“It’s a new-old dress. Early sixties. From an estate sale in Pennsylvania, before I moved here. The woman died in a car accident—”
“Enough! I like the dress. I like the dress on you. But I don’t need to hear the obituary of the woman who owned it first.” He disappeared next to the tire.
“It’s good for business,” I said.
“The dress or the estate sales?”
“Well, both. But the only client I talked to today was over the phone, thank you very much.” Maybe things would have gone differently if I had met Steve Johnson face to face. Not because of the dress, but because he’d see that I was legitimate.
Inside the studio, the phone jangled. Technically, Mad for Mod was still open, and every phone call was prospective business. “Do you mind if I get that?”
“Nah, go ahead. This’ll take a couple of minutes.”
I picked up the ball of paper by the wastepaper basket and set it on the corner of my one-of-a-kind desk, and reached for the phone.
“Mad for Mod, Madison Night speaking,” I answered. I heard a click followed by a dial tone. I sank into the chair and batted the crumpled-up flyer back and forth across the slick surface of the desk.
The desk was a gift from Hudson, a hodgepodge of parts from items too damaged to repair. It had cost him more in time and vision than materials, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. More than once I’d asked him to be a partner in my business, and every time he declined. He was reliable, artistic, genuine, and best of all, smelled like wood shavings. In a parallel universe, I might have entertained romantic thoughts of us, but life as it was for a single, forty-seven year old businesswoman with trust issues didn’t allow for fantasies like that. And even if I was capable of giving in to attraction, I had long learned one lesson: men may come and go but good handymen last forever.
I closed up the studio for the second time. The phone mocked me from the other side of the back door. I ran back in and answered on the third ring, slightly out of breath.
“Ms. Night, this is Steve Johnson. You called me about my mother’s estate?” His voice had changed. The gruff had been traded for something else. Either way, I launched into my spiel.
“Mr. Johnson, I know it’s unorthodox for me to have made an offer over the phone, but if you have time available tomorrow, I’d be more than happy to meet with you in person.”
“That’s not necessary. I changed my mind and I’m willing to sell. Take this number down and call me in the morning.”
I grabbed a thick black marker out of the orange Tiki mug on the desk, flattened out Pamela’s real estate flyer, and scrawled the number across her bright white smile.
“Perfect,” I said, too eagerly, considering the circumstances. And then, for the second time that day, Steve Johnson hung up on me, leaving me to wonder what exactly had happened to change his mind.
Other books by Diane Vallere:
Designer Dirty Laundry
1st in the Style & Error Mystery Series
Samantha Kidd, ex-buyer-turned-trend-specialist, designed her future with couture precision, but finding the fashion director’s corpse on day one leaves her hanging by a thread. When the killer fabricates evidence that puts the cops on her hemline, her new life begins to unravel. She trades high fashion for dirty laundry and reveals a cast of designers out for blood. Now this flatfoot in heels must keep pace with a diabolical designer before she gets marked down for murder.
June 2012
Pillow Stalk
1st in the Mad for Mod Mystery Series
Interior decorator Madison Night has modeled her life after a character in a Doris Day movie, but when a killer targets women dressed like the bubbly actress, Madison’s signature sixties style places her in the middle of a homicide investigation. The local detective connects the new crimes to a twenty-year-old cold case, and Madison’s long-trusted contractor emerges as the leading suspect. As the body count piles up like a stack of plush pillows, Madison uncovers a former spy, a campaign to destroy all Doris Day movies, and six minutes of film that will change her life forever.
October 2012
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 02 - Buyer, Beware Page 23