Silk Stalkings

by Diane Vallere

  “If she had, I wouldn’t tell you,” I said.

  “And I respect that. But keep an eye on her, would you?”

  “Sure, why not? I’m already keeping an eye on her for Sheriff Clark.”

  Vaughn stopped walking, even though we were still a few feet shy of the front door to Material Girl. “Sheriff Clark asked you to keep an eye on Charlie? Why? What does he suspect?”

  So Vaughn didn’t know the truth about Charlie and Clark. “It’s nothing like that. You know Clark. He feels like he’s in charge of everybody in San Ladrón. Somebody acts a little different and all of a sudden, he has to start asking questions. Especially if there’s a stranger involved.”

  I looked across the street. Charlie and the man with the white ponytail came out of her shop. “Come here,” I said. I pulled Vaughn into the shadowy doorway to Tiki Tom’s shop and put my arms around his neck.

  “Hey, slow down,” he said. He put his hands on my waist and leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head to the side and looked over his shoulder.

  “There’s that guy from the garden party,” I said. Vaughn turned around. “This is the second time I saw him at her shop.”

  Charlie and the man hugged briefly. I pulled Vaughn closer to me in the shadows of Tiki Tom’s storefront. The man got into her car and drove away. Charlie looked up and down the street, as if checking to see if she’d been spotted, and went back inside. A few seconds later, the lights went out.

  Fourteen

  The next morning I woke to kitty howling. Pins had migrated to my pillow sometime during the night and his fur was smushed into my cheek. Needles sat by the side of the bed meowing over and over like he hadn’t been fed for a week. The clock read six thirty.

  I turned off the kitty alarm by filling bowls with fresh food and water, emptied the litter box, and then showered and dressed in a black cotton boatneck and a pair of black capri pants. I slipped my feet into ballerina flats, swiped on tinted sunscreen, mascara, and lip gloss, and joined the kitties in the kitchen. While they circled around my ankles, sated by their meal of genuine animal by-products, I made a pot of Ceylon tea and heated up a frozen orange scone Genevieve had given me a few weeks ago. It wasn’t nearly as good as a fresh one, but it was still better than anything you could buy in a grocery store.

  I went downstairs to the fabric store around seven thirty. After opening the register, I pulled the envelope of cash out from under the tray. There was a branch of my bank a few doors to the left of Material Girl, and if I hurried, I could make the deposit through the machine out front and be back before Giovanni showed up with a van filled with seamstresses. I pushed the bulging envelope into one pocket, pushed my ID and bank card into the other, and unlocked the front door. On the sidewalk in front of the gate stood a petite Asian woman with jet-black hair perfectly styled in a bouffant. She made a slight bow toward me.

  “Good morning.” She held a collapsible table under one arm and a sewing machine in the other. “Miss Polyester?” she asked. When I nodded, she replied, “I here for job.”

  “Are you with Giovanni?” I asked.

  She looked to the left and to the right. “Who Giovanni? I here alone. For job.”

  “I think you might have the wrong store. I’m not hiring,” I said. The fact that she was carrying a sewing machine made me think the confusion lay not with her location, but somehow with me.

  “Mister Vaughn told me to come see you. He say you need seamstress for beauty pageant dresses.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But it isn’t a paying job. I’m afraid I can’t hire you.”

  “Is okay. Mister Vaughn good customer. He say gold dress for you. Very pretty.”

  “You made the gold dress?” I asked. “My gold dress?”

  “Your sketch very detailed. Easy to follow. Mister Vaughn knows I like making pretty things.”

  A car pulled up in front of Flowers in the Attic and Violet Garden got out of the passenger side. She held an assortment of wicker baskets. The top one overflowed with lace doilies, napkins, and place mats. The car pulled away from the curb and pulled around to the back. Violet looked at the woman with me, and then at me.

  I stepped backward and held the door open. “Please come in, Ms. . . .” My voice trailed off while I waited for her to fill in the blank.

  “Jun Wong.” She crossed the threshold with steps dictated by both her short stature and her narrow skirt that matched her linen jacket. On her feet were round-toed pumps with sensible one-inch heels and thick leather soles. I didn’t want to offend her by asking, but I suspected she had dressed for the opportunity of an interview.

  “I have small dressmaking shop behind French tea café. I see what you do with fabrics for interior. Very pretty,” she said, just as she’d said about my dress.

  “Did you attend the Midnight in Paris party? I didn’t see you there.”

  “Oh, I no party. I peek in windows at night. You know fabric,” she said. She nodded as she said it, like I’d passed a test.

  “My great-aunt and great-uncle used to own this store. In some ways I grew up here.”

  “Is good place for little girl. You learn important things. Like sewing.”

  “Where did you learn to sew?”

  “In China. Many women learn sewing. It is good job. My grandmother learn first. I learn when I was ten.”

  “You started working when you were ten?” I asked with shock.

  She laughed. “No. First job at thirteen. Until then I practice. I not get really good until I sixteen.”

  “And how do you know Vaughn?”

  She paused when I said his name, and smiled a secret smile. “Mister Vaughn very good to me. He gave me loan to start my seamstress shop,” she said. “But I getting older now. Not want to work as much. Loan paid back, but maybe time to retire soon.” She looked around the store. “I set up now. Store be busy soon.” She set her sewing machine on the floor and unfolded the small table she had brought with her.

  “You can use the sewing area that is already set up,” I said.

  “No, that for students. I bring my own supplies.” She picked up her sewing machine and set it on top of the table. I watched her pull a power cord from a small cloth bag and connect it to the machine. Since she didn’t seem to have brought a stool with her, too, I rolled a small cushioned chair from my desk to where she set up her workstation.

  An air of determination surrounded Jun Wong. I recognized it from the attitude I’d seen so many times in the workroom at To the Nines back in Los Angeles. Sure, Giovanni was a cheapskate who would charge his own mother for a glass of tap water, but his employees were cut from a different kind of cloth. They took pride in what they did. Those ladies had adopted me when I took the job as senior concept designer, and they treated me with the same level of respect I gave them. Even though I’d just met Jun Wong, her presence was comforting.

  Except that it thwarted my trip to the bank. I pulled the envelope from my pocket and put it back in the cash register.

  “Jun, where did you park?”

  “I no park. I walk.”

  “You carried your machine and table?”

  “Table on wheels. Machine not heavy. I used to it.” She set the top to her machine on the floor and unzipped the small bag that had hung over her shoulder. From inside she pulled a pincushion sewn onto a loop of elastic that she put on her wrist like a bracelet. She unpacked a seam ripper, two pair of scissors, and a yardstick, and then draped a tape measure around her neck.

  “Have you had breakfast? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Yes. I have nice breakfast before work.” She patted her tiny stomach. “I eat well,” she laughed. Her whole face lit up and her laughter rang through the store like charms on the bracelet Aunt Millie used to wear. For a split second, it was like my aunt was right there with us.

  “You get ready for others. I okay by myself,” she
said.

  “How do you know about the others?” I asked.

  “I know more than you think,” she said with a knowing smile. “About more than just fabric, too.”

  Before I could ask what she meant, there was a pounding on the back door. I crossed the room and unlocked it. Giovanni pushed past me. “You’d think you would have been ready for us,” he said. “Where’s the coffee? Where are the donuts?”

  I ignored him and instead took the next several minutes to hug each of the ladies from the workroom at To the Nines. We shared a flurry of “Good to see you,” “How’ve you been,” and a couple “You wouldn’t believe what Giovanni did last week.” I ushered the six women inside and led them to the sewing stations.

  “Ladies, this is Jun Wong. She’s going to help with the dresses,” I said. Giovanni stood by the front door, looking up and down the street.

  “Mr. Giovanni was expecting food,” one of the ladies said.

  I excused myself while the ladies introduced themselves to Jun and chatted like giddy coeds who had been allowed out of their all-girls school for a mixer with boys. I joined Giovanni at the front door.

  “Donuts or croissants?”

  “Today, donuts.”

  “Coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Can I trust you here while I go get it?”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  “Let me rephrase the question. The store is not open yet, but there is a chance that one or two or twenty young ladies who are pageant contestants will show up at any time. If I’m not here when they arrive, can you manage to keep things under control?”

  He looked at his watch. “It’ll take us about an hour to get the workstations set up. You get coffee and donuts and we’ll be ready when the kids arrive.” He pulled his wallet out of his pants and opened the billfold. What was this? Was Giovanni actually going to give me money for the donuts and coffee?

  He peeled off a one-dollar bill. “Put this in the tip jar. Stores like that.”

  Cheapskate.

  On a normal day, I would have walked the four blocks to Lopez Donuts, allowing internal negotiations to convince me that the walk would offset any baked goods I might eat once I arrived. Today I took my old yellow VW Bug. I knew I’d be too loaded down to make the walk back, and even though Maria or Big Joe would readily volunteer to help me, I didn’t want to pull them away from their shop.

  Business was better than it had been on Sunday, but they weren’t breaking any records. Maria was behind the counter. I was third in line but the two people in front of me ordered a cruller and coffee each, so I advanced quickly.

  “Hi, Maria, can I get three dozen glazed and two urns of coffee?”

  “Now that’s how you order in a donut shop,” she said, looking at the man who was doctoring his coffee with half-and-half. “But I know you don’t expect those pageant contestants to eat donuts. Whose army are these for?”

  “My old boss’s army.” I told her about Giovanni bringing the workroom to San Ladrón to help me with the dresses.

  “That sounds like a nice gesture. I thought you said that man was greedy?”

  “You don’t know Giovanni. He’ll find a way to make this about him.”

  Maria went to the back to fill the pink boxes with donuts fresh from the oven and returned a few minutes later. “Joe! Come out here and man the counter. I have to help Poly to her car,” she said.

  “I can handle it,” I said.

  “No you can’t. I have to talk to you about something.” She pulled the apron over her head and tossed it on the counter, grabbed a pink box, and pushed me ahead of her. When Joe came out to the front counter, he glared at me. I looked away and kept walking.

  When we reached my car, Maria opened the door and got into the passenger side. She wrapped her arms around the pink bakery boxes on her lap. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “No. I mean yes, probably. I mean, this is embarrassing.”

  I sat behind the wheel and started the engine. “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you while you drive.” She waited until I pulled away from the curb to continue. “I know you have a lot on your plate, and I wouldn’t normally bring this up, but it’s kind of important. And you’re the only one who can help me.”

  “Maria, you’re scaring me.”

  She sighed. “The last time I wore a formal dress was my wedding! That was”—she looked down at her body—“before the donut shop.”

  “A formal dress?”

  “Nolene asked me to judge the pageant. That means I have to wear a formal gown. I don’t have time to go gallivanting around San Ladrón trying on dresses like a lot of the other ladies around here. Between the cleaning business and the donut shop and the boys, it’s a wonder my shoes match.”

  “Maria, you are one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and your generosity made a huge difference to me when I first moved here. I’d be honored to make you a dress for the pageant.”

  “I don’t want anything too fussy. I’m not a fussy type. And I can’t handle a bunch of fittings, either. And nothing green. I heard nobody looks good in green. Oh, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “You should have asked and I’m glad you did. Come to the shop later today. We’ll look at the fabric and you can pick out whatever you want.”

  “You pick out the fabric for me. Whatever you think will look good.”

  I waited for a car to pass before turning into the side street that led to my back parking lot. A small crowd had formed in front of the shop. Young women holding folders and sketch pads and portfolios that I assumed included drawings.

  “Is that Charlie? Is she helping you, too?” Maria asked.

  I hadn’t expected to see Charlie that morning. She was with a tall, thin young woman with long, straight, brown hair. They crossed the street and stopped in front of Material Girl. The brunette said something to Charlie and then went inside. Like last night, Charlie looked up and down the street, then jogged back to her shop.

  The plot thickened.

  Fifteen

  “Did you recognize that girl?” Maria asked as I made the turn and then turned into my parking lot.

  “No, she’s probably a customer.”

  Maria didn’t look convinced. I parked next to the Dumpster and Maria got out and set the boxes on the passenger seat. “Do you want help carrying this inside?”

  “No, I can take it from here. I’m afraid of what my boss is going to tell those young women. Especially since I’ve kept him waiting this long for his coffee.”

  I carried the two urns inside the store first and set them on the wrap stand. A group of contestants stood by the wall of silk. The seamstresses sat by their sewing machines, watching Giovanni, who had his arms crossed over his chest. He saw me with the coffee and came over.

  “They won’t listen to me. They say they’ve been instructed to talk to you only. I told them we could get started, but nobody made a move.”

  “There are three boxes of donuts in my car. Bring them inside and set up a station by the register. Until we’re done with this, I doubt we’ll have many customers, but if we do, offer them a donut.”

  “Wait a second. I’m not here to work for you. Your fabric store business is on your time.”

  “Do you want your donuts or not?” I said. He left out the back door.

  I went to the front of the store where the young women stood. Yesterday, I’d been taken by the charge of enthusiasm that buzzed off them. Today, the giddy chitchat had been replaced with a solemn vibe. I imagined in the wake of their excitement over having made it this far, they realized they were competitors. A lot was at stake.

  “Hello, ladies,” I said. “We’re lucky to have a talented staff of seamstresses with us today. I think the best thing to do is to get started. Why don’t you form a line and I’ll go over the ske
tches with you one by one?”

  “But who goes first?” asked Tiffany. She wore a pink polo shirt, mint-green Bermuda shorts, and matching mint-green canvas sneakers. Already I sensed that she had appointed herself the fairness monitor.

  “Alphabetically?” asked another.

  “That’s only good for you, Alison,” I heard.

  “Names in a bowl,” I said quickly. I handed each contestant an index card and had her write her name on it. The folded cards went into an empty plastic bowl that I used for the cats’ water when they were downstairs with me. I spun the papers around with my hand. As I called them out, the young women lined up. I’d expected someone to give me attitude, but I was pleasantly surprised. It seemed they each needed some direction and were eager to get started.

  One by one I met with the contestants. While the tools they used to illustrate their concepts varied, they had all come prepared. One brought a computer with a stylus. When she turned on the power, her sketch was backlit. She seemed more eager to show off her technological skills than her interest in designing a dress, and twice I had to remind her that her consultation would last the same fifteen minutes as everyone else’s. Another young woman held a piece of tracing paper that she’d used to copy the style of a dress she’d seen in a book on fairy tales. Most brought in a version of a sketch pad with an image drawn in the center. I was pleasantly surprised that they didn’t all gravitate toward pink. For the three who did, we walked the wall of colors and found shades that worked for each of them.

  After their consultation, each contestant carried her bolt of silk to Giovanni, who measured out her ten yards and took note of the color choice by her name in a master file. From Giovanni, the young women went to the seamstresses, who took measurements, studied the pictures, and started cutting patterns out of cheap muslin.

  The plan was to break for lunch at one o’clock and return at two. I suspected Giovanni might not have arrived as early as he did if he’d known that was the plan, but judging from how he treated each contestant, I also suspected he kept his eyes on the prize of dressing the winner.