Teacher's Threat

by Diane Vallere

  “The last thing I need is to be found inside the dean’s house with the cab running out front.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  The cabbie led the way to the door. He was down the stairs and inside the cab before I left. I stopped at the door and turned around to see if Tex was behind me. He wasn’t. He was bent over the coffee table staring at something intently.

  From the distance, I recognized a copy of Rad Rage, Professor Gallagher’s book. Next to it was a stack of handwritten manuscript pages. Tex pulled a pencil out of his jacket and used the eraser end to fan the papers out across the table. He straightened up. “I’m going to be here awhile,” he said. “Take the cab and go home.”

  It was as if he’d completely forgotten our flirtation at the club. I left the doorway and went farther inside the room. “You are Rex Allen, MBA student in an advance level business course. You showed great compassion and integrity by making sure your temporary professor got home safely, but you have no right to snoop around his house while he’s passed out, especially since you admitted to bribing the bartender to get him drunk. You’ve already compromised yourself by asking the cab driver to assist in your good deed because now he can place you—us—inside this house.”

  Tex didn’t lose sight of things like this, and it struck me as odd that he’d been so careless tonight. “Come look at this,” he said.

  It was the one response I hadn’t expected. I crossed the room and looked at the title page. Sprawled across it was the title and byline Anger Management by Hugo Wallace.

  “That’s him,” I said, pointing to the bedroom.

  “Check the text,” Tex said.

  “Why me?”

  “You were his date. You have a reason to be here.”

  I picked up the stack of pages and flipped through them. The handwriting, though sloppy, relayed familiar concepts. I picked up Rad Rage and paged through that too.

  Tex glared at me. “What? I was his date. I have a reason to be here.” Inside, the text was liberally highlighted. In the second chapter, I found a passage that was a word-for-word duplicate of the text written on the loose pages. “There are entire passages that are the same. Did Hugo ghostwrite Gallagher’s book? Or did Gallagher write it and now Hugo’s plagiarizing it?”

  “Theft of intellectual property is a serious charge.”

  “Especially in academic circles.” I held Rad Rage up. “Remember in class when Hugo said Gallagher didn’t clear his required reading? Why would he care now?”

  Tex was tense. He glanced in the direction of the bedroom. “This could be motive.”

  “You said Hugo wasn’t at the top of your list.”

  “He is now.”

  I didn’t like what it meant, but if Tex was right, then I’d just been on a date with a murderer.

  24

  Was it possible the jovial dean of admissions to the business school was responsible for Professor Gallagher’s death?

  Tex pulled his phone out and took pictures of the table. He glanced around and then pointed to the door. “Let’s go.”

  I didn’t have to be told twice. We left together. Tex checked that the front door was locked, and then we descended the stairs. The cab driver was waiting for us.

  “Is the meter still running?” Tex asked.

  “You betcha.” He seemed pleased by the unexpected delay.

  Tex gave the driver his address. When I protested, he ignored me. “I’ll give you my credit card. Take Ms. Night home after you drop me off and charge me for the total. Give her my card and I’ll get it from her in class tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” I said.

  “You’re right, it is.” He glanced at the driver, and then back to me. “If you’re free tomorrow, maybe we can get that cup of coffee we talked about at the club. Unless you changed your mind, in which case I can get the card in class on Monday.”

  “I’d love to,” I said. I pulled a business card out of my handbag. “Call me any time.” When I handed the card to Tex, I didn’t let go right away. We sat in the backseat of a dirty cab, connected by a rectangular piece of 14 pt. glossy cardstock that advertised a business that wasn’t currently in business. Mad for Mod had brought us together in the first place.

  I let go of the card and in that moment, I released the demands everybody had tried to place on me. So many problems had filled my mind that I hadn’t allowed space for solutions. And as soon as I let go, the weight of those problems lifted, and I felt free.

  The cabbie dropped off Tex and then drove to my house. I gave him a healthy tip on Tex’s card and added my twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you,” I said.

  “You gonna meet him for coffee?” he asked.

  “I think I am.”

  “He’s a good guy,” he said. “Got an honest face too. I can always tell when somebody’s hiding something, and that guy is on the level.”

  I stifled the urge to tell the driver the honest, on-the-level passenger had been hiding his identity as the captain of the local police!

  The cabbie drove off before I got to my front door. I opened my handbag for my keys. but they weren’t there. I patted my coat pockets. Empty. And then I remembered I’d left them in the ignition of my car, now in police impound. It was closing in on three o’clock in the morning. This was the day that wouldn’t end.

  Aside from an isolated incident before I moved in, I knew this neighborhood to be safe. That didn’t make me want to sleep outside. I checked the doors and windows within reach but found myself to be a thorough and responsible homeowner. As I rounded the perimeter thinking of who I could call after two a.m. on a Saturday night—make that Sunday morning—I noticed the building next to me. It wasn’t exactly a Hilton, but I knew the lockbox code. As long as I got out before anyone noticed, I could sleep there.

  When people met me, they tended to think I was on the level too. My hair, vintage clothes, generally pleasant demeanor, and aura of Doris Day left behind the warm fuzzies that inspired trust. It was the reason the bank rejections had bothered me so much. The word “no” had always been temporary, a wall to be met with a different approach. That was where I was now. Facing a wall that needed a different approach.

  I let myself into the small building and locked the door behind me. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. My cell phone flashlight helped. My phone rang. It was Tex. I switched it to silent just in case anyone could hear before answering. “Hey,” I said quietly.

  “Are you home?” he asked.

  “Close enough.”

  “I don’t want to talk about tonight. It’s so late it’s early, and I’m not going home any time soon.”

  “Is that why you called?”

  “No. I wanted to tell you something I couldn’t say earlier.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I love you,” he said. His voice was low and sexy.

  I didn’t reply right away. It had been a long time since I’d heard those words in this context, and I wanted to savor the sound, the feeling, the unexpected warmth that blossomed inside my chest and then ballooned to fill the room.

  “Don’t say anything back,” he added. “I just wanted you to know.”

  “Good night, Captain Allen,” I said softly.

  “Good night, Night.”

  We hung up, and I set an alarm. I opened a box filled with plastic garment bags, unfolded several, and laid them on the ground. Another box held a plastic bag filled with clothes. I picked up a shirt and sniffed the fabric to make sure it wasn’t mildew (or something worse) and when it seemed clean, changed out of my dress and into the shirt to sleep in. I left my pantyhose on more for warmth than modesty. I emptied the rest of the bag onto the plastic garment bag and then burrowed myself underneath the pile. I wedged more garment bags under my head and closed my eyes. It was the least comfortable place I’d ever slept in my life, but the day had taken every ounce of energy out of me, and I fell asleep despite the discomfort.

  Everything was stiff.
My neck, my back, my shoulders, my legs. The phone alarm jolted me out of an REM cycle, and it took upwards of a minute to remember where I was and why. Sunlight streamed through the dirty windows, indicating it was later than I thought. I pushed the clothing items that had served as my cover to the side and sat up, wincing with pain in every joint in my body.

  Out front, I heard a car door. That was enough to get me motivated to get going. I was either going to have to put on last night’s clothes again or leave without pants. It was, admittedly, a low point.

  In the daylight, I was able to see the garments I’d scattered around to make my sleeping surface. There were hundreds of shirts. Corduroy, cotton, wool, and denim. Most were embroidered with colorful flowers or western motifs. I looked down at the shirt I’d slept in. It was chalk-colored with an abstract rust and avocado-green cross-stitched pattern on the front placket. I reached my hand around back and felt as far up the shirt as I could. There was embroidery there too. Curious, I walked to one of the dirty windows and turned my back to it and then looked over my shoulder to see my reflection. It wasn’t exactly a three-way mirror in a department store.

  What was this stuff? I returned to my makeshift bed and scooped up piles of shirts to reveal the garment bags on the floor. Johnson’s Clothiers, they said. Johnson. Thelma Johnson. Dennis had said this property was a storefront originally owned by Thelma Johnson’s husband, Sam, but he’d never mentioned what business Sam was in.

  I set the shirts on the garment bag and went to the back of the building and unsealed another box. Inside were jeans with the tags still on them. Dead stock. Entire size runs of jeans that had been sitting in this box for decades. Not only did it surprise me, it solved the problem of going home without pants.

  I leaned over the box and rooted through until I found a pair close to my size. Just as I lifted my leg to put them on, I heard voices out front. “This lockbox is open. What the heck?”

  And then the door swung open, and Dennis O’Hara walked in. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.

  25

  “I can explain,” I said. I held my hands up in an I-surrender gesture. The jeans I’d been putting on fell to the floor, one foot in and one foot out. I bent down and pulled them up, buttoning the fly and rolling the too-big waistband so they stayed in place.

  Dennis turned to the man with him. “Can you give us a moment?”

  “Who is that?” the man asked.

  I didn’t wait for Dennis’s answer. “Madison Night,” I said. “I live in the house next door.” I pointed at the wall between us.

  “I’m sorry,” Dennis said to him. “Can I see you outside?” he said to me.

  I grabbed my dress and Tex’s jacket and stepped into my kitten heel shoes and then followed Dennis outside. The man’s eyes went to my feet, and he watched them as I walked past. His eyebrows were raised, but I carried myself proudly as if this were a perfectly normal outfit.

  “What are you doing here?” Dennis asked.

  “I was locked out of my house last night and needed a place to sleep.”

  “I trusted you, Madison. Do you know how bad this looks?”

  I stood tall. “Do you know what’s in the boxes in there?” I asked. “Inventory from Sam Johnson’s store. Do you remember who bought out Thelma Johnson’s estate? Me. I may not own the building, but I have a legal claim to everything in there, and considering you’ve been in several times and never once mentioned that to me, I’d say your actions don’t look particularly good either.”

  He looked shocked. “You can’t think I withheld that on purpose.”

  “I don’t know what to think. You said Thelma Johnson sold the building to a store, but everything in there says Johnson Clothiers on it. Was it a turnkey transaction?”

  “I don’t know. The history of the building says it was owned by the Johnsons and then sold, and then after the hurricane in ‘83, the shop closed.”

  “I suggest you do a little more digging. Unless you can prove Sam Johnson’s inventory was part of the sale of this building, I have a legitimate right to claim it.”

  I didn’t realize the man was standing in the doorway listening to us. “Is that true?” the man who’d arrived with Dennis asked.

  “Yes, it’s true,” I said. “I bought Thelma Johnson’s estate. Thelma’s son gave me her house after I agreed to make good on the back taxes. Dennis handled the transaction. I never thought much about this building because no one ever mentioned it. Dennis and I recently spoke about me buying it.”

  “That would have made sense. It was built with your house and your freestanding garage. All told, it’s a nice-sized corner plot with lots of space and a commercially zoned property.” He gazed up at the flat roof. “Lots of damage, though. Not as sound as it was when it was built.”

  He left us and walked the perimeter of the property. I turned back to Dennis.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “He’s a building inspector. We have an offer pending inspection.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have to give me time to meet with the bank. And I mean meet with them, not just run my numbers and get a computer to say I’m not good on paper. This property belongs with me.”

  He looked past me to the interior of the building. “Are you planning on squatting here indefinitely? Because that might dissuade the buyers.”

  “I have a better idea,” I said.

  I called a locksmith to let me into my house. The first thing I did once I was inside was call Joanie. “How are the kids?” I asked.

  “I picked the cat up from the vet this morning. Rocky has a new girlfriend. He hasn’t left her side since we got home. He’s sleeping next to the bed I made up for her right now.”

  “I want to hear all about her later, but first, I need a shower. Can you drop Rocky off this morning?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  I showered and dressed in a white cotton tunic and yellow stirrup pants then set up at the kitchen table and reviewed my class assignment. I couldn’t focus. Last night at Kanin’s had started with an awkward date but transitioned into a night to remember, starting and ending with Dean Wallace’s un-dean-like behavior. Add in Faye getting sick in the restroom, my credit card coming up denied, and my car being vandalized, and it was too much. One of these things would have been enough, but five? What were the odds they were unconnected?

  I opened the notebook in which I’d handwritten the draft of my essay for Decision Making for the Business Leader, flipped to a fresh page, and filled the next seven pages writing down everything I knew about the previous night. It was like recapping a dream: the more I focused on the generalities of the evening, the more details penetrated the hazy memory. I was thankful I’d stuck with club soda. Aside from the champagne I’d slugged from Virginia’s bottle, I’d kept a clear head, which couldn’t be said for the dean or for Faye.

  I set the notebook down and called Mickey at police impound. “This is Madison Night. You towed my Alfa Romeo last night.”

  “Yeah, Tex’s friend. I remember ya. You left your keys in the ignition.”

  “I realized that when I got home,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know when I can pick up my car, do you?”

  “I do, but I don’t think you’re going to like my answer. Forensics is going to go over your car today, but the damage to your door is going to require some body work.”

  “I heard you can bend those doors back into shape,” I said, repeating what Professor Gallagher had told me on that fateful day in the parking structure.

  “Maybe you can with a new car but not these classic ones,” he said. “You don’t want to put a strain on those old door hinges. Getting it repaired will cost you your deductible, but in the long run, it’s worth it. And if I remember, this is your second 1960s Alfa Romeo, right?” I confirmed. “There’s a finite number of them out there. Don’t press your odds by needing me to find you a third.”

 
“I don’t suppose you have anything I can borrow in the meantime?”

  “I got a pick-up truck and a cherry red Mustang. Take your pick.”

  The plus about owning my dream car was this was an easy decision. “I’ll be by for the truck in about an hour.”

  “Tex was right,” Mickey said. “You’re unpredictable.”

  I was at my laptop fleshing out a business proposal when Joanie arrived. When she opened the door, Rocky burst into the room and yapped like he had something to tell me. He hopped up onto his hind legs and put his paws on my thigh and waited for me to pet him. I ruffled his fur and then bent down and kissed his head. He dropped back down onto the floor and trotted over to his water bowl, slurping noisily.

  Joanie stood behind my chair and looked over my shoulder at the notes on the table. She was dressed in a version of her usual uniform: white chef coat, skinny jeans cuffed two inches, and black stiletto pumps. Her hair was teased higher than usual and pinned up on the sides with the back hanging down. She looked like a cross between Amy Winehouse and Gordon Ramsay.

  “What’s all this?” she asked.

  “Homework,” I said. I closed the notebook and pushed it away.

  Joanie poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Twenty-four hours ago, you called me over here to strip paint off your walls, and then we rescued a cat. Today you look like you slept in a barn, and your business homework includes the word ‘homicide.’ Do you want to tell me what happened between then and now? Because I’m lost with a capital L.”

  I told Joanie about last night. She, as was to be expected, focused on one irrelevant detail. “Tex took a stripper from Jumbo’s as his date? That’s rich.”

  Under the afterglow of Tex’s three a.m. pronouncement, the memory of last night took on a halo of equality. “She said it was a great place for leads. She had a handful of business cards. Just think about that for a moment. I can’t get a loan to restart my business, and a dancer from Jumbo’s goes to a club with the captain of the police and walks away with enough contacts to consider going freelance.”