Teacher's Threat

by Diane Vallere

  Forget peanuts. I needed a vendor to show up with champagne!

  “Two fifty sounds good,” I said.

  “Great. It’ll take me about an hour to fill out the paperwork, but I won’t have the check ready until tomorrow. Okay?” It was the middle of the afternoon, and the promise of the money I needed felt like a hypothetical, not a reality. Pete added, “I’ll write you a promissory letter right now if you’re afraid I’ll change my mind.” He smiled.

  I smiled back. “That would be lovely,” I said. He typed in a few details into his computer then pointed and clicked and signed the paper that came off his printer. He tri-folded it and slipped it into an envelope.

  I left the bank feeling a combination of nausea and enthusiasm. This was the single biggest favor anyone had ever done for me, and of all the people to owe, I had Nasty at the top of the list.

  We were halfway between the bank and our cars, but I stopped walking and held Rocky in place. “I didn’t expect that to be so easy,” I said.

  Nasty turned to me. “You did good in there,” she said. “I expected a hundred, maybe one fifty. You made the difference.”

  “One week ago, his decision was a hard no. I had a prospectus and client testimonials, and none of it mattered. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. Just pay off your loan.”

  “Why did you do this?” I persisted. “It’s not just because you could.”

  “Because more women need to move the money around this town,” she said. “And I know two things about you that make you interesting. One”—she held up her index finger—“you love what you do. And two”—she held her thumb out—“I’m the last person in the world you want to owe. Right now, you’re probably trying to figure out how to pay the loan off in record time.”

  “I’m not that shallow,” I said.

  “Madison, if I wanted to, I would have offered you the loan myself. Standard terms and a higher interest rate than you just got from the bank. All I did was sit in a chair and smile at a loan officer.”

  She did more than that, and we both knew it. We parted ways, and I watched her drive off long before I pulled out of the lot. If I was wrong about Nasty, then what else was I wrong about?

  33

  My first phone call was to Dennis. “I want to put in a counteroffer on the property next door,” I said when he answered. “This is Madison Night,” I added.

  He sighed. “We’ve been through this already. I’d love to sell you the property, but you don’t have the resources.”

  “I do now. I’ve just secured a loan from the bank. Draw up the paperwork.”

  I returned to Mad for Mod and spent the next several hours working alongside Virginia and Imogene. By the time the sun set, Tex’s temporary store was ready to go. Joanie loaned us fixtures from her store, and Mickey was the muscle that carried them in and moved them around until I felt the arrangement was right. At one point Virginia left then returned with a stack of framed images of pin-up girls in western attire.

  “We use these at Jumbo’s on theme night.”

  “This is a men’s store,” I said in consternation.

  “Exactly.” She carried the stack past me.

  Sometimes, I found, it was good to acknowledge when you were out of your element and allow the experts some leeway. A few seconds later, I overheard Mickey exclaim, “Nice art. This store is awesome!”

  I found Imogene in my office madly typing on her laptop. “I’m changing my entire work in progress. What do you think about Westerns? John Wayne meets Agatha Christie. Is that a thing? Can I make it one?”

  I charged my iPod and plugged in my Square then gave her pretty much the same advice Joanie had given me. “You can make it be anything you want.”

  The last time Tex and I spoke, he was going to check on the dean. Neither one of us mentioned that the dean had motive to dislike Professor Gallagher, and depending on exactly how ample the motive was, dislike could have escalated to murder. It was one thing for Tex to be at Hugo’s house while the dean was passed out in his bedroom, but under other circumstances, things could go very wrong very fast.

  But the one thing I couldn’t do while setting up the store was call Tex. Unless he reprogrammed his phone, too, my name would show up. If the dean saw it, he’d question how well we knew each other, and even if Tex ran with a story about us studying together, it would be too close to the truth. This had nothing to do with keeping our relationship a secret—it had to do with keeping a murder suspect in the dark.

  Tex had his hands full with this case. For once, I could support his investigation in a way that was necessary but not dangerous. I needed a way to turn over the keys without contacting him directly.

  Oh, what the heck.

  Nasty answered on the third ring. “What’s up now, Madison?”

  “Can you meet me at my showroom on Greenville Avenue?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Now. Or soon.”

  I heard rustling. “Ten minutes.” She hung up.

  I admired Nasty’s communication style. She had freed herself from “please,” “thank you,” and “I’m sorry” and went for the more direct Dragnet approach with just the facts. True to form, she pulled into the lot behind the studio ten minutes later. It was almost as if she’d been parked around the corner and set a timer.

  She entered through the back door. “What is this?” she asked. She moved through the now packed interior and ran her hand over fixtures filled with men’s suits, shirts, and ties. Lots and lots of ties. We’d arranged things by size and signed them accordingly, and on top of each fixture was a hat on a stand. The rest of the hats were arranged on the rusted-out Platner table that had been taking up space in my shed out back. The rust, though not desirable to a mid-century modern enthusiast, fit right into the western-themed store.

  She turned to face me. “Not that this isn’t impressive, but you’re a decorator, not a men’s retailer.”

  “Means to an end,” I said. I pointed at the front door. “Go outside and look at the window.”

  She did. When she returned, she nodded. “Where did the inventory come from?”

  “Me.” I paused for a moment. “And the property next door to my house. My practice of buying estates and cherry-picking them for mid-century decor pays off yet again.”

  “You had this stuff all along?”

  “Except for the hats, which are on loan, the clothes have been in my attic. I’ve sold cartons off over the years, but sometimes I just put the furniture and knickknacks in my storage locker, put the women’s clothing in my closet, and left the rest to be dealt with later.”

  She nodded her head. “This is all a favor for Tex?”

  “It started that way. Then it occurred to me that there was a way for me to benefit too.”

  She smiled. “Now you’re thinking like a businesswoman.”

  I briefed her on the key situation and the reasons why I couldn’t give it to Tex myself. She took it and agreed to complete the handoff. We’d come a long way from the days when I thought of her as my competition, though the more I got to know her, the more I recognized why Tex had found her attractive in the first place. It had less to do with her bombshell looks and more with her brain. I’d probably never shake the vestiges of jealousy that had first sprouted years ago, but there was a reason I kept calling her for help. I threw the lock on the front door, and we walked out the back together. She locked up, and that was that.

  Nasty’s silver Saab was parked next to the pick-up truck. She pointed at it. “You never did tell me why your car was at police impound.”

  “It was vandalized. Same parking structure as Professor Gallagher, same vandalism. A couple of details made it different, but still it was enough to raise suspicion.”

  Her forehead scrunched. “What was your car doing in the college parking structure at night?”

  “I was at Kanin’s Restaurant.” I waited a beat and then added, “It was bongo night.”


  “I heard about that place. Did anything unusual happen while you were there?”

  I tried to keep a straight face. “Define unusual.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “We were surrounded by tipsy college students. My date got drunk and hit on Tex’s date. My credit card was declined thanks to my recent loan applications. ‘Good Time’ is an oversell.”

  She had the look on her face she got when she was cataloging information to be retrieved later. Some people might have called it suspicion. Finally, she said, “You pack more into a day than most people get into a month.”

  I hadn’t even told her about sleeping on the floor of the building next to my house. “Life is short. You never know when the rug’s about to get pulled out from under your feet.”

  “I guess you know that better than most.”

  She unlocked her car and got in. I thought of something to ask her and tapped on her window. She lowered it. “Were there any scandals when you went to school?” I asked.

  “There are scandals everywhere. Just depends on how far people are willing to go to hide them.”

  “If I were to look for scandals at Van Doren, where would I start?”

  “Does Barbara still work the admissions desk?”

  An image of the officious office manager popped into my head. “Yep.”

  “She’s the eyes and ears of that school. If I had questions, I’d start there.”

  Nasty went one way, and I went the other. A brief recap with her had framed things in a whole new light. I kept trying to force unconnected information into a neat picture, but it got me nowhere.

  I drove home and let Rocky out before I let us both in. The pull-down stairs were folded back up, but the second floor smelled like moth balls.

  I opened the windows and let a breeze in. We were entering my favorite time of the year in Dallas. The temperature dropped at night, and each day, the air was increasingly drier. Come October, wardrobes would shift from T-shirts to sweaters. Tonight, a playful breeze blew at my sheer curtains, tossing them into the room and then sucking them back out. I took advantage of Nature’s room freshener and went room to room, throwing windows open and airing the place out.

  Tex called me at eight. “Thanks for the key. Nasty said you outdid yourself.”

  “I had help.” Still, it felt good to hear the secondhand compliment. “How’s Dean Wallace?”

  “Not well. I’d be surprised if he shows up to teach class tonight.”

  “You don’t think this was all an act, do you? An excuse for him to not show up so he got a head start leaving town?”

  “Sounds like something Imogene would put in her book.” He chuckled. “Hugo Wallace is hung over. I recognize the signs. When I got there, he was in bed holding an ice bag to his head.”

  “What about your hangover cure?”

  “He was all out of ramen.”

  I didn’t question the path to genius. I carried my cell phone down to the kitchen and put him on speaker. “Am I going to see you later?”

  “Not tonight. I just got the results on your car from the forensic automotive guys. The only thing in my future is a pot of coffee.”

  “Too bad. Virginia taught us a couple of dance moves today, and I thought you could critique my form.”

  “You’re killing me, Night.”

  A day of cut classes had provided a temporary reprieve from school, but on Wednesday morning, I dressed in a white Orlon cardigan trimmed with a green leaf motif, a matching mint green skirt, and a sleeveless, wrinkle-resistant white blouse underneath and headed to campus. I was less motivated by the pursuit of knowledge than a desire to speak to Barbara. I picked up two lattes and an assortment of donuts, parked in Lot B, and went to the Canfield Building.

  I timed my arrival to fall during eight o’clock classes, when most students were eating breakfast or still in bed. My plan worked. I approached the desk, and Barbara glanced up, offered a tight-lipped smile, and went back to punching holes in a stack of paper.

  “Good morning, Barbara,” I said. I set the donut bag on the counter and removed one of the cups from the cardboard tray. “I brought you a latte and donuts.”

  “I don’t take bribes, thank you.”

  “Have you seen Dean Wallace yet today? I wanted to talk to him about my course load.”

  She made a great show of halting her task in progress. “Ms. Night. What you and the dean do in your spare time is your business. Don’t expect me to make it mine.”

  “Me? And the dean?” I asked. “I think you have the wrong idea.”

  “This school used to have rules about students and faculty.”

  “I would think that’s a good rule,” I said. “Especially at a place focused on higher learning.”

  “If people just behaved themselves—” She stopped speaking abruptly. “I suppose it’s none of my business. People are going to do what people are going to do.”

  Barbara, for all her efficient office manager qualities, seemed to see and know more than she wanted to see and know. Or perhaps she did want to see and know it so she could pass judgment.

  “Dean Wallace and I spoke about my time here at Van Doren and whether it was the right move for me. The last time we talked, I said I wanted to think it through over the weekend.”

  Her expression changed. In a moment, she went from stern battleax to understanding grandmother. Her chest rose and fell with a short breath that seemed to fit her new attitude. She moved her hand from the hole punch to my hand, and squeezed in a supportive gesture. “You’re a lovely student to have here. I wish we had more students like you. But I can understand what happened to Professor Gallagher has given you a bad experience.”

  “I admit it shook me up,” I said, not sure where she was going. “A lot of what I see around here is unexpected.”

  “Yes, well, if it helps you with your decision, then you should know I don’t support faculty members having relationships with students. Any students. What happened to Professor Gallagher was unfortunate, but he brought it on himself.”

  34

  Barbara’s mention of the murdered professor caught me by surprise. “I barely knew Professor Gallagher,” I said. “I met with him to get approval to take his course, and then we had one class. And then—”

  “Yes. We all know that ‘and then.’” She shook her head. “I never liked that man, not when he came here and pressed for an office, not when he demanded the bookstore stock his book, and especially not when he started spending time behind closed doors with female students.” She slammed the now-filled binder shut. “That is not the Van Doren way.”

  Barbara, in all her bluster, confirmed Faye’s story. It lacked the details of time, place, and identity, but she knew the professor had had relations with students. I didn’t like that Tex had so easily dismissed this angle, but facts were facts. I could hardly tell Barbara the autopsy results, and in this case, his vasectomy wouldn’t prove anything.

  I offered her the latte and donuts again, and this time she patted her waistline and declined. She was a blockade of militant energy, an illusion that would shatter if the students saw her biting into a glazed apple fritter. She accepted the latte and moved it to her desk, and I turned and left.

  It was a quarter to nine. This was the time slot for Professor Gallagher’s class before the dean moved it. I wandered through the hallway with no clear agenda, eventually stopping in front of room 102. The room was empty, and I let myself in.

  The last time I’d been in this room had been the night Ling pulled me out. That was also the night the dean put Tex on the spot and suggested the hat store would make a good field trip. I dropped my backpack into a chair by the front door and walked past the chalkboard, where I’d scribbled out the word Risk. The dean hadn’t added anything to the board. Nor had anyone bothered to erase it.

  Our lesson took place in discussion form. The aggressive teaching style of the murdered professor—the one that singled me out and used my busine
ss failure as a teachable moment—was no longer part of the curriculum. Yet that class had set me on the course I was on now. Expand. Go Big. Double Down. Take Risks.

  I felt the loss to the students and to the college. I didn’t like what I’d learned about Professor Gallagher, but the students were adults. Faye hadn’t been angry about what happened with him, just sad that he wasn’t around anymore. It didn’t fit with the stories of sexual harassment or of him assaulting her in the parking structure.

  I sat in my old seat in the front of the class, but having my back turned to the empty seats behind me felt vulnerable, so I got up and sat behind the teacher’s desk instead. It tipped at an angle that felt like I was going to fall backward. I kept one hand on the worn wooden desk then, after I fully accepted the chair wouldn’t flip, put my feet up on the edge of the desk. It was a power position: staring out at thirty wooden desks, thirty students who wanted to hear what the person in this chair had to say. Thirty people who wanted to get something from this class, though not all of it related to the curriculum.

  A roar of applause sounded from the room next door. It startled me enough that I jumped, shifting my feet from the desk to the floor, tossing papers in the process. After I collected myself, I recognized the projected voice of Ansel Benedict quoting lines from My Fair Lady. Even with his classroom soundproofed, his voice penetrated the walls.

  I bent down to retrieve the papers now scattered on the floor. It was Professor Gallagher’s original syllabus. Some of the more controversial lectures had been lined out, and unrelated handwritten notes had been added on the side. One said Wednesday night field trip to hat store. That had been set up not by Professor Gallagher but by the dean. I assumed the handwriting was his, but I could find out sure enough by heading back and asking Barbara. I tucked the syllabus into my backpack and left.