by Alter, Judy
I wanted to say sarcastically, “Don’t bother if it’s trouble,” but I knew my hurt feelings would be showing. When Mom moved down here, I was afraid she’d be on top of us, and now I bet I hadn’t seen her in over a week.
“Keisha,” I asked next morning, “does Mom have a new boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of. But don’t be surprised if one turns up sooner rather than later.”
I went on to tell Keisha about my planned dinner party, adding, “Bring your mother if you want.”
With a sly look, she said, “I’d rather bring José. I’ve been seeing him now and then.”
I knew Keisha well enough to know that translated into she’d been seeing a lot of him. Somehow I’d also lost track of Keisha while I concentrated on Mike and a green Nova. I really needed to pay more attention to my circle of close friends.
“Bring them both,” I said.
Later, Keisha answered the phone with “O’Connell and Spencer Real Estate,” then said, “Yes, she’s right here. Just a minute.” Then in proper professional tones but with a grin on her face, she said, “Mr. Lattimore is on line one for you.”
I’d deliberately put Tom Lattimore to the back of my mind, though every once in a while he nudged to the front and I knew I should call him. Now, I answered the phone with, “Hi, Tom,” and he replied too quickly, “Kelly, how are you? And that husband of yours? Sorry to hear about his accident. Those cop chases”—I could almost hear him going tsk, tsk—“always so dangerous.”
“It wasn’t Mike’s fault. The other car ran a stop sign.”
“Of course, of course. Young girl was killed wasn’t she?” He wasn’t getting this conversation off to a good start. “But that’s not why I called. I have a big deal in the works, and I want to talk to you about it. You may want to be part of it.”
In other words, he needed me to do something. “I heard about it, Tom, and I’d like to talk with you.”
“Good, good. Too late to ask you to lunch today?”
“I have to take Mike to therapy at ten and then get him home and feed him, but I could meet you by 12:30.”
“How about Lili’s at 12:30?”
I hesitated. Mike and I considered Lili’s our special place. When we were dating, a lot of our evenings started off there and ended in Mike’s bed. I hated to sully the memory.
“How about the Grill?”
“No privacy. What I want to talk about is still pretty confidential.”
Not as confidential as you’d like to think. And Lili’s isn’t all that private.
We finally decided on Chadra again—that’s where we’d met when he’d tried to come on to me. Curiosity about who Tom might be seeing now flitted through my mind, but I really didn’t care. I bet he left some angry husbands in his wake—and probably their wives when he moved on.
“See you there at 12:30,” I said.
I hadn’t told Mike about Christian’s phone call of warning, the big-box development or any of it, so I explained it on the way home from his physical therapy, ending with my lunch with Tom Lattimore. His predictable response was a muttered, “I don’t like that guy.”
“I don’t much like him either, but this is business, not an assignation,” I said.
“It better not be.”
Chapter Six
After getting Mike settled and fixing him a sandwich and a beer, I was unintentionally ten minutes late getting to Chadra. For once, I didn’t have to sit alone at a table waiting, looking like I’d been stood up. Tom was there.
He greeted me with a peck on the cheek and “It’s been way too long, Kelly. You’re looking great. Marriage must agree with you.”
We sat, I ordered ice tea, declined the buffet on the grounds I ate too much last time, and ended up with a delicious bowl of tomato-basil soup and a small house salad. Tom excused himself to go to the buffet and came back with his plate loaded. I was glad I had resisted.
Tom had requested a corner table, well away from other diners. Even so, he leaned in confidentially as he spoke. “Kelly, I’ve got a big deal going, a shopping center on Magnolia.”
“I heard, Tom. Where on Magnolia?”
“Just west of Hemphill, south side of the street. Across the street from the Paris Coffee Shop and those offices. I think we can do it with two square blocks.”
“Those buildings have a historic designation. You can’t touch them,” I said.
“Just some junk things. There’s a new sushi restaurant—I hear it’s good by the way, but if so, they can relocate. Let’s see, one of those yoga places, a taco place, that small independent bank that will probably get picked up soon by one of the big banks anyway. Stuff like that. I guess there’s an antique or junk store. Oh, and an old guy who repairs old clocks, has a ton of them in a jumble in his shop.”
Those weren’t junk businesses to me. I banked at that bank because I liked having everyone from tellers to bank officers call me by name and take a real interest in my business. And now it was where Claire worked. I had sold the yoga studio property to the young single mother, who took a chance with her livelihood and her child’s well-being to make a dream come true. I checked on her from time to time—she wasn’t getting rich, but she was hanging on. Taking her classes was one of the things I told myself I’d do when I had time—somehow that appealed to me more than Claire’s offer. Keisha sometimes brought us tacos for lunch from that taqueria. Those businesses were more than old buildings. They were people to me—and that’s what matters in Fairmount.
“The businesses, junk or not, aren’t the point. The buildings are on the national historic register. You can’t just tear them down.” At one square mile, Fairmount is the largest historic district in the Southwest.
“We can get a variance. This project is backed by big people. Gas wells. People who have power in the city. We’ll build to fit the neighborhood, believe me. Nothing stark and modern. We might even get Mike Smith to move the Paris Coffee Shop to our property.”
Mike Smith would love that. His second-generation family business part of a shopping center.
“What’s the big-box store? I heard some kind of new grocery store.”
“The Grapevine’s good on this one. That’s close. I’m talking with people behind a new store, Wild Things, an upscale grocery store, like a mini Whole Foods or Central Market, only more focus on local products and less on upscale and gourmet. Locavore is a big thing these days. Golden opportunity for me. They’ll construct, manage, all I have to do is….” His voice dropped off.
I’d heard all that or most of it from Christian, but what was Tom’s part? “All you have to do is what?” I prompted.
He looked startled. “Pardon me?”
“You said all you have to do is but you never finished the sentence.”
Nervous laugh. “Oh, that. All I have to do is act as liaison with the city, help them get established, do a little marketing.”
He was covering something. “Tom, you know as well as I do that this is exactly what the neighborhood doesn’t want on Magnolia. We’re trying to improve and restore the entire area, make it like it used to be, not add a lot of unsightly on-the-street parking lots plus all the traffic a shopping center would bring. I can’t support you on this.” I didn’t say that if he built across the street, on the north side of Magnolia, he’d be out of Fairmount. It would still be a travesty. Besides, the spaces on the north side were taken up with new professional buildings, built within the last couple of years and designed to blend into the area. Several blocks west you got into smaller businesses—junk, Tom would have called them. Lili’s Bistro, the restaurant Mike and I loved, Nonna Tata, another favorite, a Middle Eastern restaurant that predated the influx of new restaurants, a Curves Studio, a Mexican restaurant that served authentic Mexican food rather than Tex-Mex and was a breakfast favorite for residents.
“You’re wrong, Kelly. The young professionals who live in Berkeley and Fairmount and Mistletoe Heights will be delighted to have an upscale groc
ery—with a café, meals to go, all that good stuff. We’ve got support, petitions signed, the whole works….” He watched me for a reaction, and when he got none, he said, “I’m presenting the proposal to the zoning board next week and I’d love to have your name on it as a supporter. I’ll give you leasing privileges on half the small stores if you can bring in suitable tenants.”
“There’s not room for satellite stores along with a big box,” I protested. “You’d need at least two full square blocks.” My mind said, A huge chunk of Fairmount.
“That’s what the architect’s plans are projected on.”
“Why not put it on Eighth Avenue, between Fairmount and Berkeley and closer to Mistletoe Heights and Ryan Place? Those are all target neighborhoods.”
“There’s already Fiesta on Eighth. Not room for another big grocery.”
“Even one so different?” I saw what his problem was. There was no land that would work on Eighth, and not enough adjacent small businesses to tear down and create the space.
The more he talked, the more I tuned him out. When I did speak, I almost thought someone else had taken over my voice, because I was uncharacteristically forthright and rude. “Tom, I’m going to fight you every inch of the way on this one—petitions, zoning authority, city council. You name it.”
His voice was deadly calm. “Don’t fight me, Kelly. It could be dangerous. I have big money behind me on this one, people who aren’t afraid to use their power.”
“Well, I’m not afraid to use my voice,” I said. “Thanks for lunch.” And I rose, leaving half a bowl of soup and an untouched salad behind me. Tom just watched me go. I wondered if he’d anticipated my reaction.
My main worry was that Tom had really gotten the jump on any opposition. To say he had support could mean anything or nothing. But if he had petitions from Fairmount residents, that was a whole different kettle of fish.
Back in the office, I called Christian and motioned Keisha to listen in. “I just had lunch with Tom Lattimore. Told him I’d fight him all the way. I think we should start with the Fort Worth League of Neighborhood Associations. But Tom’s already got petitions.”
“I don’t need fancy expensive groceries,” Keisha muttered.
I ignored her. “Christian, I called John Henry Jackson at the landmark commission and he sort of brushed it off, said not to worry. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. John Henry doesn’t have much background in preservation. He got the landmark job by asking for it.”
Christian sighed. “That’s part of why preservation is such an uphill battle. People get involved without knowing what they’re doing.”
I went on. “I’ll draw up a petition, and we can get Jim Price to check it from a legal perspective. Nice to have a lawyer as current president of the Fairmount Neighborhood Association. We should meet quickly.”
“Good idea. The commission has a strong voice at city hall, and they’re really an advocate for preserving older neighborhoods.”
“Jim Price can call a special meeting of the neighborhood association.”
“Slow down, Kelly. We may have to wait till Lattimore makes a specific proposal before we can counter with petitions.”
“He says he’s presenting it next week. Wanted to have my name on it as a supporter.”
“Interesting. Once he presents it, his proposal becomes a public document. I think it would be really important to see who he’s in bed with. I doubt there are many if any names from the neighborhood. I think I’ll have breakfast at the Paris Coffee Shop tomorrow and talk to Jim.”
“Christian, one more thing. His last word to me sounded like a threat. Said he had big money behind him and people who weren’t afraid to use their power. I didn’t ask what kind of power, but he mentioned oil and gas money. Be careful.”
“Oil and gas money is all over Texas, let alone the county, these days. But I’ll be careful. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, and we can compare notes.”
When we hung up, Keisha looked at me and said, “You got yourself into the middle of it again, Kelly. Mike is not going to be pleased.”
I was wondering if people with money and power hired young girls in green Novas and brown Mustangs.
****
Thursday afternoon I checked the obituaries, but the Star-Telegram didn’t keep four-week-old ones online unless the person was a really major figure. Trying to avoid another long day lost in the archives of the paper, which are in the University of Texas at Arlington library and meant a good thirty-minute trip each way, I called Martha Blackmon, a features writer I knew casually who had helped me once before. When I outlined my request, she laughed and said, “You do come up with the strangest requests, Kelly. Sure, I’ll see what I can find and email you. Give me your email again.”
Good as her word, she was back to me with some information before I left to get the girls. Rosalinda Garza was the daughter of a single mother, Lola Garza. A quick look at the phone book showed only one Lola Garza on the near North Side. I resolved to pay a sympathy call the next day and thought that maybe a Ranch Oak spiral cut ham would make a good gift. I admitted to myself that over a month later was a bit late for a sympathy call, not to mention the traditional gift of food. But I guess I was imagining that Mrs. Garza could use a little extra food. Martha’s email indicated that Rosalinda had three brothers and a twin sister. The latter bit of information gave me a real stab in the heart.
I ordered the ham, to be picked up the next morning at nine, and went to get the girls, admittedly feeling a bit righteous. No, I did not tell Keisha, Buck Conroy, or Mike what I was planning to do. Sometimes I’m a bit slow to learn life’s lessons.
For once, Mike didn’t ask, “What are you hiding from me?” He and the girls seemed completely oblivious to the fact that I had a secret plan, although I usually wore such plans plastered on my face like a poster shouting, “Ask me what I’m about to do.”
We had a peaceful evening—I grilled hamburgers that Mike said were almost as good as his, the girls did their homework without protest, and when they were settled in bed with their books and a fifteen-minute warning, I helped Mike with his stretching exercises. He was frustrated—and a bit grouchy—because he wasn’t making progress as fast as he wanted. I pointed out it was only five weeks, and he was beginning to bear a little weight on that leg. He refused to take walks, although they were recommended, because he wasn’t going to be seen in “his” neighborhood on a walker. Pointing out that he was a non-cooperative patient didn’t help. Lately at therapy sessions they’d been keeping him longer to make him walk the track, which he could do with his walker and about half his weight on his bad leg. I suggested he ride the stationary bike in the garage, but he pointed out that he hadn’t been okayed to use it yet.
“Well, ask about the bike. You could go out the front door to the apartment. See, isn’t it a good thing Keisha didn’t move in there?”
He gave me a dark look, and I subsided. Mike, I had discovered, was not an easy patient. Men never are, but somehow I expected more of him, too much probably since he was almost always good-natured and easygoing. Only a few things could push his buttons, but being handicapped was one of them. He itched to get back to work, even if it was a desk job. “I’d answer the damn phones,” he exploded.
The next morning I kissed him goodbye and told him I’d see him at noon, even suggested we go to the Grill for a change. It wasn’t a therapy day, so I had the morning free. I walked the girls into their classrooms and hugged them goodbye—Em would still kiss me, but Maggie was beyond that—and left for the North Side with a light heart.
Keisha was the only fly in my ointment. When I ran by the office, she asked, “You’re going to be out of the office why?”
“I’m going to pay a sympathy call on Rosalinda Garza’s family. But don’t tell Mike.”
“The minute you say don’t tell Mike, my radar goes into overdrive. Just what do you think you’ll accomplish?”
“I want to find out who’s stalking us.”
“And you think one of them is going to come right out and say, ‘Yeah, I been following you’?”
I didn’t know what I expected but I didn’t tell Keisha that. Just told her to be sure to watch for calls from Christian or Tom Lattimore, and I’d be back before lunch.
“Don’t you bother yourself about this office. I can sell real estate. But I thought I was supposed to go with you on this jaunt.”
“I decided I can do it alone. You stay here and sell real estate.”
Hmmm. Maybe Keisha should get a license. What a great idea to explore—but not now.
The Garzas lived in a small clapboard house, once painted white but now faded to a dingy gray where the paint hadn’t completely peeled away. The front yard was surrounded by hurricane fencing, covered by struggling ivy that could soften its lines if it ever grew lush. There was monkey grass along the walk to the porch, and I could see where summer plants, now withered, had been. A bent mini-blind covered one of the front windows. The whole picture was of a home where someone tried desperately to keep it up but was losing the battle.
I knocked and a teenage boy, probably fifteen, opened the door and demanded, “Yeah?”
Why isn’t he in school? “Is your mother at home?”
“Yeah. I’ll get her.” And the ill-mannered child (not the first word that came into my mind) closed the door in my face.
In a few minutes that seemed like forever, a worn-looking woman probably in her forties but looking older came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes?” There was neither warmth nor hostility in the question—and very little curiosity.
“Mrs. Garza, my name is Kelly O’Connell. I’m married to the police office whose car Sonny Adams hit the night your daughter died.” Now there was a blunt opening.
She started to close the door, but I put my foot in it. “I came to tell you how terribly sorry I am about your loss.”