Crushed Velvet (11 page)

Her newly cut
and colored honey-blond hair was plastered to her face and her clothes were damp. I looked at the lot behind her and up at the sky to see if I'd missed a sudden shower. There was no evidence of rain.

“I know you're probably wondering why I wasn't at Charlie's this morning. I appreciate everything you did for me, but I can't stay there. Not now. Not after what I saw,” she said.

“Come in. You're wet. Why are you wet?”

She ushered past me. “I was trying to sneak down the alley next to the Waverly House and I got caught in their sprinklers.” She used her index finger and thumbs to pinch the fabric of her shirt and pull it away from her body. A bubble of air filled the space between the material and her skin. When she let go, it looked like her shirt had been inflated. “I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Poly.”

“Never mind that. Let's get you upstairs and into some dry clothes.”

“I don't think I'll fit in your clothes.”

“Trust me. I have clothes you'll fit in.”

She followed me to the stairs. The kitties had followed me down. I scooped up Pins and she scooped up Needles. When she held him close to her, he wriggled around to get away from her wet shirt. She held him out in front of her, his body curling forward like a
C
.

We went to the bedroom. I found a clean rose-pink towel and handed it to her, along with a white terry-cloth robe that had puffy moons and stars appliquéd onto it. “Take the wet clothes off. I'll wait out here.”

She went into the bathroom and shut the door, but kept talking. “If Charlie asks if you saw me, you can't tell her anything.”

“What happened with Charlie?” I asked. Last I'd heard, Charlie was as concerned with Genevieve's disappearance as I was.

“After she finished with my hair, she said we should go out. When I said no, she said she was going anyway, and she'd be at The Broadside Tavern if I changed my mind.”

“The Broadside's a rough bar, Gen. I don't know if it's a good idea for you to make it your new hangout.”

“The owner is one of my regulars. I thought I'd say hello.”

“Charlie didn't tell me you two went out last night,” I said.

“She never saw me. I went inside and saw her talking to that cop. I left before they saw me.”

“Charlie was talking to Sheriff Clark last night?”

Genevieve cracked the door. “Yes. I thought I could trust her, but not after that.”

I set up a collapsible drying rack from the closet and draped Genevieve's wet clothes over it. Charlie hadn't mentioned anything about talking to Clark, and that made me suspicious. I believed Charlie was a good person, but she had her own agenda, and in this case, there was a very good chance her agenda was at odds with Genevieve's.

“Let's get you something to wear,” I said.

“This is fine.” She fingered the ends of the terry-cloth robe.

I turned to face her. “What time is it?”

“Almost quarter to seven.”

“Vaughn McMichael is due here in fifteen minutes. I hardly think it's in anybody's best interest for you to be sitting around in a bathrobe when he arrives.”

“Why is he coming here?”

“We're going out.” At her confused look, I continued. “On a date.”

“You and Vaughn? Poly, that's great.”

“It might be great, but we don't have time to sit around talking about it. You're about a size eight or ten, right?”

“Twelve. I'm curvy.”

“Curvy is good.” I reached into the back of the closet, where I'd discovered a pocket of clothes Aunt Millie had made in the fifties when she went through her Brigitte Bardot phase. “Try this,” I said, and handed her a black wool jersey tunic and cropped pants.

“I can't wear that,” she said.

“Why not?”

“It would get stretched.”

“It's jersey. It's meant to be stretched. And here it is, hanging in a closet. Take it.” I pushed the hanger at her. “And then you have to get out of here.”

She slipped the pants over her legs and closed the side zip, and then turned around and pulled the tunic over her head. I handed her a length of fabric to belt it. “It fits,” she said, surprised.

“Of course it fits. It looks great on you, too. One of these days, when this is all over, you can come over and we can play dress-up.”

Genevieve's eyes dropped to the floor. She tugged at the hem of the tunic, and then dropped her hands to her sides. Both fists balled up and released twice before she spoke.
She seemed to be fighting with something inside her, an impulse to confide in me or an impulse to run away.

“Gen, the sheriff wants to talk to you. It's routine. There are things he already knows about that you need to explain. I know you're scared, but he knows you didn't poison Phil. Avoiding him is only making matters worse.”

“Poly, I was there, in Los Angeles. When Phil said he was going to head out Sunday night so he could get a head start, I was so mad. But then I started thinking about what it was he wanted from me, and I got a crazy idea. I thought if I could do something spontaneous like surprise him at the motel, we wouldn't fight. He'd realize we could have what we used to have. You know, put the spark back into the relationship or something.”

I waited for her to go on.

“I found the name of the motel on our online bank statement. I rented a car and drove to Los Angeles. I even bought champagne with a credit card and stopped in the lobby of the motel and told the man at the front desk who I was and that I wanted to surprise my husband. How stupid could I be?”

“What did you do?” I asked quietly.

“I tapped on the door to his room. He said it was open. When I went inside, it was obvious he wasn't expecting me.”

“Obvious?”

“He was already naked and he had one of those premade Christmas bows . . . down there.”

As much as I wanted to know what happened, I wished she hadn't put that visual in my head. Phil had a more than generous amount of body hair. And what kind of woman goes for a premade Christmas bow?

“What happened?”

“He accused me of spying on him. I freaked out. I said I might as well have been spying on him because he was obviously cheating. I threw the champagne at the wall and
the bottle broke. It was loud. The people in the next room came out to see what was going on. I ran out of the room and left.”

“You came home?”

“No. I was shaking so badly I couldn't drive. I booked a room at a Best Western and left early Monday morning—really early, before rush hour. I was on the road by six.”

There was another knock downstairs, this time on the front door. I'd left the gate open because I knew Vaughn would be coming. The color drained from Genevieve's face.

“It's Vaughn. Now listen to me. I want to keep talking to you about this, but I can't now. You can stay here while I'm gone.”

“Where is he taking you?”

“The Villamere Theater.”

She smiled. “Thirties night. He's been paying attention.”

Another knock sounded on the door. “I have to go, Gen, but I'll be back. Try to relax. Okay?”

“Have fun,” she said. I ran down the stairs with my handbag in one hand and my cape in the other.

Vaughn stood on the sidewalk. He wore a dark gray suit with a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar in lieu of a tie. A Black Watch plaid scarf was draped around his neck. The expression on his face was a mixture of concern and surprise. Behind him a row of parked cars lined the street. A shiny silver Porsche was sandwiched between a dirty blue coupe and a black VW Bug from the same era as my yellow one. It would be a challenge for the Porsche to get out of its space, as the VW Bug had parked it in.

“I'm sorry if I kept you waiting. I was upstairs and didn't hear the knock. Have you been here long?”

“Slow down, Poly. You didn't keep me waiting. I'm early. And even if you had kept me waiting, I'd say it was worth it.” He smiled, erasing the concern and the surprise. “This is for you,” he said, holding out a plant. “It's a gardenia,” he added.

I buried my nose in the blossom, inhaling the richness of the soil, the freshness of the leaves, and the sweetness of the blossom.

“It's beautiful. Thank you,” I said.

“I was going to bring you flowers, but I wanted you to have something that would last longer.”

I looked up at Vaughn's face for a moment and caught him staring back at me. Embarrassed, I looked at the gardenia. This was stupid. I couldn't go all night carrying around a plant to avoid looking at the person I was with. I looked back at Vaughn. “Let me put this inside.”

I crossed the room and set the plant on the wrap stand next to the register. A few months ago Vaughn and I had shared an impromptu candlelight dinner on that very wrap stand. I'd misunderstood his intentions—convinced he was using me—and had asked him to leave. I wondered if another man would have asked me out after that.

When I returned to the door, Vaughn was still standing on the sidewalk. He took my cape from my hand and held it open while I backed into it. His hands lingered on my shoulders for the briefest moment. I hooked the rhinestone clasp in the front and turned around to face him. His green eyes, rimmed with flecks of honey and amber, sparkled. “Too many people dress down these days. I'm glad you're not one of them.”

“We should be going if we want to get good seats,” I said.

“The Villamere allows reserved seating. I snagged us the best seats in the house when you said yes.”

I closed the front door, locked it, and secured the gate across the front. Vaughn walked to the black VW Bug and opened the passenger-side door.

“
This
is your other car?” I asked.

“What did you expect?”

“Not this.” I laughed.

“I already told you, we're not as different as you think,”
he said. He closed the door behind me and got into the driver's side.

We kept up a steady stream of small talk on the way to the theater, mostly about the renovation of Tea Totalers. I told him how much I'd gotten done and joked that I was more productive without him. Neither of us mentioned Genevieve or Phil. I'd expected him to bring it up and was on my guard, afraid to relax and accidentally spill the depth of my involvement.

When we reached the theater, Vaughn went to the Will Call counter while I lingered in the lobby, studying posters and ads for upcoming shows. The Villamere was an old movie house that had been converted with new equipment. Their schedule varied among movies, bands, and theatrical performances. The original poster for the Mae West movie we were about to see hung between a poster for a big-budget car-chases-and-explosions blockbuster and a sign advertising Babs Green's next burlesque show.

Beyond the wall of posters was an office. The door was ajar, and I heard voices. Soon, a striking redhead in a snug, fifties-style black-and-white houndstooth dress walked out, followed by a balding man in a brown corduroy suit. I pretended to study the posters one by one and inched closer to their conversation.

“My contract says I get paid whether or not I perform,” she said. “I expect to be compensated at my regular rate.”

“I put a lot of money into promoting your shows, Babs. Last-minute cancellations put a real dent in my cash take. I rely on that money to keep this theater running.”

“My shows pay your bills. You're coming very close to telling me that maybe it's time for me to renegotiate my contract with the Villamere.”

“You wouldn't!”

I hovered by the poster for
Diamond Lil
, showing next
Wednesday. I couldn't believe what I'd heard. Babs had canceled her show on Sunday? That meant she
didn't
have an alibi.

“Nice theater, isn't it?” said Vaughn from my right. I jumped. “Did I scare you?”

“My mind wandered, I guess.” I looked up at the original elaborate gold ceiling. “This place is amazing.”

“It's been restored from when it first opened. I worked here when I was in high school. I'd give you the history, but I don't think we have time. Would you like anything from the concession stand?”

“Sure.” After some quick negotiations, we agreed on a bag of popcorn, a split of champagne, and a box of Goobers. I told Vaughn I wanted to look around a bit more. As soon as his back was turned, I turned around and studied the announcement of Babs Green's performance.

The date on the poster was for this past Sunday night. The show, billed as adult fare, started at ten and ran until eleven. A second show ran from midnight to one. If she'd performed both shows, she couldn't have murdered Phil in Los Angeles on Sunday night, but the conversation I'd just overheard led me to believe she'd canceled at least one show. And two shows on Sunday night didn't provide her an alibi for Monday morning.

The image on the poster showed Babs in profile, one hand up, tangled in her vibrant red hair, the other holding a thick green boa that draped over her shoulder. Her dress looked like it had been painted on her body, and she wore her expression like an invitation.

A man in a burgundy uniform approached from the left and secured a velvet rope by a staircase that led to an upper theater.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know when Babs Green is performing again?”

He looked me up and down and raised his eyebrows. I guess I didn't look the type to take in a burlesque show. “She's here every Sunday. One of our biggest draws.”

“I guess it's a shame she had to cancel last week.”

“What makes you think she canceled? Full house, as usual. Her second show was better than her first.”

“I must have been misinformed,” I said. I looked over his shoulder toward the office.

“People are going to remember that show. Things got a little wild. Ms. Green kept us here an hour after her second show ended. She wouldn't come out of her dressing room until the last of the audience members left the parking lot. She sat in there and hit the champagne. She kept saying she was afraid to drive home in case someone was waiting for her. We drew straws to see who got to drive her home. My buddy won,” he said, looking wistful.