Silk Stalkings

by Diane Vallere

  “Ten to six daily. Twelve to six on Sunday. The thing is, it’s just me at the store, and I need to concentrate on regular business. If we can set up a window of time for them to pick up their dresses, it would be less disruptive than if they trickle in one at a time. Plus, well, it seems more fair that way, too.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” The clacking stopped and I heard papers rustling. “How about Sunday afternoon? The salons across the street are closed so the young ladies can finalize hair and makeup choices. I’ll add to their agenda that they need to visit with you when they’re done.”

  I didn’t want to have to wait until the end of the day tomorrow. “Can you send me a copy of their agenda? Maybe I can figure something out.”

  “Poly, this pageant runs on a very tight schedule. Details are kept confidential so there can be no accusations of favoritism.”

  I sighed. “What about Sunday afternoon? Can they come to me before they do hair and makeup?”

  “What do you expect them to do with their gowns? Hang them in the beauty salon where they can absorb the smell of hair spray and processing fluid? No. Sunday afternoon. I’ll make sure they know.”

  I set the receiver back on the cradle and turned to Charlie. “Do you know Beth Fields?”

  “No. Who’s she?”

  “She’s Nolene’s assistant. She’s the one who’s going to call the contestants and tell them to come see me tomorrow night. Which means she’s the one who’s going to know if one of the young women is missing.”

  “So I have until Sunday afternoon to find out where Lucy went.”

  Twenty-four

  I headed back to the fabric store, no smarter than I’d been when I left. Lilly was out front with Tiki Tom. They stared at Tom’s new window display. Inside the narrow window was a large movie poster for Blue Hawaii. The image showed Elvis, his guitar, and several island girls. Tom had wedged a small wooden table into the window and covered it with hula girl collectibles: ceramic salt and pepper shakers, ashtrays, lamps, and wood carvings. On the floor were instructional DVDs on how to hula dance.

  Tom stroked his pointy gray beard. “Something’s missing,” he said. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Ask Poly. She likes to get involved with things that have nothing to do with her.” Lilly stepped backward, gave me a tight-lipped smile, and went to her shop.

  “Did I miss something?” I asked.

  “Never mind those Garden sisters. They don’t like that you’re involved in the pageant.”

  “My involvement is almost over. The dresses are done and the young women are going to pick them up on Sunday afternoon. With that one exception, it’s back to business as usual for me.”

  “Still, I’d be careful if I were you. Violet gets a little irrational this time of year, and Lilly gets overprotective. Probably for the best that anybody connected to the pageant steers clear of them.”

  “Maybe I can convince them to close the shop early on Sunday,” I said. “Now, about this window, I know exactly what’s missing. Wait here.”

  I unlocked the door to Material Girl and found a rack of brightly colored, tropical printed bolts of cotton. There were six. I carried the stack of them to the cutting station and measured off two yards of the top one, a leafy green print with bright red hibiscus flowers printed by the border. Small yellow and white flowers filled the center of the fabric and added to the image, conjuring up the lush gardens of Polynesia. I folded the cutting over itself, selvage edge to selvage edge, and carried it to a nude bust form. With care, I wrapped the fabric, fold side up, around the back of the headless and armless mannequin, crossed the fabric in front, and knotted it at the back of the neck. It took a little effort to adjust the fabric over the bust and ensure modesty, but when I was done, I had a no-sew tropical dress that had taken five minutes to assemble.

  I rolled the bust form out the front door and onto the sidewalk. Tom whistled.

  “You just happened to have that lying around?” he asked.

  “I made it just for you.”

  “Well, she’s just what this window needs. How much you want me to charge for the dress?”

  “The dress isn’t for sale,” I said. “But there is one thing you could do for me if you want.”

  I outlined the idea that I’d gotten the other night at The Broadside. Genevieve had said that for women, going to a bar was a social event, and that was what I was going to give them. Their very own happy hour at the fabric store. Women could come to the store, order fabric like they would order drinks, and spend the next hour learning how to make the fabric into something wearable. I’d start with a no-sew project like a pareo that could be tied a hundred different ways.

  “Tell you what,” Tiki Tom said. “Since you’re lending me your mannequin, I’ll lend you a portable tiki bar. You can take the orders from there. Give me a flyer and I’ll promote your thing from inside my store and send out an e-mail blast for you. Maybe you can talk up my merchandise and we could get a nice crossover of business. It’s just the beginning of summer. Definitely perfect for luau season.”

  “It’s a deal.” I thanked Tom and headed back to Material Girl to work out the details of my plan.

  Several hours and four customers later, I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. I called The Broadside. “Do you have anything healthy on your lunch menu?” I asked Duke when he answered.

  “Define healthy. Our burgers are one hundred percent pure beef. If you want, I’ll toss in an order of onion rings so you can get your vegetables.” He chuckled.

  “If only Earl of Sandwich delivered, I wouldn’t have to put up with this.”

  “Why do you need delivery?”

  “I’m trapped at the store. No help today. If I want to eat, it’s you or pizza.”

  “So, what’ll it be?”

  I sighed. “I’ll take a burger. Just make sure there’s lettuce and tomato on it.”

  Twenty minutes later, Duke rolled his wheelchair into my shop. A white plastic take-out bag dangled from one of the handles of the chair. He spun himself around and backed up. “Door-to-door delivery. How do you like that?”

  “I like it a lot. Thanks.” I fished in my wallet for a ten. Duke’s lunchtime special was the five-dollar burger. When he pulled his own wallet out to make change, I stopped him. “Keep the change.”

  “It’s not often I get a hundred percent tip,” he said.

  “It’s not often I get a marketing idea from hanging around a bar,” I said back.

  “You really were stealing my ideas?” He narrowed his eyes but I could tell he was being playful.

  “Yep. And Tiki Tom is in on it, so you better watch out.”

  “I don’t have to worry about that guy. He’s as loopy as the nets he has hanging from his ceiling.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” I untied the bag and pulled out the burger. Juices were pressed against the inside of the parchment paper that it had been wrapped in. I tore off the top of the paper and took a bite, careful to keep my hands from getting soiled.

  Duke felt around the pocket on the outside of his chair and came up with a bottle of water. “Figured you’d want something to drink with it.”

  “You figured right.” I uncapped the bottle and took a long drink.

  “So what’s this all about?” he asked.

  I told him about my idea to have people come to the store between four and six for a fabric happy hour. “Tom’s going to lend me a tiki bar so people can actually order. And the first project won’t require any sewing. Only the purchase of two yards of fabric.”

  “What are you going to have them make?”

  “A pareo. Go next door and look in the window.”

  Duke rolled himself out of the shop and returned a couple of minutes later. “Not bad,” he said. “You said you got this idea when you were at my place?”

 
“Sort of. Genevieve was the one who triggered it. We were talking about your clientele.” I stopped talking. I didn’t want to insult Duke’s regulars. They were the people who paid his bills, not me and my lousy once-a-month burger habit.

  “It’s okay. I know my crowd is a little rough around the edges. I’ve tried to do something about it but nothing seems to work. Is that why you and your friend don’t come more often?”

  “A little. Genevieve’s the one who said that for women, drinking is social. That’s what connected the idea of a social event with a happy hour.”

  “I like it. Tell you what. I’ll add a couple of island drinks to the happy hour menu. If your customers are already in a social mood, maybe they’ll come over when they’re done. If I can get enough of a different crowd to start showing up, that’ll change the mix.”

  “Duke, that’s a great idea. I’ll make sure to let my customers know. Assuming anybody shows up,” I said.

  “When are you planning on starting this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not tonight? Do a trial run. You’ve got a couple of hours before four o’clock, right? And you’re open until six?”

  “Yes, but can I really get the word out in a couple of hours?”

  “There’s one way to find out,” he said. He backed his wheelchair away, spun in a half circle, and left.

  As it turned out, I could. First I sent an e-mail blast to my growing list of customers. After that I called Genevieve, Maria Lopez, and every other person I knew in San Ladrón and asked them to help spread the word. Then I went next door and helped Tom carry the portable tiki bar to my shop. He moved the sewing area to the far wall and positioned the bar on a diagonal inside the entrance. I emptied a round fixture that held a dozen bolts of fabric, put the tropical prints on every other spoke, and filled in the spaces between them with luxurious sateens that conjured up the colors of blue sky, sand beaches, teal oceans, and fern-green leaves. Tom moved the mannequin from inside his window to the sidewalk between our two stores and pinned on a sign that said, Learn to dress like an island girl! Free hula lessons with purchase.

  I downloaded four Martin Denny CDs from iTunes and played them over the fabric store’s sound system, then called Vaughn and asked if he was interested in cutting out of work early for the rest of the day. I rolled the rack of pageant dresses to the back of the fabric store, into a small section that had been partitioned off years ago. I didn’t like spending time back there and planned to one day tear the wall down and expand the shop.

  • • •

  The event was successful. Genevieve arrived with three of her new regulars, and two of Maria’s sisters who helped her run Neato came with friends, too. Many of the ladies who had stopped in the shop for one thing or another—a yard of fabric here, a spool of thread there—left with a renewed interest in the possibilities that the fabric store held. Even Betty, the no-sew tablecloth customer, had gotten my e-mail and showed up with her faithful companion, Archie.

  After a demonstration on the mannequin, I handed out an instruction card with twenty ways to tie a pareo and a link to a page on my website where I promised to post even more.

  “Are you going to run sewing classes?” asked one lady.

  “How about teaching us to make curtains?”

  “I want to make an apron.”

  “I could make pajamas for my husband.”

  “I could make pajamas for my dog!”

  But the question that kept coming up over and over was, “Will you do this again next Friday?”

  I answered yes without hesitation. For an impromptu event, I considered it a success beyond my wildest expectations.

  One by one the women left. Betty and Archie lingered behind. “So, what do you think?” I asked her. “Maybe you’ll pick out fabric for yourself instead of your furniture.”

  She held up a bag. “I already did,” she said. “I need a dress for a special occasion, and I think I’m going to dust off my sewing machine and see if I can make it myself.”

  “That’s terrific,” I said. “A special dress to celebrate a special occasion. Who wouldn’t want that?”

  Her eyes clouded. “I don’t know if it’s going to be much of a celebration, but it’s something I’ve put off for a long time.”

  I didn’t like that her happiness had been replaced by seriousness so quickly. I put my hand on her arm to console her. “Betty, is there something you want to talk about?”

  “I— No. It’s just”—she looked up at me—“there’s something I have to do here in San Ladrón. I just wish it weren’t going to be so hard.”

  “Sometimes the hardest things to do are the most rewarding,” I said.

  “I’m not looking for a reward. I’m looking for closure.”

  I didn’t need to look around at the fabric shop to know the place needed some TLC, but that could wait. I went to the coffee station and poured two cups of hot water, then placed tea bags into each. “I don’t know about you, but I need to sit down. Can you join me?”

  Betty looked hesitant at first but then seemed to decide to stay. She took one of the disposable cups from me and sat down in one of the vacant chairs. I turned another empty chair to face her and sat down, resting my foot on the seat behind her. Archie stood on the exposed concrete floors. He strained the length of his leash trying to get to the foot of the stairs. I looked up and saw Needles’s orange furry head poking around the side, staring back at him. Archie yipped twice, then looked at Betty and me to see if we saw Needles, too. He turned back and barked again. Betty kept the loop of the leash wrapped around her wrist.

  “You never did tell me what brings you to San Ladrón,” I said.

  She took a sip of tea. “I write articles for an online magazine. A bunch of them, actually. It doesn’t pay much, but every once in a while one gets syndicated and I get wide exposure. I thought—this pageant might make for an interesting story.”

  The way she hesitated while talking made me suspect that she was choosing her words carefully. Not lying, but piecing together a safe answer for me while keeping her real agenda to herself. Like the first day she’d walked into Material Girl, she seemed unsure of herself.

  “Do you know much about the background of the pageant? Or are you learning as you go?” I asked.

  She glanced up at me and then back down into her cup. “I knew somebody who was a contestant once, but I thought maybe things had changed. I came here to get some background information, local color, and then maybe track down some previous contestants to find out how it impacted their lives.”

  “A human interest piece. So how is that related to your search for closure?”

  “What?” She looked up at me, confused.

  “Earlier, you said you came here for closure. I’m curious about how that relates to the article.” Something dawned on me. “Your friend, the one who was in the pageant—what’s her name?”

  “She asked me not to say,” she said. She stood up and carried her cup to the wrap stand. “I should be going before it gets too late.” She tugged Archie’s leash in the direction of the front doors and they left.

  • • •

  I spent the next forty-five minutes putting the store back together. Fabrics were rewound on their bolts, scissors were collected and stashed in cylindrical cups on the cutting table, yardsticks and tape measures were returned to their bins by the wrap stand. I threw out all of the empty paper cups and swept the floor. Eventually, I ran out of energy and collapsed into a plastic chair. I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

  After several breaths, someone in front of me cleared his throat. I opened my eyes and saw the silhouette of a man in an expensive business suit standing next to the mannequin draped in a luau print.

  Vic McMichael was paying me a visit.

  I jumped up from my chair and smoothed out the c
reases in my cargo pants. Threads from the cuttings of tropical printed fabrics clung to my T-shirt. I brushed at them but there were too many to wipe away.

  “I imagine that’s a side effect of running a fabric store,” Mr. McMichael said.

  “When it comes to work attire, I can’t win. At the dress shop in L.A. it was grease stains and glue guns. Now it’s thread from frayed fabric.”

  “Which is perfectly acceptable for the job you have.”

  “I always heard I should dress for the job I want. I guess I am.”

  “Ms. Monroe, it was my understanding that your business day ended at six. If you don’t have any pressing engagements, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Does this have to do with the loan on my fabric store? The first payment isn’t due until September.”

  “No, this doesn’t have anything to do with that. I’m here to talk to you about Lucy Rains . . . and about my daughter, Charlie.”

  Twenty-five

  If there had been one thing I didn’t expect Mr. McMichael to say, that would have been it. I stood, speechless, staring at him. He stepped closer and held his hand out until it touched my sleeve.

  “Ms. Monroe?” he said.

  “Poly. Call me Poly.”

  “Fine, Poly.” He didn’t ask me to call him Vic, which was probably for the best, as I wasn’t sure I could do it if he did.

  “Mr. McMichael, can you give me a few minutes to finish closing the store? I think we would both prefer not to be interrupted during our conversation.”

  He nodded once, slowly, and closed his eyes in a long blink. I held out an open palm and gestured toward the chair. He stepped closer to it but didn’t sit down.

  As intimidating as Mr. McMichael could be, I refused to let him know his visit shook me up. I walked to the front door at a normal pace, turned the Open sign to Closed, and pulled the hinged green gate across the opening and secured it. When I turned back toward Mr. McMichael, I saw Needles on the wrap stand behind him, one paw out, swatting at his sleeve.