Killer Market

2

« ^ » “Falstaff’s question, ‘Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ is an expression of that complete comfort and entire independence which travellers in all ages and in all nations have at least expected to find in a public house.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

Yesterday—Thursday—had started out so nicely, too, a beautiful sunny day in mid-April. I finished court early, ran a couple of errands, and by the time I finally left Dobbs, I knew I was going to be hitting High Point around rush hour, but hey, there are rush hours and then there are rush hours, right?

High Point’s about a hundred miles west of Dobbs. The only time I’d actually driven through it was a few summers back when my friend Kiernan was visiting from California and was suddenly seized by a desire to see Old Salem. We were talking so hard when we got to the I-85/I-40 split at Greensboro that I took the wrong fork and was on my way to Charlotte before Kiernan, who was supposed to be navigating, caught it. To get over to Winston-Salem, I had to cut back through High Point.

I remembered a sleepy main section though, about six blocks wide and four or five blocks deep, with a lot of furniture stores sitting on broad streets that were mostly oneway. (“There aren’t enough cars on these streets to justify stoplights,” Kiernan had said, “so why all the one-ways?”) With a total population of seventy thousand or so, how bad could its rush hour be?

As soon as I exited off of I-85 onto Main Street, I found out.

Ten minutes past five and judging by the way cars and buses were streaming away from midtown, Pharaoh had just said, “I’ll let you people go,” and the children of Israel were rushing toward the Red Sea as if pursued by locusts and serpents.

Where were all these people coming from? Too late for basketball, too early for football, and the Greater Greensboro Open wouldn’t start for another week or two. Besides, from what I could see of the shirts and ties and conservative suit jackets on the people inching past, they weren’t dressed like golf enthusiasts, who tend to favor green blazers or turquoise and coral knits.

At the Atrium Inn, inbound traffic was held up while an outbound bus in the opposite lane disgorged at least a dozen passengers who blithely crossed against the light, heading for the motel. The men mostly wore business suits and wingtips, several of the women wore sneakers with their suits or business dresses. All seemed to carry heavy briefcases and notebook computer bags.

When I got to the Radisson Hotel, the parking attendant tried to wave me off, but I slid into an Unloading Only space near the front entrance.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he began, “but you can’t—”

“It’s Judge,” I said firmly. “And I am unloading just as soon as I register.”

As I headed for the main door, I caught a glimpse of early revelers standing with drinks in hand on a bricked patio that probably connected to a bar. Five-thirty on a Thursday evening? When did sleepy little High Point turn into a party town?

I threaded my way through milling clumps of people to the front desk, where a slender black clerk gave me a slightly frazzled smile when I set my purse on her pink marble counter and told her I wanted to register.

“Your reservation confirmation number, ma’am?”

“Well, actually, I don’t have a reservation,” I admitted.

“No reservation?”

In retrospect, I can appreciate how very well trained the Radisson staff is. Her jaw didn’t drop, she did not tear at her stylish French twist, nor did she break into gales of laughter. Instead, she gave me a look of such commiseration that I almost expected her to pat my hand. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re full. It’s Market Week, you know.”

“Market Week?” I asked blankly, having heard the capital letters in her tone.

“The International Home Furnishings Market.”

Furnishings. As in furniture. As in that large gold-framed drawing on the wall behind her. It showed, in cutaway detail, how a massive credenza of Italian Renaissance origin had been replicated for mass marketing by a local company.

“Ma’am, this week’s been booked solid for months. In fact, most of our rooms were reserved last year.”

I read the gold name tag pinned to her neat navy blue blazer.

“Listen, Marilyn,” I said, using my best just-us-girls-together tone, “I really do need a room. I’m a district court judge and I’m supposed to hold court here tomorrow morning.”

Marilyn was unmoved. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Perhaps you’ll get a cancellation?”

The gold hoops in Marilyn’s ears swung sympathetically as she shook her head.

“Even if we did, our waiting list is pretty long. Why don’t you try the Chamber of Commerce’s housing bureau? They might could fix you up with something in a private house.” She glanced at the clock. “You’ll have to hurry though. I think they close at five-thirty.”

It was now 5:35, but she said the housing bureau was only a mile or so further along Main Street. “And sometimes they stay open a little later at the beginning of Market.”

She gave me more specific directions, which I took rather reluctantly.

A room in someone’s house? A sofa bed in someone’s living room? Having to make small talk for the next six or eight days?

I didn’t think so.

It was moot anyhow. By the time I got to the housing bureau, it was closed.

No big deal, I thought. So the Radisson was filled. There were other hotels.

“You don’t have a reservation?” the clerk at the Holiday Inn asked incredulously. “In Market Week?”

The receptionist at the turquoise-and-pink Super 8 Motel suggested that I call the housing bureau. “They can usually come up with something.”

I pointed out that the housing bureau was closed for the day.

“Oh, but it’ll be open first thing tomorrow,” she assured me cheerfully as she bustled away to help guests lucky enough to have confirmed reservations.

The Atrium Inn sports faux marble frescoes, a small waterfall, and a wonderfully tacky statue of King Neptune, even though High Point is two hundred miles from the ocean. But I could have been a mermaid with starfish pasties and it wouldn’t have helped me one iota, because guess what?

“It’s Market Week,” said the manager to whom I appealed after the front desk turned me away. He spoke slowly and distinctly, as if I might be four oysters short of a peck. “You’d probably have to go forty miles to find a vacancy this week.”

I co-opted a phone book at a second-story food court down the street and carried it over to an empty table, determined to prove him wrong. Several phone calls later, I realized he’d sadly underestimated. Some of the national chains had rooms available in Durham or Charlotte, both at least seventy miles away. Nothing in Greensboro or Winston.

“They must be having a big convention or something in that area,” the 1-800 Reservations person for Embassy Suites apologized. “We’re showing full occupancy through next Wednesday.”

Now I’m not a complete ignoramus. I do know that High Point is probably the center of the state’s enormous furniture industry—that’s the main reason I took this assignment. I’ve finally decided to get a house of my own and I figured I could spend the weekend browsing stores and pick up some ideas about styles, colors and prices.

And yeah, I’d heard of the Southeastern Furniture Market before it went international and changed its name, but it didn’t affect me or anybody I knew so I never paid it much attention. I certainly had no idea it was so huge that it could take over the whole Triad.

As I slid my new flip phone back into my purse, I was beginning to have second thoughts about that sofa bed in someone’s living room. If there truly was no room at the inn for me, I’d have to scrap the idea of shopping and instead drive back home tomorrow night and see if I could talk Aunt Sister into letting me borrow her RV for the week, assuming I could get away with parking it beside the courthouse for that long.

The food court had filled up while I’d been on the phone. At the next table several women with Iowa accents were regaling each other about their lodging arrangements. From their groans and laughter, I gathered that four of the women and two male co-workers were sharing a private house that their company had rented for the week.

“—just two bathrooms. I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink this morning while Sam was making coffee.”

“Was that Sam snoring last night? I thought I’d never get to sleep.”

“—from the Friedman chain, says they lucked out this year. Four bedrooms, three baths and only five people, but one of them—”

More of their friends arrived. My table for four was down to two chairs, and as one of the Iowans started to confiscate the remaining empty, a smaller, oddly dressed woman put out her hand to stop her.

“Excuse me,” she said in a deep gravelly voice. She wasn’t much taller than five one or five two. Her build was that of a young, sexless child, but her voice could have been Lauren Bacall’s had Lauren Bacall been born with a thick Southern accent. “I believe this is my chair?”

The words themselves were courteous enough and even ended on a polite up-tone, the sort of tone that many cultivated women use when pretending they might be mistaken in their understanding of the situation. As with such ladies, there was so much ice beneath the politeness that Iowa backed away, apologizing profusely.

“You are alone this evening, are you not?” the woman asked me, seating herself in the disputed chair and settling two canvas tote bags at her feet like one of my aunts after a hard day of shopping. This being High Point though, her bags had the logo of a large furniture company.

It was a week past Easter, the date when it becomes officially permissible in the South to wear white shoes and pastels; and this small-boned woman was dressed like a slightly disheveled Easter egg. Layers of pink, green and lavender chiffon scarves enveloped her body. Her wide-brimmed garden hat was woven from pale lavender straw and had lavender and green ribbons that tied beneath her chin. The hat itself had slipped down onto her shoulders and her wiry gray hair was barely constrained by a chignon that looked dangerously close to exploding. She wore pale blue tights and dirty pink satin ballerina slippers.

I reserved judgment because the South is full of elderly eccentric women who may look like bag ladies but who turn out to be the wealthy blue-blooded widows or spinster daughters of exceedingly prominent men.

“Mrs. Jernigan,” she said in that hoarse voice, abruptly extending the tips of her fingers. “Matilda McNeill Jernigan.”

“Judge Knott,” I replied, extending my own fingers.

She frowned. “What makes you think I would?”

It was a common error.

“That’s my name,” I explained. “Deborah Knott. I’m a district court judge.”

“Really? How fascinating. And is your husband a judge, too?”

Well, of course, she’s that generation that still defines a woman by the man in her life.

“Y’all eating?” asked the teenage busboy as he removed a cup and napkin left by a previous diner and gave the table a quick swipe with his cloth. He pointedly straightened a small placard that read, “Please be mindful of others during Market Week and vacate this table when you’ve finished eating.”

Actually, food was beginning to sound like a good idea. I glanced around at the various kiosks. The choices ranged from pan pizzas and fried chicken to alfalfa salads and yogurt.

I glanced inquiringly at my tablemate. “Could I get you something while I’m up?”

“Why, thank you,” she said, and inclined her small head so graciously that I realized she thought I had invited her to be my guest. “I do like a little something to take the edge off my appetite before the parties. Perhaps turkey salad on a croissant and hot tea with lemon? Wine will flow, I fear, and a lady should not risk the danger of an empty stomach.”

Turkey salad and hot tea sounded as good a choice as any and quicker than waiting on lines at separate stands.

When I returned with two of everything, I found Matilda McNeill Jernigan absorbed by the yellow pages that still lay open on the table.

She lifted the thick book in her little hands and held it out of the way while I set down our tray. I returned it to the telephone stand, and as I got back to the table, Mrs. Jernigan took out a tiny coin purse, carefully extracted two pills, one a green-and-white capsule, the other a white tablet, and laid them beside her plate.

Seeing her pills reminded me that I was due for a pill of my own. I’d had a throat that was raw as freshly ground hamburger last week and the doctor had prescribed ten days of antibiotics—one tablet three times a day. They were supposed to be evenly spaced, but I kept forgetting and instead of one tablet every eight hours, it was apt to be ten hours for one and six hours for the next till I was back on schedule. How on earth people with chronic conditions manage to keep it all straight, I can’t begin to imagine. I swallowed the tablet and was thankful that I had only one more day to go.

Between nibbled bites of her croissant, Mrs. Jernigan gave me a concerned look and said, “I could not help but notice that you were calling hotels. Please do not tell me you have no place to stay?”

“Afraid so,” I admitted.

She made a duckling sound of sympathy. “In Market Week, too.”

“I had no idea that Market was this big a deal,” I said ruefully. “There must be ten thousand people here from all over the country.”

“Try seventy thousand.“ Her tone was dry. ”From all over the globe. And it is a big deal. This is when the town comes fully to life. Ten days in April, another ten in October.“

With a sweep of chiffon, she gestured toward the big windowless buildings that could be seen from our table overlooking Main Street. “Seven million square feet of showrooms in a hundred and fifty places around the area and all the buildings are dark and silent for three hundred days of the year. Then we have a month of hustle—tearing out walls, putting in new ones, laying carpets, painting, hanging wallpaper, installing the furniture—just to get ready for nine days of buyers. Retailers come from all over the world to order the chairs and couches and case goods that will wind up in Mediterranean villas and Manhattan penthouses. Japanese decorators will buy outrageously expensive bibelots to grace a chain of hotels from Nagasaki to Sapporo. And those polyvinyl chaises that a newly famous Hollywood star will buy for her first swimming pool next fall? Someone will sell the line to a California distributor this week.”

The Midwesterners at the next table were raising their eyebrows at each other, but Mrs. Jernigan was oblivious. Her voice became throatier, her dark eyes flashed and I abruptly downgraded her age from late sixties to mid-fifties at most. The gray hair had fooled me.

This was no little old dowager.

“Think of the great couturiers who show their spring and fall fashions,” she said. “High Point is Paris! New York! The Milano of the furniture industry!”

“No wonder I couldn’t find a room.” Half-jokingly, I added, “I don’t suppose you have a spare couch you could rent me for the night?”

Mrs. Jernigan drew back so sharply that all her layers of pastel chiffon swayed and quivered as if tossed by the wind. “Stay with me? Oh, no, that would not do at all. No, no, no. That is totally out of the question.”

Her hat bumped the back of her chair and more wisps of wiry gray hair escaped from her chignon. She was becoming so agitated that I quit feeling offended and urged her to take a sip of tea while it was still hot.

She held the plastic cup to her lips with both hands and took several swallows. When she was calm again, she said, “I cannot extend you hospitality, but perhaps I do know someone who can help. However, she will not be there until later. Would you like to go to a party or two first? Experience the Market for yourself?”

“Sure,” I said. What the hell?

Matilda McNeill Jernigan finished her turkey salad croissant, fished around in one of her tote bags and came out with a plastic badge holder which she pinned to a green chiffon scarf on her shoulder. The name on the badge was Louisa Ferncliff, representing Quality Interiors of Seattle, Washington.

She tilted her head closer to mine and I smelled rose cologne and a faint hint of that ubiquitous almond-scented liquid hand soap one finds in most public restrooms these days. Her husky voice dropped to a more confidential level. “Press badges are better.”

She eyed the badge on a raincoat that someone at the next table had draped over the back of a chair next to mine and I wondered if I were about to see a minor felony committed. “Press badges get you into any showroom without people trying to sell you a truckload of coffee tables, but a buyer’s will do fine too. A word to the wise thought—do not try to get into a showroom while wearing an exhibitor’s badge. They will think you are a spy.”

She fished around in her bag again and frowned. “They all seem to be males and—Ah! Have you a black pen?”

I handed over my favorite Pentel and watched as she artistically changed Jack Sotelli of Home-Lite in Newark, New Jersey, to Jacki Sotelli.

“Should anyone notice, just flirt your eyes and say that they always misspell your name,” she said, adjusting her scarves before gathering up her bags to go.

I pinned the badge to my jacket dubiously. “But I don’t know a thing about Newark.”

“Then you will have to pretend you have just been transferred, will you not?”