That Touch of Ink

by Vallere, Diane

  “You didn’t want your apartment painted?”

  “I started painting it yesterday. When Brad showed up, I tipped over the paint can. I didn’t finish the job. Seems like someone is finishing it for me.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I went out front, saw the car parked on a side street. At least it looked like the same car, and the engine was running. I ducked out the back and walked here.”

  “Does anybody know you spent the night here?”

  “Only you and Connie.”

  His eyes dropped to my chest again. “I think you should consider bringing Connie on as your personal assistant. She shows good judgment.”

  The phone rang again. Again, I made no move to answer it. The machine clicked on, and I held my breath.

  “Madison, it’s Joanie from Joanie Loves Tchotchkes. I have a box of stuff here with your name on it. I’ll be open until six.” The message clicked off.

  I grabbed a notepad and scribbled a message to myself. “Is there anything else, Tex?”

  “Who was that?” he asked, his eyes trained on the phone.

  I waved my hand to dismiss his interest. “That’s a local thrift store owner. She calls me when she gets mid-century stuff. Ever since the Dallas Morning News ran that article about the pillow stalking, people know my routine. I used to fly under the radar and get first dibs on inventory but now everybody follows the obituaries.”

  Tex leaned back in his chair and studied my face.

  “Say what you want, but that’s my real life. Thrift stores, flea markets, Doris Day movies, dumpster diving. If you weren’t standing here, I’d be on my way to her store.”

  “Night, is that how you want to live? Deny reality and build a world from a movie set?”

  I stood up and slapped my hands palm-side down on the desk. “If I were interested in denying reality, I wouldn’t have called you. I wouldn’t be in the middle of this mess right now.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Can you nose around Brad’s background? See if you find any red flags?”

  “The man lies to you about being married, to spare you from getting involved in something probably illegal. You freak out at the news and wind up hospitalized and still, he doesn’t fess up. That was two years ago. Last May you got damn close to being killed by a murderer, and he doesn’t show up until now? The fact that he showed up at all suggests to me he’s known where you were the whole time. Want me to keep going?”

  “There’s a lot of history you don’t know.”

  “And I don’t want to know. That’s in the past. Aside from your wardrobe, you haven’t impressed me as someone who wants to live in the past.”

  “I’m not living in the past. I’m trying to live in the present. That’s why I need you. Can you help me? Do a background check on him or something?”

  “No, Madison, I can’t. There are codes of conduct to being a cop. I know it took a lot for you to tell me about this, but he’s a private citizen. U

  nless he breaks the law, he’s entitled to come and go as he wishes.”

  “So that’s it. I’m on my own.”

  “Not exactly.”

  The chimes announced the return of Rocky and Connie. I tried to stand up, but the fabric of the sweater had gotten caught in my chair. I shifted my shoulders up and down, trying to free it. Tex came around the back of my chair, sliding his hand behind my neck. His fingers were like soft pads of fire burning through my skin. I didn’t pull away. He freed the fabric and put his hands under my arms to help me stand. I stepped to the side of my chair and his hands slid down the sides of my body.

  I turned to face him. His hands rested on my waist, our bodies almost touching. The kitten heels felt unfamiliar and I swayed forward, falling against him. He easily righted me and I stepped away.

  Rocky bounded into the office. He yapped around Tex’s feet, his caramel fur bouncing as he sniffed the lieutenant’s leather shoes. He hopped up on his hind legs with his paws in the air. His back paws moved in tiny steps, like a ballerina in toe shoes for the first time. Connie came into the office as Tex withdrew a plastic bag filled with bone-shaped biscuits from the pocket of his windbreaker. He held one about six inches over Rocky’s head; Rocky snatched it. Tex ruffled Rocky’s fur and stood back up. Our eyes connected for a brief moment before I looked away, still flushed.

  “Take care, Madison.” He put on his silver aviator sunglasses and opened the door. Halfway through, he turned back and looked at Connie. “No hard feelings, Ms. Duncan.” The door snapped shut behind him and he disappeared around the side of the building.

  “Madison, is everything okay? What was a cop doing here?”

  “He’s a friend. That’s all.”

  “Does he have a dog, too?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t think of any other reason why some guy would be walking around with dog treats in the pocket of his coat, unless he was planning to run into a dog. Seems like maybe the lieutenant wanted to make an impression on you.” She leaned backward and looked at the front door, then back at me. “Forget the ex. What about him? What’s his story?”

  “He has a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, that’s going to work.”

  I ushered Connie out the door with a stack of sketches for her kitchen. She was eager to share them with her husband and I was eager to find a way to lower my temperature. If ever there was a time to deny reality, this was it.

  Joanie Higa was the owner of a small second-hand store called Joanie Loves Tchotchkes. She knew my style, my taste, and my budget. When she called, I responded. Besides, I was happy for the distraction.

  I filed the notes on Archie Leach’s apartment and changed out of the kitten heels and into a spare pair of white Keds that I kept in the office. I clipped Rocky’s leash onto his collar and led him through the back parking lot to my car. Rocky hung his head out the passenger side window as I drove to Joanie’s store. Twenty minutes later, I parked in front.

  The doors to Joanie Loves Tchotchkes were propped open. Outside of the store, a selection of hodgepodge furniture sat under a Sale sign. I stepped past a Papasan chair and a small twin bed with a white wooden frame, gave the leash a tug so Rocky would ignore the patch of grass and went inside. Rocky sniffed everything within range.

  A petite Japanese-American woman in her late fifties arranged a set of pink and copper canisters behind the register. She had jet black hair styled in a beehive and black liquid liner painted in a manner befitting a character in a Matt Helm movie.

  “Check you out. Except for the sneakers, you look pretty hot. Are you going on a date? Is that what’s been keeping you away from my store?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “It’s been so long I thought you found another source.”

  “I wish. My sources have all but dried up. I’m going to have to start taking road trips to the panhandle. Nobody’s heard of me there.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

  Years ago Joanie had retired from work in a corporate office, and now she owned a store that dealt in collectibles. Her uniform of choice was a white, zip-front beauty salon smock over skinny dark denim jeans. Joanie Loves Tchotchkes had been born when she cashed out her 401k and used her corporate training to write a business plan. Six months, a bank loan, and a series of strategic shopping trips to flea markets all over Texas was all she needed to open for business. I’d met her in Canton, where the First Monday Trade Days lured people in search of the treasures that came from attics and garages.

  “Do you want me to carry your box to your car?”

  “Not that I don’t admire your hard-sell technique, but maybe I should see what you have before you assume I want to take it.”

  Her face scrunched up.
“I’m not selling you anything today. Some guy dropped off a box and it had your name on it.”

  “I know that’s what you said, but I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe it’ll make sense when you see it. Wait here.”

  Joanie disappeared into a doorway at the back of the store. My eyes glided over the assortment of knick knacks and objet d’arts that filled every nook and cranny of the interior. Joanie never met a tchotchke she didn’t love, and her store shelves reflected it. Metal key stripping had been installed vertically on the walls, allowing for adjustable shelves to be placed where needed. She kept smaller items by the front of the store: salt and pepper shakers, Kokeshi dolls, and tiny frames. A glass case housed jewelry—nothing too valuable—including an assortment of brightly colored metal flower pins. I’d bought a few of these and pinned them onto the lapels of my vintage suits or dresses. On top of the glass case was her cash register, as old as most of her inventory.

  And on the wall, above a mechanic’s pin-up girl calendar from 1961, was a framed five thousand dollar bill I’d never seen in her store before.

  Two five thousand dollar bills showing up in the Lakewood area in the same week? I didn’t know what it meant, but whatever it was, I didn’t like it.

  I lifted the frame from the wall and turned it over. A small white price tag attached to a piece of string had been taped to the back of the wood. $100 was written in Joanie’s sloppy cursive script. The frame had been glued together. I’d have to break the whole thing apart if I wanted to get at the bill inside.

  Joanie returned from the back of the store, lugging a cardboard box. Rocky pulled his leash forward and hopped around her ankles. The flaps of the box were folded shut, and my name was written on top. Mad for Mod had been added below.

  Joanie set the box on the glass case and patted the top of it twice. “Look familiar?”

  I stepped forward to get a closer look and shook my head. “How’d you get it?”

  “Some guy brought in a couple of boxes. This was only one of them. He was probably told to drop them off and got mixed up.” She looked at the frame I held. “Funny you’re looking at that. It came in from the same guy who dropped off this box.”

  EIGHT

  “Who was he?” I asked.

  “I don’t really know. I mean, I saw the guy, but I’ve never seen him before. He said he was told to drop off a bunch of boxes. I almost felt guilty when I saw the stuff.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s right up your alley. If he came to you first, you probably would have made him an offer. But he came to me. You and I could probably make some kind of deal.”

  “I thought you said you felt guilty!”

  “Your MO is to work with the dead. This guy was very much alive. Chances are, you would never have found each other.”

  Joanie was referring to my practice of reading the obituaries daily, identifying women of a seventy- to ninety-year old range who had passed, and making an offer on their estates to the next of kin. Brad was the one who taught me to do this back when he trained me at Pierot’s. My first attempts at estate sale offers felt awkward and uncomfortable, but, with time and practice, I’d polished my approach. Reaching out to sons and daughters who had no interest in the never-renovated estates of their parents actually helped them. Most of the time they accepted my check and turned over the keys with gratitude. A few even sent thank you notes.

  When I started Mad for Mod, I stocked my storage space and studio with pieces from these estate sales. My unorthodox business practice had been secret, until one particular estate turned out to be a crime scene. After the homicide was solved, the newspaper ran a profile on me and exposed my secret to the world, or at least, to the greater Dallas-Fort Worth area. Auction houses jumped on the bandwagon, outbidding me on estates but offering me a private viewing of the merchandise at their suggested prices. I’d had to come up with a different method for finding my inventory.

  “Earth to Madison,” Joanie prompted.

  “What?”

  “You spaced out. I thought for sure that ‘working with the dead’ crack would get a reaction.”

  “It’s not how I’d put it, but if you keep talking up my old method like that, maybe the auction houses will decide it’s too ick-factor for them, and I can go back to business as usual.”

  “You seem to be doing okay.”

  “So do you,” I answered. “What else can you tell me about the guy who brought this stuff in?”

  “Oh, no. You’re not cutting off my supply. I have to make a living too.”

  Rocky sensed that Joanie was challenging me. He backed a few feet away from her legs, tipped his head back, and issued two short, sharp barks. We both looked at him. He looked at me, then back at her, and barked again.

  It was evident Rocky misunderstood our standoff, and Joanie misunderstood my interest in the man who had sold her the box. I scooped Rocky up and rubbed his belly.

  “Fine, be a businesswoman. Do you know if this guy is planning to bring in anything else?”

  “He didn’t say. Why?”

  “If he had one box for me, then maybe he has something else I’d like. Do me a favor? If he brings in anything else, I want you to give me first right of refusal.” While I was talking, I reached into my wallet and counted out five twenties. Her eyes dropped from my face to my hands.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I’m buying this.” I held up the framed currency. Rocky wriggled around in my arms, and I set him on top of the glass case of vintage jewelry. He sniffed a bowl of marbles.

  “What do you want with that piece of crap? You could download the image from the Internet, print it, and buy a better frame at a craft store, all for a quarter of the price.”

  “Consider it a good faith investment in future purchases.”

  She peeled off her rubber gloves and squirted hand sanitizer into her palms. She pulled a box of surgical gloves from under the counter and held it out to me. “If you’re taking that box, you might want to wear these.”

  “This is an odd business for a germophobe,” I said.

  “Since when do you know me to be a germophobe? This is precautionary. The guy who dropped that stuff off was covered with poison ivy. He warned me I might catch it from the cardboard and gave me the box of gloves. I don’t know if he’s full of BS or not, but I don’t plan on taking any chances.”

  I wasn’t sure if poison ivy was transferrable by cardboard but didn’t want to insult Joanie, so I pulled on a pair of gloves.

  “Poison ivy? He told you that?”

  “He saw me looking at the rash on his hands. Small red spots popped up on his face, too, right by his hairline. The poor guy was trying his hardest not to scratch, I could tell, but he wasn’t succeeding. I gave him a bottle of Calamine lotion before he left and I saw him dot it on in his car before he drove away.” She laughed. “I sure hope he was heading home, because he didn’t make a very nice picture, all spotted up like that.”

  She punched a couple of keys on the register and placed my twenties under the cash tray. She wrapped the frame in newsprint. I set it on top of the box, led Rocky back to the car, and drove home.

  After parking the car and letting Rocky pee on the weeds behind my parking space, I unlocked the back door and climbed the stairs to my unit. There was a note from Hudson taped to my front door.

  Once I had determined Hudson’s vision and skills far surpassed other contractors I’d hired, he became my go-to contractor. He outdid himself on most projects, understanding the simplicity of mid-century design, often taking the extra step of fabricating a necessary element from scratch instead of relying on prefab parts available at home renovation stores.

  It hadn’t taken long for me to confide in him that I’d bought an apartment building. He was up to the task of taking on minor fixes
—mostly electrical and paint jobs—but what really won me over was his agreement to spend a weekend with me, stripping all of the bathroom fixtures of the bland white paint the former owner had used to mask the original pink ceramic. When I started taking tenant applications, I knew only the right kind of people would appreciate the work we’d put in.

  Because I preferred to keep my identity as landlord a secret, Hudson occasionally stepped in as the liaison to the Night Company. My neighbors didn’t know me as Madison Night, they knew me as Madison and Rocky. New tenants received Hudson’s contact information in their welcome packets and were encouraged to call him directly if they needed work done.

  I often found invoices taped to the doorknob in the same manner I had him notify tenants of upcoming fire alarm inspections and water shut-off. I paid him immediately and constantly offered him partnership in either the business, the building, or both. He always thanked me and always refused.

  I peeked inside the folded piece of paper before unlocking the door. Instead of an invoice, it was a note. Madison, call me when you get a chance. –H.

  I folded the paper in half and in half again before going inside. Rocky ran ahead of me. I stopped, two feet in, and dropped my keys on the floor. They clattered against the newly exposed hardwood flooring. I stepped back two steps and checked the number on the outside of the door even though I knew I was home. I went back inside and shut the door behind me.

  Soft yellow paint glowed in a satin finish from the walls. It was like stepping into a ray of sunshine. The apartment-grade carpet had been torn up and replaced with hardwood flooring, and the furniture had been repositioned. Vases of daisies peppered the room on tables, shelves, and window sills.

  Above the sofa was a canvas, painted in vertical stripes of white, yellow, and ivory. It was about as wide as the sofa, six feet, and about two and a half feet tall. All in all, it was a beautifully designed room, and, being an interior designer myself, it surprised me that I didn’t want to change a thing.