The Black Velvet Coat Read online

  The BLACK VELVET COAT

  Copyright © 2015 by Jill G. Hall

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author has taken creative license with certain historical events and characters, and while many of the characters and events are based in real-life, this work of fiction is not historically accurate.

  Published 2015

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-009-9

  eISBN: 978-1-63152-010-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015938463

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  This book is dedicated to my mother, who I now know did the best she could.

  PROLOGUE

  Sylvia rolled over in the bumpy bed and tried to sleep. Hotel Monte Vista blinked in pink neon through voile curtains onto the bedspread. The clock ticked. She cuddled her beagle-basset, stroked the satiny fur, and whispered, “Do you think they’ll find us, Lucy?” The puppy hummed and grew quiet.

  Every time Sylvia closed her eyes, she had that vision again: waxing moon, waves splashing, a body bouncing on the ocean toward the beach. A nightmare or a premonition? Either way, it was no good. Had they found her coat with the pin? It could be traced back to her. Would salt water rinse off fingerprints? Guns sink, don’t they? What if Ricardo’s body washed up on shore?

  Sylvia switched on the light and sat up. Her shaky hands pulled a Lucky Strike from its pack. She lit it, inhaled, and blew the smoke out through her nostrils. She reached for the Life magazine from the bedside table and studied Grace Kelly’s smiling face, cool blue eyes and smooth blonde hair. People had compared her own beauty to the movie star’s, but Sylvia didn’t see the resemblance, and Grace had found her prince.

  Lucy crawled from beneath the covers and plopped at the foot of the bed with a sigh.

  Sylvia attempted to smile at her. “You can’t sleep either, girl?” Returning to the magazine, a recent one, she tried to calm her jittery thoughts and flipped through ads for phonograph needles, beauty creams, and Playtex Living bras. She turned a page and stared at a picture.

  “Oh my God!” The photo of her with Ricardo leaving their engagement party filled the entire page. Such a wreck that night, her hair in shambles and mascara smeared, as if she’d been through a wind tunnel. Of course, Ricardo appeared perfect with his neat hair slicked back. He had been sauced, but the picture didn’t show that. Sylvia slapped the magazine shut and tossed it across the room, not wanting to remember the last time she had seen him.

  She had been certain it was love the way her heart loped every time he was near. When he smiled at her, she thought she might fly. So naive. She closed her eyes and held back tears. But in the end, right before she pulled out the gun, she realized it must not have been love at all.

  1

  A fall wind blew off the bay and licked Anne’s tall body as she hiked up California Street, full auburn hair flying behind her. She shivered and wished she had worn more than jeans and a T-shirt. In the window of Rescued Relics Thrift Shop, she spotted a swing coat that forced her to stop. Her heart chakra felt as if it actually glowed with white light. She just had to try on the coat.

  As she wandered inside, a musty smell overwhelmed her, and she waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the blink of the fluorescent lights. The shop was stuffed with racks of clothes, old toys, and household goods.

  A clerk behind the counter snapped her gum. “Hi, doll.”

  “May I try on that coat in the window?” Anne asked.

  “Help yourself. Just came in this morning.” The woman continued to unpack multicolored beads from a shoebox.

  Anne returned to the window and reached for the black velvet coat. “Oooh, ’60s. My fave.” A rhinestone snowflake pin with a hazy film on it, as if splashed by the sea, rested on the rounded collar.

  Slipping on the coat, a whiff of White Shoulders perfume enveloped her, and a peaceful calm spread through her whole body. In search of a mirror, she stepped around chipped blue-and-white plates, silver trays, and a plaid couch.

  With head to one side, she tried to view her image in the cracked mirror, but it was hard to see through the dust. She caressed the coat’s sleeves. Luscious and soft. Anne tugged off the coat and gaped at the Dior label. “Lah-de-dah,” she whispered. There must have been some mistake. The price tag pinned to the sleeve read $65, but it was worth more like $650. She looked over at the woman at the counter, who returned her gaze with a wink. Anne dug in a pocket for her money. If she bought the coat, she wouldn’t have enough to cover the rent, let alone all those outstanding bills. But she had to follow her instincts. She grinned, tossed the coat over her arm, and moved to the cash register.

  The man in line ahead of her set down a mountain of neckties. Waiting her turn, she flipped through a stack of magazines, but none of them were old enough for collage fodder. Only vintage photos inspired her work. One series featured movie moguls—Hitchcock, Kazan, and Mayer. The most recent pieces were about political divas.

  The clerk removed the tag from the coat and snapped her gum again. “Good bargain, sweetie. And with a pin too.” She nodded, causing her dangle-ball earrings to wobble back and forth under a beehive hairdo.

  Anne paid and tossed the jacket over her shoulders. As she exited, the cashier yelled, “Honey, you look like a million bucks in that coat!”

  Anne smiled and waved goodbye. Back out into the cold, she jumped a cable car and sat on the wooden seat. Snuggling into her plush purchase, she felt confident with her buy, but what about the rent and all those other bills? Four years ago after college, she’d moved here with such high hopes. She had become enamored by the big-city energy and never wanted to move back to the stifling Midwest. But she felt as if life was passing her by and the real world now seemed a lot harder than she had ever imagined. Even though she had gotten good grades it had still taken her six years to finish college. The first year she had frittered away at the community college, and then at the university it had taken her awhile to get the hang of how to sign up for the right classes in order to graduate. She hadn’t expected to get into San Francisco’s Museum of Modern Art, but at least thought she would have found gallery representation by now.

  The cable car scraped underneath her as it ascended the hill. They passed Chinatown, and she looked down Grant at the red and gold lanterns, then dialed her cell. “Hi, Mom. I hate to ask you, but I’m in a bind. Could you lend me some money?”

  “Again?”

  “Just a little to tide me over?”

  Her mother paused. “Your room is still here for you.”

  Anne thought about the two-story yellow craftsman on Maple Lane in Oscoda. “I’ll sell some more pieces soon.” She tried to keep her voice upbeat.

  “I know, dear. But you’re going to move back sooner or later. Stop torturing yourself.”

  Anne’s phone beeped. “Hurry! I’m losing power. Please?”

  “Okay. My Avon sales have been slow this month. I can only send $50.”

 
; “Anything will help.” It wouldn’t be enough, though. Anne tried to call the hotel to ask for an extra shift, but her cell had run totally out of juice.

  The cable car reached the peak and passed Grace Cathedral. The spires appeared to be reaching toward God and the heavens, a sign that she had chosen the right metropolis. She hopped off at the corner of California and Polk, her stop, then walked uphill toward her apartment. The flower shop located below her apartment teemed with pink roses, magenta gladiolas, and white stargazers.

  “Hi, Tony!” She waved to the vendor, pulled more bills from her mailbox, and tiptoed up the steep stairs. She didn’t want to see Mrs. Ladenheim, the landlady, who lived on the first floor. Even so, the woman’s door opened a tad, and her Siamese cat skittered out.

  Anne passed Val’s door as he started his vocal warm-ups, probably to prepare for tonight’s Beach Blanket Babylon. “Ke, kae, ke, kae, koo.”

  On the third floor, she unlocked her door and stepped inside, almost tripping on a pile of newspapers and a pair of shoes. What a mess! Squished paint tubes, adhesive jars, wrinkled tarps, and magazines were strewn about. Not an inch of floor or table or counter space had been left uncovered. Even the walls had works-in-progress plastered on them. Anne knew this clutter instilled bad feng shui and made a promise to clean up later. When tidy, it could be quite sweet: a room with a kitchenette, daybed, and art studio all in one.

  The place felt as cold as Antarctica. She turned on the heat for once and picked up the phone to call work, but it was dead. The phone company must have finally caught up with her. She planned to cancel it anyway. Slamming down the receiver, she plugged in her cell and called the St. Francis.

  “Valet Service. How may I help you?”

  “Howard, any extra shifts available this week?”

  “Sorry. See you tonight, though. Afterward I’m going to Rhinestone Ruby’s. Hope you’ll come too.”

  “We’ll see.” Last week she had joined him at the disco-western bar. She had followed behind his rust-colored chaps but kept bumping into the guy on her right and then the guy on her left. Dancing had never been her forte. She couldn’t even keep step with the Oscoda High drill team and had been asked to quit.

  Anne took off the coat, grabbed a rag from the sink, and polished the snowflake pin until it shone in the light. Then she slipped the coat on again, closed the bathroom door, and inspected herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the back. She batted hazel eyes, twisted sorrel hair above her head, and considered an updo.

  “Oh, I am so gorgeous!” She posed, as if a beauty queen, all five foot eight of her, with an outstretched arm. Model-like, she dipped her hands in the jacket pockets. The tip of her finger touched something cold. Funny—when she had checked the pockets at the store, she was sure they were empty. She pulled out her hand. The key was brass and as dull as an old penny.

  She carried it over to the kitchenette to see it better through the bay window over the sink. A ray of light hit the key. It grew warm and shimmered around the edges. She could have sworn that a puff of salty sea air leapt into the room. Tickling her palm, the key glowed, began to flitter like a lightning bug’s wings, wavered, and then stopped. Was she going crazy? She stared at it for a full minute and hoped it would glow again, but no such luck.

  She put it back into her pocket and wondered if she had imagined the key’s energy. A faint memory of warm vibration against her skin remained. Not able to resist, she pulled the key out again, but it just sat there in her hand. She wanted to call Karl, Dottie, or even her mother to tell them about it, but they’d think she had gone off the deep end.

  Attached to the key hung a round tag, where the name Sea Cliff was faded, barely legible. It could be from somewhere down near Ocean Beach. She stared at the key again. Could it really be magic?

  2

  1963.

  Milo pulled the Rolls Royce around Bay Breeze’s circular drive and coasted down the street. A foghorn’s deep bass sang. Shadows shifted and fell across the road ahead. “It’s thick this mornin’,” the chauffeur said.

  From the backseat, Sylvia nodded. “Better go slow.”

  “Sleep well?” In the rearview mirror, Milo’s face glowed dark and shiny as the Rolls’s hood in the misty fog, his gray hair trimmed short as could be.

  “Fine, thanks.” She didn’t want to tell him she had had a restless night. He worried about her.

  “Where to? The usual?”

  “Yes, Tiffany’s.” She had an itch, a craving for something dazzling. A charm that when touched would keep her composed tonight. She sat back on the black leather seat, used a compact mirror to apply Hollywood Red lipstick, and played with the graduated pearls around her neck. Buying something new usually calmed her.

  The Rolls continued down the street. She really shouldn’t buy anything new right now, but this was an emergency. That blind date scheduled for seven o’clock had her stomach tied in knots.

  Milo stopped for a cable car to pass. As they approached Union Square, she put on dark glasses, placed a pale pink chiffon scarf over her blonde hair, and flipped the ends around to the nape of her neck. The Rolls glided to the curb in front of the store and parked. Milo exited and opened her door. He took her hand, and she swung her long legs out, planting blue-and-white spectator pumps on the curb.

  She smiled at him and stepped out. “I won’t be long.”

  A man passed by, turned around, and glanced at her. She looked down and smoothed the jacket of her navy suit. At almost twenty-one, she wanted to look grown up.

  Tall and erect, she walked as she had been taught years ago in charm school. Pushing through the revolving door, her body tingled with excitement. Tiffany’s: where glass cases gleamed under chandeliered lights, a fairyland filled with shiny objects and temptations of delight. It was her favorite place in the world.

  The silent store smelled of fresh gardenia that wafted from a bowl on a pedestal. No other customers were present, but staff stood ready behind counters. Sylvia removed her dark glasses and scarf, slipping them into her handbag as a salesgirl approached, her brown hair pulled back and fitted suit just so.

  “Miss Van Dam. What can I show you today?”

  “I’ll just browse, Ruth,” Sylvia said with her voice just above a whisper. She gazed at a pair of sapphire earrings. In the perfect ensemble, her blind date might not notice her soft voice and shaky hands.

  No one seemed to understand her shyness. She had overheard people at the club refer to her as a snob. But that wasn’t true. When someone new tried to talk to her, she could think of a million things to say, but her tongue would twist, her throat would go dry, and she just couldn’t get the words out.

  At the next counter, she examined brooches, shimmering emeralds, topaz, and rubies. She wanted something a bit more understated and pointed to a snowflake pin.

  “I’d like a closer look at that.”

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Ruth took it out of the case. “Crystal rhinestone.”

  “Not real diamonds?”

  “No. I know it’s not our usual fare, but they’re all the rage.” Ruth placed a velvet tray on the counter and set the pin on top.

  Sylvia had never bought an imitation. She peeked at the tiny tag hanging from the pin. The price was a reasonable $500, but even so, she shouldn’t buy it. Paul was a lenient guardian, but he had warned her not to exceed the $1000 monthly shopping allotment again, and this purchase would push it over. She hated to disappoint him, but she really wanted it.

  Ruth placed the pin in the palm of Sylvia’s gloved hand and stepped back. About the size of a silver dollar, it was almost as light as a real snowflake might be, but this one certainly wouldn’t melt. She squeezed it in her palm, the permanence comforting.

  She wiggled her hand toward the light and observed the glistening rhinestones. They sparkled as brightly as diamonds. You couldn’t even tell the difference. She held the pin up to her lapel, glanced in an oval mirror on the counter, and imagined how it would look on her
black coat.

  Ruth moved next to her. “That really suits you, Miss Van Dam.”

  Sylvia smiled then frowned. The desire to buy the pin tapped, knocked, and then pounded a hole in her stomach. “Put it on my account, please.”

  “Of course.” Ruth put the pin in a blue box and tied a white bow around it. She handed the package to Sylvia and walked her toward the door.

  A glint caught the corner of Sylvia’s eye, and she paused. Alone in a glass case rested an exquisite tiara that somehow seemed familiar. A chill ran down her spine.

  Ruth explained. “That’s been in our vault for years. Just put it on display.”

  Sylvia stared at it and tried to catch her breath.

  “Would you like to try it?”

  “Oh, no!” Sylvia shuddered and rushed out the revolving door. How eerie. She was certain she had seen that tiara before. She seemed to remember its weight on her head and the feeling of the jewels on her fingertips.

  Outside, the fog had cleared to reveal a lapis blue sky. The sun reflected on high white clouds. Sylvia squinted at the glare and donned her dark glasses again. Milo, at attention, cap in hand, opened the car door for her. She slid in and relaxed back. He started the ignition and peered in the rearview mirror. “Just that one little package?”

  “That’s it.”

  They drove up the hill, where Coit Tower floated in the distance. The tightening in her belly returned. What if Mr. Bonner tried to hold her hand tonight, or worse yet, kiss her? How horrible that would be. She wouldn’t know what to do. “Milo, please stop ahead at that liquor store.”

  He nodded, slowed down, and pulled over.

  She handed him some change from her pocketbook. “I’d like a Vogue and pack of cigarettes.”

  “When did you start to smoke?”

  “Today,” she said with a firm voice. It might make her appear more sophisticated and confident, like Marilyn Monroe.

  “You know what Ella would say.”