Pillow Stalk

by Diane Vallere

  Sheila Murphy was smiling into the camera, dressed in a light blue, double-breasted skirt suit with a white collar and buttons. I had a similar one in my closet. Her likeness to me was less powerful than her likeness to Doris Day. It was obvious that she was at the costume party, based on a background of vampires, werewolves, and witches. But the most unnerving aspect of the picture didn’t have anything to do with Sheila Murphy or Doris Day or monsters. It was the man who had his arm slung around her shoulders. He was dressed in a vintage suit, skinny tie, close cropped dark hair that was parted on the side. The sideburns were darker than they were now, but the eyes were cool blue and pierced my soul.

  Her boyfriend was Tex.

  SIXTEEN

  I wanted to think that this changed everything, but it didn’t. It was one more piece of the puzzle that eventually would make sense. Twenty years ago, Tex might not have been a cop, and if he had been, he would have been pretty new to the department. He wouldn’t have been a lieutenant, because achieving that title takes time. If the police had determined a connection between Thelma Johnson, Pamela Ritter, Sheila Murphy, and Carrie Coburn, then there was no way Tex was assigned to work the case. His personal history tainted his objectivity. So his actions, his trickery, and the way he’d attached himself to me like glue were for one reason and one reason only: the homicide division had shut him out of the investigation and he couldn’t let go. I was his only lead.

  I couldn’t help thinking about Tex’s role in Sheila Murphy’s life. He’d been with her the night she was killed. No one had ever been found guilty of the crime. His job put him in the line of duty, sworn to serve and protect, and it must eat away at him like a cancer that the person who killed his girlfriend twenty years ago was still free. I started to understand his unwillingness to accept that Hudson might be the wrong man and that the real killer was still out there.

  Tex needed closure. And while the trail had gone cold in the past two decades, he would have held that anger and need for closure close to his heart. Close enough to keep him from feeling anything real, to keep his relationships short, easy, and unencumbered. To shut out the world, and to not let people in.

  No wonder he was the love-them-and-leave-them type. I began to understand his flirtatious nature and reputation. I hated to admit it, but he wasn’t all that different from me. It was easier to push people away, to not let them in, than to chance losing someone I cared about. I hadn’t been looking for love when I met Brad, but knowing him had changed my life. Tex had been pushing for me to expose something of myself since I’d met him, for the purposes of his investigation, and I’d responded with undeserved animosity.

  I guessed that Officer Nast was one of a number of women he’d dallied with along the way. He hadn’t even been bothered by her cold shoulder. Here was a man with enough emotion bottled up, thanks to his own connection to a murder twenty years ago, that it had affected his life as much as it had affected Hudson. The only difference between them and me was that both of them were trying to move on and I wasn’t.

  Both men were prisoners of their pasts and I was becoming a prisoner in my present.

  I fleshed out my notes, with Tex’s name next to Sheila Murphy, then printed out their picture and taped it to the page. Seeing it, with the two of them dressed up like Rock and Doris, it was hard to imagine what the following twenty-four hours of Sheila Murphy’s life must have been like. It was hard to imagine that twenty-four hours from that state of innocence she would be dead and at least two other lives would be changed forever. And that twenty years later, no one would know why.

  The other three names stared back at me from the piece of paper. Chances were, I wasn’t going to find out a lot about Thelma Johnson. And Pamela Ritter’s death was confusing, too. That left Carrie Coburn, and after seeing the text message left on my phone, I was pretty certain her death was an accident. Someone had tried to lure me to the Mummy last night. Carrie Coburn was a senior in high school. I looked young for my age, but not that young. There had to be something more to confuse us.

  I spun the Rolodex to the letter M. Behind the theater’s contact information were several cards with the phone numbers of Richard and the rest of the volunteers. Occasionally, we invoked the phone tree and I’d found it best to file all Mummy contacts under M instead of their respective last names. I was organized in a way that only my brain would understand. It works when you’re in business for yourself.

  I dialed Ruth’s number and she picked up after three rings. Her hello was shaky.

  “Ruth? This is Madison Night.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, calling me. What could possibly be so important, in the wake of my daughter’s death?”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I started, trying to keep calm. I ached for her; the loss of her daughter was one I’d never know.

  “To think she went down there to impress you! It was her idea to dress up and everything! That stupid film festival of yours,” she spat the words like she were dropping the F-bomb. “That’s what killed my Carrie. You, I never want to speak to you again.”

  The phone went silent. I didn’t waste time calling her back. I flipped a few cards forward in the Rolodex and called Richard. He answered almost immediately.

  “Richard, this is Madison.” I paused, not sure what to say next.

  “Madison, man, what are we gonna do?”

  “Richard?” I asked tentatively, now not sure if he thought I was someone else.

  “Ruth’s daughter, that’s crazy, right? I can’t even figure out how it happened.”

  Okay, so maybe he knew who I was and was dealing with his stress with a bag of marijuana. He’d been known to smoke it in the past before screenings and I sensed a coping mechanism in place.

  “Richard, were you there when it happened?”

  “No, man, no. I got called down by the cops. My number’s the one that rings off-hours when the theater’s closed.”

  I wanted him to stop calling me man but I wanted information more. “What did you find out when you got there? Anything?”

  “Have you talked to Ruth?” he asked.

  “I tried to, but she won’t talk to me.”

  “It’s no wonder, really.”

  “Why? Why is she so specifically mad at me?”

  “Her daughter was dressed up like Doris Day. When Ruth told her about the film festival she got all excited and wanted to get the part.”

  “There wasn’t a part.”

  “The Doris Day look-alike part.”

  “Ruth came up with that on her own. Nobody agreed to it.”

  “That’s not how she remembers it. Anyway, her daughter went down to the Mummy after hearing you were going to be there. She must have been taken by surprise. Hit on the head, I heard. Poor girl never saw it coming. Somebody suffocated her while she was out cold.”

  My stomach turned. “Is that all you know?” I asked him softly.

  “Not sure but I think I figured out what they used to kill her.” There was a long pause. Richard might have moved on to another plane.

  “Richard? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, man, I’m here. What were you saying?”

  “What killed her?” I prompted.

  “Oh, yeah, there were all of these numbered markers around the front of the Mummy in the dirt and on the street. Everything the cops thought looked suspicious. And laying a few feet from her hand was one of those pink velvet pillows, you know, like the ones you have in the trunk of your car?”

  My mouth went dry and I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat. “How do you know about the pillows in the trunk of my car?”

  “Last week, after the meeting, you were talking to the group. Leonard had a dead battery and we needed jumper cables. I borrowed your keys, thought you might have one.”

  “Did you have any trouble with the lock?”

  “No. Why?”

  I stared at Rocky, sleeping on his dog bed in the corner. Those pillows in my trunk connected me more than
my appearance. They were as unlikely a murder weapon as I could imagine. But someone who had used them twenty years ago was using them today. Like a calling card. It meant something, but I didn’t know what, and I wanted to keep it to myself, until I figured it out.

  “Just curious,” I said.

  “So you understand, we can’t run the film festival now.”

  It was a fact that I had to accept. As much as I wanted to lose myself in the light tone of Doris Day movies, I knew he was right. What had started as a tribute to Pamela Ritter had ended as an insult to the memory of Carrie Coburn.

  “Richard, do you know when we can get back into the theater?”

  “Why?”

  “I started working on the project a couple of days ago. Sent a few emails and made a few calls and I’d rather get in touch with everyone and tell them the project is off. All of my work is saved on the Mummy’s computer and that’s the only place where I can check the theater email.”

  “I never gave you the go-ahead on that project, Madison,” he said, the deadhead persona gone, replaced with a strict, business-like tone.

  “I know. I just put out a few feelers because we had a limited window of time and I thought it would be best to have answers ready at the next meeting.”

  “When did you do this work?”

  “A couple of days ago. Why?” I asked.

  There was a long pause in our conversation, long enough that I wondered if he’d hung up.

  “Richard? Are you still there?”

  “Don’t sweat it, man, the crime happened outside the theater so the whole area is closed down. The fuzz said I can get back in tomorrow. I’d say the same goes for you. Don’t try to get in ahead of them. I don’t want them breathing down my neck because of something you did.”

  “Fine,” I said, getting whiplash from the Pineapple Express.

  After I hung up, I stared at the list of names on the paper in front of me, only this time I knew a little bit more. Carrie Coburn had been suffocated just like the others, with one of the pillows stolen from my trunk. That made four victims of suffocation. Sheila Murphy’s murder had taken place long before I had come to be in possession of those pillows. But still, it was clear. Someone who had access to the trunk of my car was out there stalking the women in Dallas with my vintage velvet pillows.

  If Tex was planning to return my truck he would have done it by now. I called police dispatch back and asked for Officer Clark. After a ten-minute hold, while Rocky chewed his way through the yellow velvet piping on his deluxe faux fur dog bed, the officer came on the line.

  “Ms. Night?

  “Yes, this is Madison Night. Have you finished filling out the paperwork on my stolen car?”

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Of course I’m serious! My. Car. Was. Stolen. What part of that don’t you understand? I don’t care what kind of code you cops have between you but this is a crime and I expect you to treat it as such!”

  “Lady, lady! Calm down.” His voice had an edge to it that he hadn’t used when he filled out my report. “First of all, I don’t appreciate your inference that I’m not treating this like a crime. If there were a missing car in question, I would have filed a report. If we had confirmed that Lieutenant Allen stole your car, we would have gone after him just like we would go after any known felon. And may I point out that what you accused him of is Grand Theft Auto. A felony. That’s a big deal. Especially for a cop.”

  “Officer Clark, what exactly have you done to help recover my vehicle?”

  “Ms. Night, your car is sitting here in our lot waiting for you to pick it up. Lieutenant Allen dropped it off because he got a call and needed a police cruiser. I have the keys in my hand.”

  “Of all the nerve,” I started.

  “You going to come get your car or not, ma’am?”

  Another call beeped on the line. I had yet to program the number into my phone but I recognized it nonetheless. Tex Allen.

  “Officer, I have another call I have to take.”

  “Fine by me. Just pick up your car by five.” I heard his click before I punched the call-waiting button.

  “Hello?” I answered in a voice more calm than the one inside my head.

  “Night? Did you report your car as stolen?”

  “Did you steal my car?” I asked back. Silence. “You did!” More silence. I met it with silence of my own. If one of us had hung up the other would have been none the wiser.

  “Did you stop to think about what you were doing?” he finally asked.

  “Did you, Tex? You need to start taking me seriously. I’m not one of your one-night stands,” I said, with Officer Clark’s earlier words still ringing in my ear.

  “No, you’re more like a one-night stand-off that never ends.”

  “I need my car back.”

  “It’s at the station.”

  “I know.”

  “So go to the station and pick it up. No harm, no foul.”

  Oh, there was harm. There was the hundred and twenty-four dollars a day I was paying for the rental car, and Lieutenant Allen was going to be getting the bill.

  “Night—”

  “Must you refer to me by my last name?”

  “Madison, it was for your own good. You interfered with a crime scene when you went to Thelma Johnson’s house. You’re lucky I put my ass on the line to take that stuff back. Just call a girlfriend and get a ride to the station. You could probably walk it if you wanted. It’s only a couple of miles from your studio.”

  “You’re going to pay for this, Lieutenant Allen,” I said with abstract grim determination, and jabbed at the disconnect button.

  For my own good, he said. Call a girlfriend, he said. You could probably walk, he said. He might have done a background check but there was so much he didn’t know about me, not the least of which was that I had no one to call in the event of an emergency.

  SEVENTEEN

  As a small business owner, I had clients. I had contacts. And because I believed in customer service and referrals, I maintained good relations with all of them. When I moved to Texas with the plan to start over, I had startup cash, a loan from the bank, and my business strategy for Mad for Mod. The income from the apartment building kept me afloat during the months where appointments were slim. By now, I had quite a network.

  What I didn’t have were people to call spontaneously and ask if they would give me a ride to the police station.

  I had friends, but they remained in Philadelphia. We all still rooted for the Phillies but they did it from the home section and I did it from the away, and in Dallas, when you root against the Rangers, you’re not doing yourself any favors in the Making Friends category. I stopped going to games because I tired of the heckling. So I was in need of two things: a person who would give me a ride to the station and a good ballpark frank.

  Reluctantly, I looked up the number for the closest cab company and requested a pickup. Tex’s “not that far” translated to three and a half miles on foot and while the feet might be up for it, the knee was definitely not. I hated to admit it, but more likely than not there was a cortisone shot in the very near future.

  It was afternoon and it was hot. If the temperature was this unbearable in May it would be insufferable by summer. Quite a city I had chosen to live in.

  I refilled Rocky’s water bowl from the sink in the small bathroom and let the cool stream of water run over my wrists and hands. It was refreshing. I pressed cold wet hands against the back of my neck and against my forehead. The straw hat tilted backward then fell to the floor behind me. I turned around to pick it up. It had fallen with the tassel side down, the inside exposed. On a small white label that marked which side was the back it said, Property of Jan Randall.

  I picked up the hat and faced the mirror, first smoothing my choppy blonde hair off my face then setting the hat back on my head. I still remembered the day I’d found it, at one of my first estate sales. I had a less practiced eye back then and ha
d tagged way more merchandise than I could ever use. The surviving family had made it easy on me, or so I’d thought. “At this point it would be easier for you to take everything.”

  I’d been about to flip through my agenda for the number to the nearest women’s shelter, who would not only be happy with the donation but also would make the pickup, when I got a glimpse into the deceased woman’s closet. The first shelf was lined with pristine hatboxes. The second shelf held a row of Styrofoam heads that showcased an assortment of the wildest wig collection I’d ever seen. Her clothes, hung on kaleidoscope-patterned padded hangers, were treasures: Pierre Cardin, Biba, Mary Quant. The woman had even owned a pair of white Corregés boots.

  I accepted the family’s offer to let me have it all and wrote a nice fat check to the women’s shelter to assuage any feelings of guilt. The clothes now hung among the other items I’d accumulated on buying trips but were saved for special occasions. You could learn a lot about a person by the contents of their closet and it almost saddened me to know that Jan Randall had passed away. I would have loved spending time with her. Based on what she wore, I’d bet she was a heck of a woman.

  I heard a repeated car horn out front and looked through the front windows. A taxi sat at the curb. “Come on, Rocky, time to undo Lieutenant Tex’s mess.” I met the taxi driver by the curb and told him it would take me another minute or two to lock up.

  “Whatever you want, lady. Meter’s running.”

  One more thing to add to Tex’s bill. I didn’t expect him to actually pay for this, but the idea of sending him an invoice was mildly satisfying.

  “Since you’re already running the meter, my dog can sit in the back. I’ll be out in a second.” I set Rocky inside the back seat and he poked his little black nose through the open window. “Wait here,” I instructed.

  I flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the front door, then pulled the office door shut and locked that, too. Unnecessary precaution but I did it all the same. I flipped off the lights from the back of the store and left, locking the back door behind me. When I returned to the front, the cabbie was bent over, nose to nose with Rocky. It was hard to say which was having more fun.