Pillow Stalk

by Diane Vallere

  I stood up and crept toward the door. Rocky’s head lifted from the blanket, but his eyes remained drowsy. I held a finger to my lips even though I knew he didn’t know what I meant.

  I tiptoed to my own apartment and changed into a bathing suit and pink sleeveless dress that zipped up the back. It had an oversized collar and matching necktie. It made me feel like a flight attendant. I slid my feet into my daisy flip flops and packed flat gold sandals in my bag, collected Rocky’s leash, and left, returning to the vacant apartment to leave a note to Hudson about where I’d gone. Seemed polite.

  Rocky had anticipated my return and sat right inside the door.

  I clipped his leash on and set the folded note on my pillow. Hudson rolled over as I left. Soon enough, he’d wake up alone.

  I drove to the Swim Club. A few familiar cars were parked in the lot. My posse. I walked Rocky to the front desk and paid my dues.

  “He can’t go with you,” said the man behind the desk. He held a powdered donut in one hand. A dusting of powder down the front of his shirt indicated that it was not his first one of the morning.

  “I’ll tie him up to the benches. He’ll be fine.”

  “No pets allowed in the pool area.”

  “Give me a break. It’s six in the morning. Nobody’s going to know.”

  “He can sit in the pet room third door down on the left.”

  “I don’t want to leave him alone.”

  “You could leave him in your car,” he said.

  “Listen.” I channeled my most polite lady-of-the-pool manner. “He is a well-behaved dog, smaller than most cats. He is tired. He will sit in a corner and chew on a bone for the next hour while I swim. Is there nowhere else he can stay?”

  The man stared at me and I stared at him, until finally I pulled my wallet out and flipped through a couple of bills.

  “The manager’s office is right back here and he doesn’t get in until seven-thirty. I could maybe let him stay there, if, you know...” His voice trailed off.

  This was absurd. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to him. “I will be back out here before seven-thirty.”

  “If he comes in early, your dog’s going into the pet room,” he called behind me as I walked down the faded hallway.

  I went directly to the pool deck and dragged the toe of my foot through the water. It was cooler than before. Someone had the sense to adjust the temperature. A few more people from the Crestwood crowd had migrated, sitting on the bleachers, mingling before they started their swim. These people were regular morning swimmers, more reliable than the post office. I waved to Alice. She waved me toward the bench where she sat next to Jessica, Andy, and a new younger man closer to my own age. Reluctantly, I approached them.

  “Madison! Did you hear? We can go back to Crestwood on Monday. Isn’t that good news?” Alice said.

  “That’s a relief. They wouldn’t let me bring Rocky in to the deck today.”

  “Poor guy got stuck in the pet room,” said Andy. “It’s stinky in there, kiddo.”

  I smiled.

  He scooted a few feet away from Alice and left a vacant space on the bleacher. “Have a seat.”

  No way, I thought to myself. Those are pinching parameters. “No, thank you, I’m going to put a few things in my locker and I’ll be out. Mind if I take the left lane this morning?”

  Amidst a collection of approvals and okays I walked away from the group. Something happened behind me because I distinctly heard Alice say, “Andy! Be nice!” I was happy to have the locker room for privacy.

  I returned to the pool deck while the older crowd continued with their stretching. Within minutes I plunged into the deep end. My body instantly tightened up, reacting to the cold. I sank to the bottom of the pool, then slowly rose, expecting my own temperature to adapt to that of the water. My flesh broke out in goosebumps. When I reached the surface I gulped a large breath of air then started swimming. It would take more than a lap and a half for me to adjust to the temperature.

  I did a flip turn at the end of the lane and started lap two. My legs trailed behind me, kicking ever so slightly. I wanted to warm up, to become one with the water, to relax and allow my brain to move into its own direction. The tranquility of the water might help me sort through details I otherwise couldn’t begin to understand.

  Five laps into my morning swim and I hadn’t adjusted to the temperature. My shoulders were stiff and I had a hard time getting my arms over my head in a basic freestyle. When I curled into a ball to flip at each turn the raised bumps on my thighs and arms brushed against each other. After six laps I stopped and rubbed my hands up and down my arms rapidly. Why couldn’t I warm up?

  “What’s wrong, missy? You don’t usually stop so soon!” said Andy.

  “What’s the temperature in here?” I called out.

  “Whatever it is, it’s hotter now you’re in it,” he called back.

  I didn’t have time for his one-liners. “Alice? C-c-c-an you ch-ch-check the temp-p-p-erature?” My teeth rattled against each other.

  The small older lady walked slowly to the corner of the pool where the thermometer was tied to the silver ladder. She reached into the water and immediately pulled her hand out, like the water had bitten her. “Oooh! It’s cold!”

  I started to swim to her, but couldn’t control the shaking. I hopped down the lane, my arms wrapped around my body. The red and yellow plastic flags that marked the fifteen feet from the end of the pool mark flapped above my head.

  “Missy! You’re blue!” said Andy.

  I could do little more than bounce on one foot, my other foot wrapped around my calf. I had to get out of the ice water. Shaking to my core, I submerged under the lane dividers and tried to swim under the surface, though my limbs were paralyzed with cold. When I reached the side of the deck I shook visibly. I couldn’t unwrap my arms long enough to get out of the pool.

  “Andy, help her!” I heard Jessica say.

  The old man wrapped a tight grip around my wrist. I went limp and he hoisted me out to my waist and laid me face down on the deck. Alice and a few other seniors covered my torso with towels while the old man grabbed at my inner thighs and dragged my legs out. His fingers bit into my flesh, but I didn’t care. I was happy to be out of the pool.

  “I’m getting the manager,” Andy said and left. The women crowded around me and rubbed at my limbs to improve my circulation. When one person’s hands left my arm or leg it started shaking all over again.

  The man from behind the desk appeared on the deck. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “C-c-c-cold,” I said between chattering teeth.

  “What do you mean cold? We keep the pool at eighty degrees.” He knelt down next to the silver ladder and fished the thermometer out of the water. “What the hell?”

  I focused on creating body heat instead of what the man was doing, but it was hard not to notice him shaking the thermometer and running his hand through the water. He stood up and crossed the pool deck in important strides, stopping only to unlock a small door and disappear inside a hallway. Moments later those of us within range heard a string of curse words and he reappeared.

  “We had an equipment malfunction. The heater’s off. The pool’s closer to sixty than eighty! Get her into the showers. Put her under hot water!”

  I tried to stand, with two old ladies on either side of me. I didn’t think we were going to make it. Slowly we advanced toward the locker room. Andy appeared at the door and guided me inside.

  “Andy! You can’t go in there!” chided one of the ladies.

  “She needs a man to help her. At the rate you old coots are going she’ll die of hypothermia.” He put his hand under my elbow and I shuffled next to him, for once happy that he’d taken an interest in me. “Okay, missy, which one’s your locker? I’ll bring your stuff closer to the showers.”

  “Forty-six A,” I said. He walked me to the shower stall and turned on the water. I stood under the stream, absorbing the
intoxicating warmth like an addict getting washed over by a much needed rush. With my hands on the wall, I lowered myself to the floor and huddled under the spray.

  It was over an hour later when the manager offered his profuse apologies and handed Rocky’s leash back over to me. “Ms. Night, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that this happened.”

  “Did you call the cops?” I asked.

  “The cops? There’s no need to involve them in this. It was a system malfunction. We’re going to remain closed for today, tomorrow, too, if necessary, to make sure the pool is heated to the correct temperature.”

  “But what about sabotage?”

  He spun a ballpoint pen around in his fingers and clicked the point up and down several times before he spoke. “Ms. Night, no disrespect, but aren’t you a decorator?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am, but—”

  “And getting your name in the papers would bring you publicity, wouldn’t it?”

  “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with this?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not, I doubt you would be able to tamper with the temperature gauges even if you wanted to. It’s not an easy system to figure out, unless you’re a highly technical person familiar with this kind of equipment. Like I said, it was a malfunction. I’ve already called the service technician to come out and give it a once over, but since you’ve been in the shower the temperature of the pool has already risen three degrees. Maybe it was a power outage. Maybe it was an electric surge. I’m not sure. But I see no need for you to take advantage of us for your own benefit. Face it, Ms. Night, accidents do happen.”

  I wasn’t so sure I agreed with him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I drove home and took another shower, longer than the first, in the comfort of my own apartment. Maybe he was right. Maybe accidents did happen. Only, too many accidents had been happening to me or around me lately, too many to call it coincidence. Problem was, once he’d mentioned getting my name in the papers for publicity, I realized what a bad idea publicity would be. If someone really was after me, and this was a simple accident, publicity would expose a lot of details that would make me an even easier target. And if this wasn’t an accident then someone was closer than I thought.

  After my shower, I dressed in an aqua and white, three-quarter sleeve tunic, aqua jersey pants, and my yellow Keds. The temperature threatened to go well into the nineties but I couldn’t shake the morning’s bone chilling cold. I wrapped my knee in the bandage and pocketed a travel-sized container of Advil along with a picnic basket of bread, cheese, and fruit. Rocky led me down the hall to the apartment Hudson and I had shared last night. The door was locked and my knock went unanswered.

  I turned the key and stepped inside. The blankets were folded neatly with the pillows nestled on top. My note sat on top of my pillow, a new scrawl below my own. Madison, thank you for everything. Your generosity means more than you know. Take care, –H. It was short and sweet and I was let down there wasn’t more to it. I put it into my straw handbag next to the Advil and left.

  After dropping Rocky off at the neighbor’s apartment, I drove the white SUV, today’s rental, to the Mummy. It stood deserted, like a ghost of the theater that had been running only a week before. It was going to be difficult for it to bounce back from the impact of the murder. It had taken a long time, longer than anticipated, to reopen after being closed indefinitely by the original owners, passing through the hands of too many potential buyers who abandoned the project mid-way, and a few additional years of neglect colored with graffiti. And it had taken more money than anticipated, too, to finish the job right. Richard had relied on the generosity of countless people in Dallas to donate money, energy, skills, and enthusiasm to achieve his goal of owning and operating a cinematic treasure. A piece of film industry history. And now, it stood quietly alone, pieces of yellow crime scene tape flapping in the slight breeze out front, as if marking off the death of the business.

  I parked in the lot and went in through the back door like Richard had asked. I assumed the cops had left little behind in their investigation, but I didn’t want to look for myself. I walked down the hallway to the desk where I’d sat days before and booted up the computer. The Rolodex was still open to Susan’s card at AFFER and the messy piles of invoices and chicken-scratch notes still covered the desktop. I sank onto the chair held together by duct tape and turned the small space heater on my ankles. I wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.

  I dialed Susan’s number and she answered on the second ring.

  “Susan, this is Madison.”

  “What kind of a show are you running over there? I’ve been waiting for a call or an email from you for the past three days. I tell you I have something that nobody—nobody!—knows about and you bail on me?”

  “I’m sorry. Things have gotten a little intense around here.”

  “Listen, you’re still doing the thing, right?”

  “What thing?”

  Her voice dropped. “The Doris Day thing. You’re not going to flake on it, are you? Because on top of everything else, we actually have a stunning print of Pillow Talk. For some reason it was marked as never shown.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not why I’m calling you. The project was put on indefinite hold.”

  “You are kidding. Somebody found out? You told somebody what I had? No, if you told someone they’d be chomping at the bit for this. What did you say? Do you need me to talk to Richard to let him know you’re not making this up?”

  “It’s not related to that. It’s just, there’s been a murder.”

  “Another Doris Day murder?” she said.

  “What did you call them?”

  “The Doris Day murders. The former director told me about them when we spoke yesterday. Is that what this is about?”

  I didn’t answer at first, because it sounded too strange, but it hit me, like a flower pot dropped on my head, that Doris Day was the connection. Sheila Murphy and Carrie Coburn had both been dressed as the perky blonde actress when they were killed. And Pamela Ritter’s photo on her promotional flyer was a pretty darn close likeness, too.

  “Madison, are you still there?”

  “The most recent murder was at the Mummy. Richard thinks it would be best if the theater stays closed until...” I stopped talking again. I thought whatever she would supply to fill in the blank would be better than me saying until the killer is caught.

  “Did you tell the cops about your film festival? Or the dirty Doris Day film?”

  “This has nothing to do with that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Remember how I told you about that letter, about destroying all Doris Day movies?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Listen to me. When I told John what you were planning and asked him about the letter, he said ‘it’s happening all over again.’ He wouldn’t tell me what he meant.”

  “Do you think he knows something?” When she didn’t answer, I continued. “Do you think he still has the letter?”

  “He took it with him when he retired.”

  “How can I get in touch with him?”

  “I’ll have him call you. Give me your number, all of your numbers. Home, cell, business, pager. I’m not letting you out of this thing again.”

  We exchanged contact information and disconnected. I leaned back in the chair and thought about her words. I thought again about my realization. Was it really possible that four murders around Lakewood had something to do with Doris Day?

  I pushed the piles of paper around the top of the desk searching for something to write on. Under last month’s catalog was a lined notepad with frayed pieces of paper along the top where pages had been torn off. The only pen in the chipped King Kong mug that served as a flotsam holder had an hourglass timer in the middle and a miniature Boggle game secured to the end. I pulled it out and wrote each of the victims names on a separate line. The tiny Boggle letters rattled when I crossed Thelma’s T and dotted
the I’s in Sheila, Carrie, and Ritter.

  What.

  What.

  What.

  I tapped the ballpoint of the pen next to each of the names until the rattling drove me to lay the pen down. I had to find something else that these women had in common, something other than their wardrobe choices the night they were killed. Slowly, I drew a line through Carrie Coburn’s name and wrote my name next to it.

  A real estate agent. A decorator. A mother, and a daughter.

  And then it hit me like a bucket of ice water colder than the pool water at the Swim Club. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that, Pamela had said when I offered her my robe. Yet she put it on and went outside and was killed. And in the pocket of that robe was her flyer, with the phone number for Thelma Johnson’s son—a son who wasn’t her son, a son who worked for the cops. It wasn’t Doris Day that connected the four women, it was Thelma Johnson.

  The phone rang a shrill tone like the Rockford Files opening sequence and I jumped.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Great, you’re still there. Okay, you’re going to love me. Not only do I have John’s number, but I called him and he really wants to talk to you. Like today. Like now. Like, get a pen and write this number down.”

  “Susan, slow down.”

  “No, Madison, hurry up. This guy is, like, seventy-eight. He’ll be going to dinner in about an hour. You don’t want to miss your window of time.”

  I picked up the Boggle pen and started flipping pages of the notepad to get to a fresh one.

  “What is that sound?” Susan asked.

  “It’s Richard’s Boggle pen. It’s the only thing here to write with.”

  “You can pull the end off, you know.”

  I yanked on the end and the miniature game board popped off. The small hourglass timer flew out and landed on the floor. I picked it up and set it in front of me on the desk, watching the tiny granules of sand filter down into the base.

  “Okay, I’m ready now.”