FIVE

Captain Tex Allen would have been an imposing figure striding across the lot toward me if we hadn’t already sorted through most of his testosterone-fueled tendencies in the past. He’d joined the Lakewood PD when he was twenty-five and had worked his way up from officer to detective to lieutenant. His recent promotion to captain had been a surprise to a lot of people, less so to me when I considered what he’d lived through before his own captain had retired. He’d seized the opportunity for a promotion and a desk job. Our relationship had far more layers than I ever would have imagined and I’d come to view him as a friend. On the surface, he was an egotistical, arrogant, flirtatious womanizer, a.k.a. the opposite of everything I liked. I couldn’t explain why I wanted him in my life, but I did. I guess when people show you what they hide below the surface, sometimes they surprise you.

The last time I saw Tex was six months ago. Our unexpected friendship seemed to flourish when I was in Palm Springs recently and turned to him to help me out with a situation involving their local police. I’d been vacationing with my handyman-turned-boyfriend Hudson James at the time, but his family had been at the center of the drama, and I’d needed an outside opinion. Tex had lent an unbiased ear, and I’d confided more to him than I’d planned. The physical distance between us had provided a buffer zone. You couldn’t get much more outside than fourteen hundred miles away. Well, you could, but let’s not quibble details.

Tex’s recent promotion seemed to agree with him. He looked confident but not cocky. Relaxed but in control. Something about him had changed. In the past, I’d felt like he wanted to add me to the conquest column in his little black book. Today, not so much.

I shoved the picket sign back at Sid. “I’ll be right back,” I said. I walked toward Tex. Rocky ran ahead and wound his leash around Tex’s legs. A commotion broke out behind me and I tried using non-verbal communication through eye rolling to let Tex know I had not planned to be a part of the rally.

“What’s going on here, Night?” Tex asked.

“I’m not sure. I was just walking around, minding my business—”

Sid jogged to keep up with me and then elbowed me out of the way and stood in front of Tex. He glanced my way and then turned back to Tex. “I’m with the Truthers.”

“Truthers?” I asked.

“We sleuth for the truth,” he explained to me and then turned back to Tex. “This building may hold evidence that would reclassify the death of Suzy Bixby as a homicide and help catch her killer. We demand that you unseal the building and reopen the case. The owner died, and that makes the building public property.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

Sid turned to me. He looked annoyed at my second interjection into the conversation, or maybe it was the fact that I’d told him he was wrong. “I’m the leader,” he said. “I’m in charge.”

“But you’re wrong,” I said. “I mean, you’re right, the owner did pass away, but she willed the building to someone else, so you’re wrong about it being public property.”

Tex crossed his arms and tipped his head. The corners of his mouth turned down. I was fairly sure Sid couldn’t see me, so I crossed my eyes again and then looked out the corners of them at Sid in a series of expressions I’d seen Doris Day do hundreds of times over the course of her TV show. There was a very good chance Tex was not as fluent in Doris Day facial expressions as I was and he’d simply think I was having some sort of a seizure.

Tex pointed to Sid. “You, wait over there. I need to talk to this woman for a moment.”

Sid, who moments ago had empowered me with a picket sign, now looked at me warily. He didn’t have a clue what role I played at his demonstration, if any. He scanned my orange and white three-quarter-sleeved ensemble and my lime green sneakers and then looked at Rocky, who had succeeded in wrapping most of his leash around Captain Allen’s suit pants. Sid seemed to decide I was not an immediate threat to whatever picketing efforts he’d coordinated. “I’ll wait over here,” he said, as if it were his idea and not Tex’s instruction.

Tex said something to the uniformed officers, and they moved away from us with Sid. Tex looked down at Rocky, who stood up on his hind legs and put his paws on Tex’s knee. Tex might be immune to my charms, but nobody could resist the sweet, joyful face of a Shih Tzu. Nobody.

After a few seconds, Tex bent down and ruffled Rocky’s fur. I handed Tex the end of the leash, and he unwound it from around his legs and then handed it back to me. “What did I tell you when you called?”

“You said you had a situation and you would call me later.”

“Nothing about that sentence would have told you where I was going. Do I want to know how you ended up involved with this group?”

“I didn’t know you were coming here. You said you had a situation. For all I know, that meant the Lakewood PD coffee machine ran out of powdered creamer. I was standing on the sidewalk out front when I called you. I could just as easily accuse you of stalking me.”

“How would I know you were here?”

“That’s exactly my point. Can we move on?”

“What are you doing here, Night? Highlights only.”

“Highlights: Alice Sweet, one of the nice old ladies who swims with me every morning, passed away. This building was her husband’s pajama factory. She left it to me.”

Tex’s response would not have gained him favor among Christians. “Do you know the history of this building?”

“A little. That’s why I called you. The lawyer said probate would likely take months and the only way I could get inside early would be to contact the police and arrange for it to be unsealed.”

Tex dropped his head into his hands and buried his long fingers into the roots of his dark blond hair. When he looked up at me, he pulled off his aviators so I could see the stress in his clear blue eyes. “Do you know what kind of trouble you’re going to cause?”

“I have an idea.”

“And you can’t wait.”

“Whether I wait a few months or I get in now, there’s going to be a big fuss. From what I’ve heard, Suzy Bixby’s death happened two police captains ago. Captain Washington would have inherited the problem, and he left it in your lap when he retired. Ignoring it won’t make it go away. Your department is in need of a pro-community publicity project, and you could get a lot of buzz out of this, if you wanted. Come on, don’t you want to have a press conference so you can show off all those new suits you bought when you became captain? We could help each other.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Maybe I’m one of them,” I said. I pointed over my shoulder to Sid and his crowd.

“I don’t believe for a second you’re one of them,” he said. He looked over my head at the small group of picketers. I turned. A woman knelt on the sidewalk, correcting a spelling error on her sign. Sid spoke to the uniformed officers, who showed little interest in the conversation. The others stood to the left of the entrance in a casual huddle under a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Fine,” I said. “Ignore them and listen to me for a second. It wouldn’t be the first time you had a chance to lay rest to old rumors. I know you know how powerful it is to get closure.”

“We’re not done talking about this,” he said.

“I know we’re not. I’m the one who called you first, remember?”

“You’re going to be the death of me, Night. I can feel it. I’ll handle this. Now go to your studio and paint something yellow.”

 

 

Rush-hour traffic had died down, and I made it from Deep Ellum to Lakewood in under fifteen minutes. I parked behind my small studio in one of the three spaces in the lot and led Rocky inside.

As soon as his leash was unclipped, he took off for the front window. I watched him pace back and forth a few times, and then I retreated to my office.

February was a funny month for a decorator. Most people focused on their homes after the holidays, and my calendar had been booked solid in January. Things had trickled off in the past few weeks.

Because of that, I’d offered to coordinate the annual conclave of historic theater owners. Previous conclaves had been inspired by classic movies that we showed at The Mummy, the old-yet-still-operable theater where I volunteered. There’d been a tradition of musicals being at the heart of the fundraisers. Guys and Dolls had been a popular one, as had West Side Story.

This year, I’d proposed an outdoor picnic then a private cocktail party, capped with a midnight viewing of The Pajama Game. Richard Goode, the managing director of the theater, had begrudgingly accepted my proposal when no others had been submitted, despite his tastes leaning toward Italian Giallos and seventies noirs like Taxi Driver.

I pulled up my emails and saw a long list from Richard, one with the subject line WHO’S IN CHARGE OVER THERE? which made me wonder what he’d possibly found to include in the two he’d sent after that.

Dealing with Richard usually required a large dose of caffeine, so I cleaned out my vintage electric coffee pot, measured enough coffee grinds to get me through the day, and plugged the pot into an outlet. A spark shot out of the wall, and I threw my hands up in the air and jumped back. That was the problem with old appliances. As much as I loved my coffeepot, it seemed it was not long for this world.

I turned around and left the studio with my keys in my fist. I could handle the rest of the world changing underneath me, but Mad for Mod was special, and part of what made it special was how I surrounded myself with the items I loved.

Sure, an electric coffee pot was impractical compared to a Keurig or a trip to Starbucks. And the yellow donut phone was inconvenient when I needed a hands-free option while on a business call. But those were my choices. That was my business. Clients hired me because they knew I understood every single touch down to the smallest dingbat detail.

I unlocked the storage shed behind my studio and rooted amongst a loosely organized pile of Danish Modern furniture and atomic kitchen appliances until I found a backup electric coffee pot. The one in use was white with blue flowers; this one was clear glass with gold starbursts. The model was Corningware Starflite. I’d bought it for two dollars at Canton First Trade Days two years ago and had been keeping it in reserve for an emergency situation just like today.

I stood up straight and considered the rest of the items in my storage locker. There was easily ten times this much in an off-site location, plus the items that filled the detached garage of Thelma Johnson’s house. Taking small jobs had moved a lamp here and a dresser there, but what was I waiting for? Maybe it was time to stop living a small life.

I returned to my office and brewed a new pot of coffee and then called Richard.

“It’s about time you called me back. Didn’t you get my emails?”

“Richard, you have me on the phone for the next ten minutes, and I haven’t had any coffee yet today. What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem is I have fifty general managers of restored theaters coming to Dallas this weekend. Your assistant said she was sending an update two days ago and I’ve received nothing.”

“She’s not my assistant; she’s my part-time employee. And you can’t blame this on Connie. I was in the process of confirming everything yesterday when I found out a friend died.”

“Yes, that happens when your friends are in their eighties.”

“That was uncalled for.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just stressed out. Who died?”

“Alice Sweet. She’s one of the ladies I met through morning swims.”

“I read about her in the paper. Wasn’t she married to the guy who owned Sweet Dreams Pajama Factory? That’s great. We can change everything and have the picnic there.”

“No, Richard. I can’t get access to the building.”

“Just contact the Historical Preservation Society of Dallas. They specialize in stuff like this. They’ll get us in no problem.”

“Richard, we don’t need the Historical Preservation Society. I own the building. Alice left it to me.”

“Great!”

“Not great. Richard, listen to me. I already lined up a picnic at the arboretum and a midnight showing of The Pajama Game. That’s enough.”

“Terrible film. The London revival wasn’t bad, but it was no Rent. Besides, the Arboretum called and said they accidentally double booked our event and did we mind sharing the gardens with a twelve-year-old’s birthday party?”

“And you said…”

“I said yes we minded. Turns out the twelve-year-old’s parents have a lot more money than we do and we’re out.” He sighed. “You need to pull out all the stops on this one, Madison. These people know who you are. The only reason the national organization gave the conclave to us and not Houston is because they found out you volunteer here.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

Richard groaned. “Because apparently your boyfriend is out in Hollywood making some kind of deal with his life story and that life story includes our theater.”

“He was talking about a deal, but it fell through.”

Last year, a husband-and-wife movie-production team had expressed interest in optioning Hudson’s life story for a film. Shortly after their initial interest, the phone calls stopped and the interest dried up.

I hadn’t voiced how I felt about the possibility of our lives being fodder for a film because it was Hudson’s story that had been pursued, not mine. The situation affected several different people, but him the most, and I recognized that this might be a way for him to close that door to his past—the accusations and the judgment—for good. It turned out it was not to be.

“Already? You were supposed to be our meal ticket. You better act fast before the organization finds out you’re yesterday’s news. And I mean you, not your assistant. Since when are you doing so well you can afford to hire a staff? Maybe you should become a donor.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

I’d been surprised by Richard knowing about the pajama factory, but I shouldn’t have been. He’d learned the same way I had: Alice’s obituary. And while I’d only moved to Dallas in my mid-forties, Richard had grown up here. Between the local news and the internet, most people probably knew more about Sweet Dreams than I did. It was the way of the world.

I stared at my notes. Fifty general managers of restored theaters around the country were coming to Dallas to see The Mummy firsthand. They were due to arrive Friday morning. For the past month, Richard had been particularly stressed over the fact that his audience would be his peers, and thus his critics.

I wasn’t a Luddite, but I’d always found a greater sense of creative thought with paper and pen vs. a computer. I grabbed a notebook and marker and carried them out to the showroom. Rocky sat in the front window with his nose pressed up against the glass.

“You miss Hudson’s cat, don’t you?” I said to him. “I guess sometimes you get lonely too.” I ruffled his fur and then started making new plans for the theater manager event.

Just as I was jotting down the last of my notes, Rocky jumped up and stood on his hind legs with his paws on the window. A small tan and white Chihuahua stood on the sidewalk in front of him. Both of their tails wagged with enthusiasm. It was close to ten, our regular hours, so I set my notebook down and stood up, and then unlocked the front door.

The small dog appeared nervous and walked backward a few steps, and then turned around and trotted away from me. Rocky, who had never once tried to leave the studio when someone opened the door, nuzzled my ankle and pushed his nose through the opening and then took off down the street after the unfamiliar dog.