Behind Imogene, Virginia bade goodbye to Bill and joined us. “Who’s pregnant?” she asked. She looked at both of our bellies. “Are we talking reality TV?”
I pointed to Imogene and made introductions. “This is Imogene. She’s a mystery writer. She’s working out a plot point. Imogene, this is Virginia. She’s... a freelancer.”
“You’re the dancer!” Imogene exclaimed. “Captain Allen told me about you. You’d make a great character. Do you mind if I pick your brain?”
This could go very wrong very quickly. Before things got out of hand, I spelled out the plan.
“Ladies, we have eight hours to turn this place into a hat store. I have to pick up a sign from the printer and find us some fixtures. Can you two work on unpacking the inventory? There should be packing lists in the cartons.”
“Darlin’, I don’t want to be a buzzkill, but shouldn’t a hat store have more than seven cartons of hats?” Virginia asked. (She’d scored us two more.)
“We could use mirrors,” Imogene said. “Don’t decorators always suggest mirrors to make a room look bigger?”
“Not always,” I answered. “But we do need mirrors, for the customers. Good call.” I made a quick note while Imogene looked pleased with herself. “We can screen off the back half of the showroom. Nobody has to know how big the store is.”
It was a lame solution to a legitimate concern. Tex was going to lose all credibility with the dean if I didn’t come up with something better.
And I realized I did have something better. I had a whole collection of something better—the boxes of men’s clothing from the building once owned by Sam Johnson, along with whatever I might find in the boxes in my attic.
I left Imogene and Virginia to sort through the hats and drove to the sign shop. It felt good to have a purpose. Even if western wear wasn’t my passion project, I had something to focus on that lit me up. But Virginia’s question nagged at me. Tex had wowed the dean with his (my) business prospectus, but if the store didn’t fit the picture, Hugo would get suspicious. And if he was a suspect, the last thing we wanted was for him see to through us.
The window decal was near-perfect: Rexford Allen Stetsons, curved over an outline of a cowboy hat. I asked them to add the words And More across the bottom. They were too busy, they said, but directed me to a rack of clearance decals with typos. Aunt Betty’s Polish Peirogis and More—that fit the bill. Problem solved for the low price of a 50% off decal and a pair of scissors.
I called Joanie. “I got a new car,” I said.
“Since the truck? I saw Mickey last night, and he didn’t say that. Or do you mean your Alfa? You didn’t trade in your Alfa Romeo, did you?”
“Not my car car. My business. Remember how you said Mad for Mod was a broken-down junker?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said.”
“I figured out how to move forward.” I told her about Rexford Allen’s Stetsons and More.
“You’re opening a men’s clothing store?” she asked.
“No, Tex, or should I say, Rex is opening a men’s clothing store. A pop-up shop. Not so much opening as expanding from cowboy hats to vintage western and formal wear. Did you know Thelma Johnson’s husband ran a clothing store?”
“Stay in your lane, Madison. I appreciate that you liked my metaphor, but you’re all over the road right now.”
“I recently discovered I’m the proud owner of a whole bunch of western wear thanks to Sam Johnson—Thelma’s husband—and a hurricane in the eighties. And I have an attic filled with vintage men’s clothing from all of the estates I’ve bought out.”
“I thought you sold men’s clothes off by the carton.”
“I’ve bought out a lot of estates. I didn’t even realize how much stuff I had.”
The benefit of sharing my idea with Joanie was that she caught on quickly. “A pop-up shop that nobody knows is a pop-up shop. Genius. You set up a fake store to help Tex with his cover and host a blow-out sale. You’re using your studio, right? Good Feng Shui. Clear the stagnant energy by the front door. You can invest the profits into Mad for Mod and reopen before you know it.”
“It’ll work, right?”
“It has all the earmarks of a very good idea.”
I went home and climbed into the attic. The air smelled like wood and dust. In the ceiling, a small turbine spun erratically, pulling in morning air and stirring up particles that floated through beams of sunlight. I pulled the chain on the overhead bulb to illuminate the attic further and went to the back where I kept cartons of clothes I’d never considered wearing for one reason: they were for men.
Most of the estates I purchased were left behind by women who had outlived their husbands, and in many cases, they’d simply boxed up their husband’s belongings and shoved them into an attic themselves. I’d sold a few off here and there, but when my business took off, the efforts of dealing with clothing sales took up time better used elsewhere. This was a classic case of out of sight, out of mind; I’d all but forgotten I had this stuff. But having seen the clothes left behind by Sam Johnson next door and being in need of capital quickly, I noticed that separate thoughts had coalesced into an idea. I wouldn’t make enough for a loan, but I’d make enough for a deposit. And enough to show the banks that how I looked on paper didn’t matter as much as the paper I deposited into my account.
I transferred several cartons of clothes from the attic to the back of the truck and returned to Mad for Mod—I mean, Rexford Allen’s Stetsons and More, parked the truck out back, and went inside. The place smelled like Febreze, a significant improvement over musty, stale air. Virginia was teaching Imogene a dance move that had nothing to do with mystery writing. I raised my eyebrows at them and then shook off the visual.
“Ladies,” I said. “New plan.” I held up the window decal. “We’re now an ‘And More.’” I held up the sign.
“Someone suggested ‘and more’ at Jumbo’s and got fired,” Virginia said. “I guess that’s a whole different business model.”
“The world’s oldest,” Imogene quipped.
I went to my office to make a phone call. Having a project on which to focus took my mind off the homicide, which might have been Tex’s goal. But it also reminded me of what I’d learned after a week of business school: it took big risks to get big rewards. I hoped the lesson was sound because I was about to risk everything on a full-blown, get-my-life-back plan that hinged on step number one, and step number one was a doozy.
I called Nasty.
“Big Bro,” she answered.
“Donna, it’s Madison.” I chose my opening sentence carefully and spoke her language. “I have a business proposition for you.” I gave her a moment to roll her eyes/ reply/hang up.
“Where are you?”
“Mad for Mod.”
“Meet me at Benny’s Bagels. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I beat Nasty by two minutes. She arrived with Huxley strapped against her chest with a convertible ergonomic baby carrier. He wore a green onesie and matching knit cap. Under the baby carrier, Nasty wore a navy blue yoga ensemble, white ankle socks and New Balance sneakers. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she carried a diaper bag that matched Huxley’s harness.
Rocky had exhausted all the smells that came from the base of the table and shifted his attention to Nasty’s sneakers. She set her bag in the chair opposite me.
“I’ll be right back,” she said and then went inside. Rocky returned to my side and looked up at me as if questioning my motivation.
“Act cool, Rock,” I said to him. “I have a plan.”
He paced back and forth a few times and then sat down next to my chair.
Nasty returned with a green juice and sat, keeping one hand gently rubbing back and forth on Huxley’s back. “You got my attention with that phone call,” she said. “Plus you caught me right after yoga. Good move.”
“You take your baby to yoga?”
“Mommy and Me Yoga. I don’t love the name, but it’s a meditative experience. You should try yoga. You might like it.”
“I prefer swimming.”
“Right,” she said. “So, tell me about this business opportunity.” She took a sip of her green juice.
This was it. Step one. Off a cliff.
“I’d like you to buy me out of the apartment building on Gaston Avenue,” I said. “You invested in the renovation and made your money back in the first two months. You know the property is a good investment.”
She leaned back. “If I’m not mistaken, that building is your sole source of income.”
“You’ll pay me an annual salary to oversee the property. I’ve been doing it since, well, since I lost my business. I know the tenants. I know what’s involved.”
“You aren’t going to give up your decorating business to become a property manager,” she said, more a statement of fact than a question.
“With the money from the sale, I want to buy the building next to my house. It’s zoned for commercial use. It will become a satellite showroom for Mad for Mod. I’ll keep the original location on Greenville Avenue and open a second location by my house and hire someone to manage one while I manage the other. I’ll double my business in a year.”
“And what happens when one of the tenants in the apartment building needs a new lightbulb? You only manage the place now because you have the time.”
“I can do both. Mad for Mod conceived, designed, and renovated the entire property. It’s part of my portfolio. I already know how to fix anything that needs fixing and who to call if I can’t do it myself. You’ll—as the apartment building owner—be on my books as a client. Decorating gives me a certain amount of autonomy, which will provide the flexibility to handle issues as they arise or hire out someone to handle them for me.”
She reached behind her head and pulled her ponytail around to the front. Huxley’s little fist reached out and grabbed it. Nasty didn’t seem to mind. As I sat across from her, I wondered about how fast her life moved and how little downtime she had.
“No,” she said after a moment of thought. “It won’t work. Your passion is your decorating business, not property management.”
My hope deflated. “Donna, this is a means to an end. When I reopen Mad for Mod, I want to expand. The property next to my house makes sense. I could use the land behind it as a display for outdoor decorating, which is a new market for me. I can show twice as many examples of what I can do, and since that building is commercially zoned, I can sell merchandise or rent it out for classes. You remember Mitchell from Paintin’ Place, right?” She nodded. “He’s involved with a local design school. There’s no reason I can’t get him to work with me.”
She pointed at me. “That’s passion. That’s what I want to invest in.”
“That’s what I’m asking you to do.”
“No, Madison. You’re overcomplicating things. You don’t want to manage an apartment building. You want money. It’s okay to say it.”
“Money solves a number of my problems, yes.”
She patted Huxley’s back. He pulled her ponytail to his mouth and chewed on it. She took to motherhood like she took to everything else. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. She’d even made pregnancy hormones work for her.
“How’s business school?” she asked.
I was happy to have a shift in conversation. “It’s good,” I said automatically. But was it good? Was I even still enrolled? “I don’t know whether it’s good or not. The dean moved Radical Business Strategy to a night class after Professor Gallagher was murdered and took over the curriculum, but I already had a full day of classes so by the time it starts, I’m wiped out. The dean said something about giving me course credit for my business experience, but maybe business school isn’t right for me.”
“You already know everything you need to know,” she said. “You’ve lived the syllabus. You don’t need a degree.”
“Yes, but I don’t know how to show the banks that.”
She leaned back. “Here’s my offer. We’ll go to the bank together. You spell out your plan. I’ll co-sign the paperwork. If you fail to make payments, your business defaults to me. The moment you pay off your loans, I’m out. Deal?”
“I don’t want a partner,” I said.
“Don’t focus on what you don’t want. Tell me what you do. What do you want, Madison?”
“I want to reopen my business and expand.”
“And what will it take to make that happen?”
“Money.”
She studied me. “How much do you need?”
I’d crunched the numbers and knew the answer. “A hundred thousand dollars gets me a down payment, a cushion on rent for the Greenville Avenue location, and enough to buy a couple estates for inventory.”
“What about systems, staff, advertising? Dream bigger, Madison. How sure are you that your expansion plan will pay off?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Nobody’s one hundred percent. Look what happened to you. You were unprepared because you thought your business was bulletproof. Allow room for disaster.”
“Ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths.”
She allowed a tiny sliver of a smile. “You and Ivory soap. Figures.” She finished her juice and set the empty plastic cup on the center of the table. “Do you trust me?”
Maybe.
I’d thought many things of Nasty over the years, not all of them complimentary. I knew she wouldn’t do this if she didn’t know it would be good for her too. Maybe that was what did it. Maybe it was because by offering, she cast a confidence-building vote in my direction, and maybe confidence in my business decisions was the one thing I needed more than money.
“Yes,” I said.
She held out her hand, and I shook it. And then Huxley threw up on her shoulder, demonstrating exactly how I felt.
32
Nasty excused herself and went to the restroom to clean up. I bussed our table. When she returned, I stood and unwound Rocky’s leash.
“When do you want to do this?” I asked. “I’ll make an appointment with the loan officer whenever you’re free.”
“Let’s go now.”
I didn’t plan to look at her yoga attire, but I felt myself assess her outfit in the same way a sales associate at an upscale store judged a potential customer by the condition of their shoes. “Don’t you want to change?”
“Banks don’t care what you wear,” she said. “They care if you can repay their money on a schedule.”
“My paperwork is at home,” I said.
“Don’t sweat it. You have everything you need between your ears.” She put on a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses. “I didn’t see your car. Where’d you park?”
I pointed at the pick-up truck. “My car is at police impound. I’m driving that.”
“Nice work, Madison. Now I know what we’re going to talk about on the way.”
Despite Nasty’s offer to drive, I followed her in the truck. I didn’t know how much about the vandalism would be public knowledge, and while Nasty wasn’t exactly the public, she was a businesswoman who specialized in security and might use the information for professional gain. That alone kept me from telling her everything.
General traffic and my unfamiliarity with driving a pick-up truck allowed her to arrive before me. I parked the truck next to her silver Saab, pulled a brush out of my handbag and combed Rocky’s fur, gave myself a pep talk, and then got out. The campus across the street was bustling with student energy, a stark contrast to yesterday’s peaceful quiet.
I entered the bank and let Rocky lead the way. I always marveled at how easily he detected a path, based not on purpose but by curiosity. He sniffed a few tables here and there but ultimately drew me toward Nasty, who was already seated in front of Pete Cross, the loan officer who had turned me down. Huxley was resting in a portable crib on the chair next to her. Rocky stuck his nose in the air and sniff
ed and then trotted over toward the two of them, leaving me no choice but to follow.
“Madison,” Pete said. Today he wore a green suit, white shirt, and cranberry necktie with piano keys. “Have a seat. Donna was just filling me in on your circumstances.”
There were two seats, and they were occupied by mother and baby. Neither made a move to move. Pete got up. “I’ll get you a chair.” He quickly returned with a third seat that he put alongside Huxley. I sat, Rocky sniffed, and Huxley waved his fists.
“You know my circumstances,” I said to Pete. “You rejected my application just last week.” I didn’t expect to say that. Perhaps Nasty should have coached me in the parking lot?
Pete acted as though I hadn’t said anything. “Donna said you found a second location that was perfect for your business expansion.”
I looked from him to Nasty. She gave me an almost imperceptible shrug. I turned back to Pete. “Yes. It was originally built by the owners of my house but sold off when the husband died.”
“Tell me about your plans for the property.”
I’d told enough people that by now, the concept flowed out of me as if I were taking an oral exam. I talked about the building proximity to my house, the possibility of expanding into outdoor decorating, the commercial zoning that allowed for retail transactions or classroom rental space. I ended with a ballpark timetable of how long it would take for me to get up and running if a loan were approved and a corresponding ballpark for how quickly I could pay the loan back. There were so many ballparks in my response that I expected a stadium vendor to show up and sell us peanuts.
Pete turned to Nasty. “You’re right. She knows her stuff.”
“She’s a good risk,” Nasty said. “Aside from one error in judgment, I’ve never seen her make a mistake when it comes to her business.”
“Okay, then. Let me draw up the paperwork, and we’ll be all set. Donna suggested two fifty. Is that enough to get you started?”
“Two fifty?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars at six percent. That’s the best rate I’ve got. I’m not going to tell you how to spend it, but I would think that’ll cover a down payment and some inventory to get you started.”
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