The Black Velvet Coat

by Jill G. Hall

  Instead, she looked up at her newest piece about Sylvia missing. She heeded Fay’s advice to continue to work on the new series, and Googled Sylvia again until she found a short item in the Arizona Star that said Sylvia might have been spotted in Flagstaff.

  Could she have traveled all the way to Arizona? Maybe she went there on her honeymoon. No—a 1960s rich heiress would go somewhere romantic like Paris, Rome, or Hawaii.

  Anne rummaged through her basket for the postcards Karl had sent last spring on his motorcycle trip to the Southwest. She sequenced them by postmark dates, then studied his all-cap print, neat and legible.

  DROVE THROUGH NORTHERN ARIZONA UNIVERSITY TODAY.

  HERE IS NAU’S MASCOT. DOESN’T HE LOOK LIKE ME?

  She turned the card over and laughed out loud at the giant snarling lumberjack holding a huge axe poised to strike. It reminded her of the Paul Bunyan statue back home in Oscoda. It did look like Karl, at least when he had his beard.

  Another with a picture of the Meteor Crater read:

  WHAT HAPPENED HERE?

  Snowy mountains with pine trees graced one of the other cards.

  Anne flipped it over to read the caption:

  The San Francisco Peaks above Flagstaff, Arizona, at 12,611 feet, are the highest in the Southwest. They looked stunning. Karl’s note read:

  NOT OUR SF. HIKED TO THE TOP TODAY. SHOULD HAVE0020HEARD ME YODEL. LOVE YOU.

  She remembered when she received this one. They had only been seeing each other for a few months, and it had been the first mention of the word love. She had read the card over and over to feel its warm effects. Then she had stuck it in her bathroom mirror, but it dampened and started to mildew, so she placed it in the basket with the others.

  She picked up the last postcard of Old Flagstaff and inspected it. The buildings were brick and no more than four stories. The Hotel Monte Vista had a neon sign on the roof bearing its name.

  With the cards placed side by side on the dinette table, Anne studied them again. She set a fresh canvas on her easel and brushed a quick sky blue wash over it. Then she left it alone to dry.

  From the atlas off the shelf, she located the Arizona map, photocopied and cut around it. She glued the map to the canvas and then pressed the edges down flat with a brayer. She taped the postcards so they could be flipped up and read, upside down.

  Her hand caressed the picture of the peaks as she thought of Karl’s first use of the word love to her. At that moment, a pine scent seemed to emanate from the card into the room, fresh and clean. There went her crazy sense of smell again. Suddenly she missed him terribly and started to cry. Even if he was a liar, she was tempted to call him, but she knew she shouldn’t. She missed her best friend Dottie too and cried even more. Anne blew her nose and looked at the Jet Blue flight info again. She held her breath and booked it!

  25

  As they rolled into Flagstaff, Arizona, Sylvia held the satchel with Lucy tucked inside, waiting for the train to roll to a stop. Despite a bright sun, the door slid open to a frigid blast of air. She scanned the platform, descended the steps, and hid behind a pillar to make sure no one had followed her. An old man and a young couple departed, but that was all. She watched others board the train but didn’t move until the whistle blew and the train pulled out of the station again. Her whole body felt lighter as soon as the rear of the caboose was visible moving down the tracks toward Chicago.

  She scanned her surroundings. Nearby pine trees were covered with snow, and to the north, the white-peaked mountains rose high above. She wondered what it would feel like to be way up there.

  Lucy scrambled out of the satchel, ran around in circles, and hopped through the snowy patches. The glistening crystal glints mesmerized Sylvia. She had never seen snow before, and she reached down to touch the marvel of cold powdered sugar. Looking up, she spotted Lucy racing down the road as she bounced in the white drifts.

  Sylvia followed, her heels squished into a pile of mush, and cold seeped through to her toes. Her body temperature began to drop, and, lightheaded, she wasn’t sure where to go or what to do, so she just kept moving. Before crossing the highway, she scooped Lucy up and walked into town. A man stared when her heel caught in a slat of the wooden sidewalk. Freezing, she coveted his sheepskin coat and hefty boots. She put Lucy down and carefully stepped along the sidewalk, admiring the quaint buildings that lined both sides of the street: a saddle shop, a café, the post office.

  In a pawnshop window, a silver candelabra with half-burned candles caught Sylvia’s eye. Like her, it seemed odd in this rugged settlement too. Who here would need something that elegant?

  Out of breath, cold and curious, she opened the door and entered. It smelled of pine needles. Patsy Cline’s heartachy voice broadcasted from a radio; “Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling so lonely.” Sylvia set the satchel down and picked Lucy up again.

  A burly man came out from a back room. “Howdy.”

  “Hello.” She’d heard people in small towns were friendly. “Brrr. It’s cold.”

  “Last snowstorm of the season, we hope. Spring should be here soon.” He spoke in a heavy western drawl. “Anything special today?”

  “Just browsing.”

  “Suit yerself.” He sat on a stool, scratching his scraggly muttonchops. His shoulder-length hair needed a good washing.

  She didn’t like the way he eyed her. Had he seen her picture in a newspaper? She kept her head down and studied a glass case filled to the brim. This certainly wasn’t Tiffany’s. An odd assortment of old jewelry and trinkets lined the shelves: a squash blossom necklace, a cameo brooch, and jet-black earrings. A Haviland plate with purple flowers on it, just like the ones at home, leaned against a tarnished silver tray.

  Lucy began to squirm in Sylvia’s arms. She put the puppy down, but the dog ran around and sniffed all the items.

  “Lucy, behave!”

  “She’s fine.” The man’s eyes softened as he watched Lucy circle herself, drop down, and fall asleep on a faded rug.

  “I kin tell you’re not from around here.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Correct.”

  “Where you from?”

  “California.” Sylvia wished she had thought to make something up.

  “Ooo, whee! Hollywood?”

  “No.” She turned her back to him and examined more items. A shiny brass trombone was displayed on a top shelf. She’d never been in a pawnshop before. She had often walked by the one near Union Square, with its cobwebbed, grimy windows, but had been too afraid to go inside. Here, though, everything seemed polished to its utmost.

  She didn’t understand how pawn sales really worked. “Interesting collection you have here.”

  “Yes’m. Many people down on their luck.”

  “What do you mean?” She turned around and looked at him.

  He held up a turquoise-and-silver belt. “Take this dead pawn here.”

  “What?” Her hand clutched her pearls.

  “Dropped off by a Navajo two years ago for cash. Said he’d be back for it at the end of the month. Never did.”

  She swallowed. “Does that mean he died?”

  “No, no.” The shopkeeper guffawed and shook his head. “Saw him drunk out on the reservation just last week. He’s fine.”

  She didn’t drink much but was truly down on her luck too. Perhaps that was the answer. Sylvia unzipped the center section of her pocketbook, pulled out the necklace, and draped it over her arm. She didn’t like touching it now because it had been from Ricardo. “How much for this?”

  The shopkeeper’s eyes lit up as bright as the diamonds and emeralds she held. He took the necklace and used a jewelry loupe to examine it, occasionally looking up at her with a glower.

  “It’s paste. I’ll give you ten bucks for it.”

  “Sir, you must be mistaken.” She shouldn’t have been surprised that it might have been a fake. Everything else about Ricardo had been. She blinked back tears and grabbed a lace hanky from her purse.

&n
bsp; “Sorry, ma’am.” He frowned. “Don’t cry. I’ll give you twenty-five.”

  “That’s not very much.”

  He watched her wipe a tear. “Okay. I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.”

  “And the earrings?” She pulled them out and handed them to him.

  “Another twenty.”

  That wasn’t nearly enough to sustain Lucy and her. Maybe she should try and sell her watch too.

  “How about I escort you around Flag this evening? Treat you to dinner.

  Sylvia felt a knot in her stomach. She started to say no but then thought that if she were nice to him, perhaps she’d get a better deal. “Okay.” She ran her fingers over the diamond-chipped watchband. She’d bought it on one of her shopping sprees last year. “How about this?” She unclasped the timepiece and handed it to him. It was a Cartier. There’d be no mistake about its authenticity.

  He used the loupe again and inspected it, looked up at her with a smile, and then looked back down at the piece. “She’s a beaut! Three hundred bucks.”

  The amount had begun to add up. She looked in her handbag and pulled out a brush.

  He shook his head no.

  “This?” She held up a lipstick.

  Again no.

  She started to rummage through the satchel.

  He suggested, “How about them pearls?”

  She touched the smooth beads around her neck. Paul had given them to her when she turned sixteen, and she didn’t want to let them go. The thought of him made her lonesome. Maybe she should have gone to him instead of running away. Her hands shook as she unhooked the necklace and handed it to the shopkeeper.

  He amazed Sylvia by rubbing the pearls over his front teeth and then examined them. “Now, these are the real McCoy.”

  Of course Paul wouldn’t buy her anything but the best.

  “Yep. I’ll give you $400 for them.”

  She gulped and nodded with relief. “That should do it for now.”

  “Okay, little lady, here you go.” He counted the stack into her palm. Feeling the cash piled there gave her a sense of security for a brief moment.

  “Where may I pick you up?”

  She hated to lead him on but smiled anyway. “I’ll just meet you here.”

  He smiled. “Around five thirty then.”

  “Five thirty.” She nodded, gathered up the satchel, and hurried out the door with Lucy frolicking behind her. Sylvia planned to never to see that man again.

  26

  A few days later, Anne stood in Mr. Block’s office doorway at Gallery Noir. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m here to pick up my check.”

  He stared at her through his thick glasses. “Any moron knows you don’t get paid until the end of the month. Oh, I forgot, you’re from Podunkville. That explains it.”

  Anne wanted to tell him that Oscoda was a very nice little town, thank you very much, but instead she hung her head and closed his door quietly.

  Fay came over, put her hand on Anne’s shoulder, and escorted her to the door with a whisper, “Sorry about that. He’s such a punter.”

  Anne frowned. “A what?”

  “A John. Prostitute’s client.”

  Anne gaped at her and then laughed. “You crack me up.”

  “Buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “That would be great.” Anne felt better already.

  “Grab a table next door, and I’ll be there in a jiff.”

  The Coffee Cup Café’s walls were covered in paintings of—What else?—coffee cups. Behind the counter, the barista in a samurai topknot tapped along on his cell. The only other customer, a tattooed teen, typed on his laptop at one of seven small round tables. Anne sat down and checked her phone and listened to Karl’s hundredth message: “She’s moved out! The coast is clear. Call me.” Anne rolled her eyes. It was too late now. She turned off her cell and watched the busy traffic going down Sutter through the bay window.

  “Mocha?” Fay called as she came in.

  “My favorite!” Anne admired Fay’s funky outfit of a periwinkle shift underneath a long sweater coat and cowgirl boots. As she stood at the counter, the barista ignored her and kept scrolling through his phone. She got his attention, and he fixed their drinks.

  After getting their order she set the paper cups with two scones down and pulled up a chair. “Here you go. This new place is cool. I think it might do well.”

  Anne nodded and then licked the whipped cream off the top of her mocha. “How humiliating all that was with Mr. Block. He’ll never show any of my work again.”

  “Don’t be preposterous! I’ve told you before, you’ve got talent. Give it more time, he’ll come around.”

  The teen glared over and put his earplugs in.

  Fay grinned at him. “Does he think this is his private office?” She focused on Anne. “How’s the new series?”

  “I’m really on a roll.”

  “When can I see some of it?”

  “Not until I’m further along. I don’t want to jinx it.” Anne said a silent prayer, pulled a piece off the scone, and took a nibble.

  “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “I will. Have you ever heard of Fredricka Woods?”

  Fay nodded with a smile. “Interesting you should mention her. Just the other day, she came into the Noir and looked around. Mr. Block chatted her up in his office for a while. Why do you ask?”

  “She stays at the hotel, and I park her car.”

  Fay’s dark eyebrows shot up. “You know her then. Her gallery is the best in Santa Fe. Have you ever shown her your work?”

  “Actually she bought one of my pieces at the farmers’ market.”

  “Blimey! Told you that’s not a bad place to sell.”

  “A mixed-media piece.” Anne pulled a photo up on her cell and showed it to Fay.

  She laughed, “That’s the dog’s bollocks!”

  Anne smiled. “She asked to see my portfolio.”

  “What did she say?” Fay dunked her teabag up and down and put it on a napkin.

  “I didn’t show it to her.” Anne was too embarrassed to tell her about running out of the hotel room that night.

  “Why the bloody hell not?”

  “Because she won’t like my other finished pieces like the Moguls or Divas. They’re different than the mango one.”

  Fay scrunched up her red lips. “Anne, if someone wants to see your portfolio, you show them your portfolio!”

  “But what if she rejects me?” Anne folded her arms and slouched in her chair.

  “So what? You need to grow a thicker skin. Get your work to Fredricka.”

  “It’s too late—she checked out yesterday.”

  “Email her a nice note along with some photos.”

  “Maybe. Right now I have other issues.”

  “Money, huh?”

  Anne nodded. “Always short of cash.”

  “Listen. I could use a day off every now and then. Would you be interested in sitting the gallery for me?” Fay blew on her tea and then sipped it.

  “What about Mr. Block?”

  “He’s rarely there on weekends and said I could hire someone to cover occasionally, agreeing to pay ten bucks an hour and maybe a little commission if something sells.”

  “Okay. I’d like that. Every little bit helps. Just let me know when.”

  “How about the first weekend in December?”

  Anne frowned. “My best friend is having a show opening in New York. I splurged and am going.”

  “Really! I love New York. It can be so romantic.” Fay checked her watch and picked up her tea. “I’d better get back before you-know-who himself gets his knickers in a twist.”

  Anne smiled, waved goodbye, put half the scone in her pocket in case she ran into Mata, walked down to the hotel, and checked in with Howard.

  “It’s been a dead afternoon.” He pointed to the empty key rack.

  “Bored?”

  “Not really. I’ve been people-watching.” He looked at a tall
brunette strut by. “I saw your boyfriend Karl last night.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “On the dance floor at Rhinestone Ruby’s. I figured you must have been working in your studio.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “He was dancing the two-step with a curvaceous babe.”

  Anne’s heart stiffened like papier-mâché. She thought she would be over him by now, and still, it really hurt. She tried to keep her tears at bay.

  Howard looked at her with concern. “You okay?”

  “We broke up a few weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t want to talk about it and still don’t.”

  “Are you sure?” He looked at her with concern.

  She nodded. “Since it’s slow can I just go home?”

  “No problem. I can cover. Take care.”

  “Thanks.” She ran out of the parking garage as a cold wind blew scattered clouds overhead and a Cheshire Cat moon appeared to be laughing down at her. Trying to beat the rain before her own wet tears began to fall, she ran up the hill toward her apartment. How could Karl be out there so fast?

  From in front of Grace Cathedral, Mata waved from a doorsill and yelled, “Man troubles, Missy?”

  Anne crossed the street, brushing away the tears that drifted down her cheeks. “Yes.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever had. I suggest you call him and apologize.”

  Anne handed the scone to Mata. “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Anne walked the rest of the way down the hill toward her apartment and let herself in. She listened to a message from her mom. “Pootie’s got a boyfriend. Pootie’s got a boyfriend. That nice Brian from Heating and Air Conditioning. I just found out they’ve been seeing each other since July!”

  That would have started during the ice cream episode when Anne was home for the Fourth. Grabbing a box of Kleenex, she plopped on the daybed, and though she tried to stop them, her sobs wouldn’t subside. She knew Karl wasn’t good for her and yes he was a jerk, but she was lonely and had an overpowering desire to feel his arms around her. She wanted to resist, but after awhile, she pulled herself together, drank a glass of water, and called his number. He didn’t answer. Again she dialed and this time left a message. “Please call back. It’s urgent. I think I’m dying.”