Pillow Stalk

by Diane Vallere

  His eyes scanned the page, then he flipped the notebook closed and looked at the cover, then opened it again and thumbed through the pages. “What is this?”

  “Box office tallies, mostly. I was working on a film festival and wanted to do some research, see if I could determine some patterns to help my proposal.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “A Doris Day weekend. It’s all very last minute and I have to convince a lot of people that it’s a good idea.”

  “Why don’t people think it’s a good idea?”

  “Do you think a Doris Day film festival is a good idea?” I asked.

  His head tipped to one side then another.

  I was curious to hear his answer. Most men acted like a close proximity to Doris Day would threaten their masculinity.

  “It has its high points,” he started. “Be good for your business, I bet. People seeing those sets, right?” He reached past me and opened the door to the Jeep. When I didn’t move, he put his hand on the small of my back and directed me into the seat. I gathered up the white eyelet fabric of my skirt and stepped onto the floorboards, then sat down. He shut the door behind me and walked around the car to the driver’s side.

  “Are you saying you would attend? Maybe even bring a date?” I challenged, when he was in the car.

  “Are you asking me?”

  “If you’ll come?”

  “If I’ll be your date.”

  I felt the heat rush to my face. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “So you don’t want me to be your date.”

  “Can you be serious for a second, Lieutenant?”

  He leaned back in the driver’s seat. “You don’t have to keep calling me Lieutenant, you know,” he said.

  “What do you want me to call you?

  “You can call me Tex.” By now there was a full on smile on his face.

  “Is that your name?”

  “First name’s Tom. Middle name’s Rex. Most people who know me call me Tex.”

  “Why don’t they call you T. Rex? Or Trex?”

  “Because I tell them not to.”

  “Do people always do what you tell them to?”

  He didn’t answer, and it occurred to me that maybe the answer was yes.

  “Where’s your hat?” I asked suddenly.

  He put a hand on the top of his head for a moment, like he was going to demonstrate that he could rub his tummy at the same time. “I just got this Jeep. Not used to driving a convertible around in the Dallas sun. Yesterday morning when I got the call I was. . . I wasn’t at home. The only thing I could do was grab that hat to wear, or burn the shit out of my head. Seemed lesser of two evils.”

  There was so much in that statement for me to think about at another time, things that told me how vastly different the lieutenant’s and my lifestyles were, but right now, the only thing that mattered was the full tank of gas in his car.

  “Hey, where’s the little fella?” he asked.

  In order to make up for yesterday I had to make a decision about Rocky, and that decision involved leaving him at home for the day. He was in his large cage, easily big enough that he probably wouldn’t notice that he was inside. The interior was filled with plush animals that he would chew on for hours at a time, along with food, water, and the ever-important pee pad. I’d asked one of my neighbors to check in on him later. Her husband was allergic to dogs so she couldn’t have one of her own. I knew she enjoyed the moments she shared with mine.

  I explained about the dog sitter and justified it with a quick recap of my need to be productive. I didn’t spell out our agenda because I wasn’t sure how long I’d be willing or able to accept his oddly generous chivalry.

  “Okay, fair lady, where to?” he asked.

  I scooped the full skirt of my white cotton sundress under my thighs and tucked my feet onto the floorboards. Even though I’d agreed to this chauffeur routine, I’d worn comfortable Keds in the event that something—I still wasn’t sure if it would be his attitude or mine—interrupted the convenience of his offer and I ended up on foot. I was nothing if not prepared.

  “I want to go back to the Mummy, do some work on the film festival. Do you know how to get there?”

  “I took you yesterday, didn’t I?”

  Tex drove to the theater. He pulled into the lot and parked out front.

  We both got out and a small puff of dust swelled up from under my white sneakers when they hit the ground.

  “You’re coming in?” I asked.

  “That okay?”

  “Sure.” The truth was, after the note I’d found in the middle of the box office tallies, I was a little wary of entering myself. I didn’t really believe that someone was out to get me, but it seemed the company of a police officer wasn’t so bad as far as security blankets went. I unlocked the front door and he followed me inside.

  “So what are you going to be doing in here?” he asked.

  “Office work, mostly. On the computer.” I was hoping to reach Susan for that Doris Day dirt, and if I did, that would require a bit of privacy. I crossed the room to the desk, and flipped through a couple of calendars Richard had left scattered on top of his inbox. “You can walk around if you want. Go upstairs and see the projection booth. Not many people get a chance to see that.”

  “Sounds good,” he said from right behind me. “If you need me, will I hear you?”

  “Why would I need you?” I turned around. I didn’t realize that he’d followed me. He stood close. Too close. His face was inches from mine and he smelled like powdered sugar. It was so unexpectedly charming that I resisted the predictable donut jokes.

  “If you don’t need me now, you will soon enough.” His eyes jumped from mine to my lips, where they lingered for a moment, then back to my eyes. He stepped backward and looked me up and down.

  I stayed where I was, leaning against the desk. The bodice of my white cotton dress hid anything that he might have seen that morning yet still I felt exposed. I didn’t move or reply.

  He turned away and walked to the door. Once he reached the hallway, without turning around to face me, he said, “By the way, Night, that’s a hell of a dress.” Then he disappeared in the hallway.

  There was no time to waste questioning the lack of “Ms” or applauding my choice of outfits for the day. The Rolodex was still open to the AFFER listing and I dialed the number.

  “I can’t believe you never called me back!” Susan answered.

  “I thought you were going to call me?”

  “Whatever. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time—”

  “Neither do I,” I interjected, glancing at the doorway. Thanks to the old building I could hear Tex’s footsteps in the room above me, but I wasn’t sure how well my voice traveled so I kept it low. “What’s this dirt you want to tell me?”

  “It happened about ten years ago. Before my time. It was crazy, at least it sounded crazy. Someone wrote to the president of the company about destroying all of Doris Day’s movies. He said it was the only responsible thing to do, to ‘protect the landscape of American Cinema’. He outlined every movie that AFFER had in the vaults. The staff at the time thought it was some kind of a joke. Then there was a break in. The only thing missing was the second reel of Pillow Talk.”

  “Did it ever turn up?

  “Well, something turned up but it wasn’t a reel of Pillow Talk.”

  “Don’t hold out on me now. What was it?”

  She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “Rumor has it the second reel of Pillow Talk was replaced with a home movie starring a certain blonde in a compromising position.”

  SEVEN

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “Madison?” yelled Tex. His feet thundered down the stairs.

  “What?” I hissed into the phone. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Madison? What’s wrong?” asked Tex from the hallway.

  “Nothing. I just heard some good gossip about a coworker, that’s all.” I smile
d sweetly, wondering if he’d buy it.

  “Madison? Who’s there?” said Susan through the receiver. “Madison!”

  “Hold on, Susan.” I covered the receiver and stared at Tex. “Sorry if I scared you. I forgot you were here.”

  He shook his head. “I’m going back up there. You guys might want to clean that room every once in awhile. Looks like a couple of transients have taken up residency.” He turned his back on me and reclimbed the stairs.

  “The manager is a slob. Not my job to clean up after him,” I called to his back. “Okay, I’m back,” I said to Susan.

  “Who was that?” she asked. “Nobody knows I know this and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “That was the cop who’s driving me around for the day,” I said.

  “Who is this and what have you done with Madison?” she asked abruptly.

  “Susan,” I started.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “A white cotton sundress with a fitted bodice, full skirt. Very Liz Taylor in A Place in the Sun.”

  “Shoes?”

  “White Keds.” The modern-retro footwear of choice for the vintage-wearing injured.

  “Okay, it’s you. Should I be worried? Why is a cop driving you around?”

  “Long story. I’m not sure it was a good idea to accept.”

  “Is he cute?”

  I paused for a second before answering, a flash of Tex’s boyish smile, long sideburns, and ice-blue eyes in my head. “You could say that.”

  “Madison, it’s time you had some fun. A cute bad-boy cop could be just what the doctor ordered.”

  The image of Tex was quickly replaced with Pamela Ritter’s lifeless body in my terrycloth robe. “Nobody said this was any fun.”

  “Then you’re not doing something right.” She laughed.

  “What else can you tell me about this Doris Day thing?” I said, bringing the conversation back to where it should have been all along.

  “Not much. A couple of people were testing a print of ours and found it mixed in with the inventory. Nobody talks about it and none of those people are still here.”

  “So how can I find out more about it?”

  “John Phillips was the director, but he retired a couple of years ago.”

  “I thought nobody knew about it?”

  “Nobody outside of AFFER. We kept it on the down-low. But John took a special interest in the whole thing, as you can imagine. I have his number at home. Let me call him and see if he remembers the details.”

  “Promise you’ll keep me in the loop, right?”

  “Absolutely. This is the kind of thing that could really put the Mummy on the map.”

  She disconnected and I jotted some notes on a piece of paper lying on the desk. Dirty Doris Day footage? It felt naughty just to write it down. I folded the paper into a small square and put it in my handbag.

  I spent the next couple of hours working on research. Lists of Doris Day’s extensive filmography, maps of run times, combinations of movies to pair up for double features. Comparative schedules to determine if it would be better to run them chronologically or thematically. Whether to lump Rock Hudson into one night, Cary Grant and James Garner into another, and whether we’d get a better draw with David Niven, Keith David, or Rod Taylor.

  Knowing Tex was meandering around the theater probably getting bored while I worked kept me busy for longer than I needed to work. My cell phone rang, interrupting my productive streak.

  “Ms. Night? This is Steve Johnson.”

  It took a couple of seconds for me to place the name.

  “Mr. Johnson! Thank you for returning my call.” I paused for a moment, not sure what direction our conversation was going to turn. The pause extended too long. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. Something came up—”

  He cut me off. “Ms. Night, are you still interested in my mother’s estate?”

  “Yes. And call me Madison.”

  “I wish you’d called yesterday like I asked you to. When I didn’t hear from you I made arrangements to donate the whole estate to charity.”

  I didn’t like going head to head with a charitable donation. I’d lay odds that Thelma Johnson’s estate was filled with the kind of mid-century modern style that had been untouched for decades, but I knew a charity would benefit from the donation more than I would.

  “Circumstances kept me from calling you back.” I felt Tex’s presence before I saw him, but looked at the doorway to confirm what I felt. I was right.

  He leaned against the doorframe, not bothering to hide the fact that he was listening in on my conversation.

  “But I understand your decision. Again, I’m sorry for your loss,” I finished, and hung up.

  Tex crossed the office, finally settling his muscular frame into the seat in front of the desk. His gaze was less flirtatious than direct.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “If I tell you, you’re going to think less of me,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “It involves my opportunistic business side.”

  “I didn’t know you had one of those.”

  “The decorating business I mentioned? I told you I specialize in mid-century modern. I’ve discovered the best way to get authentic inventory is from the original owners. And the best way to find the original owners is to read the obituaries, and contact their next-of-kin before they hold a yard sale.”

  “Thelma Johnson,” he said.

  I nodded.

  He stood up and paced back and forth inside the small office. My cell rang again before I could ask what he was thinking.

  “Take the call.”

  “Madison Night,” I spoke into the phone, with my eyes trained on Tex.

  “Ms. Night, it’s Steve Johnson again. Listen, I had a thought. My mom had a lot of stuff. If you can come by now, we can talk about what you’re interested in.”

  I’d overestimated Mr. Johnson’s charitable impulse. It appeared as though his interest in my cash offer was now equal to my interest in his mother’s kitsch and had trumped any karmic points he thought he’d get by giving it all away.

  “I can be there in twenty minutes,” I said, studying the expression in Tex’s eyes.

  The drive to the Johnson estate was in silence.

  I got the feeling that Tex was used to figuring women out quickly, but I knew I wasn’t so easy to read. The outside package—vintage clothes, blonde hair, and Doris Day obsession—all said Time Warp. The business savvy and independence said Modern Woman. I knew it all added up to me, a single woman who had learned, through a series of false starts and dead ends, to take care of herself. Everything about me said Madison Night, but Tex’s listening skills might have been a little rusty.

  “You mind explaining why we’re here?” he asked after pulling the Jeep alongside a curb in front of the Johnson house.

  “I told you already.”

  “This time I want details.”

  I took a deep breath. I wasn’t used to explaining my actions, and no matter what words I chose, there was a pretty strong chance that I’d look heartless.

  “I read the obituaries every night. Thelma Johnson died on Saturday. She was born in 1928. I’ve found that women born in the twenties and thirties tend to own the kinds of items I use when doing a house in a mid-century theme. Usually these women are the original owners. The furniture is generally pretty worn, lived in, and needs a fair amount of TLC to bring it back to its original state, but I’m lucky. I’ve got help with that—I’ve got that covered.”

  “The colleague you mentioned earlier. What’s his name again?”

  “Hudson James. Why?” I asked.

  He nodded. I couldn’t explain what I felt at the moment, or why it felt like talking to Tex about Hudson suddenly felt like I was talking about a secret I wanted to keep to myself. True, Hudson did work for me. Good work, good enough that once I’d found him, or he’d found me, I’d let my other freelance contacts fall by the
wayside. Still, I wanted the lieutenant to see me as an equal, not someone who needed help to run her own life. Something made me want to not attach myself to anyone at the moment.

  “You have his card?”

  “Not on me.”

  “So…Thelma Johnson,” he said. “What’s your connection to her?”

  “She fit the profile. Nothing more to it.”

  I got out of the Jeep and so did Tex. Our doors slammed at the same time. He walked around the front and stood in my path.

  “So now you know what I’m doing here. Just consider this: it’s not easy to have the conversation that I’m about to have without insulting the people who just experienced a loss. I’d really prefer if you’d wait in the Jeep while I go in there and talk to her son.”

  He aimed his keys at the car and a double beep sounded. Pretty sure that meant, despite my request, he was coming in with me.

  “Fine. Then please remember, this is my business, and I have a few ground rules. If you’re going in with me, you have to act like you work for me. Can you do that? Or would it be too much of a threat to your masculinity?”

  “Hand me that scarf,” he said and pointed to my handbag.

  I looked at the paisley silk square knotted on the handle, then back at him, then back at the scarf. I untied it and held it out. He tied it around his neck, tucking the ends into his shirt like an ascot. Then he walked around the back of the Jeep, pulled off his cowboy boots and replaced them with brown wing-tipped oxfords that had been tucked behind his seat. Last, he replaced his aviator frames with square black plastic reading glasses from the glove box.

  “Now I look like I work for you.”

  I shook my head at the transformation.

  “What can I say? I’m adaptable.”

  He followed me up the steps to the front door where I rang the bell. A man with little more than a fringe of hair circling the rest of his bald head answered. He wore a white polo shirt, curls of chest hair peeking out at the open collar, khakis, and an expensive-looking silver tank watch strapped to his wrist.