Teacher's Threat

by Diane Vallere

  But the thing that fired me up more than making lists and plans about how to expand was doing the work again. I thought about how I felt at the bank, sitting in front of the loan officer, and knowing how easy it would have been to craft a renovation proposal for them.

  I closed my eyes and rested my pen on my notebook. I could see it: buff the existing travertine walls and polish the poured terrazzo floors. Bring in Saarinen tables for brochures and check signing stations. It would be spectacular. A destination spot. People would go to the Dallas First National Bank just to see the interior.

  Except they wouldn’t. Who went to a bank to look at the furniture?

  I tore the page out of my notebook and crumbled it up. I didn’t need the bank to give me a job. I needed them to give me a loan.

  I pulled out my phone and saw a missed call from Dennis. His message said to call him back.

  As the class debated the pros and cons of bankruptcy behind me, I stood from the bench and wandered into the hallway and returned the realtor’s call.

  “Dennis? This is Madison Night.”

  “Yes. One minute.” The phone went silent. Several seconds later, Dennis returned. “Sorry about that. Family movie night.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at home.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “The kids picked The Incredibles for the twenty-third time,” he said. I laughed. “I’m not joking. My oldest keeps a logbook.”

  “Future statistician?”

  “Future something.” Dennis paused a moment and then continued. “Madison, I hate to do this over the phone, but with your hectic schedule, I wasn’t sure when we’d connect. I heard back from the bank.”

  “Already? Don’t I need to fill out paperwork before they approve my loan?”

  “I have your information on file. I made a couple of calls first, just to feel out your situation before we made an official offer on the place and, well, there’s a problem.”

  “What problem?” I asked. The excited tingle in my chest from earlier turned to tightness. I tapped my sternum and stopped pacing. “Surely there’s enough equity in Thelma Johnson’s house to start the process.”

  “That was what I thought too, but I didn’t realize you bought and renovated the apartment building on Gaston Avenue. Your debt-to-income ratio is out of whack, and the banks aren’t comfortable with the odds of you meeting your payment schedule.”

  “That’s not fair!” I cried out. My voice bounced off the walls of the hallway and magnified. “Did you tell them I’m getting my MBA? That I’m committed to expansion of my existing decorating business? They should see if I’m willing to borrow against the equity of my house I’m serious. I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize where I live.”

  “I’m sorry, Madison, but it’s not simply good business, it’s ethics. You have too much to lose.”

  I dropped onto the bench next to the vending machine. This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. Dennis’s enthusiasm had opened a door for optimism, and now, the newest rejection was more crushing than the rest of them combined.

  “What do I do now?” I asked.

  “The sooner you show the bank you can bring in money, the sooner they’ll change their mind. Get back out there, Madison. You still have the showroom on Greenville. Start there.”

  We ended the call on a cordial note. Dennis hadn’t known I bought back the building he helped me sell, and that might have made him rethink me as a loyal client. But a realtor’s opinion of me wasn’t among the ten biggest problems I had.

  I kicked my feet out in front of me and slouched down on the bench. What was I doing in night school? Nobody thought this was a good idea. Maybe they were right. The time I spent here wasn’t helping me get back on my feet—it was a distraction. I should forget trying to learn something new about business and double down on what I knew. Dumpster diving it was.

  In the background, I heard a door open and the sound of people filling the hallway. Class had run a few minutes longer than usual, but now it was over. I put away my phone and notebook and waited until the sounds subsided before slowly making my way back to the room. The room had emptied except for the dean and two male students who appeared to be wrapping up their conversation.

  As I walked in, I saw Tex’s Jeep keys on the floor under his (formerly my) desk. He couldn’t leave without them. Without thinking, I scooped them up, then I remembered I had no reason to know “Rex,” no ability to contact him about his lost keys. I set them on the desk surface.

  The dean and the students finished up, and the students left.

  “Madison,” Hugo said. “I’m glad you came back. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “I need to talk to you about something too.” I steeled myself. “I’m having doubts about whether business school is the right decision for me. When we spoke earlier, you said you were going to look into giving me course credit for my experience, but I don’t want you to waste your time.”

  “Are you saying you’re withdrawing from Van Doren College?”

  Was that what I was saying? “I don’t know. I need to think about it before I can give you an answer.”

  “Fair enough.” He closed his textbook and stood straight. “I can’t say I want you to leave, but your decision does make what I wanted to say easier.”

  Great. More bad news? What now?

  “Yes?”

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow night. I have a—a decorating dilemma. You may be the perfect person to help me out.”

  “You want to hire me?”

  “I need someone like you, Madison. Meet me outside Canfield. I’d love to tell you more.” Hugo looked over my shoulder. “Rex? Did you forget something?”

  I turned around and saw Tex in the doorway. He pointed at the keys on the desk next to me. “Keys,” he said. “Must have fallen out of my pocket.”

  “Can’t get far without them,” the dean said.

  “No siree.” Tex scooped them up and pocketed them. His eyes moved back and forth between the dean and me. “Ma’am?” He hesitated. “I’ll walk you to your car if you like.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I turned to the dean. “And thank you for understanding.”

  I walked toward Tex, gauging his body language for hostility. Behind me, Hugo said, “See you in class Rex. And you, Madison? Will I see you tomorrow night?”

  Heat flushed my face. “Tomorrow night. Yes.”

  “Great. It’s a date.”

  Cue hostility in five-four-three-two-one.

  17

  I’ve never been so aware of my feet moving one step in front of the other. Tex and I walked side by side, but to anyone watching, we were strangers who happened to attend the same class. His hostility didn’t just work on a granular level; it suited his undercover story as well.

  By the time we reached my car, I’d stopped focusing on my footsteps and started cycling through various conversation points. I even considered asking Tex to tell me about his hat business, since Ling had effectively removed me from the classroom right about when the dean aimed the spotlight in Tex’s direction. But having a conversation about fictitious lives was like living in a house of cards. The illusion would last until it crashed down around us.

  A pair of campus police officers stood in the parking structure about thirty feet from my car. I nodded at them. One was the officer who had responded to my call the day Professor Gallagher died. He nodded back. Tex ignored them both.

  “I don’t suppose I have to ask which car is yours,” he said.

  I mistakenly thought he had worked past his hostility. I smiled. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?”

  My voice carried through the empty parking structure, and the campus police officers turned toward us.

  “Ma’am, I appreciate the offer,” Tex said, “but this assignment is going to put a crimp in my social life.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course,” I stammered. And then I added, “You have my number in the event those n
otes I gave you weren’t clear. I’m a morning person, so I prefer you don’t call after nine.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Thank you for the escort. Good night, Rex.”

  “Good night, Madison.”

  See, now, this was silly. Most of the time, Tex called me by my last name. I’d never corrected him or minded, frankly. It was part of the way we communicated from the start, and he hadn’t changed the habit when we shifted into friendlier relations.

  I rarely heard him say my first name. Maybe that was why tonight, in the dark parking structure, with two campus police officers who probably shouldn’t know Tex and I weren’t strangers, the sound of him saying it gave me a thrill. It felt intimate, like we were role-playing. Which at least one of us was.

  Tex appeared to have the same reaction. The moment he spoke my name, his pupils dilated. His eyes dropped from mine to my lips, where they remained. My heartbeat, which had been in treadmill-zone since I spoke to Dennis, thumped in my chest. The air around us felt charged, which made it more difficult to pretend we were strangers.

  “I suppose I should go home now,” I said.

  “I suppose you should,” he replied. He raised his hand halfway as if he were about to touch me but then stopped. “I almost forgot. You missed out on the assignment.”

  Tex pulled out a notebook from the bottom of his stack of books and put it on top. He tore out a sheet of paper out and scribbled something on it and then folded it and handed it to me. “If you haven’t been keeping up with the reading, you’ll want to get on that immediately. There might be a quiz.”

  “Thank you.” I unlocked my car and climbed in.

  Tex, selling the role of chivalrous gentleman, waited in the parking structure to make sure my car started. I drove away and left him alone with the campus police. I waited until I had left the college campus to read his note.

  Until this case is solved, I can’t risk blowing my cover. Don’t put your life on hold.

  That was the secret, romantic note Tex handed me?

  A car horn honked behind me. I tossed the note on the passenger seat and pulled forward then drove home with my blood boiling. Don’t put your life on hold. What was that—permission? Did he think I wasn’t mature enough to wait out a homicide investigation? Or was this his way of saying his “cover” was an excuse to indulge in his old bachelor behavior?

  I got home and let Rocky out. Since our parent/puppy hours had shifted to later nights, I’d swapped out his usual collar for a glow-in-the-dark one so I could keep track of him more easily. He ran down the stairs and into the yard, circled the Japanese maple tree a few times, and pooped on an exposed root. It was my yard, and I was tired, and what harm would come of leaving it there to fertilize the ground?

  I sat on a partially rusted two-seater swing in my yard and watched Rocky’s glow-in-the-dark collar dart around in the darkness. I used to feel like that. Like everything was shiny and new and there were opportunities all around me. I had steady work and more inventory than I could manage thanks to curbside finds, obituary purchases, and weekends of flea marketing. When I didn’t have clients, I’d remerchandise my showroom window. I repainted rooms more often than some people spackled, and little by little, I built up a reputation so solid the local paint store asked me to endorse a collection of paint colors.

  I sat up a little straighter. Why hadn’t I thought about that? Mitchell Moore, the owner of Paintin’ Place, wasn’t just a business contact. He was a friend. My endorsement deal had been an experiment, and the last time we spoke, he was on his seventh reorder. I may not be getting my MBA anytime soon, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t recognize a smart business move when I saw it.

  The next morning, with no classes to attend, I decided to indulge in some woman-dog bonding time. I dressed in a peach shirtwaist dress, another item from the kindergarten teacher’s wardrobe, and clipped a matching leash onto Rocky’s collar, and we left. He hung his head out the window while I drove to the Casa Linda Shopping Center where Paintin’ Place resided.

  I entered the paint store and found Mitchell behind the counter mixing paint. The machine made it impossible to converse, so I waved at him and browsed the paint swatches while he finished up.

  Mitchell Moore was a baby boomer who made white T-shirts and Dickies his signature look. At first glance, people thought he was a contractor. His inquisitive manner and amiable disposition quickly engaged customers into discussing their needs, and by the time they put two and two together, he won their loyalty. It wasn’t unusual to encounter repeat customers in the store; Mitchell was like your crazy, paint-splattered uncle.

  Mitchell switched off the paint mixer. “Hey, Madison,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in here for a while. I thought I lost one of my regulars. What are you working on now?”

  “I’m between projects,” I said. I turned my back on the paint swatches. Alongside of the rack of brands that were carried at the big box decorating firms was a stack of empty cans featuring the colors I endorsed. “How are sales of the Mad for Mod paints?”

  “Not gonna lie. Things slowed up when you went out of business.”

  “Is that what you think? That I closed shop?”

  He shrugged. “Business all over town have been hit hard. I read about your trouble in the paper, so I wasn’t surprised.”

  I could tell he meant it. Mitchell wasn’t angry or sad about my problems. He accepted them as a natural ending to a sentence. For some reason, everybody accepted it. Everybody but me.

  “You in the market for some tray liners?” he asked.

  Tray liners. Less than a dollar a piece. Even if I were in the market, Mitchell wasn’t going to get rich off me. All of a sudden, the effort it took to keep denying I was in trouble was too much.

  “I need work,” I said. “I haven’t gone out of business, but I’m not in business either. My storefront is empty, so I’m not attracting clients, and if I don’t get a client, I won’t have money to invest in inventory. Every bank I went to rejected my loan application. I enrolled in business school, but”—I paused, unsure how much of the truth I should share—“there are issues with that too.”

  He tipped his head back and scratched his chin. “I could give you a couple hours around here, but I can’t say it’s a long-term solution,” he said.

  I quickly waved his offer away. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not going to tax your business to get capital to spend on mine. I was thinking—hoping—you might have an idea for another endorsement deal?”

  “Hate to say it, but you’ll need to make yourself a hot commodity first.” He waved toward the paint cans. “A year ago, I couldn’t keep these in stock. Now they’re collecting dust.”

  “A year ago,” I repeated. “That’s just about the time we renovated my apartment building. Seems like longer.”

  “Yep. Last October. I would have thought the income from the rent on that building would keep you afloat.”

  “Afloat, yes. Flush, no.” I cocked my head and looked at a chalkboard on the back counter of Mitchell’s wrap stand. “What’s that?” I pointed.

  “Home decorating courses. A local trade school asked me to speak to one of their classes, and I got the idea to run weekend classes here. Now I hold workshops in the shed out back. Max capacity is twenty, but it’ll do.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “You know how it is, Madison. When you’re in business for yourself, you see ideas everywhere.”

  18

  Mitchell was right. I used to see ideas everywhere. My problem wasn’t with funding. It was with picking a direction. One legal setback had made me afraid to charge forward and take chances. It left me stuck in a rut. I needed to do something, to decorate something. Anything. I needed to put my mind and my hands to work, to start and complete a project for no reason other than I could.

  “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time in business school. You already know how to run a business. Check out the workshops. Expa
nding your skill set seems like the better investment.”

  I approached the chalkboard and scanned the list of classes. They covered upholstery, laying tile, installing hardwood floors, and updating kitchen cabinets. They were targeted to the DIY home warrior, not the sort to hire out a decorator, but wouldn’t a decorator be an even better decorator if she brushed up on her ability to do this stuff herself?

  “No, I don’t need any paint tray liners,” I said. Mitchell’s smile faltered. “But I will need supplies to strip paint off walls. I’ve been meaning to do something with the sitting room inside my house, and I suspect there’s original knotty pine under a couple coats of Navajo White. And if I’m going to refinish the walls, I might as well redo the whole room. That means pulling up the carpet and refinishing the hardwood. You have a course on that, right?”

  Mitchell’s smile returned. “The carts are behind you.”

  I loaded up on liquid paint strippers, brushes, gloves, and—despite what I’d said—paint tray liners, which would make the task easier to manage, added in detergent, some buckets, two dozen sponges, and wood cleaner. I spent forty-five minutes drooling over wood stain and then, on Mitchell’s suggestion, went with a pre-stain and a water-based polyurethane sealer to allow the natural grain to shine. I could already see what I wanted the finished project to look like: warm, pine walls, a nubby tweed teal sofa, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases to showcase vintage books and knickknacks. A starburst clock and an entertainment console that housed record albums and a stereo. Astronaut den meets airplane lounge. So much of atomic mid-century design had been influenced by the space race and I could do an homage. For the first time in a long time, I couldn’t wait to get started.

  I paid for my supplies. All this time, I’d been thinking I had nothing to work with. I’d been so focused on what I didn’t have that I hadn’t stopped to see what I did.