Chapter Six
After getting Mike settled and fixing him a sandwich and a beer, I was unintentionally ten minutes late getting to
Chadra
. For once, I didn’t have to sit alone at a table waiting, looking like I’d been stood up. Tom was there.
He greeted me with a peck on the cheek and “It’s been way too long, Kelly. You’re looking great. Marriage must agree with you.”
We sat, I ordered ice tea, declined the buffet on the grounds I ate too much last time, and ended up with a delicious bowl of tomato-basil soup and a small house salad. Tom excused himself to go to the buffet and came back with his plate loaded. I was glad I had resisted.
Tom had requested a corner table, well away from other diners. Even so, he leaned in confidentially as he spoke. “Kelly, I’ve got a big deal going, a shopping center on Magnolia.”
“I heard, Tom. Where on Magnolia?”
“Just west of Hemphill, south side of the street. Across the street from the Paris Coffee Shop and those offices. I think we can do it with two square blocks.”
“Those buildings have a historic designation. You can’t touch them,” I said.
“Just some junk things. There’s a new sushi restaurant—I hear it’s good by the way, but if so, they can relocate. Let’s see, one of those yoga places, a taco place, that small independent bank that will probably get picked up soon by one of the big banks anyway. Stuff like that. I guess there’s an antique or junk store. Oh, and an old guy who repairs old clocks, has a ton of them in a jumble in his shop.”
Those weren’t junk businesses to me. I banked at that bank because I liked having everyone from tellers to bank officers call me by name and take a real interest in my business. And now it was where Claire worked. I had sold the yoga studio property to the young single mother, who took a chance with her livelihood and her child’s well-being to make a dream come true. I checked on her from time to time—she wasn’t getting rich, but she was hanging on. Taking her classes was one of the things I told myself I’d do when I had time—somehow that appealed to me more than Claire’s offer. Keisha sometimes brought us tacos for lunch from that taqueria. Those businesses were more than old buildings. They were people to me—and that’s what matters in Fairmount.
“The businesses, junk or not, aren’t the point. The buildings are on the national historic register. You can’t just tear them down.” At one square mile, Fairmount is the largest historic district in the Southwest.
“We can get a variance. This project is backed by big people. Gas wells. People who have power in the city. We’ll build to fit the neighborhood, believe me. Nothing stark and modern. We might even get Mike Smith to move the Paris Coffee Shop to our property.”
Mike Smith would love that. His second-generation family business part of a shopping center.
“What’s the big-box store? I heard some kind of new grocery store.”
“The Grapevine’s good on this one. That’s close. I’m talking with people behind a new store, Wild Things, an upscale grocery store, like a mini Whole Foods or Central Market, only more focus on local products and less on upscale and gourmet.
Locavore
is a big thing these days. Golden opportunity for me. They’ll construct, manage, all I have to do is….” His voice dropped off.
I’d heard all that or most of it from Christian, but what was Tom’s part? “All you have to do is what?” I prompted.
He looked startled. “Pardon me?”
“You said all you have to do is but you never finished the sentence.”
Nervous laugh. “Oh, that. All I have to do is act as liaison with the city, help them get established, do a little marketing.”
He was covering something. “Tom, you know as well as I do that this is exactly what the neighborhood doesn’t want on Magnolia. We’re trying to improve and restore the entire area, make it like it used to be, not add a lot of unsightly on-the-street parking lots plus all the traffic a shopping center would bring. I can’t support you on this.” I didn’t say that if he built across the street, on the north side of Magnolia, he’d be out of Fairmount. It would still be a travesty. Besides, the spaces on the north side were taken up with new professional buildings, built within the last couple of years and designed to blend into the area. Several blocks west you got into smaller businesses—junk, Tom would have called them.
Lili’s
Bistro, the restaurant Mike and I loved,
Nonna
Tata, another favorite, a Middle Eastern restaurant that predated the influx of new restaurants, a Curves Studio, a Mexican restaurant that served authentic Mexican food rather than Tex-Mex and was a breakfast favorite for residents.
“You’re wrong, Kelly. The young professionals who live in Berkeley and Fairmount and Mistletoe Heights will be delighted to have an upscale grocery—with a café, meals to go, all that good stuff. We’ve got support, petitions signed, the whole works….” He watched me for a reaction, and when he got none, he said, “I’m presenting the proposal to the zoning board next week and I’d love to have your name on it as a supporter. I’ll give you leasing privileges on half the small stores if you can bring in suitable tenants.”
“There’s not room for satellite stores along with a big box,” I protested. “You’d need at least two full square blocks.” My mind said,
A huge chunk of Fairmount.
“That’s what the architect’s plans are projected on.”
“Why not put it on Eighth Avenue, between Fairmount and Berkeley and closer to Mistletoe Heights and Ryan Place? Those are all target neighborhoods.”
“There’s already Fiesta on Eighth. Not room for another big grocery.”
“Even one so different?” I saw what his problem was. There was no land that would work on Eighth, and not enough adjacent small businesses to tear down and create the space.
The more he talked, the more I tuned him out. When I did speak, I almost thought someone else had taken over my voice, because I was uncharacteristically forthright and rude. “Tom, I’m going to fight you every inch of the way on this one—petitions, zoning authority, city council. You name it.”
His voice was deadly calm. “Don’t fight me, Kelly. It could be dangerous. I have big money behind me on this one, people who aren’t afraid to use their power.”
“Well, I’m not afraid to use my voice,” I said. “Thanks for lunch.” And I rose, leaving half a bowl of soup and an untouched salad behind me. Tom just watched me go. I wondered if he’d anticipated my reaction.
My main worry was that Tom had really gotten the jump on any opposition. To say he had support could mean anything or nothing. But if he had petitions from Fairmount residents, that was a whole different kettle of fish.
Back in the office, I called Christian and motioned Keisha to listen in. “I just had lunch with Tom
Lattimore
. Told him I’d fight him all the way. I think we should start with the Fort Worth League of Neighborhood Associations. But Tom’s already got petitions.”
“I don’t need fancy expensive groceries,” Keisha muttered.
I ignored her. “Christian, I called John Henry Jackson at the landmark commission and he sort of brushed it off, said not to worry. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. John Henry doesn’t have much background in preservation. He got the landmark job by asking for it.”
Christian sighed. “That’s part of why preservation is such an uphill battle. People get involved without knowing what they’re doing.”
I went on. “I’ll draw up a petition, and we can get Jim Price to check it from a legal perspective. Nice to have a lawyer as current president of the Fairmount Neighborhood Association. We should meet quickly.”
“Good idea. The commission has a strong voice at city hall, and they’re really an advocate for preserving older neighborhoods.”
“Jim Price can call a special meeting of the neighborhood association.”
“Slow down, Kelly. We may have to wait till
Lattimore
makes a specific proposal before we can counter with petitions.”
“He says he’s presenting it next week. Wanted to have my name on it as a supporter.”
“Interesting. Once he presents it, his proposal becomes a public document. I think it would be really important to see who he’s in bed with. I doubt there are many if any names from the neighborhood. I think I’ll have breakfast at the Paris Coffee Shop tomorrow and talk to Jim.”
“Christian, one more thing. His last word to me sounded like a threat. Said he had big money behind him and people who weren’t afraid to use their power. I didn’t ask what kind of power, but he mentioned oil and gas money. Be careful.”
“Oil and gas money is all over Texas, let alone the county, these days. But I’ll be careful. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, and we can compare notes.”
When we hung up, Keisha looked at me and said, “You got yourself into the middle of it again, Kelly. Mike is
not
going to be pleased.”
I was wondering if people with money and power hired young girls in green Novas and brown Mustangs.
****
Thursday afternoon I checked the obituaries, but the
Star-Telegram
didn’t keep four-week-old ones online unless the person was a really major figure. Trying to avoid another long day lost in the archives of the paper, which are in the University of Texas at Arlington library and meant a good thirty-minute trip each way, I called Martha Blackmon, a features writer I knew casually who had helped me once before. When I outlined my request, she laughed and said, “You do come up with the strangest requests, Kelly. Sure, I’ll see what I can find and email you. Give me your email again.”
Good as her word, she was back to me with some information before I left to get the girls. Rosalinda Garza was the daughter of a single mother, Lola Garza. A quick look at the phone book showed only one Lola Garza on the near North Side. I resolved to pay a sympathy call the next day and thought that maybe a Ranch Oak spiral cut ham would make a good gift. I admitted to myself that over a month later was a bit late for a sympathy call, not to mention the traditional gift of food. But I guess I was imagining that Mrs. Garza could use a little extra food. Martha’s email indicated that Rosalinda had three brothers and a twin sister. The latter bit of information gave me a real stab in the heart.
I ordered the ham, to be picked up the next morning at nine, and went to get the girls, admittedly feeling a bit righteous. No, I did not tell Keisha, Buck Conroy, or Mike what I was planning to do. Sometimes I’m a bit slow to learn life’s lessons.
For once, Mike didn’t ask, “What are you hiding from me?” He and the girls seemed completely oblivious to the fact that I had a secret plan, although I usually wore such plans plastered on my face like a poster shouting, “Ask me what I’m about to do.”
We had a peaceful evening—I grilled hamburgers that Mike said were almost as good as his, the girls did their homework without protest, and when they were settled in bed with their books and a fifteen-minute warning, I helped Mike with his stretching exercises. He was frustrated—and a bit grouchy—because he wasn’t making progress as fast as he wanted. I pointed out it was only five weeks, and he was beginning to bear a little weight on that leg. He refused to take walks, although they were recommended, because he wasn’t going to be seen in “his” neighborhood on a walker. Pointing out that he was a non-cooperative patient didn’t help. Lately at therapy sessions they’d been keeping him longer to make him walk the track, which he could do with his walker and about half his weight on his bad leg. I suggested he ride the stationary bike in the garage, but he pointed out that he hadn’t been okayed to use it yet.
“Well, ask about the bike. You could go out the front door to the apartment. See, isn’t it a good thing Keisha didn’t move in there?”
He gave me a dark look, and I subsided. Mike, I had discovered, was not an easy patient. Men never are, but somehow I expected more of him, too much probably since he was almost always good-natured and easygoing. Only a few things could push his buttons, but being handicapped was one of them. He itched to get back to work, even if it was a desk job. “I’d answer the damn phones,” he exploded.
The next morning I kissed him goodbye and told him I’d see him at noon, even suggested we go to the Grill for a change. It wasn’t a therapy day, so I had the morning free. I walked the girls into their classrooms and hugged them goodbye—Em would still kiss me, but Maggie was beyond that—and left for the North Side with a light heart.
Keisha was the only fly in my ointment. When I ran by the office, she asked, “You’re going to be out of the office
why?
”
“I’m going to pay a sympathy call on Rosalinda Garza’s family. But don’t tell Mike.”
“The minute you say don’t tell Mike, my radar goes into overdrive. Just what do you think you’ll accomplish?”
“I want to find out who’s stalking us.”
“And you think one of them is going to come right out and say, ‘Yeah, I been following you’?”
I didn’t know what I expected but I didn’t tell Keisha that. Just told her to be sure to watch for calls from Christian or Tom
Lattimore
, and I’d be back before lunch.
“Don’t you bother yourself about this office. I can sell real estate. But I thought I was supposed to go with you on this jaunt.”
“I decided I can do it alone. You stay here and sell real estate.”
Hmmm. Maybe Keisha should get a license. What a great idea to explore—but not now.