The Black Velvet Coat

by Jill G. Hall

  He started the motor and pulled from the curb. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As they drove, she said a silent goodbye to her hometown, as if she might not ever return: Coit Tower, ornate pillar of strength; Alcatraz, floating isle of seclusion; Golden Gate, span of crystals across the bay. At the station, Milo pulled the Rolls into the small lot, came around, and opened her door. She slid out and glanced around.

  “Where do you want to go? Shall I get you a ticket?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be right back.” Inside the depot, she located the ticket window and got in line.

  The woman in front of her eyed Sylvia and asked, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” She wore a mink stole and shiny diamond earrings.

  Sylvia shook her head and said with a quivering voice, “No. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “I think I saw your picture in the paper. Aren’t you the one who just got engaged?”

  “That’s not me.” Sylvia swallowed. “It must just be someone who looks like me.”

  The woman stepped forward and spoke to the clerk in a low voice, and then his eyes drifted over to look at her. Sylvia quickly pulled her sunglasses from her pocket and slipped them on.

  After purchasing her ticket, the woman smiled. “Have a great trip. And congratulations!” she said, and she exited the building.

  “When’s the next train?” Sylvia asked the clerk, keeping her head lowered.

  He looked at the clock. “Ten minutes.”

  “Where’s it going?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  She paused. “That’s not very far.”

  “From there you can catch the Super Chief all the way to Chickagoooo.”

  She liked the sound of that. She’d always wanted to see Chicago. “Are there private cars?”

  “The Super Chief even has roomettes. First class all the way.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “$50.”

  That sounded like a lot. She opened her handbag and looked in her wallet. The cash wouldn’t last long. “Do you have any other trains leaving in the next half hour or so?”

  He shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  In Chicago, she could always contact Paul to wire money if need be. She counted out the fare and accepted the tickets. Then she hurried back to Milo, who was waiting for her beside the car and holding her satchel.

  “Please don’t tell anyone you brought me here.”

  “Don’t worry. Mr. Lopez won’t know a thing.” Milo’s large brown eyes reflected her tension. “Anything else I can do?”

  “No. Thank you.” She hugged him, for the first time since she was a young girl.

  “I’d like to help.”

  She pulled back and took off her glasses. “There is something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Move Ricardo’s Cadillac from behind the house. The keys are under the seat.”

  “Where do you think he’d like to pick it up?”

  Sylvia paused. “Park it in front of the cottage. He’ll get it there.” Again, she hated to lie to Milo, but the less he knew, the better.

  “Okey dokey.” He helped her locate the first-class car, carried the satchel to the train, and handed it to the porter.

  Sylvia climbed the steel stairs, turned, and smiled at Milo then followed the porter to a tiny compartment, where he put down the satchel. “This is heavy. What have you got in here, the crown jewels?”

  She handed him a quarter, and he left. Safe inside, she locked the door, slipped off her pumps, and rubbed her stocking feet. The cozy space, cool in the late morning, would do just fine.

  Outside, the porter yelled, “All aboard!” A whistle blew, and the train pulled out of the station. From the little window seat, Sylvia saw Milo watching the train depart. Even though she wasn’t sure if he could see her, as she passed him, she waved anyway. Now, really all alone, she wiped a tear. The train soon picked up speed and headed south.

  A strange noise—a whimper—escaped from the satchel next to her. She opened it, and the beagle-basset blinked up at her.

  “Oh, Lucy! You stowaway!” Sylvia pulled her out of the bag. “I didn’t buy you a ticket. I don’t even know if you’re allowed.”

  A folded piece of paper had been stuck in Lucy’s rhinestone collar. Sylvia opened it and read:

  So you won’t be alone.

  Take care, Milo.

  She embraced Lucy. “I’m sure glad you’re here.”

  Soon the puppy snored in tempo with the train’s rhythm. With each mile further away from San Francisco, Sylvia became more relaxed. She watched as buildings and houses disappeared into grapevines and orange groves. She continued to stroke Lucy’s furry back, as smooth as her own velvet coat. Sylvia sat up straight. Where was it? She remembered setting it on the Cadillac’s hood before pulling onto the road last night. It must have blown off! How could she have been so stupid? That and the snowflake pin could be traced back to her.

  23

  The train picked up speed, and Sylvia heard a knock on the compartment door. “Need anything, miss? How about a newspaper?”

  “Leave it outside the door, please.”

  She waited for the porter’s footsteps to recede, stuck her hand out, and grabbed The San Francisco Examiner. She flipped to the society column. This must have been the photo the woman in the station had seen. The headline above her engagement photo said Upcoming Nuptials. In the professional shot, she posed, her eyes glowing and smile bright, the picture reflecting a face of joy, just the opposite of how she felt now.

  Lucy started to whine.

  “Oh, sweetheart. You must be hungry again.” Sylvia tied the scarf on her head, donned the dark glasses, and picked up her handbag. Then she spread some newspaper pages on the floor. “Be a good puppy.” Sylvia left the compartment, pulling the door securely closed behind her.

  The train’s swaying forced her to use both hands to keep from stumbling as she navigated the narrow corridor. In the dining car, only one other person, a bald-headed man, sat at a table. She took a seat as far away from him as possible and ordered coffee and a sandwich.

  He glanced up from his newspaper and smiled at her. Would he be the type to read the society news? She looked down and sipped her coffee. When lunch came, she took a few bites, then made sure the man wasn’t looking before she folded pieces of ham and cheese into a napkin and slipped them into her purse.

  He moseyed over. “May I join you?” he asked.

  She grabbed her pearls and shook her head.

  “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  “No.” She tried to keep her voice nonchalant.

  “I bet you have beautiful eyes under those glasses. Why don’t you take them off so I can have a better look?”

  “Light gives me a headache.” She put a hand on her damp forehead, tossed some cash on the table, and stood. “Excuse me, I’m not well.” She pushed past him and hurried back toward her compartment. Before opening the door, she glanced over her shoulder. Inside, she collapsed onto the seat, reached over, and locked the door. Lucy jumped up beside her. It took Sylvia a few moments to catch her breath, and then she removed her glasses and scarf.

  It didn’t make sense that someone would be looking for her so soon. Was he just flirting? Had he just seen the picture in the paper and wanted to know more about her? Anyway, he was plain creepy.

  Noticing the damp newsprint spread on the ground, she smiled at Lucy. “What a good girl you are!” Sylvia crinkled her nose, and tightly rolled up the paper and jammed it into the trashcan.

  Sylvia watched as the train passed miles and miles of orange groves. Soon the sky clouded over, and rain dripped down the window. She felt exhausted and wanted to nap, but every time she closed her eyes, Ricardo’s face would loom before her.

  Lucy sniffed the purse and gobbled up the scraps as fast as Sylvia fed her, though Sylvia saved a few for later. The rain stopped; the scenery changed to small houses, then apartments and tall office buildings. Th
e train entered a dark cavern, and with a screeching of brakes, it slowed down and came to a halt. Bright lights illuminated the Union Station platform filled with people.

  Sylvia kissed Lucy’s red head and loaded her back into the satchel. Someone knocked at the door. “Los Angeles, ma’am. Do you need help with your bags?” the porter asked.

  “No, thanks. I can manage.” Sylvia called.

  “The Super Chief is on the right. Track Two. Just follow the signs.”

  With all her might, she picked up the satchel, heavy now with Lucy. She carefully exited the stairs and followed the crowd to the right along the dank depot. Up ahead, she spotted the bald man, stopped while lighting a cigarette. She stepped back behind an alcove and waited for him to move on.

  She walked at a steady pace again toward the Super Chief. Her feet clicked along the tiled floor, and soon her arm grew heavy. She put the bag down and switched hands. She stood back up and thought she saw the man walking back toward her. But then she realized it hadn’t been him after all, and she quickly followed the signs and boarded her train.

  A porter reached for the satchel just as Lucy started to whimper.

  “I’ve got it!” Sylvia raised her voice to cover up the dog’s noises.

  “Suit yourself.” The porter escorted her to a roomette.

  “Thank you.” She tipped him one dollar. “I’d rather not be disturbed.”

  He smiled at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She locked the door and looked around the compartment, amazed at its luxury: a double-sized bed with a full bath.

  Lucy whined.

  “Sorry, girl.” Sylvia unzipped the bag, pulled Lucy out, and set her on the ground. She fed her another morsel, filled a soap dish with water, and laid it on the ground for Lucy to lap up. When the dish was empty, she filled it again.

  A whistle blew, and the locomotive started to move. Sylvia lowered the shades as the train left the station. They would be far from danger soon.

  Later, a whistle woke her from a deep sleep. Lucy was curled up beside her. Sylvia yawned and sat up as the train rolled to a stop. She peeked around the window shade, the sky dark outside except for a dimly lit sign that said they were in Barstow. She watched as the porter hopped out onto the platform, followed by the bald man. Too bad he hadn’t stayed in Los Angeles. He walked toward her window. She let go of the shade, and only when certain he must have passed, she peeked out again.

  The porter talked to two men in hats and overcoats. One of them showed him what seemed to be a photo. The porter studied it, gazed at her window, but then shook his head. Good thing she had given him that tip. Maybe someone at the depot had told the police where she had been headed.

  The men in overcoats watched the last passengers depart the train and then climbed aboard. She quickly checked her lock and grabbed Lucy. There were footsteps in the hallway and a knock on a nearby door.

  She heard it open. “Have you seen this woman?” a man asked.

  “Nope.” Then the door closed again.

  The men moved to her compartment and knocked. The rapid beat of her heart raced as she closed her eyes and held Lucy tight. The puppy started to whimper, so Sylvia gently grasped her mouth shut.

  She imagined opening the door and yelling, “Here I am, Sylvia Van Dam. I killed Ricardo Lopez. Shot him three times. You’ll find his body near Ocean Beach.” She pictured holding her arms in front of her and being handcuffed. It would be a relief to get it over with.

  There was another knock on her door, louder this time. She held her breath until the porter said, “That one is empty.”

  “Okay.” Footsteps moved down the corridor.

  She waited until it became quiet, then let Lucy go. “Sorry, sweetie.”

  Lucy licked Sylvia’s hand and was fed another leftover snack. Sylvia spied around the shade again until the men left the train. When the Super Chief finally pulled out of the station, Sylvia sat back and exhaled fully, safe for now.

  Outside Barstow, Sylvia opened the shades and watched the darkness pass and listened to the clickety-clack of the train. It stopped for a few minutes at Needles and then soon picked up speed again and continued on.

  She removed her suit, laid it neatly at the foot of the bed, and crawled under the covers in her white lace slip. Lucy plopped down beside her. Soon the black night, rocking train, and warm blankets lulled them both to sleep. Lucy began to snore loudly. It always amazed Sylvia how a little dog could make such a racket. She nudged her. Lucy snorted and grew quiet. When Sylvia fell asleep, she dreamed of crashing waves, pulling the trigger again and again and again, and Ricardo falling back into the surf.

  A knock woke her. Sylvia bolted up but stayed quiet. Outside the window, she caught sight of a magenta sunrise and the tips of tall pines. They were far from San Francisco now.

  She heard another knock. “Mornin’, miss.”

  She swallowed with relief. It was just the porter.

  “Coffee and juice. Fresh squeezed. Paper, too.”

  Sylvia threw on a silk wrapper from her satchel, stuffed Lucy back inside, and opened the door. “Thanks for not telling those men about me.”

  “You’d asked not to be disturbed. Our Super guests come first.” He laughed. “Besides, a sweet thing like you couldn’t do anything so bad.”

  She tried to smile.

  “Those folks are still searching for you though. One is still on this train.”

  Who was being so persistent? Paul had hired detectives before. Would he do it again? Should she get off the train at the next stop?

  “Yep, better still lie low.”

  Lucy popped her head out of the satchel with a whimper.

  “Who’s this?” The porter took a cracker from his pocket and fed it to her. “Hey, cutie.”

  “That’s Lucy.”

  “Ma’am, you are sure full of surprises.”

  The puppy licked his hand and whined again.

  “You both must be hungry.”

  Sylvia’s stomach growled. “Famished.”

  “Breakfast is served in the Turquoise Lounge.” He frowned. “May I bring you something?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “That’s my job. Can I do anything else for you?”

  She handed him the trashcan. “Please empty this.” The porter took the can and left. Lucy whimpered and scratched at the door, then she ran around in circles in the small space. Poor girl. Her nature wanted freedom to roll in the grass. The roomette became stuffy, and the walls seemed to recede. As the train began to slow, breathtaking white-capped peaks shone in the distance. Sylvia wanted to reach out and touch them.

  24

  Anne spotted Mata Hari curled up in a doorway across from the Food-o-rama and smiled at her. “Haven’t seen you for a few days.”

  “I tried to live with my daughter.” Mata tugged on her turban that had begun to lose its shine. “But she tried to take away my hat.”

  “Do you sleep in it too?”

  The homeless woman nodded. “My grandkids listen to that crazy rap. It’s not music; it’s just a cacophony of noise, noise, and noise.”

  “I hear you, sister.” Anne nodded and handed her a cookie from her pocket.

  Mata gobbled it up. “Delicious!”

  “It’s sure going to get cold tonight.” Anne frowned and considered inviting her to sleep on the floor of her apartment, but then she’d get evicted for sure. “I sure wish you’d go to a shelter.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “My daughter thinks so.”

  Anne nodded again.

  Mata pointed to the sky. “I like sleeping out here in the fresh air. I can breathe better.” She inhaled.

  “But don’t the police bother you?”

  “They try. I just move to the block they just came from and settle back in for the night. The cold keeps me looking young. They say sun can damage your skin, but moon glow makes it smooth and shiny. See?” Mata looked up at the full
moon and ran a hand along her wrinkled cheek. “You should try it.”

  “Not tonight.” Anne yawned and sauntered down the hill toward her apartment.

  As soon as she opened the door, her cell went off with a text from Fay: I sold your Hitchcock!

  Anne jumped on the daybed and kicked her feet as she dialed Fay. “You’re kidding me. That was fast!” They had just hung it two days before. “Who bought it?”

  “Movie buffs from L.A. Congratulations!”

  “That’s wonderful! Are you ready for another piece?”

  “Mr. Blockhead says not yet. Keep working on that new series though.”

  “I will!” Anne hung up and danced a jig around her apartment. “I’ve sold a piece in a gallery! I’ve sold a piece in a gallery!”

  Val from below echoed a reply. “You’ve sold a piece in a gallery. Good for you.”

  “Thanks!” she yelled back

  Mr. Block had to come around and show more of her work now. Even if it wasn’t up his alley, it was up his customers’ alleys. But though Fay had sold that one little piece, there was no guarantee Mr. Block would ever agree to showing more. He could be so stubborn.

  Dottie had sent a text too: Are you coming?

  Now that Anne had sold a piece, could she afford to go to New York? She picked up the stack of bills from the counter and sorted them into piles again: pay off, pay down, ignore. Gas and electric and cell service in one, Visa and MasterCard in another. Online, she paid the minimums on each, then she checked out Jet Blue prices. The sale of her piece would cover half the flight. She wondered if it would be right to take her friend’s offer to reimburse her for half and thought of all the times in college she had treated Dottie to groceries, movies, and weekend getaways. This wouldn’t be that much different than that.

  Anne had always wanted to go to New York. She would have such fun with Dottie exploring the museums and galleries. Maybe even go to a Broadway musical. Besides, she might make some new art contacts for her career, and every artist should see New York. But she had to work at the hotel, and she had also promised herself not to use her credit cards for a while—and she needed to stick to that. So she told herself no. No New York. At least not right now.