn’t stop somebody from cleaning out his bank account today.”
“What?” he asked, leaning forward with interest.
I relayed to Vaughn what I’d learned from Beth at Halliwell Industries. “I went to pick up my check and Harvey’s secretary was hysterical. She said she tried to pay the caterer and was told there was no money in the account. She also saw Nolene with a car filled with suitcases, and apparently Nolene was the only person with access to Harvey’s money.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” he said.
“I know. So now it’s not just a murder, but add to that a freaked-out staff and a very big pageant that draws national attention. You have hundreds of thousands of dollars of business revenue at stake, and the dreams and aspirations of women who were supposed to find out whether they were in contention to win the Miss Tangorli title and everything that went with it.”
“What do you mean, ‘supposed to find out’?”
“You know there’s a pretty heavy screening process used for the competition, right? The results were in and the competitors were going to be published in tomorrow’s paper.”
“That’s interesting timing,” he said.
“That’s what I thought, too.”
Temporarily, the tension that had existed between Vaughn and me disappeared. I leaned forward to mirror his body language.
Vaughn stood. “Wait here,” he said.
He left me alone in the office. I poured my water into the glass and drank. It was refreshing on a hot day. I held the empty glass up against my forehead and closed my eyes. If it was this hot now, what would it be like in August when the high averaged in the nineties?
I stayed in Vaughn’s office for the better part of an hour. Curiosity led me to inspect the diploma on the wall and the photos on his desk. When the door to Vaughn’s office finally reopened, I turned around. Vaughn had returned, but he wasn’t alone. This time he was followed by his father on one side and Sheriff Clark on the other.
Nine
“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 s
oftly. “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.”
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