That Touch of Ink (5 page)

SEVEN

Tex’s hand flew to his cheek. The slap left a red mark. Connie stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. She was no more than five feet tall, but based solely from the look on her face, if they were to throw down, I’d put my money on her.

“What the hell was that for?” Tex asked. “Who are you?”

“I’m Connie. Aren’t you the ex from Madison’s past?”

“No,” I said, stepping out of the doorway. “He’s the
Tex
from Madison’s past.”

“What?” they said in unison.

“Connie Duncan, meet Lt. Allen. Lieutenant, meet my client, Connie Duncan.”

“Lieutenant?” Connie said, her eyes wide. “I assaulted a police officer?”

“I don’t think the lieutenant is going to press charges, are you?” I asked Tex.

“I haven’t decided,” he said.

I ducked into my office, pulled a cold glass bottle of Coke from the mini-fridge, and returned to the studio. I handed the bottle to Tex, and he held it against his cheek.

“Connie, can you give us a minute? Maybe take Rocky out for a walk?”

“Sure. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t know—”

“Forget about it.”

Connie collected Rocky’s leash and clipped it onto his collar while Tex and I stood by my office door. After she left, he opened my office and set the Coke bottle on the edge of my desk. His eyes lingered on my outfit.

“She thought you were Brad,” I said.

His eyebrows went up.

“I told her I spent the night here and she brought me a change of clothes.”

“You spent the night here to avoid your ex?”

“I don’t want to talk about my ex.”

Tex followed me to the front door. I looked up and down the street and spotted Connie about half a block away, across the street from one of Greenville Avenue’s many Tex-Mex restaurants. Rocky trotted at a spirited pace, stopping occasionally to lift a leg and pee on a strip of crab grass that had sprouted up through one of the cracks on the sidewalk.

“I never noticed what a sweet walk you have, Night,” Tex said.

“It’s not me, it’s the skirt. For the record, I would not have picked this outfit out for myself.”

“Connie’s responsible for this look? As far as I’m concerned, she’s forgiven.”

“I don’t want to have to explain any of this to her. As far as she knows, I’m a successful interior decorator who may or may not be designing her new atomic kitchen.”

“What’s an atomic kitchen?”

“A colorful kitchen renovation re-imagined with the space-age, robotic influence of the fifties.”

“Assuming that’s even possible, someone actually wants that?”

“Mid-century decorating is a niche market, and I happen to be good at it.”

He dropped his head and shook it from side to side. “Atomic kitchen. Crazy.”

“Lieutenant, she doesn’t know what happened yesterday. Can we keep it that way?”

“Sure. Why am I here again?”

“I called you. I told you I needed to see you. That was like twenty minutes ago. Remember?”

“Sorry. Once I saw you in that outfit, everything else went out the window.”

“Maybe Connie was right to slap you.”

“Maybe she was, but not because of this.”

“So, how’s life, Lieutenant? Are you still seeing Officer Nasty?”

“See, Madison, things were going perfectly fine until you brought her up.” He rubbed his forehead. “Donna and I have gone out a couple of times. It’s not like I asked her to wear my class ring.”

I raised my eyebrows. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and forehead, then pushed his hair back and shrugged. “Feels like I’m driving Rizzo to Thunder Road with you sitting there looking like that.” He shook his head. “Donna’s fine. She’s better than fine. Only, she’s not like you.”

Now there was an understatement.

My first run-in with Officer Donna Nast was during the homicide investigation. Her nickname, “Nasty,” had been used by more than one officer, including Tex. She was a classic late-twenties bombshell, with long, chocolate brown hair, bottle-green eyes, and the kind of body that probably inspired a lot of wishful thinking. I’d bet that wishful thinking had more to do with her nickname than any behavior on her part. Tex was twenty years older than her, but in cop world, that didn’t seem to matter.

I was the counter opposite of Nasty: blonde-haired, blue-eyed, forty-seven years old. I was a vintage-wearing, sunscreen-addicted Doris Day lookalike. It was the Doris Day lookalike part that put me at the center of a homicide investigation and had almost gotten me killed.

Tex had called me to the carpet on the emotional walls I’d put in place—ironic, since I was an interior decorator. I didn’t like to admit that he’d gotten through. And despite the fact we’d kissed—a kiss we never acknowledged, but occasionally kept me awake at night—we moved on in separate directions. Tex and Nasty had fallen back into their on-again, off-again relationship.

I rebuilt my emotional walls faster than a bricklayer on a deadline and moved on with my life. And now, here I was. Sitting next to a playboy police lieutenant while my past reared its ugly head and threatened my way of life. Funny how life throws you the kind of curve ball where hanging out with a homicide detective is a pleasant escape from reality.

Tex and I stared at each other across my desk. The donut phone jingled its shrill ring that had become all too popular now that people could program it into their iPhones. I made no move to answer it. The machine clicked on after the fourth ring and Brad’s voice filled the room.

“Hi Maddy. Just wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling. I guess this is a lot, me showing up out of the blue. I didn’t want to scare you off last night. I want to hear from you, to make sure you’re okay. I’m still at The Brite House Apartments. I’ll be here if you need me.” He disconnected.

I focused on a pair of Holt salt and pepper shakers shaped like cats. They sat on either side of my computer screen. The wide, almond-shaped eyes of the cats looked suspicious, like they could read my thoughts.

“I left the restaurant shortly after you did. Someone followed me. No—not followed me. Someone tried to scare me. At first, I thought it was a drunk driver, so I took a lot of different roads until it was just me and a brown sedan behind me. The driver bumped into the back of my car a couple of times.”

“Are you okay?”

“My neck is sore. I’m not sure if it’s from being hit or sleeping on the floor.”

“Night, that’s not a joke.”

“I know it’s not a joke, Lieutenant. I was going to call you when I got home, but my neighbor said someone had been in my apartment. I went to leave and saw a car that might have been the one that followed me parked across the street. I left out the back door and walked here.”

“You should have called me when you got here. I could have sent a car over to look for your friend in the brown sedan.”

“Once I got here, I was fine. Besides, calling you feels like using a Get Out of Jail Free card.”

I turned the salt shaker over in my hands while I talked. When Tex wasn’t in lock down police mode, I could read his expressions fairly well. I didn’t need to see
I told you so
written on his face.

“Did you go into your apartment?”

“No. Well, I looked inside. Effie was right. There’s paint on the walls and a torn up carpet.”

“You didn’t want your apartment painted?”

“I started painting it yesterday. When Brad showed up, I tipped over the paint can. I didn’t finish the job. Seems like someone is finishing it for me.”

“What happened next?”

“I went out front, saw the car parked on a side street. At least it looked like the same car, and the engine was running. I ducked out the back and walked here.”

“Does anybody know you spent the night here?”

“Only you and Connie.”

His eyes dropped to my chest again. “I think you should consider bringing Connie on as your personal assistant. She shows good judgment.”

The phone rang again. Again, I made no move to answer it. The machine clicked on, and I held my breath.

“Madison, it’s Joanie from Joanie Loves Tchotchkes. I have a box of stuff here with your name on it. I’ll be open until six.” The message clicked off.

I grabbed a notepad and scribbled a message to myself. “Is there anything else, Tex?”

“Who was that?” he asked, his eyes trained on the phone.

I waved my hand to dismiss his interest. “That’s a local thrift store owner. She calls me when she gets mid-century stuff. Ever since the
Dallas Morning News
ran that article about the pillow stalking, people know my routine. I used to fly under the radar and get first dibs on inventory but now everybody follows the obituaries.”

Tex leaned back in his chair and studied my face.

“Say what you want, but that’s my real life. Thrift stores, flea markets, Doris Day movies, dumpster diving. If you weren’t standing here, I’d be on my way to her store.”

“Night, is that how you want to live? Deny reality and build a world from a movie set?”

I stood up and slapped my hands palm-side down on the desk. “If I were interested in denying reality, I wouldn’t have called you. I wouldn’t be in the middle of this mess right now.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Can you nose around Brad’s background? See if you find any red flags?”

“The man lies to you about being married, to spare you from getting involved in something probably illegal. You freak out at the news and wind up hospitalized and still, he doesn’t fess up. That was two years ago. Last May you got damn close to being killed by a murderer, and he doesn’t show up until now? The fact that he showed up at all suggests to me he’s known where you were the whole time. Want me to keep going?”

“There’s a lot of history you don’t know.”

“And I don’t want to know. That’s in the past. Aside from your wardrobe, you haven’t impressed me as someone who wants to live in the past.”

“I’m not living in the past. I’m trying to live in the present. That’s why I need you. Can you help me? Do a background check on him or something?”

“No, Madison, I can’t. There are codes of conduct to being a cop. I know it took a lot for you to tell me about this, but he’s a private citizen. U

nless he breaks the law, he’s entitled to come and go as he wishes.”

“So that’s it. I’m on my own.”

“Not exactly.”

The chimes announced the return of Rocky and Connie. I tried to stand up, but the fabric of the sweater had gotten caught in my chair. I shifted my shoulders up and down, trying to free it. Tex came around the back of my chair, sliding his hand behind my neck. His fingers were like soft pads of fire burning through my skin. I didn’t pull away. He freed the fabric and put his hands under my arms to help me stand. I stepped to the side of my chair and his hands slid down the sides of my body.

I turned to face him. His hands rested on my waist, our bodies almost touching. The kitten heels felt unfamiliar and I swayed forward, falling against him. He easily righted me and I stepped away.

Rocky bounded into the office. He yapped around Tex’s feet, his caramel fur bouncing as he sniffed the lieutenant’s leather shoes. He hopped up on his hind legs with his paws in the air. His back paws moved in tiny steps, like a ballerina in toe shoes for the first time. Connie came into the office as Tex withdrew a plastic bag filled with bone-shaped biscuits from the pocket of his windbreaker. He held one about six inches over Rocky’s head; Rocky snatched it. Tex ruffled Rocky’s fur and stood back up. Our eyes connected for a brief moment before I looked away, still flushed.

“Take care, Madison.” He put on his silver aviator sunglasses and opened the door. Halfway through, he turned back and looked at Connie. “No hard feelings, Ms. Duncan.” The door snapped shut behind him and he disappeared around the side of the building.

“Madison, is everything okay? What was a cop doing here?”

“He’s a friend. That’s all.”

“Does he have a dog, too?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

She shrugged. “I can’t think of any other reason why some guy would be walking around with dog treats in the pocket of his coat, unless he was planning to run into a dog. Seems like maybe the lieutenant wanted to make an impression on you.” She leaned backward and looked at the front door, then back at me. “Forget the ex. What about him? What’s his story?”

“He has a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, that’s going to work.”

I ushered Connie out the door with a stack of sketches for her kitchen. She was eager to share them with her husband and I was eager to find a way to lower my temperature. If ever there was a time to deny reality, this was it.

Joanie Higa was the owner of a small second-hand store called Joanie Loves Tchotchkes. She knew my style, my taste, and my budget. When she called, I responded. Besides, I was happy for the distraction.

I filed the notes on Archie Leach’s apartment and changed out of the kitten heels and into a spare pair of white Keds that I kept in the office. I clipped Rocky’s leash onto his collar and led him through the back parking lot to my car. Rocky hung his head out the passenger side window as I drove to Joanie’s store. Twenty minutes later, I parked in front.

The doors to Joanie Loves Tchotchkes were propped open. Outside of the store, a selection of hodgepodge furniture sat under a Sale sign. I stepped past a Papasan chair and a small twin bed with a white wooden frame, gave the leash a tug so Rocky would ignore the patch of grass and went inside. Rocky sniffed everything within range.

A petite Japanese-American woman in her late fifties arranged a set of pink and copper canisters behind the register. She had jet black hair styled in a beehive and black liquid liner painted in a manner befitting a character in a Matt Helm movie.

“Check you out. Except for the sneakers, you look pretty hot. Are you going on a date? Is that what’s been keeping you away from my store?”

“Not exactly.”

“It’s been so long I thought you found another source.”

“I wish. My sources have all but dried up. I’m going to have to start taking road trips to the panhandle. Nobody’s heard of me there.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

Years ago Joanie had retired from work in a corporate office, and now she owned a store that dealt in collectibles. Her uniform of choice was a white, zip-front beauty salon smock over skinny dark denim jeans. Joanie Loves Tchotchkes had been born when she cashed out her 401k and used her corporate training to write a business plan. Six months, a bank loan, and a series of strategic shopping trips to flea markets all over Texas was all she needed to open for business. I’d met her in Canton, where the First Monday Trade Days lured people in search of the treasures that came from attics and garages.

“Do you want me to carry your box to your car?”

“Not that I don’t admire your hard-sell technique, but maybe I should see what you have before you assume I want to take it.”

Her face scrunched up. “I’m not selling you anything today. Some guy dropped off a box and it had your name on it.”

“I know that’s what you said, but I don’t understand.”

“Maybe it’ll make sense when you see it. Wait here.”

Joanie disappeared into a doorway at the back of the store. My eyes glided over the assortment of knick knacks and
objet d’arts
that filled every nook and cranny of the interior. Joanie never met a tchotchke she didn’t love, and her store shelves reflected it. Metal key stripping had been installed vertically on the walls, allowing for adjustable shelves to be placed where needed. She kept smaller items by the front of the store: salt and pepper shakers, Kokeshi dolls, and tiny frames. A glass case housed jewelry—nothing too valuable—including an assortment of brightly colored metal flower pins. I’d bought a few of these and pinned them onto the lapels of my vintage suits or dresses. On top of the glass case was her cash register, as old as most of her inventory.

And on the wall, above a mechanic’s pin-up girl calendar from 1961, was a framed five thousand dollar bill I’d never seen in her store before.

Two five thousand dollar bills showing up in the Lakewood area in the same week? I didn’t know what it meant, but whatever it was, I didn’t like it.

I lifted the frame from the wall and turned it over. A small white price tag attached to a piece of string had been taped to the back of the wood. $100 was written in Joanie’s sloppy cursive script. The frame had been glued together. I’d have to break the whole thing apart if I wanted to get at the bill inside.

Joanie returned from the back of the store, lugging a cardboard box. Rocky pulled his leash forward and hopped around her ankles. The flaps of the box were folded shut, and my name was written on top. Mad for Mod had been added below.

Joanie set the box on the glass case and patted the top of it twice. “Look familiar?”

I stepped forward to get a closer look and shook my head. “How’d you get it?”

“Some guy brought in a couple of boxes. This was only one of them. He was probably told to drop them off and got mixed up.” She looked at the frame I held. “Funny you’re looking at that. It came in from the same guy who dropped off this box.”