That Touch of Ink

by Vallere, Diane

  I unclipped Rocky’s leash and he ran to the sofa and hopped up. His stuffed black panther had been carefully placed on top of a pink pillow, and he grabbed it with his teeth and shook his head rapidly, the legs flapping against the sides of his face.

  A snaky tendril of anxiety crept up my back and chilled my shoulders. I turned around and looked at the room one more time.

  Of course it was perfect.

  Of course it was me.

  Brad had done this.

  But when? The only time I’d been away from the apartment was to go to dinner with him. He couldn’t be in two places at the same time. The initial delight I’d felt at finding the room so suited to me now faded.

  I wasn’t ready to admit maybe Brad did know me better than anybody else in my life. I looked at the piece of paper in my hand—Hudson’s note. I turned my back on the room and called him.

  “Hudson?”

  “Madison.”

  I smiled to myself. Hudson’s deep voice made me feel cozy and protected. It wrapped around me like an electric blanket on a cold night, though cold nights in Dallas were few and far between. “You wanted me to call you?”

  “Yes. Are you free tonight? Can you come over? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

  “Give me half an hour.”

  “See you soon.”

  I half considered wearing Connie’s clothes to Hudson’s house for a reaction, but once presented with the option of changing, I did. I set the pencil skirt and sweater on the bed and stepped into a lavender-and-white checkered dress with a drop waist. The pleated skirt of the dress grazed my knees, revealing my ACE bandage. I kicked off the white sneakers, stepped into purple ballerina flats, and fluffed my hair with my fingers. After a quick kiss to Rocky, I slicked on lip gloss and left.

  Hudson stood in front of his house by an easel. A card table next to him held an assortment of paints and brushes. He waved to me as I pulled into his driveway.

  “That was fast,” he said.

  “I was happy to have an excuse to get out of my apartment. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner plans.”

  “Tonight, I’m planning on tossing a steak on the grill and enjoying this nice weather. I’d invite you to stay, but I only have the one steak.” He smiled. “Care for a glass of wine?”

  “Love one.”

  He wiped the bristles of the paintbrush off on a towel and set both on the card table. “Follow me.” He headed to his garage.

  I snuck a look at the canvas as I passed it. He had just started it, or so I assumed by the amount of white space still on the canvas. Squares of color in orange, yellow, and purple had been painted at random, outlined with a thin line of black. The purple and black would have suggested rage to me, but the orange and yellow softened it, giving it a lighter hand.

  I was happy Hudson was painting again. His artistic passion infused most of his projects with a sense of purpose, but I knew furniture repair was far from a fulfilling creative outlet for him. I wondered why he never took me up on my offers of partnership. The offer came from a place of appreciation, as did the selfish satisfaction I got when he repeatedly said no.

  He wiped the back of his hands on his jeans and turned his amber eyes on me. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  We stood next to the door that separated the garage from the house. Mortiboy, Hudson’s black cat, slunk out of the narrow opening between the house and the garage, and glared at me. He walked to Hudson and brushed his whiskers against the legs of Hudson’s jeans.

  Mortiboy was an unfriendly sort, except when in the company of his owner. I’d had the pleasure of cat-sitting him briefly a few months ago, and as much as I’d tried to create a bond with the furry black devil, he never quite accepted me or Rocky. Rocky, however, had taken to Mortiboy like fish take to water and followed him around our apartment despite repeated swats to the nose. Hudson scooped up Mortiboy and held him against his chest, scratching the cat’s ears until he emitted a rumble.

  “Madison, I’ve been thinking about things differently now my past is cleared up. None of that would have happened if it wasn’t for you.”

  “I never believed for a second you had anything to do with those murders.”

  “I know. And your belief in me kept me going. There’s no way to thank you for what you did for me, but I’d like to try. Do you think we could go out some time?”

  “Hudson,” I started. “My life is—just got—it’s complicated right now. I agreed to take on three new jobs, and the apartment needs repair, and—”

  “Your complications don’t have anything to do with your business, do they?”

  Mortiboy wriggled out of Hudson’s arms and jumped to the ground. I looked down at him. As much as I wanted to take Hudson up on his offer, my personal life was rooted in quicksand and until I found solid footing, I was in no place to start a relationship.

  “My complications don’t have anything to do with business,” I confirmed. “You know how you had demons in your closet, demons that I learned of a couple months ago?”

  “That’s all behind me now, thanks to you.”

  “I know. One of my demons came knocking on my door yesterday. Can you understand what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  We stood together, the golden sunset bathing us in a rich glow that gilded the moment.

  “Madison, if you need anything while you’re sorting out that closet, don’t hesitate to ask. For anything.”

  I thought about Hudson’s artistic talents. “Well, there is one thing you could probably help me with,” I said.

  “Name it,” he said.

  “Well, you’re an artist, and there’s something I was wondering about.” I looked up at him and took a deep breath. “Hypothetically speaking, how hard would it be to counterfeit a bill?”

  NINE

  Hudson put a hand on the doorknob, but turned back to face me. He leaned against the door with his hand behind him. For a moment, it felt like he was protecting me from whatever was on the other side of that door.

  “Counterfeiting is a lot harder than the movies would make it seem. Impossible if you plan to pass it.”

  “What if you’re selling to a collector? What if it’s a denomination that’s been out of print?”

  “You don’t sound like you’re asking hypothetical questions anymore.” Parts of the doorknob grated against each other as he turned it and pushed the door open. He stood back and let me through first.

  I hadn’t spent a lot of time in Hudson’s house, but I knew the layout. Inside the door was a long hallway that ended in his living room. An orange tweed sofa sat along one wood-paneled wall, and a shag carpet the color of air-popped popcorn softened our footsteps.

  This house had once belonged to his grandmother. She’d left it to him when she passed away. While the seventies interior seemed contradictory to Hudson’s punk exterior, I knew he’d rather be surrounded by what felt familiar, what felt like family, than to gut it and start over. I liked that about him, that he had a quiet respect for who, and what, had made him the man he was, even if the rest of the world had renounced orange tweed and shag carpeting.

  He pulled the cork out of a bottle of red wine and poured two glasses. He set one on top of the table in front of me. Mortiboy sat on the end of the sofa. He didn’t move when I sat down, which demonstrated a new level of acceptance from the feline.

  “What’s this all about?” Hudson asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Madison, you’re asking about counterfeit bills. That doesn’t sound like a decorating project. If you know something about a crime in progress or a crime that’s been committed, you’d
do best to contact your friend on the police force and tell him what you know.”

  “He’s partially aware of it. Besides, I don’t really know anything. That’s the problem.”

  Hudson sat down. Gently, he picked up my hand, flipped it over, and rubbed his thumb against my palm. Even though I was silently urging him to continue, he set it back down on my own knee. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I needed to talk and I knew Hudson would listen.

  “Somebody sent me a five thousand dollar bill. I once said I could be bought for five thousand dollars, because it’s the only bill with my name on it. It’s the James Madison. It was a private joke.” I looked down at my hands in my lap. “If it’s real, it’s worth a lot of money. If it’s not real, well, I don’t know what it means. It could mean somebody is in a lot of trouble.”

  “Do you know who this somebody is?”

  “Somebody is the demon I was telling you about.”

  “How well do you trust him?”

  “I used to trust him with my life.”

  Hudson picked up his wine glass and took a long sip. I could see him savoring the taste before he swallowed. He leaned back against the cushions of his chair and nodded at me. “But now?”

  “The list of people I trust with my life got a lot shorter a couple of months ago.”

  Hudson was one of the people on that list. My being there, telling about my problem, should have tipped him off if he didn’t already know it.

  “There’s more,” I said. I leaned forward and swirled the wine around in my glass. “I was at Joanie Loves Tchotchkes earlier today. She had a framed five thousand dollar bill hanging behind the register. It seems like too much of a coincidence. I think at least one of them is fake. Maybe both. I don’t know why someone would counterfeit a bill that’s been out of circulation for half a century, but I guess I want to know what would be involved in the process.”

  “Madison, like you said, I just finished dealing with my own demons. I’m not itching to put myself back on the cops’ radar.”

  I leaned forward and put a hand on his knee. “I would never ask you to do anything illegal. I hope you know that.”

  Quietly, after a long pause, he said, “It could be done.”

  “What would it take?”

  “A powerful magnifying glass. Saturated inks, a very fine paintbrush. Rag paper, or the materials to make paper with the right fabric content. Maybe a piece of clothing from the era to provide the fibers, in case the paper gets tested.”

  “Like a forger painting a van Gogh who uses dirt from the original artist’s neighborhood?”

  “Same principles. How deeply are you involved in this?”

  “I don’t know yet. I still don’t know exactly what it is I’m involved in.”

  I sipped at my wine but was too lost in my thoughts to enjoy it. Mortiboy curled up on his end of the sofa, his head on his front paw. One eye opened, looked at me, and closed again. Hudson’s cat had a suspicious nature and I thought maybe I should take a page from his playbook.

  “It’s been a long day, and I better be getting home. Rocky finally stopped knocking over lamps, but now he’s discovered a taste for vintage shoes. I don’t remember if I closed the closet doors or not.”

  “I figured you’d learned that lesson already,” Hudson joked. We both turned to look at Mortiboy, but this time he ignored us.

  Hudson followed me out to the car. “That box in your back seat, that’s from Joanie’s, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the bill in there?”

  I reached into the backseat and lifted the flat package. When I turned back around, I unfolded the butcher paper and exposed the rudimentary wooden frame.

  “What do you think?”

  “I can’t say if it’s real or not, but I can tell you one thing. Even if it is real, it couldn’t come close to what you’re worth.”

  I put a hand on his and his fingers curled around mine. There was something about Hudson’s amber eyes that soothed me, made me feel like the rest of the world didn’t exist. It wasn’t a heated sexual urgency, but a cozy warmth, like being slow roasted over an open fire. He presented me with a cocoon of safety.

  “Can I hold on to this for a couple of days?” he asked, lifting the package about an inch.

  “Sure. Feel free to take it out of the frame if you want. For all I know, it’s a color copy and the backside is blank.”

  “In the meantime, be careful, Madison,” he said.

  I didn’t reply.

  When I arrived at the apartment building, there was a minivan parked by the sidewalk. A redheaded woman stood next to the van and two boys tossed a Nerf football back and forth in the yard. I parked behind the moving van and approached as if I was a friendly person who lived in the building instead of the secret owner and landlord.

  “Hi,” I called out to the woman.

  She held a cell phone to her head, but when she saw me she moved her hand away and set the phone inside the minivan on the passenger side seat.

  “Is everything okay?”

  She looked confused.

  “I live here.” I pointed to the building. “You’re in a no parking zone, so I thought maybe something was wrong.”

  “Something is wrong. I’ve—we’ve been on the road for three days. I thought we had an apartment all lined up. I filled out paperwork, sent in a deposit, the works. The landlord just called. She said she didn’t like the idea of renting to someone she hadn’t met so she rented our apartment to someone else.”

  The older of the boys caught the football and ran over to us. “Mom, can we find a hotel soon? I’m hungry.”

  “Sure, Tommy. Stay with Billy.”

  She turned back to me. “I’m Mrs. Young. These are my boys.”

  “I’m Madison,” I said. My eyes darted to the minivan. The back seat was packed with boxes and blankets. It reminded me of how I’d arrived in Dallas: with everything I thought I couldn’t replace packed in the back of my car.

  “Mrs. Young, I happen to know there’s a vacancy in this building. I’ve lived here for a couple of years, and I like it.”

  “Is the landlord here? Can I talk to him?”

  Inside, I smiled. Almost everyone assumed the landlord was a man, and I used that to my benefit to keep my role a secret. “No, not now. I can get you an application if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Follow me.”

  We walked past the boys to the front door. I kept a clipboard filled with tenant applications by the mailboxes. I tore one off the pad and held it out to Mrs. Young. Before she took it I snatched it back and wrote Hudson’s number across the bottom. “Call Hudson James.”

  “He’s the landlord?”

  “He works for the Night Company. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  Mrs. Young’s face relaxed into a smile and I smiled back. “Thank you, Madison. This would be a nice break for us.”

  I gave her directions to the closest La Quinta hotel and walked her halfway down the sidewalk. She corralled her boys into the minivan and waved before getting inside and pulling out onto the street. I’d call Hudson about her early tomorrow.

  I pulled my car around to the back of the building and backed into my space. After getting out, I came around the side of the car for the box from Joanie Loves Tchotchkes. I pulled the rubber gloves back on before grabbing it from the back seat.

  For the second time that day, I entered a room I didn’t know. Rocky ran out of the bedroom and danced around my feet. I set the box on the floor and joined Rocky on the carpet. Time to dig into the box.

  On top of the box was a T-shirt with the smiling image of my favorite actress. Underneath was the caption, “Have a Doris Day.” Under the T-shirt was a scrapbook filled with newspaper clipping
s about her movie openings. If I ever returned to my volunteer position at the theater, these would be a nice addition to the lobby.

  Below the scrapbook were two lobby cards, one from Midnight Lace, one from Julie. A dog-eared paperback copy of Day by Day, her autobiography, was wedged into one of the corners. It was a good night for a bubble-bath and a couple of chapters. I pulled it out and set it in a separate pile from the scrap book and lobby cards. So far, no surprises. Someone who knew I’d modeled my life after Doris Day had arranged for me to receive a box of memorabilia that was worth more in warm, fuzzy, nostalgic feelings than cold, hard cash.

  I plunged my hand into the bottom of the box and my fingers closed around a small bundle. I pulled it out with my right hand and transferred it to my left palm. It was wrapped in a white handkerchief monogrammed with the initials PS. I unwrapped the handkerchief and revealed a man’s tri-fold, brown leather wallet. I flipped it open, and then flipped it open again. An unfamiliar face looked at me from a Pennsylvania driver’s license: Philip Shayne.

  I’d taken the box fair and square, so I ignored the unease that tickled the back of my neck. As I emptied the contents of the wallet on the floor, I wondered how this man’s wallet had come to be trundled up inside of a box that had been dropped off at Joanie’s store with my name on it. It wasn’t until I peered inside the billfold that my heart skipped a beat.

  Four bills were tucked inside: a twenty, two ones, and a five thousand dollar bill.

  TEN

  Coincidences like these were rarer than sightings of the Chupacabra. Slowly, I felt around on the floor for my handbag and fished around inside for my cell phone. I dialed Tex’s home number, and a woman’s voice answered.

  “Could I please speak to Lt. Allen?”

  “Is this Madison Night?” she said. I recognized the direct tone of Officer Donna Nast.