Pillow Stalk

by Diane Vallere

  As if reading my mind, Hudson looked up at me. He had one knee on the gravel, one foot planted on the ground, as though he were about to propose to my car. “You better get moving. Rock’s gonna be hopping mad if you’re not home on time.”

  “I was just thinking that.”

  “I’ll take care of the car, you take care of him.” He stood up and slapped his hands against his black denim jeans. A lock of hair had fallen forward and when he pushed it away, his fingers left a dusty streak on his forehead. He walked over to me and put a hand on each of my upper arms. “Madison, it’s okay.” The light caught in his clear amber eyes, highlighting flecks of gold. With his hands gently resting on my arms, he turned me around. “Don’t worry so much,” he whispered and gave me a slight push toward his truck.

  I climbed into the cab, easily four feet higher than my sporty blue coupe and started the engine. The Rolling Stones poured out of the stereo, and for a second I smiled, picturing Hudson’s six foot frame folded up in my little blue Alfa Romeo, listening to the Doris Day CD I’d left in the player.

  He smiled back even though he wasn’t in on the joke, at least not yet, and waved while I drove away.

  It didn’t take long to get from the studio to my apartment building. On a good day, with Advil, I could walk it, but today was trash day, and I’d taken the opportunity to drive around Lakewood in search of castaway treasures that had since been moved to the storage unit behind my studio. I groped in the dark for the chain to the pink and brass floor lamp that sat inside the front door.

  “Rock? I’m home!”

  Soft rose light bathed the room, washing over a small caramel-colored Shih Tzu puppy in his crate, on his hind legs, barking short, hyper yaps.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Rocky,” I said while he showered me with affection. “I got a flat tire and Hudson came over to help.”

  His obvious enthusiasm had nothing to do with the mention of Hudson or the flat tire, but when it’s late and you live alone, you talk to your puppy and pretend he understands. I clipped on his light blue leash and grabbed my cell phone, then took him out front for a walk.

  Rocky sniffed at a patch of dandelions, then pulled me along the sidewalk. He was named after the other star of Pillow Talk, but it had morphed into Rocky because you can’t have a Shih Tzu without a perky name. And since I’m originally from Philadelphia, most people assumed I’d named him after the boxer, which might have made more sense if he actually was a Boxer.

  We returned to the apartment building, where I showered off the remains of the day, including two smudges of dirt on my upper arms left behind when Hudson had spun me around. I changed into white silk pajamas and Rocky followed me to the kitchen.

  One of us chewed on a slipper and one of us ate a bowl of ice cream. Just another day in the life of an independent, opportunistic, mid-century modern interior decorator with a Doris Day obsession.

  Or so I thought.

  True to his word, Hudson had my car neatly parked in my space the following morning, in time for me to go to Crestwood. Newer, more social swimming pools existed in Dallas, but they weren’t for me. What had started as the only form of exercise my knee could handle had become my escape. The ladies of Crestwood, mostly octogenarians, had long given up trying to fix me up with their sons and accepted me as one of their own. The old men eyed me with a different agenda, one that usually held steady at winks and stares. The more daring were not above an occasional pinch. Occasionally we dealt with a couple of newcomers who wanted to check out the novelty of the outdoor pool, but mostly it was just us. Swimming side by side the retired set fit my lifestyle.

  I tied Rocky to the lifeguard chair and dove into the cool water. My mind focused on the estate of Thelma Johnson. Just a bunch of junk she would never get rid of, her son had said. If I was right, that junk would be right up my alley.

  Between sets, I stood in the shallow end, stretching my shoulders. A motorcycle grumbled from the parking lot. I tugged on my white rubber swim cap too hard, and the rubber split. I pulled the cap off, tucked my goggles under the right leg of my bathing suit, and climbed out of the water. Mr. Popov, one of the occasional pinchers, sat next to my straw tote bag, the flyer with Steve Johnson’s number on top. The old man dangled a white terrycloth robe with pink and blue appliqué flowers from his hand. It was my favorite vintage cover-up, despite the unfortunate grape jelly stain at the hem.

  He looked away as Pamela Ritter walked in, holding a helmet in one hand. She shook her long hair to the side. Mr. Popov let out a low whistle as she strode past us, a far cry from the retro image she used for her promotional real estate flyer. I folded the piece of paper in half and shoved it into the pocket of my robe, not wanting her to see that I carried it with me. When I turned around, Mr. Popov’s hand connected with my behind. I quickly pulled on the robe and tossed the torn swim cap in the trash. I followed Pamela into the locker room, leaving him behind, snickering about, well, my behind.

  She changed into her bathing suit while I dressed in an early sixties, pale pink, double-breasted sleeveless tunic and matching pants. What was a costume to her was my regular style.

  “I don’t get it, Madison. You could do so much more business if you branched out into different eras. I mean, right now the fifties thing is hot, but trends like this don’t last forever. I mean, most people like big houses with central air.”

  “I’m curious. How can you sell them, when you don’t even like them?”

  “You saw my flyer. Great! What did you think of the graphics?”

  I thought it best not to answer that honestly. “Eye-catching.”

  “Did you like my picture? Can you tell I was copying you? Well, you and that old actress?”

  Despite the fact she had worn a dress that I saw last week in an Old Navy ad, it should have pleased me that she had used me as her role model. Truth is, I don’t look my age. The blonde hair, blue eyes and vintage clothes don’t hurt. Neither does the swimmer’s body. But my real secret weapon is the sunscreen I’ve applied every day since college. You can buy five hundred dollar moisturizer at the makeup counter at Macy’s, but you can’t buy long-term foresight. I had a feeling that concept would be lost on Pamela.

  Alice Sweet, a petite eighty-something, arranged her gray hair into a neat row of pin curls. “I saw the picture, Pamela, and I thought you looked darling. You and Madison could be mistaken for twins.” She continued to get ready, the clink of hairbrushes and bobby pins on the counter filling the room.

  “We don’t look that much alike,” Pamela said. She shut her locker and spun the lock, then slipped on a pair of white flip-flops with fluffy flowers on top, probably the only common items in our closets. Seconds after she left us behind she returned, rummaging between Alice’s and my bags in search of something.

  “Did you see my cap and goggles?” She knocked my wicker basket over and my robe fell out. “I can’t swim without them.”

  “I have an extra cap in the trunk of my car,” I said, and held out my keys. “But if you’re going to go out there, wear this. Mr. Popov is in rare form today, and you’ll need protection.” I offered my robe with the other hand, a terrycloth olive branch to show I wasn’t offended by her earlier attitude.

  “This isn’t a photo shoot. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that robe.”

  “Madison,” Alice interrupted, “Andy Popov is my friend. You know you hurt his feelings when you don’t call him by his first name. It makes him feel old.”

  “Take the robe, Pamela.” I paused for emphasis. “Andy just slapped me, which means he saved the pinch for you.” I glanced at Alice to show her that I was trying, and kept the vintage cover-up extended.

  Pamela pulled on the robe and held the two sides together with her fist while the belt dragged behind her through dingy puddles of water. Her blonde hair hung in soft waves around her face, a far better look than the teased and sprayed style she favored when not playing the retro card. The irony was that I wanted to make her over as badly as sh
e wanted to me.

  I finished buttoning the front of my pink vest and dotted on minimal makeup. “I’ll get the robe back tomorrow,” I called to her back as I wrapped my bathing suit in a towel and tucked it inside the bottom of my straw tote. I realized she had the flyer with Steve Johnson’s phone number in the pocket of the robe and hurried to collect Rocky before catching up with her.

  I walked quickly through the entranceway, down three concrete steps to the unpaved parking lot, and shielded my eyes while I scanned the parking lot for her. My car sat where I’d left it, the closest space to the entrance, facing the tennis courts. A chain link fence, ten feet tall, separated the lot from the pool property; nothing a couple of teenagers interested in a midnight swim couldn’t overcome. Blocks of wood marked off each space, a smattering of bluebonnets and dandelions decorating the fringe of the property. Rocky ran along faster than I moved, exploding with barking as we approached the car.

  And that’s when I saw the body. A body wearing a pink, blue, and white terrycloth robe with fluffy floral appliqués and an unfortunate grape jelly stain. A body with tanned legs that stuck out from behind the rear wheels, wearing flip-flops with daisies on the top.

  THREE

  I scooped up Rocky and held him close while I stared at Pamela’s body. Only minutes ago, we were talking in the locker room, her full of life. She said she wouldn’t be caught dead in my robe. And now here she was…dead. In my robe. Despite the already warm temperature, goose bumps sprung over my flesh and I shivered.

  “Help!” I yelled. “Someone call 9-1-1!” Mr. Popov looked out of the entrance. “Call the cops!”

  He turned inside and repeated my instructions to someone I couldn’t see. Rocky yelped madly and I failed at trying to shush him. Mr. Popov came down the stairs as fast as his old legs could carry him. For the first time since I’d met him, the look on his face showed nothing but concern. It wasn’t long before the peaceful poolside scene turned into a menagerie of cop cars, an ambulance, pulsating lights, and swarms of people. Yellow crime scene tape appeared. A man in a tight white t-shirt snapped pictures of Pamela, the parking lot, the tracks in the dirt. Probably a lot more than that, I couldn’t tell. I had a hard time focusing on anything except Pamela’s body. The rest of the world was out of focus, like someone had slipped an experimental filter over my eyes.

  “Excuse me, are you Madison Night?” asked a pretty female cop, the first officer to arrive on the scene.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m Officer Donna Nast, with the Dallas Police Department. You found her?”

  I nodded.

  “What can you tell me?” she asked. Her dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail under her hat. Green eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips cast a contrast to the standard issue uniform she wore. I vaguely remembered what it was like to be her age, when being in charge felt the same as being in control.

  “I finished getting dressed and came out here after her. My dog started barking like crazy. That’s when I saw her–her legs, sticking out behind my car.” My stomach turned. “She’s…she is dead, right? Do you know what killed–do you know how?”

  “Not sure. The ME determines that.” She shielded her eyes and looked across the parking lot.

  “But…” I thought about Pamela’s body lying under my rear wheels. “If she was alive and I backed over her…” I hugged Rock so tight he yelped. I couldn’t believe what someone had done. “Did someone do that on purpose? To make it look like an accident?”

  “Could be.” Officer Nast watched my expression closely. “How well did you know her?”

  “Not that well.”

  “You said you came out here after her?”

  “I loaned her my robe. I left something in the pocket. Can I get it?”

  “No.”

  Several cars drove down the gravelly driveway of the pool, stopping by the uniformed officer who stood in the middle of the road. The first three turned around and drove away. The fourth, a Jeep, stopped. The driver exchanged words with the officer then continued and parked next to the shrubs across from the entrance.

  “I got a crime scene here. Can somebody please take responsibility for keeping the riffraff out of it?” Officer Nast called behind her. Nobody answered.

  “Did someone get your contact information?” she said to me.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Don’t go away yet.” She walked away. I was still standing next to my car, next to Pamela’s legs, and despite the fact that I was already outside, I needed fresh air.

  The Jeep’s driver walked toward me. Even from a distance I knew I had never seen him around Crestwood before. Thanks in part to the bent and worn straw cowboy hat on his head, the only hair I could see were his long, light brown sideburns. He had a boy’s expression on a man’s face. Laugh lines were etched onto tanned skin that set off glowing blue eyes. His square jaw clenched a few times while he took in the pool, the car, the body. Eventually his sweeping gaze connected with mine and his jaw relaxed.

  Rocky wriggled in my arms, and I knew what that meant. I set him down on the ground and let him pull me toward the sparse row of trees at the far end of the parking lot. Behind us, cops stood in a group by the snack bar; swimmers huddled together under the awning. Rock sniffed a beam of concrete that marked the end of a parking space, then lifted a leg and peed on it. Please don’t make him have to poo, I thought to myself. I don’t have a plastic bag and I don’t want to be seen carrying a turd around a crime scene. Then instantly I thought I was going straight to hell. What kind of a person thinks about dog turds when a woman just died?

  When Rocky finished his business I tugged his leash back the way we’d come. He pulled further the opposite direction.

  “Rocky! Not now.” I tugged him back. He pulled more of the slack from the leash. “Rocky! No!” I said in my bad-dog voice.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, is everything okay over here?” asked a casual drawl behind me. I turned around, and the man in the cowboy hat approached us.

  My pulse quickened and I wished I hadn’t strayed so far from the group of people clustered together by the chain link fence.

  “I’m fine, we’re fine. I mean, we’re not fine, but I’d rather not talk about it,” I said. For a second I wondered if he knew Pamela, if that was why he was here.

  He looked across the lot at Officer Nast. “Is she the one in charge?”

  I nodded. Involuntarily, I looked past his shoulder to my car, to Pamela’s legs. I felt dizzy and reached a hand out to steady myself with a tree branch. The branch snapped off in my grip.

  Cowboy hat’s blue eyes bored into me. They were the color of soft, bleached denim but as penetrating as steel. He was older than I’d originally thought, and something about the way he looked at me made me wonder if, as inappropriate as it would have been, his interest in me was because I was a pretty blonde standing alone by the edge of the pool’s parking lot. I tugged Rocky’s leash so we could rejoin the others.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “I had to get away from—my puppy wanted to investigate the trees,” I offered.

  “Investigate? You training him to be a police dog?” he asked. He smiled, and the boyish charm took over his face, putting me at ease. He stooped and petted Rock’s head. Rock put his front paws on the worn knee of Cowboy’s jeans, feeding off the attention. “He looks like a real killer.”

  My eyes flickered again from the man’s beat-up straw hat to the yellow crime scene tape in the parking lot behind him, to the image of the body of Pamela wearing my robe. Again, I shivered.

  Cowboy stood back up. “I didn’t catch your name, ma’am,”

  “Madison. Madison Night,” I said.

  He tipped his head and flicked the brim of the straw hat so it popped up a bit on his head. “I think that’s pretty near impossible for me to believe.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the crowd. “I’ve just been told
by a couple of folks that Madison Night is dead.”

  “No,” I said, shaking from his statement despite its obvious untruth. The greens of the trees went flat in my line of vision, like a black and white movie.

  “Ma’am?” he prompted, and put a hand on my elbow. “You okay?”

  “I prefer Madison to ma’am, thank you very much,” I said, struggling to regain composure. “And as you can see I’m not dead. I’ve spent more time here than I’d planned and I’d like to be on my way, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m going to stick around a little, but I’d like to get your number, so we can talk more later,” he called from behind me.

  The nerve of that guy! “Sure,” I replied without looking. “I gave it to the police when they arrived. I’m sure they’d be happy to share it.” I expected the sarcasm in my voice to deliver the message in my head. Even Rocky seemed to understand it was time to storm away.

  While Rocky had been peeing, paramedics had moved Pamela’s body from behind my car. I rooted around in my canvas bag for my keys, then remembered I’d given them to Pamela.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” asked Officer Nast.

  “I’m leaving. You said you had my information.”

  “Yeah, sure. You can leave, but your car can’t.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “It’s part of the crime scene.”

  I searched her face for signs of a joke. “You’re going to impound my car?” My voice had risen.

  Cowboy stood off to the side, talking to Alice and Mr. Popov. The three of them turned to face me. And that’s the first time I noticed the small shield clipped to the waistband of Cowboy’s jeans.

  Officer Nast noticed him looking at us. “Wait here. Do not move.” She pointed a square French-manicured fingernail directly at me.

  The slack on the leash pulled every couple of seconds, but I let Rocky do whatever it was he wanted to do under the car. Officer Nast approached Cowboy. The look on her face was one of recognition, not annoyance. Maybe a little of both. He smiled a half-smile at her that she didn’t return. I recognized the wordless communication, the body language. There was history there. Personal history. And the pretty officer was not happy to have Cowboy at her crime scene. The group pulled apart and the two of them strode toward me.