Crushed Velvet Read Free Page B

ran to the back of the van and looked inside.
    Jutting out from under the bolts of fabric was an arm.
    I scrambled inside the van and rolled the fabric out of their stacked lumber formation to the side of the van with the dry goods. The arm belonged to a body that had been crushed under my new inventory.
    And the body belonged to Genevieve’s husband, Phil.

Two
    Phil’s eyes were closed and his face was an odd shade of green. By his head, an empty jug with the Tea Totalers logo rolled into the crate of dry goods. Crumbs and flakes from some sort of pastry were scattered around his outstretched hand next to unused white plastic zip ties. I checked his carotid artery for a pulse but found none. “Somebody call nine-one-one,” I called to the construction crew behind me. The foreman grabbed his phone from his belt and made the call.
    Genevieve cried out again. Rick ran out of the store and put his arms around her from the back and held her still. She fought against his embrace until she went limp from exhaustion. He let her go but kept his hands on her upper arms, as if to keep her grounded. He guided her to the bench, where she collapsed.
    I remained in the van with the body. Even though I silently urged the paramedics to hurry up and get there, I was sure Phil was already dead. Minutes later I heard the sound of sirensgrowing louder until they were deafening. Strong hands landed on my shoulders and pulled me out of the van. Men and women in navy blue jackets and pants took my place. I stood on the sidewalk by the crack where my sign had landed earlier that morning and waited with Genevieve. Neither of us spoke.
    Phil’s body was taken from the van by gurney. It was covered with a dull blue-gray blanket made of thick felted wool that would have itched if Phil could feel it. His body was moved to the back of the waiting ambulance. Doors were shut and the ambulance drove away. The lack of lights told me one thing. There was no reviving Phil Girard.
    I looked back at the bench where Genevieve sat with Rick. Her hands were over her face and her body was slumped down. My heart went out to her. She’d moved to San Ladrón because Phil had family here, and her life was rooted in the life he had already made for himself. Without him, she was an outsider like me. Did whoever killed Phil know they’d created a widow in the process?
    A black-and-white police cruiser pulled into the space that the ambulance had vacated. Deputy Sheriff Clark, San Ladrón’s resident police officer, who manned the mobile sheriff’s unit, spoke to a few of the construction workers who remained behind, eating their sandwiches. The foreman looked at me and said something to the deputy sheriff, who looked at me, too. He said something to the foreman and shook his hand. He turned to Rick. They turned their backs to me and shared a few words. They parted ways, with Rick moving to the side of the scene by the construction crew, and Sheriff Clark walking toward me.
    I’d met Deputy Sheriff Clark a few months ago when a murder behind the fabric store raised questions we both wanted to answer. When the truth came out, I accepted that he had been searching for the same information I’d sought. Deputy Sheriff Clark was here to do a job, and I respected that.
    â€œMs. Monroe,” he said.
    â€œDeputy Sheriff Clark,” I said back.
    â€œWhat can you tell me about the man in the truck?”
    â€œHe’s dead, isn’t he?” He nodded once. “He’s Phil Girard, Genevieve’s husband. He went to Los Angeles last night to pick up some fabric for me.”
    â€œWhat kind of fabric?”
    â€œI ordered twelve rolls of a special weave of velvet, and they arrived on Friday. The warehouse was closed over the weekend. I knew Phil and Genevieve could use the money, so I hired Phil to pick it up for me.”
    â€œWhat makes you think they could use the money?”
    â€œGenevieve is my friend