Suede to Rest by Diane Vallere Page B

arm, then wrapped a second one around my waist and a third around my shoulders.
    Vic McMichael entered the room. He was dressed formally in a tuxedo and bow tie with a black topcoat over it. A white scarf, almost the same shade as his hair, was draped around his neck. Even though my towels were fancy Egyptian cotton, I was painfully underdressed.
    â€œH-h-h-how d-d-d-d-did you know I was in h-h-h-h-here?” I asked.
    â€œSomeone heard you scream. Do you need an ambulance?”
    â€œNo, I’m okay. Just c-c-c-c-cold.”
    He looked at the shower unit, lying on its side, and scanned the walls of the shed.
    â€œGet dressed. I’m calling the police,” he said, and left.
    The clothes that I’d laid out were too wet to wear. Reluctantly I redressed in the dirty clothes I’d arrived in. They were stained and scented with motor oil, but they were dry, and that was all that mattered. I pulled the terry-cloth robe over my black turtleneck and jeans and knotted the belt around at my waist. After running fingers through my hair, I put everything I had brought with me into a plastic shopping bag and stumbled out of the shower/shed.
    For the second time that day I was greeted with the red and blue pulse of police lights. A row of senior citizens stood by the sidewalk, staring at me. I wondered if one of them had overheard my scream and called Mr. McMichael?
    â€œMs. Monroe, do you want to tell me what happened here?” asked Officer Clark, who I’d met that morning. The polite note to his voice suggested we were still on good terms.
    â€œCharlie said I could use her shower. She said the door sometimes stuck but I couldn’t get it open. The knob came off in my hand when I tried to turn off the water and the water started backing up in the drain. I didn’t know what else to do to get out of there except to tip the unit.”
    â€œSounds a little far-fetched,” said one of the seniors. I scanned the row of faces but couldn’t identify the speaker. I wasn’t sure it mattered much. I turned my attention back to the deputy sheriff.
    â€œCan we talk somewhere more private?” I asked. “Like maybe downtown?”
    â€œWe are downtown,” he said.
    â€œNo, I mean your headquarters. The police station.”
    â€œWe don’t have a police station. We have a mobile sheriff’s unit. I’m the sheriff.”
    â€œOkay, can we go to the sheriff’s office?”
    He looked at the crowd and back at me. “You’ll have to ride in the back of the car.”
    â€œDoes the car have a heater?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen I’m okay with that.”
    I didn’t bother making conversation from the backseat. It was a short ride, a couple of blocks, from Charlie’s Automotive to the sheriff’s mobile unit. It was across the street from the Waverly House, where I had been expected for dinner. Maybe when I was done, I’d go across the street and see if Vaughn was still there. I caught my reflection in the back windows of the police cruiser and decided maybe I wouldn’t.
    Officer Clark led the way to a small office with a worn wooden desk and a gray filing cabinet. A second chair with a torn black leather cushion faced the desk. Clark took the chair behind the desk, leaving me one option. Before I sat down, I asked, “Is there a restroom I can use?”
    â€œSure. Through this door, down the hall, on the right.”
    â€œThank you.”
    I followed his directions. The police station was the last place I’d expected to spend my evening, but at the moment I welcomed the facilities and the sink. The mirrors, not so much. I saw the complete picture that had only been hinted on in the car windows. My face was pale, my lips so faint they were borderline blue. I bit down on the lower lip while I ran hot water over my hands. After turning off the faucet, I finger-combed my hair into a side part and tucked the sides behind my