That Touch of Ink

by Vallere, Diane

  “I know.”

  He hoisted the box up, balanced it on his knee and carried it to the door.

  I turned the lock and opened the door.

  “The framed bill, is it in here, too?”

  “Um, no. I gave it away.”

  His face clouded. He slammed the box on the corner of my desk. “To who? Your long-lost boyfriend? I thought he was giving you space.”

  “I haven’t seen him since dinner two nights ago. I didn’t give it to him, I gave it to Hudson.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a couple of questions about its artistic merits.”

  “Do me a favor, Night. Don’t involve anybody who doesn’t need to be involved in this. If something else happens, you call me. First.” He stormed out of the apartment, down the stairs, and to his Jeep. This time when I heard his engine start, I looked out the window and watched as he drove away.

  I showered and changed into a pink, gray, and yellow argyle pullover and a pair of gray trousers with a pink windowpane pattern. The ensemble was a favorite that got little wear thanks to the perpetual heat and humidity in Dallas, but the temperature had dropped somewhere around the holidays and today it was in the high sixties. I didn’t know when the heat would return, so I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

  After spending yesterday morning in Connie’s shoes, I was more than happy to push my feet into well-worn sneakers before leaving the house. I clipped a pink leather leash to Rocky’s collar and off we went.

  My physical therapist was located two blocks off Turtle Creek Boulevard in a tall building of medical offices. I spent the next two hours hooked up to electronic machines that sent a pulse through my knee, followed by limited range exercises and a soothing rubdown with menthol. Rocky spent the same amount of time with the receptionist. We were both in good spirits when we left.

  Before I’d reinjured my knee, two miles of lap swimming had kept the joint limber. I missed the Zen connected with swimming at the early hours of the day but hadn’t been able to bring myself to return to Crestwood, my regular spot, after what had happened there. Just like the theater, it was tainted with memories. The life I’d built was changing, whether I wanted it to or not.

  I held the door open for Rocky, and he jumped in. He watched me walk around the front of the car and get into the driver’s side, then padded over to me on his thick, furry paws and rested them on my right thigh. His dark brown eyes looked at me with concern. I ran my hand over his fur, scratching him behind his ears.

  “What are we doing, Rocky? Are we inviting trouble into our lives?”

  His tail thumped against the white leather and his pink tongue shot out and licked my palm. I kissed him on top of his head, and pulled out of the parking lot.

  I wasn’t far from the condominiums where Archie Leach lived, and even though I didn’t have an appointment, I drove in his direction, half-tempted to drop in unannounced under the guise of measurement-taking.

  Turtle Creek Luxury Apartments was one of the historic buildings in the Highland Park area of Dallas. It was designed by Howard Meyer and built in 1957. At one time it boasted the most luxurious apartments west of the Mississippi. Sixteen stories high, shaped like an octagon, with a pool on the roof and a fleet of valets, it had all of the amenities to woo the young nostalgia crowd, yet somehow it maintained its heritage rooted in tradition. There was something very old-Dallas about the condo; most of the units were owned by rich, elderly folks who had been there for fifty years. The staff stood on ceremony as they’d been trained to do, creating a stodgy time-warp effect.

  I pulled my car up to the gate and rolled down the window. A man with shoe-polish-brown hair slicked away from his face took note of my license plate as I slowed by the valet stand. Rocky stood up and stepped on my lap, sniffing the man. A plastic nametag with the name Harry Delbert was clipped to the white collar of his shirt.

  “Hello, I’m here to visit Mr. Archie Leach,” I said.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here. What’s your name?”

  “Oh, no!” I said, too quickly. He furrowed his brow and set his mouth in a firm line. It was obvious I needed a new approach to undo my reaction. I pulled a business card out and handed it to the man.

  “I’m his decorator, Madison Night. He invited me over to take measurements, but I may have confused the time. Ten till two, or two till ten. It’s possible that I’m either slightly early or woefully late. Maybe I should just turn around and reconfirm the time.”

  The man studied me for a couple of seconds. “Hold on a second and we can straighten this out.”

  He waved a hand to a thin man across the parking lot who wore the same uniform: white shirt, red vest, black tie, black trousers. I watched as he made a phone-to-the-ear gesture, then he turned around and picked up a receiver. Before I could hear what he said, he slid the glass partition closed, leaving me alone with my regret that I’d never learned to read lips.

  I studied the building. I had first learned of Turtle Creek Luxury Apartments when I moved to Dallas. The most fascinating part of the building was the floor plan. Each floor contained three apartments with entrances in the middle of the building. Each unit had two exterior walls, allowing more natural light than if the floor had been divided into squares like most apartments. The Dallas sun being what it was, I imagined a hefty air conditioning bill went along with the natural light, but it was probably worth it. I would have loved to live there, but the price of rent had been my ultimate decision-maker. Two thousand a month was too steep for someone with a start-up business.

  As I watched the building, the double glass doors by the entrance opened and an impeccably-dressed woman in a fur-trimmed, pink tweed coat and matching pencil skirt left the building. Her posture was stately, her head tipped up, helping to counter the weight she carried around her waist.

  She walked to the end of the carpet runner that extended from inside the building and adjusted the pillbox hat on her frosted gray and white hair. Moments later Archie came out. He carried a small rust-colored Pomeranian. He set the dog down by the woman’s feet and turned the leash over to her. He ignored the parking attendants and strode toward a small white Lexus. The dog led the woman down the side of the apartment building to the sidewalk, and the two of them disappeared past a neatly trimmed hedge that lined the street.

  I looked at Harry to see if he’d noticed. He was still on the phone. I looked back at Archie. He started the engine and drove out of the lot in a cloud of exhaust. I craned my head to see the plates on his car, but he was too fast for me.

  I waved to get Harry’s attention. He slid the partition open.

  “I must have had the time wrong. I’ll just pull around and leave.”

  Harry hung up the phone. “Pull through and park in one of the first three spaces on the right marked ‘Visitor Parking.’”

  I pulled forward and parked in the spot next to a collection of potted plants in need of a week’s worth of water. Rocky followed me out of the car. The thin man met me on the carpet.

  “Did you speak to Mr. Leach?” I asked. The man didn’t answer. “I think I understand. You’re going to let me in to take measurements?”

  “This way, Ms. Night.”

  He glanced at Rocky for a second and appeared to be thinking about something. I half-expected him to tell me to put Rocky in the car, and I prepared myself for the battle that would come when I said no. Instead, he stepped back and held out his left arm, ushering me away from the main glass doors of the building to a small enclosure that sat to the side of the valet lot. Harry stepped out of the valet booth and joined us. He stood behind me, his outstretched hand now poised by the small of my back. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.

  “Thank you for your help, but I think I�
�ll come back when my client is here.” I kept a tight grip on Rocky’s leash while he moved between the different sets of feet, sniffing the toes of all of the shoes.

  “What makes you think he isn’t here?” The thin man asked.

  “He just drove out of your parking lot.”

  The man looked at the parking lot, at Harry, and back to me. Two other men, in black T-shirts under gray jackets, approached from the front doors. They looked like they’d been hired for their solid build more than their sense of style.

  “What is going on here?” I asked.

  The two men came closer. I looked to my left and right. There was nobody else around.

  “Ms. Night, what’s the real reason you’re here?” the thin man asked.

  “I told you. Archie Leach hired me to be his decorator. I told him I wanted to come by to take measurements, but I forgot what time he expected me. He just drove out of your parking lot, so clearly I’m here at the wrong time. I’ll schedule a proper appointment and come back later.”

  “Lady, Archie says he didn’t hire a decorator,” said one of the two beefy men.

  “If I could talk to him, I’m sure we could straighten this all out.”

  The thin man in the red vest stepped directly in front of me. “Lady, I’m Archie Leach, and I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  TWELVE

  “You’re not Archie Leach,” I said instinctively.

  “I think I know who I am.”

  “You’re not the Archie Leach who came to my studio,” I said, though my argument was losing steam.

  “Ms. Night, we’re condominium security, and we need you to answer a couple of questions for us,” said one of the two men in black T-shirts.

  I hadn’t done anything wrong, but my desire for answers outweighed my desire to leave. Rocky and I followed them down a carpeted hallway. It was a slow procession with Rocky sniffing at the baseboards along the way. We ended in a break room with faux wood tables and folding chairs. A glowing Dr. Pepper machine stood along one wall, next to a flat screen TV, where a sportscaster reported on the potential of the Dallas Rangers.

  The four of us took seats. I wasn’t sure where we were going to start, so I took the first step. “I assure you, a man with your name came to my studio a couple of days ago and hired me to design his condo here.”

  I looked from one face to the next. Rocky stood on his hind legs and put his paws on the thin valet attendant’s shins. The man pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his pants and stepped away.

  “I thought he wanted me to design one room but it turned out he wanted me to decorate his whole apartment. Mr. Leach is going through a divorce—”

  “Stop calling him that,” said the thin valet attendant. His face was drawn together, his arms crossed over his chest.

  I stopped mid-sentence and looked at the man who claimed to be the real Mr. Leach and apologized. “What would you like me to call him?”

  “Call him Cary Grant,” said one of the beefy security officers. When the other men turned to look at him he shrugged. “What? I watch TCM.”

  “Gentlemen, I don’t understand why I’m sitting here in this office. Apparently I’ve been duped, and someone who said he wanted to hire me did not. I took no deposit, and, aside from the time I’ve spent on plans for his apartment and the time I’m wasting sitting here with you, I’m not out anything. I accept responsibility for the mix-up. Now, I’ll be on my way.”

  I stood up, scanning the faces of the men in front of me. They didn’t seem convinced of my innocence, and while it seemed inevitable that one of them would ask me to sit back down, I figured it would be up to them to say the words instead of up to me to interpret their implied command.

  “Harry, you better get back out front and finish out your shift,” said the thin man.

  Harry scowled. “My shift ends in ten minutes. I think it can wait.”

  “C’mon, man, if the booth isn’t covered, one of us is going to get reported. I’ll take it from here.”

  “There is nothing to take from here,” I said. “We’re done. I have to leave.”

  “Lady, you’re not going nowhere,” the thin man said. He was starting to make me mad and not because of his grammar.

  “Why don’t you show me some identification so I know that you are the real Archie Leach?”

  “Want to see my driver’s license?” he asked. “Too bad. I was robbed a couple of weeks ago.”

  “So you can’t prove you are who you say you are? How convenient.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He pulled a nylon wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a wad of plastic cards. He maintained eye contact with me while he dealt them in front of me one by one.

  I dropped my eyes to the display, just long enough to make out the name on every card, including his photo identification card for work, which showed a bit more hair than he had on his currently receding hairline. Of all of the things I could have commented on, that was the one I had to fight the most.

  “Fine,” I said, and stood up. “I’m sorry to doubt you, Archie.”

  “Art.”

  “What?”

  “I go by Art, not Archie.”

  “Fine. I’m sorry, Art. Now, I’m going to be on my way.”

  “Ms. Night, sit back down.”

  “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  With skills befitting a black jack dealer, Art slid his hand over the fanned-out credit cards, corralling them into a neat stack. He fit them back into his wallet and fit his wallet back into his pocket.

  “Maybe you’re telling the truth.” Art folded his skinny arms across his chest. “Maybe not. I don’t know yet.”

  “Maybe we can help each other,” I said.

  He made no move to speak.

  “Okay, I’ll go first. The man I met walked into my design studio two days ago. This is the address he gave me.”

  “Describe your guy.”

  “He’s a well-dressed, thin man, sort of preppy. He has black hair slicked back from his face and bears a slight resemblance to Rudolf Valentino.”

  All eyes turned to the security guard who watched TCM. “What are you looking at me for?” he asked.

  “Does he sound familiar?” I asked.

  All three men shook their heads.

  “Are you sure? Because I just watched him pull out of your parking lot in a white Lexus. Do you have cameras on the parking lot?”

  “White Lexus? That’s Mrs. Bonneville,” said Art. “Her son Grant is visiting. I haven’t seen the guy, but it must have been him.”

  “Where is he visiting from?”

  “That’s not really our business. Mrs. Bonneville is a long-term tenant. She’s lived here since the sixties. You want to know what I know about her?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Whether intentional or not, they were getting my goat. I wasn’t sure how to get information from these men, or how the fake divorcee-slash-client fit into the bigger picture, but I’d take what I could get and sort it out later.

  “She has a Pomeranian she treats better than a lot of people treat their own children. She has fresh orchids delivered to her apartment in spring and poinsettias in the fall. White ones, until December, then she switches to red. She has her own driver, her own chef, and her own masseuse. And she tips every one of us a thousand dollars on December thirty-first. Other than that, her business is her business, and I’m sure she’d appreciate if we left it that way.”

  “Has her son visited before?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  I leaned back in the small metal folding chair.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve told you all I know. If the man who hired me isn’t who he says he is, then I have no business taking up any more of your time.”


  I stood up and adjusted the hem of my argyle sweater. My keys fell from my pocket, and I scooped them up and headed for the exit.

  “Where are you going?” Archie asked.

  “I’m leaving. I’ve spent enough time here already.”

  I’d apologized enough. The fault of the mix-up lay squarely on the shoulders of Mrs. Bonneville’s son, Grant. I didn’t know why he’d lied about his name or identity. I didn’t even know if he was a real client. The only thing I knew was that I would be bumping Connie’s atomic kitchen up on the priority list.

  “Ms. Night. Sit back down. The cops are going to be here any minute now, and I think it’s best if you pass this story off to them.”

  “The cops? You called the cops?”

  I stopped to think. Calling the cops was a good idea, regardless of their motivation. If Tex took the call, I could tell him what had happened.

  “Fine. I have a feeling Lt. Allen will be happy to see me.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I took the call instead of him,” said a female voice behind me.

  I turned to the doorway, where Officer Nast stood with a scowl on her face.

  THIRTEEN

  By the time Officer Nast escorted me from the small security office of Turtle Creek Luxury Apartments, hours later, I was convinced the only potential friend I’d made was the security guard with a penchant for old movies.

  I repeated, for Officer Nast’s benefit, how I had come to be at the condominium and how I had learned the name Archie Leach in the first place.

  The last couple of days had shown me a different side of her that had nothing to do with police business and everything to do with possessive jealousy. I wasn’t sure how the two different aspects of her coexisted on a daily basis, and it wasn’t the right time to find out. So, for all of my forthcomings, there were a few things I kept to myself.

  Officer Nast ushered Rocky and me back to my car, never more than a few inches from my left-hand side. It wasn’t until my key was in the lock of the door that she spoke.