Free Crushed Velvet by Diane Vallere Page B

on a week when she has no business.”
    â€œAre you going to tell her when you see her tonight?”
    â€œWho said I’m going to see her tonight?”
    â€œI figured, with you spending the day here, that you might report in to her when we’re done.”
    â€œI don’t think there’s any need for reporting. She needssome time and space to deal with what happened. I’m giving her time.”
    â€œAnd space, apparently.”
    My skin prickled with Vaughn’s implications, true as they may be. I didn’t think it was a good idea for anybody to know where Genevieve was, at least until we knew what the police would find from the tox screen.
    â€œHave you been working nonstop since I left?”
    I thought about the food distributor and the conversation with Sheriff Clark, but I wasn’t ready to talk about either of them to Vaughn. “Pretty much.”
    â€œI don’t know what’s fueling you, but I thought you might like lunch.”
    â€œLunch? I guess we could root around in the kitchen for some leftover croissants and jam,” I said.
    â€œWhy eat leftovers?” He pointed to a picnic basket that I hadn’t seen him carry inside. “Fresh from the Waverly House. My mother suggested it.”
    â€œHow is Adelaide?” I asked.
    â€œShe’s good. She misses you,” he said. “She told me to tell you to visit sometime.”
    When I’d first returned to San Ladrón, I’d made Adelaide Brooks’s acquaintance, but in the months that passed, as I separated myself from my life in Los Angeles and slowly prepared for a life in San Ladrón, I hadn’t taken the time to return to see her.
    â€œI will. I should.” I thought about the fact that she had been friends with my aunt and uncle. “I will,” I repeated. “So things at the Waverly House are fine?”
    â€œMostly. She’s been planning Midnight in the Garden, the annual Waverly House spring party.”
    â€œI saw a flyer about that on Genevieve’s desk. It’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt used to be. It’s a fund-raiser. The Waverly House openstheir gardens for a night. The admission fee goes directly to the annual operating expenses. Everything else is donated: music, food, drinks, decorations. But there’s been a complication this year. Someone high up on the city council is saying the Waverly House is in no condition to hold the kind of party they used to. Now they’re sending over a building inspector to determine whether she has to cancel it or not. Mom’s not happy. She’s been fighting city council for months while making plans. The party planning should be in full swing, but now it’s on indefinite hold.”
    â€œIsn’t your father on the city council?” I asked. Vaughn nodded. “Can’t he do something?”
    Vaughn looked down at the toes of his Stan Smiths for a few seconds, and then back at me. “He’s the one who’s holding things up.” He picked up a rubber stress ball from the desk, tossed it about eight inches in the air, and caught it. The second time he did it, I shifted my eyes from the ball to his face and watched him concentrate on the path of the rubber blob. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it.
    After the third toss and catch he set the ball back on the desk and looked at me. “So . . . lunch?”
    â€œSounds great.”
    We carried two large picnic baskets into the center of the store and lined the floor with butcher paper. I found Kim in the front yard and asked if she wanted to join us. She declined, saying she’d packed her own lunch and preferred to keep working. There was something odd about her behavior, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I left an open invitation for her to come inside if she changed her mind.
    Vaughn flipped the top of the first basket open and pulled out two glass bottles of