Lacey shook her head to clear her thoughts. This wasn't about her. This story was about Black Martin, Virginia.
The group had turned a corner, from the velvet-shearing operations on the main floor to the white-tiled room that was called the dye house. Six large gray steel vats sat in a row, partly sunken in the floor. Five of them were empty. Each vat was seven feet deep to accommodate the heavy steel spools of fabric six-and-a-half feet wide. Nicholson, their tour guide, had been surprised to see there was a problem with the sixth. The spool of velvet seemed to be stuck half in and half out of the vat. When the spool was slowly lifted by the heavy machinery, the blue corpse came up with it.
In the ensuing confusion and gasps of disbelief, Lacey felt Vic's hand on her shoulder. His face was stern and his jaw was set. She'd seen that look before. She whispered, "I do not have a murder mojo."
Donovan snorted. "I didn't say that. Today."
"You're the one who gave me the tip the factory was closing."
"I should have my head examined."
"It's a good story, Vic. Factory closing, workers out of jobs, American industries killed by cheap foreign imports."
He nodded toward the body. "But it's a better story now, right? With Blue Boy hanging there?"
The group had turned a corner, from the velvet-shearing operations on the main floor to the white-tiled room that was called the dye house. Six large gray steel vats sat in a row, partly sunken in the floor. Five of them were empty. Each vat was seven feet deep to accommodate the heavy steel spools of fabric six-and-a-half feet wide. Nicholson, their tour guide, had been surprised to see there was a problem with the sixth. The spool of velvet seemed to be stuck half in and half out of the vat. When the spool was slowly lifted by the heavy machinery, the blue corpse came up with it.
In the ensuing confusion and gasps of disbelief, Lacey felt Vic's hand on her shoulder. His face was stern and his jaw was set. She'd seen that look before. She whispered, "I do not have a murder mojo."
Donovan snorted. "I didn't say that. Today."
"You're the one who gave me the tip the factory was closing."
"I should have my head examined."
"It's a good story, Vic. Factory closing, workers out of jobs, American industries killed by cheap foreign imports."
He nodded toward the body. "But it's a better story now, right? With Blue Boy hanging there?"
"It's a more complicated story now." Lacey was beginning to regret not bringing a photographer, but she didn't mention that to Vic.
He had his own problems. She would have to make do with her small digital camera. She took a few quick photos, but she put it away
after being glared at by Vic.
Lacey whispered as they moved a few yards away.
"Vic, you know that old song, 'Blue Velvet'? It keeps running through my brain. And I still can see blue velvet—"
"—through my screams. Thanks, darling. Now it's running through my brain."
"—through my screams. Thanks, darling. Now it's running through my brain."
Tom Nicholson stood
next to the spool, shaking his head and staring.
"Do you know who it is?" Vic asked.
"Do you know who it is?" Vic asked.
"Well—" Nicholson began. "It's a little hard to say."
A latecomer to the party joined the tour. Kira Evans, the bookkeeper, screamed and clapped her hand over her mouth. She looked ashen. A nearby worker reached out to prop her up. [cont.]
A latecomer to the party joined the tour. Kira Evans, the bookkeeper, screamed and clapped her hand over her mouth. She looked ashen. A nearby worker reached out to prop her up. [cont.]
Shot Through Velvet, Chapter 1, continued
They collected their personal mementos and cleaned out their
lockers, but they had nowhere else to go. It didn't feel like a brand-new day waiting around the corner for the factory, as Rod Gibbs
had promised. It felt like a heartbroken good-bye. A deep blue good-bye.
This is what happens when people lose their jobs. The irony didn't escape Lacey. She was writing about job loss at a time when newspapers
were closing all over the country and her own newspaper was in trouble. She could lose her own position just when the job horizon
for reporters was rapidly dimming. Lacey had expected her journalism career to move from paper to paper, onward and upward, with better
positions at every step along the way. But what if The Eye Street Observer was the end of the road for her? Newspapers were threatened
daily by the Internet and twenty-four-hour broadcast news.
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