Nasty looked at the sofa. “It’s a long sofa.”
“Nine feet.”
“End to end?”
“Sounds like a plan. I’m going to get her some PJs from her apartment. Make yourself comfortable. There’s wine in the fridge, but not much else, food-wise.”
“I didn’t expect it to be a bed and breakfast,” she said.
Apparently there was still an edge to her after all.
My trip to Effie’s apartment was quick. Everything was where she said it would be, which was surprising considering how much of a mess the place was. She paid her rent on time so it wasn’t my place to judge her for throwing her clothes on the floor and letting the dishes pile up in the sink. At least they were sitting in a basin of formerly sudsy water. The intent to hand-wash them had been there.
I collected her T-shirt and boxers and turned to leave. An empty pizza box sat open on top of two plastic milk crates that had been pushed together and acted as a coffee table. Next to the pizza box was a teddy bear with a red, heart-shaped sachet stitched onto its paw. I carried the bear with her PJs and locked up behind me.
When I got back, Effie was in the living room with Rocky, wearing the terrycloth robe that I left on the back of the bathroom door.
“He looked lonely,” I said, handing her the bear.
“Present from my boyfriend,” she said. She hugged him to her chest. “I haven’t named him yet.” She brushed a couple of crumbs from the seat of the stuffed animal and waved him in front of Rocky.
I told her Donna and I had worked out the sleeping arrangements and led her to the bedroom. She carried the bear with her and Rocky followed. He jumped up like he did every night. I suspected by the morning I’d find him wedged somewhere between Nasty and me on the sofa, assuming he wasn’t threatened by her fire-engine red toenails.
When I got back to the living room, Nasty had spread the sheet over the sofa. “Where do you find a sofa like this?”
“Same place I find most of my stuff.” I ran my hand over the turquoise and lime green chenille fabric. It had the classic lines of mid-century: low back, low hairpin legs. I’d found it at an apartment building in the area. An older gentleman had been found dead inside his apartment days after his dog had passed away. With no next-of-kin, it had fallen to the apartment complex to empty his unit and arrange for the donation to charity. As it happened, I’d walked by while three men were scratching their heads over how to fit a nine-foot-long sofa into a seven-foot-long truck.
“Can I make a donation and take it?” I’d asked.
“Fifty bucks and it’s yours,” one of the men said. I pulled three twenties out of my wallet and told him to keep the change. I professionally cleaned the cushions, replaced the stuffing with high-density foam from the local fabric store, and had the chrome frame redipped. It turned out so well I’d kept it for myself.
Nasty tucked the corners of the sheet into the space behind the cushions. I grabbed the top sheet and flapped it open with a snap! The yellow cotton fluttered down to the sofa. I tucked the corners of my side between the cushions as well. Silently, we dealt out pillows, pillowcases, and extra sheets. After far too much time spent in the coveralls I’d worn at the Tylers’s house, I unbuttoned them and stepped out, leaving them in a ball on the floor.
“Do you need to borrow pajamas?” I asked.
“I’m sleeping in my clothes.”
“Suit yourself.” I went to the bathroom, splashed cool water on my face to lower my temperature, and looked through my stack of clean pajamas for something suitable for tonight’s sleeping arrangements.
Flimsy cotton nightgown—no. Chinese silk pajamas—no. Peignoir set—no.
I ended up in a pair of loose fitting blue cotton drawstring-waist pants and a matching pullover trimmed in white eyelet embroidery. Good enough.
The lights were out when I went back to the sofa. I went to the kitchen and set the timer on the coffee maker, and then returned to the sofa and slid between the sheets, lying on my side with my knees bent. I didn’t know if Nasty was doing the same. Once I was settled, she spoke.
“I respect you for calling me,” Nasty said. “I don’t think I would have had the integrity to do the same thing.”
“I know you care about him. So do I.”
“He’s not who you think he is, Madison. He has a dark side you’ve probably never seen.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Not like his.”
As I thought about how to answer her, I wondered if she was testing me to see if I’d blindly defend Tex. The reality was, I didn’t know him that well, and he didn’t know me well, but somehow, we’d made a connection.
Lt. Tex Allen had first appeared in my life shortly after I’d found a body under the wheels of my car where it had been parked outside of the pool. That body had led to a murder investigation that had led to more bodies—all dressed in the style and likeness of Doris Day. Since I modeled my image and business after her and her movies, I had quickly moved from the person of interest category to the potential victim category. Tex had taken it upon himself to be my protector. His presence had been laced with an inappropriate amount of flirtation that would have made me, in my vintage clothes, old car, and Doris Day-inspired life, feel like a specimen in a Petri dish, if it hadn’t triggered an unexpected latent passion that had been ignored far too long.
Two steamy kisses had been the only physical interaction between us. Other than that, we’d never so much as gone on a date. But somehow, through a routine where Tex occasionally brought me groceries or I occasionally dropped off an interesting item I’d come across during my days scouting for objects d’art, I’d gotten comfortable with him, and he, it seemed, with me.
That’s why what Nasty said gave me the chills.
Even breathing from her side of the sofa replaced the silence and answered my unasked question about the purpose behind our conversation. We were done talking. I tucked my hands under the side of my head, closed my eyes, and hoped for sleep.
The sun, the scent of coffee, and the presence of Rocky wedged between me and the back of the sofa conspired to wake me. Nasty rolled over on her end and Rocky lifted his head and opened his eyes halfway. I ruffled his fur. The wall clock said it was five thirty. Just about the time I usually got up to go to the pool.
The pool.
It was the last place I had seen Tex. If he wanted to talk to me, would he try to find me at Crestwood a second time?
I got up and went to the kitchen to get two cups of coffee. When I came back and sat down on my end of the sofa, Nasty kicked her feet, and then rolled onto her back and stretched them out.
“What time is it?” she murmured
“Five thirty.”
“You think this is normal?”
“Nothing about the past twelve hours has been normal.” I held a cup of coffee toward her.
“Copy that,” she said. She took the mug and inhaled the scent before drinking.
I went into the bedroom to check on Effie. She was lying on her side, facing away from me. I walked around the bed. She was staring at the wall. “Good morning.”
“Hi, Madison,” she said. “Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Better. It kind of feels like a bad dream, like it didn’t happen, you know?” She rolled onto her back and focused on the ceiling.
“Effie, I think you should go to the police station with Officer Nast and make a formal statement while last night is still fresh in your mind.”
“But I told her what happened. Doesn’t that count?”
“I’m afraid not,” Nasty said from behind us. “I’m not on the force anymore. Consider last night a dry run.”
SIX
“Since when are you off the force?” I ask
ed. Tex hadn’t mentioned anything about Nasty leaving the police department, although even if there was juicy gossip behind the story, I doubted we would have spent any time talking about her. Somewhere along the way of developing a loose friendship, Tex and I had reached an unspoken agreement not to talk about our respective pasts.
“It’s been about a month. I’m working security now. That doesn’t change anything I said last night. Effie, I’d be happy to take you to the police department to make that statement if you don’t want to go by yourself.”
“Yes, okay, that would be nice. Madison, do you think Rocky could come with us, you know, to keep me company?” Effie said.
“Sure, Effie,” I said. “He’ll like that. I’ll be back at the apartment tonight to pick him up.”
It was over an hour before the two of them left. Still early enough to squeeze in a couple of laps at the pool. Best case scenario? Tex would show up and I could tell him what had happened to Effie. Worse case? I’d get a workout. I packed my swimsuit, a lime green double breasted blazer and matching pants, a fresh pair of coveralls, and the hardhat, and headed out.
Arriving at the pool late meant sharing space with other swimmers. There were no empty lanes, and two of the six already had more than one occupant. I pulled on my cap and goggles and sat on the deck, dangling my ankles into the lane while the other swimmer, a man in a purple swim cap, approached and flip turned next to my feet.
“Madison, you’re late today,” said Grace, who appeared to be at the tail end of her water aerobics routine in the slow lane. Her foam noodle was behind her head and her arms were draped over it. Strains of the Beach Boys poured from a small CD player that sat on the ground by the locker rooms. She bounced up and down in time to the beat of “Help Me, Rhonda.”
“I had company last night that turned into company this morning,” I said.
“It’s about time,” she said.
“Grace!” I said. “It wasn’t that kind of company.” I splashed water at her and she laughed.
“I think Mary Elizabeth gets more action at the retirement home than you do. That’s not right.”
“I bet Mary Elizabeth would beg to differ,” I said, winking at Grace’s friend who was approaching from behind her.
“I don’t think Mary Elizabeth has to beg for anything,” Grace said.
“Gracie!” Mary Elizabeth said. “For shame.”
I left them to their good natured laughter and their cool-down to the sounds of “Little Surfer Girl” and jumped in.
It felt good to submerge under the water. Familiar. I pulled my goggles down and waited until the purple swim-capped man flip turned at the end of the lane before I pushed off. I wasn’t sure which of us was faster, but putting a length of the pool between us seemed like the polite thing to do. Though my muscles were sluggish and not yet warmed up, I easily finished lap one and turned into lap two. Two strokes into the second lap I realized the other swimmer had stopped in the middle of the lane and was treading water in front of me. I lifted my head.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Swimming laps. Like you.”
“You don’t just get into a lane with another swimmer without telling them,” he said angrily.
“But I—”
“That’s rude. You wait and then you ask,” he said, pushing water toward me. Either his anger or his workout turned his face red.
“I’m sorry. I dangled my feet into the water and let you turn. I thought you would have seen me.”
“That’s not how it’s done.” He glared at me.
I was so shocked by his unexpected hostility that I offered a second apology while he pushed off of the bottom and swam away from me, and then got angry with myself for apologizing.
I looked up at Bobby the lifeguard to see if he’d caught the interaction. He shrugged, like it was no big deal. I treaded water until the other guy was at the end of the lane and I started swimming again.
I wasn’t used to being yelled at one and a half laps into my workout, and the incident left me annoyed and tense. I’d been swimming at Crestwood since I moved to Dallas. The low impact workout was perfect for my then-freshly injured knee joint, and the natural solitude had fit my antisocial mood. What had started as a way to cope with unresolved emotions had become a part of my day that I cherished. It included several regulars who had their own reasons for swimming each morning. Purple cap was a newbie, probably a regular from the nearby Gaston Swim Club. They might have rules at their location, but at ours, we operated on a protocol of politeness.
I powered through the first several laps of my workout, again losing track of my lap count. Adrenaline from the encounter had kept me moving and, in an attempt to calm down my mind, I let it wander.
Even though I’d left my world behind in Pennsylvania, and started over when I was not quite forty-five, it turned out I liked surrounding myself with the familiar. I’d created a new life in the Lakewood suburb of Dallas, Texas, one that was entrenched in routine. Swim in the morning. Scout dumpsters or estate sales midday. Spend time at my studio in the afternoon. Volunteer at the local movie house that shows classic pictures in the evening. Go home, go to sleep.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
At the time, I’d moved to Dallas from Pennsylvania with little more than the belongings that could fit in my car. My purchase of the apartment building on Gaston Avenue had been transacted over the Internet, and the rental of my Mad for Mod studio space had happened shortly after I’d gotten settled. I’d had big plans for establishing a new life, and I wasn’t going to let the realities of hard work, heartbreak, and zero clients derail me.
The sound of the bubbles surfacing through the water replaced my own churning thoughts about what was really missing in my life.
I was searching for something to hold on to, something to ground me. When I’d moved to Dallas, a city I barely knew, I did so with the hopes of severing ties with my past and starting over. But after a killer almost took my life and the story of the Pillow Stalker became part of the news, my former lover tracked me down. He offered a reconciliation that had ended badly. These days, I was starting to expect the very chaos I’d left behind when I fled Pennsylvania.
Is that why I had found myself oddly attracted to Tex when he’d shown up in my life? Was it a case of being drawn to an opposite of myself, or did he represent the newfound thrill of chaos, heat, and passion that I’d denied myself after my last big breakup? Would I ever be happy with the routine I had once craved?
Even though my arms were tired and I wanted to stop and catch my breath, I flip turned next to purple cap, who was resting by the end of the lane. My feet kicked up a splash of water. I hit a groove and picked up the pace. My thoughts picked up as well.
When Hudson, my handyman, had been in trouble, I believed in him. And when I was in trouble, he had done the unthinkable and gone to Tex behind my back and asked the lieutenant to look out for me. Kinda like what I’d done by calling Nasty to help out Tex.
My, what a wicked web we weave.
I glided to the end of the lap and pulled my goggles up. The lane next to me had emptied out and Purple Cap had moved into it.
“Sorry about that back there,” he said. “I’ve been a little wound up lately and I’m afraid I took it out on you. Hope there’s no hard feelings.”
I defaulted to my cordial Doris Day voice. “I’ve always found the pool to be a good place to work off tension,” I said, hiding any trace of anger.
“Here’s hoping. I’m running out of things to build in the garage. I’m Jake, by the way.”
“Madison,” I replied. I bent my knees underneath me and let the water cover me up to my shoulders. “And I agree. When the pool isn’t available, construction works too.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You do construction?”
“It’
s part of my job.” I pulled my cap off and dunked my head underwater. When I popped back up, I slicked my hair back with one hand and tucked my cap and goggles under the side of my bathing suit. “Nice talking to you,” I said. I climbed out of the water and went into the locker room.
I got ready quickly. My naturally blond hair picked up sun-bleached highlights from time spent in the chlorine, and a lifelong attachment to sunscreen kept me looking far younger than my forty-eight years.
Being pale in my twenties had made me less than popular around my peers, but it all evened out now that they were pricing Botox treatments and microdermabrasion processes and I used whatever moisturizer was on sale at Rite-Aid.
I dressed in the lime green, double-breasted pantsuit and slipped my feet into patent leather flats with white daisies on the front. I left the locker room and dawdled by the bleachers. Still no signs of Tex. I hoisted my bag on my shoulder and went out to my car. A man stood on the steps out front typing something into his phone.
“Madison—it’s Madison, right?” he said. “Wait up.”
I turned around. “Do I know you?”
“Jake. We just met in there?” He pulled a purple swim cap from his bag. “We shared a lane?”
“Oh, right.”
“You said something about construction being part of your job. What did you mean by that?”
“I own a mid-century modern interior decorating business. Sometimes before I can get started on the decorating I have to do a bit of construction or demolition.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not,” I said. By now we were next to my car. My yellow hardhat, dirty coveralls, and canvas sneakers sat in the back seat. It was pretty good evidence that I wasn’t making this up.
He reached into the back seat and picked up a piece of wood painted with four streaks of the paints Mitchell expected me to endorse. He’d given it to me as a nudge. The streaks hadn’t been dry when I set the wood in the back seat, and a drip of turquoise had edged close to red. Tahitian Turquoise? Caribbean Coral?
With Vics You Get Eggroll (A Mad for Mod Mystery Book 3) Page 5