LOVER COME HACK

by Diane Vallere

  “I’m afraid you lost me. Why do you need a rundown apartment building?”

  “So I can win the VIP competition.”

  Kip’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going up against some very qualified teams. You really think you can win with this building?”

  “I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

  “It’s going to take more than a new coat of paint.”

  “I know exactly what it’s going to take, Kip. It won’t be easy, but I have resources too. And you can’t make an omelet without painting over a couple of eggshells.”

  TWELVE

  “I wish all buyers were as decisive as you,” Kip said. “Tell you what. Fill out a mortgage application and bring it to my office. I’ll notify the seller that you’re interested, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Anonymous bid,” I said. “I don’t want anybody to know I’m buying this building until it’s a done deal. I’m willing to forgo negotiations to protect my identity.”

  “Understood,” Kip said. “I have copies of the paperwork in my car. As soon as you drop it off, I can get to work.”

  “Do you want me to follow you to your office now?” I asked.

  “No point. The computers have been down since yesterday. The only way to speed this thing through is going to be with phone calls, faxes, and a good old-fashioned notary.”

  “Let me guess. You got hit with the personality virus?”

  Kip looked at me suspiciously. “How did you know that?”

  “They got me too. My business.”

  “You’re fairly calm about it,” he said.

  “It’s fixed now.” I was about to sing the praises of Nasty—odd in and of itself—when I remembered her Jungle Red lipstick love letter on Tex’s nightstand. Both of them were being exactly who they were. But Nasty had nothing to do with my situation with Tex. As far as I was concerned now, she could have him.

  “Call Donna Nast at Big Brother Security. She can fix it.”

  “We already tried. She’s booked. She said she can’t get to us for another two days. Something about her former employer getting hit bad. She didn’t work for you, did she?”

  No, but she’d worked for the police station. And when she left my studio this morning, she’d told me a fat city job came in, the kind that would give her ten grand by the end of the day.

  “I have to go,” I said. Because a new thought was tickling the back of my brain. One that involved the computer hackings around town. I’d been hacked. Kip’s real estate agency had been hacked. And if I was putting together the puzzle pieces of intel from Nasty, the police computers had been hacked too.

  The parallels between the hackings propelled me to a conclusion I might not have normally considered. Yesterday when I was at the police station, Tex said the computers had been down all day. I’d already considered that a virus might have slowed down their network, but what would happen if someone had gained backdoor access to police files? I had a feeling it wouldn’t be good.

  I took the paperwork from Kip and we went our separate ways. I assumed he went back to his office. I went to mine. It was closing in on six, and the sun was heading toward the horizon. I wanted to get a status report on the inventory project and the state of our computers from Effie before she left for the night. Now that I’d decided on my former apartment building as the setting for the Mad for Mod entry to the VIP competition, the clock was ticking on the execution of my design. I’d lost valuable time today already. I needed to get to work.

  It was less than a mile from the apartment building to Mad for Mod, but I wasn’t motivated to walk, and Rocky didn’t have his sweater. I drove the short distance and parked next to Effie’s new white Ford Escape. If not for her vanity plates: Eff U, it would blend in with every other white SUV in Dallas. Ah, the millennial sense of humor.

  I found her in the display area with Joanie Higa, a local thrift store owner who oftentimes beat me to the sidewalk finds around Dallas and then sold me the items I could have claimed for myself if only I’d forgone my morning swims. Despite her ruthless business practices, we were friends. And to file under turnabout being fair play, on more than one occasion, I’d collected a paycheck from her for boxes of oddities she could sell in her shop, Joanie Loves Tchotchkes.

  Joanie was Japanese-American. Her personal style was rockabilly with a jet-black beehive, cat eye glasses, cuffed jean, and platform stilettos. A few months ago, she’d twisted her ankle and had to rethink her choice in footwear. I’d gifted her with the vast collection of bowling shirts and shoes in my inventory. We’d both been delighted with the transfer of ownership: her wardrobe had quadrupled overnight, and I’d made some room in my closet. Today she wore a purple and white bowling shirt that said Ed’s Bakery on the back, slim jeans, and black and white bowling shoes.

  “Madison!” Effie said. “Check out this collection of original 1950 Blendo Joanie brought us!”

  Joanie smiled. “I didn’t tell her that’s what they were. She recognized them on her own.”

  I smiled at the two women and picked up a small, round neon green glass. Blendo, produced by Anchor Hocking, was a popular choice of drinkware in kitchens of the era and was the cornerstone of many mid-century enthusiast’s glassware collections today. It was at its peak production in the fifties and sixties and was instantly recognizable by its vivid, opaque colors at the base that visually faded into clear glass at the opening. A thin stripe of shiny gold accented the rim of each piece. Often it was the gold rim (or lack thereof) that indicated how much use a set had seen.

  “Madison’s been teaching me the classics,” Effie said to Joanie. She turned to me. “The Bickners’ grandson emailed me digital photos of everything they’re selling to us so we’re all up to date. I can’t wait to show you. I’ll be right back.”

  “Emailed?” I called after her.

  She turned around and smiled. “Don’t worry, the computer is still fine. I ran a virus check every hour on the hour just to make sure. The firewall is doing its job.” She disappeared into the hallway.

  “Computer problems?” Joanie asked.

  “Yep. Did you get hit?”

  “I’ve been unpacking boxes all day. If there’s a computer problem, I don’t know about it yet. Why? What’s the deal?”

  “Apparently there’s a hacker attacking businesses in Dallas. I got it after opening an attachment.”

  “Mads, everybody knows not to open suspicious attachments.”

  “It wasn’t suspicious. At least at the time, I didn’t think so. It was from Jane Strong—”

  “That’s different. I’d trust my bestie’s attachments too.”

  “Aren’t we too old to say things like ‘bestie’?”

  “Speak for yourself. I’ve turned forty-nine seven times so far. I don’t exactly live by the rules. What did Jane say when you told her?”

  “I didn’t tell her.”

  “Why not? She might not even know her computer is infected. Who knows how many emails she’s sent.” Joanie was looking at me funny. We stared at each other for a couple of seconds while fragmented thoughts pummeled my brain. The timing of Jane’s email and her murder. We’d had words in the lobby of Republic Tower, so I knew the email hadn’t been a hoax, but what if? What if the person who murdered her was the person who’d loaded the virus onto her computer? I’d found her throwing up in the bathroom stall. She’d been sick. She said she’d been sick for hours. But Detective Henning had said there were no signs of anything unusual in her stomach contents or bloodwork. Had stress or a panic attack made her ill? What if someone had found a way to make her sick to get her out of the way so they could upload the virus to her computer, knowing she’d unwittingly distribute it to her own network?

  I could understand her emailing me. We’d emailed multiple times daily since becoming friends. And Kip Bledsoe. It wasn’t a stretch for an interior decor
ator to have reason to contact a real estate agent. But the police? Why would she contact them? What attachment would she possibly send to the Lakewood Police Department that they’d be motivated to open?

  I dropped onto a pink square-backed sofa. In my desire to complete my own application to the VIP competition and my anger with Tex, I’d kept one obvious thought at bay. Only a handful of people knew about my fight with Jane. When news broke that she’d been murdered—and that I’d been there—the questions would start. Why wasn’t I mourning her death? Why wasn’t I trying to find out the truth about what happened like I had with other similar situations in the past? Why wasn’t I broken up? And then the finger pointing, the judgment, and the whispers would ensue. My own community would be torn apart by the subject, especially if I chose not to discuss it. There was a short window of time until the news went public.

  “Madison, are you okay? You look like you’re about to have some sort of breakdown,” Joanie said.

  I looked up at her. “Can you stick around after Effie leaves? I could use a friend.”

  “Sure.” She dropped onto the sofa next to me. “This isn’t about those men, is it? I knew this six months thing was going to blow up in your face.”

  “I’m done with men,” I said.

  “You’re switching teams?”

  “I’m done playing the game.”

  Effie rejoined us. She held a yellow file folder on top of a pile of mail. “Here’s the inventory list and the pictures. I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m meeting my parents at Texas Land and Cattle for dinner and if I don’t get there soon, I’ll miss out on the free sourdough bread.”

  I took the pile of files and mail from Effie. Joanie nestled into her corner of the sofa. “Madison does not want to be responsible for keeping one of the few remaining bread eaters from getting free bread, right?”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s my day off.”

  “That’s right. Have fun and eat a slice of bread for me.”

  I set the pile on the sofa next to me and stood up. I picked up two Blendo glasses and carried them to the bar cart by the front door, where I uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir and poured a healthy amount of wine into each of the tumblers. I carried the glasses back to Joanie and handed her the purple one. “To birthdays, business, and life getting less complicated.”

  We clinked glasses, and each took a sip. When I lowered my glass, Joanie raised hers. “To your life never being less complicated, because I live vicariously through you and less complicated would be boring.”

  We drank to that too. We were half way through the bottle before Joanie said something other than “hit me.”

  “You know, Madison, I have no problem sitting here drinking your expensive wine, but you said you wanted to talk.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “It’s not that expensive.”

  She finished her glass. “It’s more expensive than the stuff I keep in my store.”

  I finished my own glass and set it down on the coffee table. There was a reason I’d asked Joanie to stay and it wasn’t because I didn’t want to drink alone. She’d known me for a few years, and I knew I could confide in her.

  “Jane and I weren’t friends anymore. Yesterday morning she sent me an email to let me know what she really thought of me and destroyed any chance of an ongoing friendship.”

  Joanie refilled both of our glasses but said nothing. I continued. “I know, we became friends pretty quickly. Too quickly. Who expects to find a new bestie after they’re fifty?”

  “Word.” She raised her glass and clinked mine.

  “But it was like we were the same person. We had so much in common. We were both mid-century modern decorators in Dallas. We were both self-taught, me from watching Doris Day movies and her from reading old copies of Better Homes and Gardens. We both wore vintage clothes. We both started our businesses later in life. We’re both Aries.”

  “Yes, but she was two years younger than you, right?”

  “So what?”

  “Japanese horoscope is based on birth year, not birth month. Two years makes you very different people.”

  I picked up my glass, stared into the smooth garnet surface, and then set it back down. Whether the alcohol or the security of hanging around a different friend had loosened my tongue, I didn’t know. But talking about Jane felt like letting go of a cumbersome parcel of day old groceries that were past their freshness date.

  “Jane Strong was murdered yesterday morning. I found her body in the bathroom at Republic Tower. Almost everybody thinks we were still good friends, but we weren’t. She sent me a nasty email yesterday morning and when I saw her at Republic Tower we had a fight. The last words I said to her were vile.”

  “Why have I heard nothing about this?” Joanie said. “This should be all over the news. What did Tex say? Wait, he doesn’t think you killed her, does he? Is that why you’re mad at him?”

  “This has nothing to do with Tex. He wasn’t the officer called to the scene and when I saw him yesterday, he refused to discuss the case.”

  “Whoa! Back up. You saw Tex yesterday? What about the whole six-month birthday present?”

  “Rocky was at the police station and I went to pick him up.”

  “You saw Tex. How did he look? Was there chemistry? Did he look hot?”

  I stared at her. “Joanie, I just told you a woman we both know was murdered in a bathroom in a famous building in downtown Dallas and you asked if Tex looked hot.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re focusing on the wrong part of the story.”

  “Jane is dead, right? She was mean to you, and now she’s dead. You could spend your time focused on all that negative energy, sure. All the things you want to say to her, the reaction you had to her email. You could stay awake at night getting mad about how you thought you had a friend who wasn’t a friend after all. And then the guilt over the anger because you’re alive and she’s dead. Or you could think about the two hot men who are waiting for you to make a decision.”

  “But she’s dead. A woman died. Someone murdered her. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but I was, because I was so angry.”

  “Yes? But you didn’t put the knife in her back, right?”

  “What knife?”

  Joanie waved her hand back and forth like someone had served her stinky cheese. “Don’t focus on the knife. You were not responsible for her murder, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That means somebody else was. Jane Strong, lovely as she may have been, did something that made someone else—not you, the friend who she attacked via email—do something far worse than engage in a verbal battle in the lobby of Republic Tower.”

  I picked up the bottle of wine and checked to see how much we’d gone through.

  Joanie stood up and tucked her legs underneath her. “You’ve heard of Confucius, right?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Confucius said, ‘Be not afraid of mistakes and thus make them crimes.’”

  “Meaning…”

  Joanie leaned forward, suddenly very serious. “Stop. Close your eyes. Inhale. Exhale.”

  I did all of the above.

  “Now listen. ‘Be not afraid of mistakes and thus make them crimes.’”

  I opened my eyes. “You’re saying it’s okay to make mistakes.”

  “That’s right. And you’re punishing yourself by focusing on her death. But you being self-centered did not kill Jane.”

  “I’m self-centered?”

  “Every single woman over fifty is self-centered. It’s a badge of honor.”

  I leaned back against the pink cushions and thought about that. “How come you can quote Confucius?”

  Joanie considered the contents of her wine glass for a moment. “I’m half Japanese. I’ve been quoting Conf
ucius from the womb.”

  “You never quoted Confucius to me.”

  “Until tonight, grasshopper, you were not ready.” She drained her glass.

  We finished the bottle. Joanie called Connie, a former client turned former part-time employee turned Etsy businesswoman who crafted and sold one-of-a-kind sleeves for old vinyl record albums. Yes, that’s what I thought too.

  Connie lived in the neighborhood, which is why I wasn’t surprised at the knock on the door a few minutes later. I stumbled up from the sofa, flipped the lock, and pulled open the door, ready to greet Connie to our party.

  But my day wasn’t destined to end on a high note. Because the person who had shown up to join our impromptu girls’ night in was Nasty—Donna Nast.

  THIRTEEN

  “Hey, Nasty,” I said. “What’s happening?” I swayed while speaking and put my hand on the doorframe to keep my balance.

  “Madison?” Nasty said. Her eyes moved from my face to the overalls I still wore from Tex’s apartment, down to my sneakers, and back to my face. I tried to look her up and down too but felt dizzy. Joanie and I had been sitting for most of the night, and the effort of standing up and walking to the door had been more difficult than I’d expected. Maybe we didn’t need Connie to bring reinforcements.

  “Come on in,” I said. And then I remembered I was mad at her. “Go away. Take him. I don’t want him. He’s yours.”

  “I don’t believe this. You’re drunk? I didn’t know women like you got drunk.”

  “What do you mean, women like me? I’m not the kind of woman who has women like me.” Did that make sense? “You are. Women like you. Women like you sleep with other men. Other women’s men.” I stopped speaking for a moment and over enunciated the thought I was trying to verbalize. “Men other women are considering.”

  Nasty pushed past me and came into the showroom. Joanie still sat on the pink sofa, and Rocky was curled up next to her. Rocky stood up and growled at Nasty.