Twenty-four states and the District of Columbia require some form of licensing for interior designers. These states typically require designers to hold a degree in interior design from an accredited program and pass the National Council for Interior Design Qualification (NCIDQ) exam.
It was getting late on a Monday and I was tired after a long weekend of drinking, napping, watching televised sports, waking up–lather, rinse, repeat, etc., but my condition was worsened–although that seemed impossible–by the chipper cheerfulness of my junior sidekick, Edward “Teddy” Buncombe.
“What’s our next stop?” he blurted out, just as I was thinking we weren’t that far from Bill’s Bar, voted Most Depressing Common Victualler in the Greater Boston area for five (5) years running.
“I was thinking we should call it a day, so it can turn into a night,” I said, almost busting a gut keeping my eyes open.
“But we don’t officially get off until 5 o’clock, and it’s only 4:30,” he replied breathlessly. “I want to catch a perp ‘in flagrante delicto.'”
“Wasn’t he a rhumba bandleader of the fifties?”
Teddy looked at me with a wild surmise. He’s still a probationary cadet on the Home Decorating Patrol, as he hasn’t passed his NCIDQ exam.
“That’s a joke,” I said as I tipped my hat back on my head with a world-weary air. “Back in the 50s and 60s . . .”
“18 or 19 hundred?” The kid’s a real card.
“A Latin dance craze swept the nation. Xavier Cugat was huge.”
“So?”
“So Inflagrante Delicto led a highly-popular rhumba band.”
“He did?”
“Fooled you,” I said, and was about to continue in a gloating fashion until a crackling voice came over our two-way radio.
“I’ve got a report of an unlicensed swag and jabot installation on 37 Oakridge Road,” it said.
“Copy that–we’re on it like a duck on a June bug,” I barked into the mic, then to my young partner, “Exit here and hang a right.”
“Will do!” the kid said, bubbling over with excitement. “What’s a . . . swag and jabbo?”
“It’s a window treatment,” I said.
“What’s a window treatment?”
“Fancy name for drapes and curtain rods.”
“Why can’t they just say that?”
It was time to level with the tyro. “Because if they did, they couldn’t charge the exorbitant, sky-high, monopolistic rates that good, hard-working, decent, licensed interior decorators make.”
“Gosh,” he said. “I had no idea gypsy . . . ”
“You can’t say that anymore.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Roma. They’re a proud people who get a bad rap. They don’t steal babies, they just give you a low bid to resurface your driveway, spray on a coat of black paint and leave.”
“I didn’t know that. So the licensed, rent-seeking interior decorators are the good guys?”
“Pull over and turn off the car,” I snapped. This kid was so green, the stork could put him under a cabbage leaf and no one would be the wiser. “When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you’ll realize there are no good guys. We’re hired by one side to shut down the other–that’s all.”
He averted his gaze and looked down at the steering wheel. There wasn’t much to see.
“You’re so cynical,” he said after a moment, and I could feel the innocence leaving his body like pepperoni fumes after a night of pizza and beer.
“I have to be. You ready?”
“I guess.”
“Got your violation pad?”
“Yep.”
“Your tape measure.”
“Check.”
“Is your glue gun loaded?”
He put his hand on his holster and fingered–rather lovingly I thought–his Martha Stewart Crafts Dual Temperature Glue Gun. “Have you . . . ever had to use yours?” he asked hesitantly. If I was a dog I could have smelled his fear, but I wasn’t. At least I couldn’t smell pepperoni, which was only a figure of speech I used a few paragraphs ago.
“Just once,” I said. “Kid bumped into a bric-a-brac rack, all his mom’s tchotchkes broke. They called 911, we got there as soon as we could and did what we could, but it was hopeless. Forty little Hummels . . . smashed to smithereens.”
“Sad,” the kid said.
“Let’s roll.”
We exited the squad car as quietly as we could and made our way up the driveway. It was littered with balls, Big Wheel trikes, roller blades. A literal minefield, but we made our way gingerly to the back step and rang the door bell.
“Can I help you?” a woman who looked like June Cleaver said as she opened the door.
“Adam Proctor, Building Inspector, this is my partner Harry Easton.”
“How can I help you?”
“There’s been an earthquake, we wanted to make sure everything was okay here.”
“I didn’t notice any earthquake.”
“Those are the deadliest kind. They sneak up on you, tremor by tremor. After you’re lulled into a false sense of security, the aftershocks hit, causing all your decorative figurines to tumble out of your curio shelf.”
“I can assure you none of my clients has such tacky furnishings,” a voice shellacked by years of cocktails slurped down in pre-indoor smoking ban bars said with a husky growl.
“I gave you our names–what are yours?” I asked, as innocent as a eunuch census taker.
“I’m Holly Birdsell,” the woman of the house said.
“And I’m Miriam Talcott,” the Joan Crawford look-alike said with disdain.
“Having a ladies’ lunch?” I asked.
“No, Miriam is my–ouch!” Birdsell screamed. “Why’d you do that?”
“I have a trick knee,” Talcott replied. “Sometimes it . . . goes haywire.”
I smelled a rat, and I wasn’t about to let it out of my trap. “Mind if we look around?”
“I don’t see why not,” Birdsell said.
Talcott gave her a look that could’ve micro-waved a potato. “Well, we were . . . in the middle of something.”
“Aren’t we all,” I said as I slipped past her into the kitchen.
“What is it you’re looking for?” Birdsell asked.
“Little cracks where the walls meeting the ceiling,” I said as I eyed the crown molding. As was the case with most suburban housewives, it didn’t look like she allowed any living to go on in the living room.
“Could our house be . . . condemned?” Birdsell asked, her voice tinged with concern.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” I said, swinging around and giving her my smarmiest public sector smile. “But your friend here is in big trouble.”
I saw Talcott bring her sample book of fabrics down on my sidekick’s head, knocking him cold. Then she pulled a snub-nose .38–a silver one no less–out of her Kate Spade handbag. “You’ve got nothing on me, copper!” she snarled.
“Yes I do,” I said. “You got these materials–all of them–from an interior design warehouse under false pretenses.”
“I’m as honest as the day is long.”
“It’s September, the days are getting shorter.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Not as funny as this,” I said as I picked up her business card from a marble-top table. “Miriam Talcott, LLC–Interior Decorator.”
“It’s just a little hobby of mine.”
“Show me your license and everything’s Jake–except for the bump on my partner’s head.”
“It’s in here somewhere,” Talcott said as she fished in her purse. “Here it is.”
Her hand touched mine. I looked down, and saw Andrew Jackson looking up at me.
I snorted, and showed it to the kid. “You think I can be bought off for a measly twenty bucks, when the fine for Unauthorized Practice of Interior Decoration is $50?”
A crestfallen look stole over her face, like the shadow of a cloud passing over a beach at the end of summer. “Fine,” she said, as she reached in her purse and pulled out another twenty. “Would you take $40?”
“Deal!”