NINE

“That’s impossible,” I said. “Alice died two days ago, and she made out her will before that. The idea of her firing a gun in her last week alive and then putting it in her storage unit doesn’t sound like her.”

I had my keys in my hand, and I unlocked the front door and led the procession of person-person-dog through the solarium into the kitchen. I dumped everything on the table and went directly to the refrigerator for two bottles of water. I cracked the cap on one and tossed it, and held the other bottle out toward Tex. He waved it off.

“Night, take your emotions out of this. You’re assuming everything you know about your friend is true.”

“I don’t want to take my emotions out of this. Alice trusted me with something. Besides, I can’t see how she did this. Her health was declining, but she clung to her routine. Even when she couldn’t swim, she had one of the other ladies drive her to the pool so she could rest on the deck with her ankles in the water. Hiding a gun in the storage unit the week before she died is too out of character. She doesn’t drive. How did she get there? Who helped her? It doesn’t make sense.”

“How did you first find out she passed away?”

“I read the obituaries like I do every day. I was thinking of calling the law firm to offer my assistance with her estate. Not to benefit from her passing, but to simply help. I had no idea about the inheritance or the pajama factory or anything until her grandson called me. He works for the law firm executing her estate.”

“He’s the one who told you about the storage unit?”

“No, he gave me a letter from Alice. It was sealed, and the key was in the envelope.”

“Can I see it?”

I pulled the envelope out of my handbag and handed it to Tex. He pulled the sheets of paper out and scanned them. His cop face was on, but twice I saw something else flicker in his eyes. He stared at the paper longer than I thought it would have taken him to read it then finally set it down on my kitchen table. He looked directly at me but didn’t say a word for an uncomfortable couple of seconds. I was trying to gauge what sort of response to expect.

“There’s no need to worry about that gun. Technically it belongs to you. Since we have zero evidence that it was used in a crime, I have no reason to hold on to it.”

“I’m in no hurry to use it. Why don’t you consider it an indefinite loan? Do with it what you will.”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to learn how to defend yourself. A lot of crazies out there.”

“Guns kill people.”

“People kill people.”

“I don’t think I’m going to change my mind on this,” I said. And considering the oak tree in my backyard had a bullet wound courtesy of Tex, I didn’t think he’d change his mind either.

We had a brief stare-off for another couple of seconds. I secretly declared victory when he dropped his gaze to the table and rapped his knuckles on it. “Tell you what. I’ll nose around a bit, see if I can shake something loose. How about we meet up at the pajama factory tomorrow morning and check it out together?”

I looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Community service.” He picked up an apple from the bowl on the table, tossed it in the air, and caught it easily. He pointed at me while holding the apple. “Wear one of those swirly cotton dresses. I miss those.”

I pointed to the exit. He bit into the apple and then left.

I pulled a frozen Lean Cuisine out of the freezer and turned the oven on, and then sat down at the table to go through the file. I’d considered asking Tex to stick around and help me sort through the clippings but selfishly chose to keep that task for myself. Alice and I hadn’t had the kind of friendship where we emailed or texted every day, but still, I felt her absence. Despite the theories Tex had floated, the gun didn’t feel like the Alice I knew. I was hoping the newspaper articles would.

My dinner grew cold. I ate a couple of forkfuls, enough to stave off hunger, but found myself much more interested in the rumors surrounding Sweet Dreams Pajama Factory than in my Chicken Enchilada Suiza. Somewhere after eleven, my eyes had a hard time focusing on the newsprint in front of me. I’d long since gotten the highlights of what the media had said about Alice’s husband’s business, or more appropriately, the reason for its inevitable closure. It boiled down to a couple of irrefutable facts and a much larger assortment of hypotheses.

Sweet Dreams Pajama Company had been showing steady growth through the second half of the forties into the fifties. Expansion into print advertising that capitalized on the desire of women to be treated equally in the workforce tapped into the fifties zeitgeist.

Suzy Bixby had been hired to model the 1954 winter pajama collection. It was the first time Sweet Dreams had produced His and Hers pajamas out of matching fabric, and in the company’s promotional campaign much had been made of Suzy’s family’s standing in Dallas and her desirability amongst local suitors. With two older sisters, Suzy wasn’t the first of the Bixbys to catch the eye of the media, but she was the only one to debut with the endorsement of the Idyllwild Club, a social organization that had maintained control over the debut process in Dallas since the late 1800s. Suzy’s debut came after World War II had ended, and the attention lavished upon her matched the celebratory feel of the post-war era.

The oppression of the war years was history, and working girls were in their jobs as much to meet eligible bachelors as to support their families. Where a toughness had settled in on the shoulders of women like Suzy’s older sister Clara, Suzy captured everything the young women of the fifties wanted to be: glamorous, desirable, and in charge.

Her unexpected death at twenty-one, therefore, cast a particularly unexpected shadow over the company that had initially supplied her limelight and subsequently, over the personal character of owner George Sweet. The twice-married father of two refused to comment on rumors of a relationship between himself and the deceased model, closing the company overnight and taking a job as a traveling salesman that kept him on the road for most of the year. Sweet Dreams, which initially gained a reputation for equal opportunity employment, left over a hundred employees without benefits overnight. Because of the unexpected move, any goodwill Sweet Dreams had garnered in the community had long since soured.

I tucked the newspaper clippings back into the folder and shrugged my shoulders in a backward circle to help work out the kinks I’d encouraged by hunching over the table for the past few hours. Article after article added to the rumors, but at the core of the legend, one thing existed: Suzy Bixby died after a steamer malfunctioned at Sweet Dreams Pajama Company. A burst of steam heat left her with severe burns. She was hospitalized and treated but died from complications less than twenty-four hours after the accident. Suzy’s life had held much promise, and the court of public opinion wanted someone to blame. George was it.

The article did as much to ignite my curiosity as it did to satisfy it. Over the years, the accidental death of Suzy had become sensationalized to where it had become more local lore than tragedy. But as time passed, it went from being discussed on the anniversary of the accident to every five years, and only as a short item that filled an oddball amount of space in print media. Once newspapers shifted to online editions, the story of Suzy Bixby’s death existed only on nostalgia websites that had hardly any followers. I wanted to talk to Clara and find out what it had been like in those days directly following the incident, yet I didn’t know how to broach the subject without coming across as crass.

And while I knew Suzy was the victim in all of this, I couldn’t help wondering what it had been like for Alice to live through. To first have a young model die in her husband’s factory was bad enough, but to hear the rumors that he’d had something to do with her death was worse. And instead of denying it, he’d closed the doors to the company he’d built from scratch and chose a new career that kept him on the road where he couldn’t answer questions.

I hadn’t known George, but his actions did little to make me want to defend him.

 

 

The next morning, the alarm arrived unwelcome. In the fog of sleep, I hit the snooze button and rolled over. Fragmented bits of information that I’d read the previous night pierced the cloudy mental state I’d achieved through sleep, and I knew I wouldn’t return to dreams. My muscles needed a workout, and my curiosity needed another conversation with Clara. I grabbed my swim bag, clipped on Rocky’s leash, and headed for the Gaston Swim Club.

But Clara wasn’t at the pool this morning. At ninety-four years old, she certainly had the prerogative to sleep in if she wanted. Still, I found myself more disappointed than understanding. I completed my morning workout, achieving only one of the two goals I’d set out to accomplish by showing up.

I dressed in a red and white windowpane sheath dress with a red leather belt that ended in two thick tassels. The dress had short sleeves and patch pockets. I pulled on red tights and matching Keds, ate a banana, and drank a bottle of orange juice that I’d packed from home. I picked Rocky up from the doggy day care and left to meet Tex at the pajama factory as arranged. The morning sunlight cast a radiant glow over the congested traffic on the highway. I quickly changed course and drove an intersecting path of side streets to avoid the segment of the population that was headed in to work, arriving at the pajama factory a few minutes after eight. Rocky led the way, keeping the leash taut as he ran ahead of me toward the building. I was surprised not only to see Tex already there but in conversation with a man I didn’t know. The two men turned to face me as I approached.

I smiled politely at the stranger and then glared at Tex. We were going to have to establish some non-verbal communication soon. “Captain Allen, you didn’t mention we’d have company on our walk-through.”

“That’s really up to you.”

The man held out his hand. “Dax Fosse,” he said. “Historical Preservation Society of Dallas.”

“Madison Night.” I shook his hand.

Dax was a young man with prematurely gray hair inconsistent with his youthful face and outfit of a vintage blazer over a concert T-shirt. He wore heavy black eyeglasses, an almost geeky style. The resulting effect was that he’d seen this look on a reporter from Rolling Stone magazine and had copied it to the letter.

“Hope you don’t mind me crashing your party this morning.” He glanced down at Rocky, who was sniffing the white rubber toe of his Converse sneaker.

“How did you know we would be here?” I asked.

“Richard Goode called us. He said you work for him.”

“I work with him, not for him. Why would he call you?”

“He said you’re planning an event for him and wanted me to help you get the permits so you could use the building.”

“I don’t want to use this building for anything—at least not anything that has to do with Richard’s event. But I still don’t understand what you have to do with it.”

“How much do you know about Sweet Dreams?” Dax asked.

“A little.”

“It’s one of a couple of interesting buildings that the HPSD monitors around Dallas. A Google Alert popped up about the building changing hands. Took a couple of phone calls after that, but we found out what we needed to know.”

I looked at Tex, confused. He shrugged as if it were no big deal. It was definitely a big deal.

“Which is what?” I asked. “What do you need to know?”

“Surely by now you understand the historical significance of the factory,” Dax said. “Sweet Dreams was the first company in Dallas to employ more than fifty percent women. Half of the families in Dallas have roots in the city because the Sweets had the guts to train women to work the line.”

“Yes,” I said, “I had an idea.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You have an obligation to preserve this building’s history. I’m here to make sure you fully understand that.”

While I was fairly sure Dax and I would end up on the same side of the don’t-knock-it-down argument, I didn’t like the manner in which he made his suggestions. I didn’t get a Bleeding Heart Liberal vibe from him, nor did I get Architectural Enthusiast. What I got was Politician with a side of Short Man Syndrome. “What exactly would you advise me to do?”

He looked shocked at my question. “Apply for historic building status, of course. You do want it to get recognized, right?”

“Well, of course I’d like Sweet Dreams to get recognized for its contribution to Dallas history, but I’d like to get inside first. See the condition of the interior and decide what I’d like to do with it from there.”

“What do you mean, what you’d like to do with it? Once the building is granted historical status, you can’t make any changes to it. You’ll be in violation of the terms.”

“To be honest, I don’t think there’s much of a market for seventy-year-old sewing rooms.”

I said it as a joke. Tex could tell it was a joke; I saw him laugh. But Dax did not appear to find humor in anything I said.

“It would be irresponsible for you to consider making changes to the building. If you do, you’re throwing away history. Just like everybody else. If you don’t apply for historic status, I just—I can’t—there are no words.” He thrust a stack of paperwork at me. “We’re counting on you to do the right thing, Madison.” He stormed away.

Rocky looked up at me with his big brown eyes and whimpered. I scooped him up and stroked his fur. “Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” I asked Tex.

“I would have assumed that kind of thing was right up your alley.”

“Come on, Captain, you know what they say about assuming things.”

The sun was already painting the neighborhood in bright rays that reflected off the non-broken windows of Sweet Dreams, making it hard to look at directly. Standing by a white news van that was parked along the property line was Sid, the friendly neighborhood protestor. Unlike Dax, Sid had the decency to look embarrassed. He said something to the motley crew with him, and they stood up in turn and righted their picket signs.

“I don’t understand how all these people knew we would be here,” I said.

Tex didn’t answer. I looked from the small group of protestors to Dax Fosse to the news van parked by the sidewalk to Tex, and then it hit me. There was only person who could have told them about our arrangement.

“Captain Allen, can I talk to you for a moment? Privately?” I turned around and walked several yards away from the building. I didn’t check to see if Tex was following until I felt I was far enough out of earshot of Dax. When I turned around, Tex was a few feet behind me.

“Slow down, Night. I thought you had a bum knee. When did you start walking so fast?”

“Take it up with the grievance committee. You and I made plans to walk through this factory. Twelve hours ago. I thought that was a confidential conversion and that you had the same interest in doing this as swiftly and silently as I did. What changed?”

He crossed his arms. His suit jacket sleeves rode up, exposing the white cuffs of his shirt. His Swiss Army watch peeked out from below the cuff on his left wrist. “No matter how quiet you wanted this thing to be, there’s no way this wasn’t going to become a news story.”

“You called them. You’re the reason the reporters and the protesters are here. You could have warned me.”

“I thought it would be a lot more fun to see the look on your face when the news van showed up.” He glanced at my outfit. “I did tell you to wear something special.”

“You knew? Last night when you were at my house, you knew you were going to pull this stunt?”

“Night, give me a little credit. This is good for both of us. You said you wanted to do something with the building, right? Don’t act so surprised. Technically, it was your idea. People love this kind of thing. It builds up a little drama. They’ll follow the updates and talk about it at work instead of politics. They’ll feel invested in the progress. It’s good press.” He reached over and ruffled the fur on Rocky’s head. “Bringing Rock was a stroke of genius.”

“You did all of this for me,” I said suspiciously.

“Not entirely.”

“What’s in it for you?”

Tex pulled off his sunglasses and looked down at the grass for a moment. When he looked up at me, all traces of humor were gone. “It’s not a good time to be a cop. The public distrusts us, and the city wants to cut our budgets. Morale is down, has been down, for a while now.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

He didn’t answer my question, and I suspected I knew the answer. It seemed the whole world had changed in the past year. Tex had traded the day-to-day autonomy of being a lieutenant in the homicide division for the politics of being the captain, and with that came a whole different set of challenges.

I’d first learned of his promotion while I was in Palm Springs, and the idea of Tex being stuck in an office hadn’t been easy to imagine. Now that I was back in Dallas, I saw how often he took the opportunity to get out in the field. Captain Washington had been happy to sit behind a desk, funneling calls from the mayor, deputy inspector, and special-interest groups, and speaking at the occasional press conference. His staff handled the face-to-face interaction with the public, at least until a situation had forced him to get his own hands dirty to protect his department’s reputation. He’d retired shortly after that. I wondered if he’d seen the writing on the wall.

“What’s the deal here? Do I have to let those guys in? And the news crew? Is this like an episode of Ghost Hunters?”

“It would be easier to let them in, sure, but you don’t have to. If you tell them to wait out here, you’re probably going to read an op-ed piece about your refusal to cooperate in the news later today. That Fosse guy will make a statement about your intent to destroy the history of Dallas and the Krumholtz guy with the picket signs will come back with signs that say ‘Down with Night.’ Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?” I turned around and looked the direction Tex was staring. Sid was talking to the news crew. He held a picket sign with the slogan “Pull back the covers on the truth!”

“Wait here,” Tex said. He left me standing by the front doors and approached the cluster.

No good could come from this.

I waited by the front door of the factory with Rocky and watched Tex talk to the group that had collected. Sid looked angry; the newsman looked bored. A few more words were exchanged, and then they all turned and looked my way.

I shifted my attention to Rocky, who was digging in the flower beds. I didn’t want to be the center of attention, not over this. But between the preservationists, the picketers, the PR needs of the Lakewood Police Department, and the local news crew, I was in the middle of something I couldn’t ignore.

A few minutes later, Tex returned to where I was standing. “Okay, Night, I bought you a couple of hours. A day, tops. The news is going to run some background info on the building and a couple of interviews with those guys.” He pointed at Sid. “For now, your name stays out of it. Sid will be back tomorrow with more picketers. News at six. Chances are Alice Sweet’s family won’t be all that happy about your role in dredging up the family history either.”

“I’ll explain it to them. John asked me to help plan the memorial service. I’ll reach back out and tell them face to face.”

“It’s your call, Night. You can go the easy way or the hard way. What would Mrs. Sweet tell you to do?” Tex asked.

I looked at Sweet Dreams pajama factory, backlit by the rising sun. For one tiny moment, the deterioration of the exterior was hidden behind the kind of glow that inspires thoughts of a higher power. I was moved by the enormity of the past and the confidence Alice had invested in me by leaving me the keys to her family’s secret.

“She’d tell me to take the hard way,” I said.

Tex grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”