MY NIGHTMARE IS YOURS by Diane Vallere

Diane Vallere has several different series of murder mysteries on the go, most about independent women running some kind of design business or working with clothing. In the latest Mad For Mod tale, interior decorator Madison Night is hired to revamp a house in Texas and provide a recording studio. Trouble follows, as indicated by the title, MY NIGHTMARE IS YOURS.

A music producer, Ned Duncan, has previously handled publicity for artists and now wants to start a label. His first clients include singer Vanessa Wright, but tragically, Vanessa is found lying in a public park one morning. Madison and her friend Connie are the ones to make the discovery while strolling and giving Madison’s dog Rocky some exercise. In what seems a coincidence, Connie's ex-husband is Ned Duncan. Connie later has to explain that she knew the route would take them near Ned’s home. Does that mean Vanessa was going to or from Ned’s at the time she collapsed? The paramedics can’t revive her, so it doesn’t look good for Ned’s fledgling studio.

I have to say that I don’t really get the appeal of the mid-twentieth-century American furnishings that inspire Madison. We learn that she scours vintage shops, estate sales, and clearouts, hoping to pick up anything from lamps to armchairs to clothing. Some of this can be sold to TV set decorators, which makes sense. While her business is thriving, the substantial cheque for a studio would be a big help. But there’s a rule that you shouldn’t work for friends, even exes of friends. Still, this contract does give Madison a way to snoop around and chat to the producer, other recording artists, and anyone else in their sphere. She doesn’t think Ned is guilty, but there’s no evidence either way.

Madison doesn’t see much of police captain Tex Allen, her gentleman friend, unless to discuss the case. I can understand that a high-profile death in a public place, where others might have been at risk, takes up all Tex’s time. If you have not followed the series, Madison has had sadness in her personal life, and I won’t be alone in thinking it’s about time she knew some happiness and stability.

This is a lively and involved look at connections and workers, friends and new acquaintances, as Madison moves through streets and parties, empty houses and busy shops. MY NIGHTMARE IS YOURS will be of interest to decorators, mystery fans, and maybe music artists, too.

Learn more about MY NIGHTMARE IS YOURS

SUMMARY

A retro dream job turns deadly when the music stops-and Madison Night may be siding with the wrong suspect.

Mid-century modern interior decorator Madison Night's latest job should be a dream: transforming a 1950s ranch house into a retro recording studio. The catch? The client is a music producer who's both a friend of Madison's ex and the ex of one of her closest friends. Already caught in the crossfire of a messy post-divorce battle, Madison does her best to stay neutral-until murder takes center stage.

When pop singer Vanessa Wright, one of the producer's two clients, is found dead in the park outside his home, neutrality is no longer an option. Vanessa was a former child star on the brink of a career-defining comeback, with everything to gain-and someone determined to stop her. As Madison balances swatches and soundproofing with secrets and suspects, she uncovers fractures within the singer's inner circle and resistance to Vanessa's collaboration with Madison's client. When evidence begins to point squarely at him, Madison's instincts clash with the mounting suspicion.

Her police captain boyfriend is convinced the producer may be guilty, and Madison finds herself on the opposite side of the investigation. With motives piling up faster than records in a jukebox, Madison must uncover who silenced the singer before the microphone drops on murder.

This is the thirteenth book in the Madison Night mystery series, featuring an over fifty amateur sleuth, mid-century modern design, and crimes where personal loyalties blur the truth. Perfect for readers who love smart heroines, retro flair, and traditional mysteries with real stakes.

EXCERPT

The photo was unfortunate on many levels. A middle-aged band promoter and a former child star, grinning at the camera from a music-industry party where everyone in the background had the sheen of edgy hipster. The problem wasn’t the style, or the event, or the former child star, it was the middle-aged band promoter, Ned Duncan, who happened to be the ex-husband of my friend Connie. The most unfortunate part was that Connie saw the picture in the paper first.

“He’s winning,” Connie said, staring at the page. She set the newspaper back on her kitchen table but didn’t look away.

I craned my neck to get a better view, not easy considering the image was upside down from my angle. We were sharing the paper over cappuccinos and scones in her kitchen, an atomic masterpiece I designed for her and Ned prior to their divorce. They’d dreamed of updating their kitchen, something ultracool, and after receiving a windfall in the form of a forgotten insurance claim that finally paid out, they hired me. Calling it a masterpiece wasn’t bragging; it was a testament to the original inspiration point, the kitchen featured in The Glass Bottom Boat. As a mid-century modern interior decorator who shared a birthday with Doris Day, I drew great inspiration from the actress’s movies (and life). I’d always wanted to design a kitchen like this one and considered it the crown jewel of my portfolio.

Connie and Ned had been the perfect clients. Perfect, that is, until Ned was caught on a clandestine getaway with his secretary in nearby Shreveport, Louisiana. Thus, the divorce.

Connie flicked her fingers against the picture of Ned. “He’s in the society pages. With Vanessa Wright.”

“What’s Ned doing with Vanessa Wright?” I asked, gently pulling the paper away from her and turning it so I could get a better view.

Connie stood and moved behind me, where she could peer at the paper from over my shoulder. “Look at him, all chiseled and mature and plaid. Meanwhile, I’ve gained twenty pounds and am drowning in debt. It’s not fair how time has a different agenda for men and women.”

I didn’t know when “plaid” had become a sign of victory in the who-moved-on-first competition, but it didn’t seem the time to ask.

It would have been easy to tell Connie she was wrong, to try to boost her spirits after seeing her ex-husband looking, well, pretty darn great in the picture in the paper, but the words would have fallen on deaf ears. Connie and Ned had been divorced for a few years now, and after a brief mourning of what might have been, life should have moved on. I’d watched Connie close down her Etsy business and buy a local turnkey flower shop, throwing herself into the experience of becoming an expert. She tried speed dating, and I suspected she’d signed up for a couple of dating apps, too, but so far, no prospects populated her future.

Instead of telling Connie what she needed to learn for herself, I focused my attention on the article.

Ned Duncan was a hipster music publicist who had gotten on alarmingly well with my ex and, because of that, had blurred the line between client and friend. He and Connie shared similar mid-century tastes and, while married, had looked as if they’d been made for each other, like extras in an Elvis movie. I’d played an unfortunate role in Connie finding out the truth about Ned’s “business trip,” and while I believed she was better off knowing, I often wondered whether, if she hadn’t discovered the evidence while in a room full of people, she would have looked the other way and pretended things were still good.

In addition to the photo with Ned, there was a publicity photo of Vanessa from her latest album cover. I scanned the article, looking for something to divert Connie’s attention from Ned as pervy older man and found the information in the second paragraph.

“It says Vanessa Wright is looking to record her first album. That picture is from an industry party. She’d be a good client for Ned, especially if she’s looking to shed her innocent image.”

“I’ll bet he wants to help her shed her image.” She planted her hand on the newsprint then scrunched the paper into her palm.

“We don’t need to give Ned a moment more attention that we already have.” She balled the page up and plunged it into the trash bin in the corner. She sat down and pulled the lemon scones toward her. She took one and raised it to her mouth then stopped before taking a bite. A moment later, she flung the scone at the wall. Scones aren’t built for high-impact situations, and the pastry shattered into a spray of crumbs. Rocky, my feisty shih tzu, sprang into action, snarfing up as many of the crumbs as he could manage.

“You don’t know that.” I studied Connie’s expression, flushed and blotchy and wet with tears she fought to stop, and a suspicion crept onto my radar. “Tell me you don’t know that.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed out loud. At least she still had her sense of humor. “If Ned checked up on you, do you know what he’d see?”

“A chubby middle-aged woman with perpetually dirty fingernails and a mountain of business debt?”

“I don’t feel confident. The only pants I can wear have an elastic waist.”

“All of my pants have elastic waists. That’s how they made them in the sixties.”

Part of my business plan was to buy out estates of recently deceased women of a certain age, and after a decade in business, I’d amassed more vintage clothes than they used in a season of Mad Men.

Today’s ensemble, a khaki camp shirt and matching Bermuda shorts, came from the estate of Hilary Syddall nee Benton, a female pilot who’d been a member of the Ninety-Nines. Hilary frequently competed in air derbies and was among the first women to be considered for the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron in the early forties. From her scrapbook, I knew she’d chosen marriage and family instead but had continued to pilot her plane well into her eighties. Drawing on the fit of her wardrobe, I assumed she’d been significantly shorter than I was, and I’d converted several pairs of her trousers into shorts.

I reached behind me for a nearby box of tissues and extended it toward Connie. “Haven’t you taken up running? You might feel better if you burn off some of that anxious energy.”

She blew her nose, a loud foghorn honk. “I’ll go for a walk if you’ll come with me. You’re wearing Keds, right?”

“I’ve been doing physical therapy for three years now. My knee is stronger than ever.”

Neither of us mentioned why my knee was an issue. Regardless of the original accident, planning around the pain had become a part of my life.

I clipped Rocky’s leash to his collar. It was a gorgeous, sunny spring day in Dallas, on the cusp of the heat wave that always showed up mid-April and wouldn’t leave until October. I pulled on a straw, cone-shaped hat to keep the sun from my face.

After her divorce, Connie had floundered with her personal style, moving from rockabilly to vintage concert T-shirts with jeans to The Royal Tenenbaums–type jogging suits. Lately she’d taken to wearing pullover sweatshirts and matching pull-on pants. She claimed it wasn’t worth wearing real clothes to the nursery, which was plausible, but I couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn something that didn’t stretch.

I waited in her kitchen while she went to her bedroom to change. She returned in a pretty pink cotton tunic and cropped pants. She’d smoothed her hair and applied lip gloss. I chalked it up to her wanting to feel better about herself, so I didn’t comment.

“Ready?” she asked. “If you’re up for it, we can go to Native Texas Park. It’s a mile and a half away, though…”

“My doctor says I’m looking at an inevitable knee replacement, but I’m not ready to give up on this set. Let’s go.”

The sun was on the rise, winking off bumpers of cars parked along the sidewalk of Connie’s neighborhood. We strode at a comfortable pace. I adjusted my hat and let Connie lead while Rocky sniffed things along the way. We reached the entrance to Native Texas Park and followed the path.

“Sometimes.” She looked around nervously. “It’s a nice walk from my house, and I sometimes see the same people, so it’s starting to feel familiar.”

As if on cue, a jogger turned the corner. Connie smiled at him as he passed us, and he nodded at her in return.

When we reached the edge of the park, Connie stopped. “Maybe we should turn back.”

“Why? I thought the whole point was to get to the park and see some familiar faces.”

“I lied.” She blocked my path. “This is Ned’s neighborhood. I changed before we headed out because I thought we might see him. I do sometimes—see him—but I don’t think he’s ever seen me.”

“Did you forgive him?” she asked again, as if I hadn’t spoken. “For lying, for taking the easy way out instead of admitting what he did? For not trying to rebuild his life after the full truth came out?”

“Brad Turlington was an old boyfriend who used me and then committed suicide. That was a lifetime ago. I’m with Tex now, and it’s the best relationship of my life. I don’t think about Brad. He made his own choices.”

The path wound around benches, trees, and shrubs in an irregular loop where visitors played catch with each other, their children, or their pets. The occasional whoop of a small child or bark of a dog pierced the otherwise calm sounds of chirping crickets and buzzing insects. We were already in the thick of the park; it felt foolish to turn back now.

We chose a wooden-and-iron bench with a small brass dedication plaque. It felt good to sit. I removed my hat and tipped my face up toward the sun, a rare moment of indulgence in UVA rays.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Connie said, “I don’t know who I am without him.”

She stared at the center of the park at families having fun together. “I thought it would be me and Ned forever. I changed up everything in my life after the divorce was official, but I’m still stuck in first gear. I can’t find myself. I’ve gone to yoga, started meditating, get monthly tarot card readings, and even met with a psychic. I can’t move on. I thought if we casually ran into him, if I got that out of the way, I would see he’s not all that and would prove to myself that I’m over him. I even chose this park because—don’t judge me, okay?”

Connie looked away. “I’ve been stalking him. No biggie, just social media stuff. He lives in that apartment building over there.” She pointed to a tall complex beyond a copse of trees. “He’s called me a few times, but I never answer. He texts me on holidays too. I was afraid if he wanted to get back together, I’d say yes, so I blocked his number. Sometimes I think if I forgave him, things would be so much easier, but I can’t.”

I should have been surprised by Connie’s admission, but I wasn’t. She was a great friend, always willing to sidekick when I needed her, and she’d even rented out a corner of my design studio prior to buying the flower shop, keeping me company between clients while propping up the notion that we were two independent businesswomen taking on the corporate power structure. I’d never questioned her willingness to drop everything to go along with my schedule, even when I got tangled up in murder investigations. The most recent had taken place on a cruise, and when I got back, Connie told me she’d spent the week planting bulbs. I loved that she’d found something to throw herself into, but I questioned if she was using her new business as an excuse to keep from living her life.

I said, “By the time Brad showed up in Dallas, it wasn’t the same. My life in Dallas was already established, and there was no place for him in it. It isn’t fair to you to compare yourself to me. The two situations are totally different.”

What I didn’t tell Connie, what I didn’t like to admit to myself, was that I still had unresolved trust issues because of Brad Turlington and how that whole situation had ended.

“Let’s keep moving,” I said. “If I sit too long, this knee is going to swell up to the size of a melon and we’ll never get home.”

“I’ve had surgery—the two times I tore my ACL. It’s bad enough that I have to make time for PT twice a week. Once I get that surgery, I’ll have to put a pin in my work schedule while I recover. I’ve got projects lined up for the next four months. And after almost losing my business, I’m not about to start sending clients to Ikea.”

Connie stood in front of me and held out her hands, pulling me to my feet. I flexed my knee a few times to keep it limber. A slice of pain shot through the joint, like a needle going through my kneecap. I used a word most people wouldn’t expect to hear coming from someone who bore a more-than-passing resemblance to Doris Day and sat back down on the bench. Rocky wound his leash around my ankles.

“I think I overdid it. Give me a minute or two more to relax before we head back.”

“There’s no way you’re walking back on that knee. It’s over a mile! I’ll get my car and come back for you.”

Another jogger passed us. He wore a dark sweatshirt with the hood up. He glanced at us, and I attempted a smile. He looked away and kept running. If these joggers knew how precious their knees were, would they subject them to that level of trauma?

I stood, and the stab of pain returned. “Fine. Rocky deserves more of a walk than he got. Take him with you?”

“So you keep saying.” Connie took Rocky’s leash and a pack of plastic poop bags and splintered off, cutting through the park to the exit.

I stayed on the bench and people-watched on the verge of a pity party for myself. Perhaps it was Connie conjuring the memory of the accident that caused my first knee event and the emotional torment that came when I lay recovering in the hospital, alone. I didn’t believe those memories had kept me from moving on, but it was time to excavate them and let them out—if for no other reason than to set an example.

It should have taken Connie about twenty-five minutes to get home, get her car, and drive back, so it came as a surprise when she returned not five minutes later. Her face was ashen, and she held Rocky in her arms. A cream dish towel jutted out of her pocket. I recognized it from her kitchen remodel. I’d had a set monogrammed: CD and ND, a small detail to make their kitchen feel more like home.

Connie’s eyes were wide with fear. She’d probably seen Ned, or worse, run into him, unprepared, with no wingman.

“Forget about him,” I said. I put my arms around her and hugged. Rocky wriggled between us. I took him from Connie, and she stood, limp, her arms dangling by her sides as if in shock. When I released her, she unzipped her fanny pack and jammed the monogrammed dish towel deeper inside.

“No, Madison. It’s not Ned. There’s a… I think I found… I think there’s a body.”

One doesn’t like to admit one has experience with this sort of thing, but in my case, I knew as much about finding bodies as I did knocking down interior load-bearing walls: more than the average joe.

I’d hoped there was an explanation for a body in the park: someone napping while sunbathing or a game of hide-and-seek. We rounded the corner, and Connie headed toward the tree line. The body of a curvy blonde lay at the base of some shrubbery that had been recently landscaped. She was face down. Her left arm was over her head, and her right was splayed out to the side. Her flaxen hair fanned around her head like a halo, hiding her face. She wore a tank top, baggy jeans cinched at the waist, and one rose-gold sequined sneaker. Her other foot was bare. I set Rocky on the ground and leaned down and checked for a pulse. There was none. Her skin was cool to the touch, and she didn’t move.

I looked around the park and chose two men tossing a football back and forth as our best option. Connie wasn’t comfortable approaching strangers or staying with the body, and Rocky was darn-near close to tampering with a crime scene, so we left the body under the shrubs and approached the men to do our civic duty.

People are ridiculously possessive when it comes to sharing their cell phones. At least the third man we approached agreed to make the call for us.

“Yeah, uh, there are two women in the park claiming they found a body. You, uh, better send someone. Yeah, hold on.” He handed the phone to me. “She wants to talk to you.”

I took the phone. “This is Madison Night. I’m at Native Texas Park. There’s a corpse lying under the bushes on the northwest perimeter.” I glanced at the man’s expression. A crowd had grown, people curious enough to eavesdrop but not enough to help. I made a snap judgment and kept details about the body to myself but lowered my voice and cupped my hand around the man’s phone. “The victim is a young woman. There’s already a crowd gathering.”

The dispatch officer said to stay on the line, and he patched me through to a team of detectives in the area.

“Madison, it’s Sue Niedermeier. Dispatch says you found a body in Native Texas Park?”

“Yes, but we had to stop off at a gas station. I told Tsu not to have a third burrito from that new bodega near the station. We’ll be there in about ten minutes. In the meantime, I’ll send some uniforms to collect statements and contact information.”

Sue Niedermeier and Ling Tsu were two bright stars in the homicide division at the Lakewood Police Department. Their interrogations were so successful that they’d inspired a meme with their pictures and the words “You’ve been Sued!” Captain Tex Allen trusted them completely when it came to running an investigation, and that was all the validation I needed.

I handed the man’s phone back to him. He wiped the screen against his shirt before pocketing it. I relayed the dispatch officer’s request to the crowd, and they dispersed like the lights had come on after last call. By the time a pair of uniformed officers arrived, the only two people waiting with me were Connie and the man who’d lent me his phone. I suspected that until the cops showed up, he hadn’t believed a thing I’d said.

The sound of a police siren announced the arrival of the two Sues about ten minutes later. They entered the park the same way Connie and I had, scanning the common areas for the crowds that should have been there considering the perfect weather. Sue greeted me first.

I’d gotten to know the two Sues over the past few years but knew enough about police business to keep personal separated from professional. “Officer Niedermeier, Officer Tsu. Thank you for coming.”

“They left after I told them to stay. I don’t think people wanted to cooperate.”

“I expected that. I told the uniforms to set up a perimeter. This way we can legitimately treat them like people of interest since they fled from a crime scene.” She and Ling exchanged a terse grin. “Could be a break in disguise.”

I led the two detectives to the tree line. From a distance, you almost couldn’t make out the presence of a body. There were multiple possibilities for what had happened, but the story of a young woman being attacked and killed in a public park was a nightmare. Both Ling and Sue were reserved, and I chalked their impersonal attitudes up to the fear that this murder might be the start of something bad for the city. Connie told them about spotting the body and coming back for me, and I told them how I’d checked the corpse for a pulse and borrowed this nice man’s phone to call them.

He unlocked his phone and handed it to her. She accessed the recently called numbers then pulled out her phone and took a picture of his screen.

“The time stamp on your call to the police is now part of the investigation.”

While we waited by the body, a white van pulled up, and a couple of city employees got out. I recognized Lloyd, the medical examiner. He was a thin white man with a shaved head and a unique approach to styling his facial hair. He’d grown his soul patch out and now had a trim goatee. He wore short sleeves, revealing a colorful dragon tattoo on his left arm.

Lloyd gave instructions to the others who’d arrived with him, then he joined our group. “Who touched her?” he asked.

Lloyd nodded. We stepped back and watched while he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. He stooped next to her body and examined her, first by observing her from head to toe. He gently lifted her arm by her wrist and raised it, then he rolled her so she was on her back. That’s when Connie gasped.

“That’s her,” Connie said. If it was possible, she’d gone even more pale.

“You know the victim?” Sue asked Connie. Her eyes had narrowed, and while it was near undetectable, I knew her well enough to know the question wasn’t conversational.

“No, it’s not,” Jake said. “Vanessa Wright is a lot prettier than that girl.”

Jake would have been wise to have left with the rest of the people in the park, because after a statement like that, he was the recipient of four harsh female glares. Sue and Ling were bound by protocol, so I took the lead.

“Murder? She’s dead, but she could have…” He looked at the body, and what had been relatively obvious to me from the moment Connie showed me a corpse under the tree line of the park finally dawned on him. His face turned beet red. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He stepped backward to distance himself from the scene, as if getting murdered was contagious.

“She has it,” he said, pointing at Tsu. “She took a picture of my phone.”

Sue ignored him and turned to me. “You can go home, Ms. Night. We know where to find you. Ms. Duncan, you can leave too.”

Connie was rooted to the ground, staring at Vanessa. She showed no signs of having heard Sue. I followed her sight line to Vanessa’s body, and that’s when I realized what bothered her.

From the photo in the paper plus Ned’s nearby apartment plus the ingénue in the park, I reached the conclusions Connie must have: walk of shame or romantic morning-after stroll. If it was the latter, then Ned might be close. This wasn’t the time or place for a chance run-in, even if it wasn’t so chance.

“Come on, Connie, let’s head back to your place.” I tugged Rocky’s leash, and he looked up at each of us in turn and yipped.

It was slow going to the park exit, though I wasn’t complaining. Both of the officers, normally friendly thanks to my relationship with their boss, had been aloof. Connie, Rocky, and I were half a block away when Sue called my name from behind us. I waited for her to catch up.

“Sure.” I handed Rocky’s leash to Connie. “Keep going. I’ll meet you at your place.”

Sue waited until Connie and Rocky reached the end of the block before speaking, but what she had to talk to me about wasn’t what I expected.

“Not about that. The captain arranged for everybody on the force to get physicals. The results came back last week. He didn’t tell you?”

“His results were abnormal. High blood pressure. The doctor put him on a bunch of medications and told him to go on a low-sodium diet immediately. Mediterranean diet, no red meat. You’re sure you haven’t already heard this?”

“If someone told Tex he couldn’t eat steak anymore, I’m pretty sure they’d hear it in Houston.”

“Right. That’s the thing. My dad had high blood pressure and ignored the doctor’s recommendations, and he died before he turned sixty. If Captain Allen didn’t tell you, then he doesn’t want you to know. But, Madison, pretending those tests didn’t reveal a problem doesn’t mean there’s not a problem.”

I thanked Sue for the information. Tex hadn’t said anything about his test results, and Sue wasn’t wrong for being suspicious. Tex was a meat-and-potatoes Texan. My bum knee and I weren’t the only ones experiencing the joys of being in our fifties.

I arrived back at Connie’s house to find her seated at her kitchen table with the formerly balled-up newspaper page spread out in front of her. Ned and Vanessa smiled at the camera, and Connie frowned at Ned and Vanessa, and I stared at Connie. Somebody had to do something.

Connie looked up at me. “Why do you think Vanessa was in the park near Ned’s apartment?”

“But the police are going to wonder. They’re going to see the picture in the paper and question him. It won’t look good for him.”

I sat down across from her. “The two Sues are good at their jobs. They’re going to find out the truth.”

“Maybe someone framed him. If the killer knew he knew her, how difficult would it be to lure here there to throw suspicion onto him?”

I didn’t indulge her theory. Instead, I said, “Don’t do this to yourself. It’s not healthy.”

“But Ned knew her.” She tapped the paper. “We know he knew her. If they were friends, he should know what happened.”

“You got involved. Back when you first moved to Dallas, those pillow stalkings happened. The cops were on the wrong trail, and you got involved and—”

Connie was quiet for several seconds. Rocky padded across her kitchen and curled up in a ball of fur on a small orange carpet under the window. I thought the conversation was over, but then she spoke.

“I need to know if he did this,” she said. “If I ever want to get over him, I need to know if he’s capable of murder.”

I watched my friend, watched her as she stared at her ex-husband’s picture in the paper. Before she found the charges on his credit card statement and followed the trail that revealed his secret life, she never would have allowed that Ned could do something like this. Maybe Connie was right, and maybe the truth would help her move on. Or maybe it would put her in the line of fire herself.

I left Connie’s house at quarter to ten and called Mad for Mod, my design studio on Greenville Avenue. Back when I first started my business, I’d set up shop there, using the storefront as a showcase for staged vintage and refurbished furniture pieces and one-on-one design consultations with prospective clients. Business had boomed a few years ago, and I’d expanded into a satellite office that sat next to my house. On days when the calendar was light, I let Lily, my full-time office manager (and Tex’s sister) run the showroom while I worked close to home. Today felt like a work-close-to-home kind of day.

“Lily, it’s Madison. We don’t have anything on the calendar, do we? I was going to work in the warehouse.”

“Yeah, you do. That prospective new client for a commercial gig, remember? He left a message on the machine last week. He’s already here. He was waiting in the lot when I got here at ten. He apologized for being early. I made coffee and told him to look around, that you’d be in soon.”

“Right. Of course.” I glanced down at my camp shirt and Bermuda shorts. Not the most professional of ensembles for meeting with a client, but not critical enough to require a change at home. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I parked my Alfa Romeo into the lot behind my studio shortly thereafter and allowed Rocky to lead the way. Two cars were in the lot: Lily’s white hatchback and a restored Pontiac GTO. I entered the studio through the door at the back and found Lily in my office, brewing a fresh pot of coffee in my electric percolator.

“Hey, Madison. Your appointment is in the showroom. He said he always loved looking at your inventory.”

“That’s what I thought too. He’s down as a commercial job in South Dallas, but he didn’t give me any additional information.”

I turned at the sound of the voice, familiar yet not, and faced Connie’s ex-husband.

If I hadn’t seen Ned’s picture in the paper, it might have taken a moment to place him. He was still tall and thin, still attractive. His style was still 1950s hipster, but age had added a layer of respectability. His hair had started to gray, not significantly but enough to notice. He’d traded his bowling shirts and dark denim jeans with the two-inch cuffs for a beige tropical-weight suit and a plaid linen shirt.

If Ned was involved in the murder of Vanessa Wright this morning—or last night, depending on the official time of death—he was one cool cucumber. I found myself in the unusual position of wanting to send him packing on behalf of Connie and wanting to hear him out. It wasn’t because he represented a new job for my business, though I was as shrewd as the next businesswoman, but because once upon a time, I’d considered him a friend. He was one of the very few links that existed between my current life and the one I’d left behind.

I turned to Lily. “Can you take Rocky out for a walk and then work in the showroom? I’d like to meet with Ned in my office.”

Lily smiled at Ned. “Madison’s good at what she does. I hope you hire her.” A flush of pink colored her cheeks.

Rocky followed Lily to the showroom, and Ned followed me to my office. Ned sat in a Barcelona chair in front of the one-of-a-kind desk my former handyman had made from scraps of furniture that couldn’t be repaired. I sat behind the desk and opened a sketch pad, ready to make notes or defend myself with a mechanical drafting pencil depending on how this meeting went.

“I’m sorry you got in the middle of things with Connie,” Ned said. “I shouldn’t have done what I did, but I hate that she found out that way.”

I held up my hand. “If you booked time on my calendar to apologize for something in your personal life, then this appointment is over.”

“No,” he said. “This is about a job. I didn’t think you’d consider it until I apologized.”

“Ned, unless you want to hire me to design Connie’s dream house in an ill-conceived plan to win her back with mid-century modern design, in which case I’ll politely recuse myself from the talent pool, I’m interested in your job. My office manager said it was a commercial property in South Dallas?”

“Sort of. It’s a residential ranch house now, but I want to convert it into a recording studio for commercial use.”

“You’re a band promoter, right? Don’t your clients record their music with record labels?”

“That’s the thing. I want to expand into production. Nothing big, but some hand-selected acts. I want a studio that sounds like a fifties studio with vintage acoustics.”

“There are two kinds of people in this world. The first kind buys Apple iPhones the day they’re released. I’m the second kind. You are too. We respect the past. We know there was something there that’s being erased a little bit more every day. I’m not in the business of preservation. I want to interact with that equipment, those elements, to make something today that comes from mastering the tools of yesterday. I want a studio that looks and sounds like the kind of joint where Elvis could have laid down a track at the beginning of his career. That’s my vision, anyway. I befriended a guy in Nashville who retired, and he offered me his equipment for a sweet price.”

Any hesitancy on Ned’s part evaporated as he spoke about his idea, and I warmed to it too. He knew which of my buttons to push. Most of my projects were residential: Kitchens, bedrooms, and living rooms were among the most popular, though the occasional pink bathroom made the list too. I’d done a full house design for Lily and her four boys when they moved to Dallas. The closest I’d come to commercial real estate was a pajama factory that had been bequeathed to me. I’d turned it into a shared workspace.

What Ned knew that most of my other clients did not was that I’d trained myself by studying the sets of Doris Day movies. Her body of work took place during my favorite era of design, starting in 1948 and ending in 1968. The richest twenty years in decorating history, in my opinion. But through every job I’d taken since hanging out my shingle five years ago, I’d never had a chance to pay tribute to the actress’s love of music.

“If you’re converting a residential property to a commercial one, you’ll need to apply for permits before—”

“Already done. I have the necessary permits, and I filed the paperwork to establish the business.”

“Sounds like you’ve already done your homework. Do you want to give me some parameters before I work up a bid for the job?”

“There won’t be a bid. If you want the job, it’s yours. I’ve already signed two acts to my label, but until the studio is ready, we’re in limbo.”

I knew the answer to my next question before I asked, but compulsion is a funny thing. “Anybody I’ve heard of?”