Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery)

by Vallere, Diane

“You look at the big picture, too. You see a bunch of pieces of a crime and try to figure out what belongs and what doesn’t. You inundate your brain with information until things fall together into a solution that works.”

  “You’re likening police work to decorating?”

  “I am.”

  “That’s a bold statement I’m not sure the boys in blue would appreciate.”

  “See? Maybe that’s a problem. Pride gets in the way of you seeing things from a new perspective.” I shoved the two brass clocks at him and picked up a box of china printed with a light blue and light green pattern of starbursts. “Now, if I haven’t hurt your feelings, follow me. We have a lot of work to do today, partner.”

  I shut the door to the SUV and walked around the corner to the storage locker. He followed a few steps behind.

  I set the box by my feet and unlocked the door. Unlike the organized minimalism I maintained in the studio, this nine-foot by nine-foot cubicle was stuffed to the gills. At one time I’d lined the perimeter with cheap second-hand bookcases that now held all of the smaller knickknacks I found. The middle was a carefully arranged chaos of sofas, chairs, tables, and wardrobes stacked as tightly as possible. Throw blankets and pillows were wedged between wood surfaces to protect them. Framed pictures sat in upright stacks along the far wall next to canisters of film and colorful sets of glassware.

  When I needed something unique, this was the first place I came. I could do a room with what was offered at most retailers today, and I could keep it in budget, too. But these effects were the ones that made the difference. They were original, had probably sat in the same house since they were bought, and were easily repaired. They came cheap because of their condition, but Hudson helped me deal with that small detail.

  I stole a look at Tex’s face. He took in the room with a sweeping glance and I could tell he was looking with his cop’s eyes. He might like to play the flirtatious bachelor, but he was on a case, and I was part of his investigation. Watching him take it all in, what I’d amassed, where it had come from, and how I’d kept it organized, made me feel like he was seeing an aspect of me that I normally kept from the world, that he was looking through a window into my mind. I flashed on the moment days earlier when he’d seen through my pajamas and realized this was yet another way Lieutenant Tex Allen made me feel exposed.

  “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  “Around. I shop estate sales, auctions, flea markets, dumpsters….” my voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure how much he already knew.

  “How can you tell when something’s going to be valuable?”

  “I have to be decisive. That’s why it’s good to know what I’m looking at.”

  “So tell me what you see,” he said.

  “Here?”

  “The murders. If our jobs are so much alike, then tell me what you see when you look at the details. Because everywhere I look, I see Hudson James.”

  “What’s his motive?”

  “Maybe none. Maybe serial.”

  “You don’t believe that,” I said defensively.

  “It fits, though, doesn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. Explain the twenty-year lapse between Sheila Murphy and Pamela Ritter’s murders. Explain the fact that he stayed in Dallas instead of moving somewhere else. Explain his ability to get people to trust him again.”

  Tex looked at my face, then the top of my head, then back to my face. “You know, I could take you a lot more seriously if you took off that hat.”

  “I’m serious, Tex. Hudson isn’t your guy.”

  “There’s something’s not right with his story. I just can’t figure out what.”

  “Ah-ha! So you are doing it. You’re seeing all of the components separately. Seeing what matches. You’re trying to force a connection between Hudson and Thelma Johnson, and Hudson and Sheila Murphy, and Hudson and Pamela Ritter.” I headed back to the truck with Tex on my heels.

  “Carry these,” I said, thrusting a pair of squat oval lamp bases at him.

  He stared at them for a couple of seconds, then looked up at me. “Where did these come from?”

  “Thelma Johnson’s house. I took them after you left me the day we met with her son.”

  “You did what?” Tex demanded. He pushed the lamps back at me, then pushed his fingers through his hair. “Did anybody help you?”

  I was angry at Tex, so angry that at first I couldn’t speak. I clamped my teeth shut and glared at him. “By ‘anybody’ you mean Hudson, right? No, he didn’t. And he knew I was going there, too. That should prove his innocence.”

  “Or his guilt. That house is a crime scene, Madison, and he knew you were going to violate it.”

  I barely heard him. My mind raced to a specific moment two days ago. I had to keep talking to retrieve the memory. “We violated the crime scene, together, Tex. You and me, two days ago, when we went to meet up with her son.”

  Her son. How had I missed that? How had Tex missed that?

  “That has to be it! He was here. He made it seem like he should have been there so nobody would question his presence at the scene of the crime, Long enough to make sure he covered his tracks.”

  “So you went from being a decorator to a profiler?”

  “The charitable donation. The rush to get out of town. The attitude when I first called and the change of heart. It all makes sense.”

  Tex’s smile froze on his face. He leaned forward and touched my shoulder. “What is it? Did you think of something else?”

  “Have you checked out Steve Johnson? Thelma Johnson’s son?”

  “Keep it down,” Tex said sharply.

  I dropped my voice. “We met him. At the house. That’s why he was so angry when I first called, he wanted to get out of Dallas before anybody put it all together. That’s probably why he changed his mind and sold me this stuff. He wanted me to get rid of any evidence!” It was my turn to gesture toward the SUV. “He lives in Cincinnati. He probably already skipped town.” I ticked facts off on my fingers, waiting for Tex to catch up.

  “Listen to me. That guy has nothing to do with the murder,” Tex said, now with a hand on either of my shoulders, squaring me off, forcing me to face him.

  But I was unstoppable, barely hearing him. “If he was Thelma Johnson’s son, then he was related to Sheila Murphy, somehow. He said he and his mom used to be close but they aren’t now. He was even listed in the paper as her only surviving relative. Don’t tell me you didn’t check him out like you did me,” I said.

  “Night, try not to react to what I’m about to say.” He stared at me, his crystal blue eyes piercing my thoughts. “There is no Steve Johnson. The man you met was one of us.”

  FIFTEEN

  “One of who?”

  “A cop.”

  If the reality of his words had hit me right then and there I might have slapped him, but it took longer than that to process the information. Long enough for him to guide me back inside the studio and into a chair in the office. By that point I had moved from a slapping mood into one of numbness.

  “Do you want a cup of water?”

  “I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

  “There is a homicide investigation at stake, and there are things I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

  “You were with me the day I went to Thelma Johnson’s house. You met the man I thought to be Steve Johnson. There is a reason you allowed me to be in that position and I want to know what it was. As far as you can see, I’ve been completely cooperative even when I didn’t think I was being cooperative. So spill.”

  Tex filled a small Dixie cup with water from the cooler and sat in the chair opposite my desk. His head tipped to one side and I imagined him weighing his words, deciding what to share, what not.

  “When Thelma Johnson
died, it reopened the case of Sheila Murphy. Both women were suffocated. It was eerie; twenty years had passed. A lot of people who were involved with this investigation had come and gone. Most of the guys only heard about it through other sources, or remembered it from the news.” He didn’t say anything about not knowing who the killer was and I knew, for him, that question already had an answer.

  “Thelma Johnson does have a son. He does live in Cincinnati. And you did talk to him. Once. His name isn’t Steve, it’s Terry. He agreed to cooperate with the investigation. Homicide planted bait in Thelma Johnson’s obituary, thinking they might draw out a lead. The phone number rings at the house, and also at the station. It was a long shot but we were desperate. Most people who read the obituary wouldn’t think twice about a son who outlived her but someone who wanted something from her, someone who had something to gain from her, would try to make contact and maybe even set up a meet. You called the number. Our guy called you back. He was a rookie cop with a phone number and an address that anyone who did a half-assed search on the web would find.” He leaned back in his chair and met my stare. “No disrespect.”

  “None taken.” I’d fallen into a trap they’d set for a killer. I shuddered.

  “A background check said you were on the level, so he arranged a meet.”

  “You checked my background?”

  “Standard procedure. I already told you we checked you out.”

  That day, when he’d driven me to Thelma Johnson’s house, was the day he’d asked me about my business. It was the day he first asked about Hudson. Hudson and I had worked together often; there would have been a record of phone calls to him and checks written for work I’d hired him to do. A background check would have turned up our interaction. Tex had known from the get-go that I had a relationship with Hudson James.

  “Fine. So you had to do something.”

  “Our guy told you he’d arranged to donate the estate to a local charity. That was supposed to make you lose interest. But after you made that offer we figured you might be looking for something—or working for someone. We had to follow up on any lead we got.”

  “You were at the Mummy when he returned my call. You knew all along.” I felt like an idiot for playing directly into their plan.

  “C’mon, Night, I’m a cop. I’ve done this before. Four women are dead. I want to stop that from happening again.”

  If it had been happening to someone else, I would have probably seen things from Tex’s side, but I couldn’t help feeling violated and used.

  “How do you expect me to feel right now? You played me.”

  “A lot of people fall for something like this. Don’t underestimate how smart these criminals are.”

  “You’re actually telling me these criminals are smarter than I am?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Sure sounded like it to me.”

  “Night, let me ask you a question. Who else had access to your trunk?”

  It was the one question I didn’t want to think about. I averted my eyes and looked at the floor. Something wasn’t right. I stood up and scanned the corners of the carpet.

  “Where’s Rocky?” I asked suddenly, my voice laced with panic.

  His eyes followed mine around the room.

  “He was here a second ago.”

  “Did you shut the door?”

  We both looked at the office door, open the width of one Shih Tzu.

  “Damn it, Tex,” I said, and rushed into the studio, just in time to see an eight-foot silver arc lamp crash to the ground.

  Rocky’s head and tail were lower than usual when I found him next to the marble base. Both the perfect round shade and globe-shaped bulb had shattered upon impact. The metal arc was bent from landing on a glass top table that now had a large crack across the middle. A small wet spot stained the rug next to the crash.

  I scooped Rocky up and stepped around the furniture. I doubted any of it was fixable. The scared puppy pushed his head next to mine and wrapped a paw around each side of my neck like a hug. He was asking for forgiveness. It was easy to forgive a puppy. It was the only emotion I could handle.

  I clipped Rocky’s leash onto his collar. “I’m taking him outside.”

  “I’ll take him,” offered Tex.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Then I’ll clean up the broken glass.”

  “Leave it.”

  “Night,” he started.

  “It’s my problem. You work on yours, I’ll work on mine.”

  I stormed out the back door and set Rocky on the sidewalk. He pulled me toward the back of the alley. After the near miss of an eight-foot tall metal arc lamp anchored in a 20-pound marble block, I was betting on a record-sized poo.

  While Rocky arched his back and stared up at me with guilty eyes, my mind raced. Something still wasn’t right. If the cops had invented a son and planted him at Thelma Johnson’s estate, then my being there had put a wrench in their whole plan. Tex knew I wasn’t involved, so why allow me to show up at all? Did they really use me because of my affiliation with Hudson?

  Tex was looking at the big picture but he wasn’t seeing the right one. It was like watching the director’s cut of a movie. It was something I’d learned after I first started volunteering at the Mummy. Occasionally, we landed a print that included footage cut from other versions. At times, when I watched movies I knew well, I was surprised to find more to the story than what I remembered. So much was lost on the editing room floor, the end result often lacked the scenes of continuity that tie the whole vision together. Tex wasn’t seeing the whole movie. He was seeing the edited version he’d been replaying for twenty years.

  That’s what I needed to see. The whole picture, cutting room floor scraps and all.

  I had half-expected Tex to come looking for me out back. He didn’t. When Rocky finished up his business and I finished cleaning up after his business, we walked back down the length of the alley. No Tex. I poked my head into the studio and called out for him, but he wasn’t there. I went out onto the street, expecting to find him unloading the rest of the truck. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

  Not only was there no Tex, there was no truck.

  The lieutenant had stolen my car.

  Fear, doubt, and anger converted into a shot of adrenaline with a don’t-mess-with-me chaser. I went inside and called the cops.

  “Police Dispatch,” said a monotonous voice on the other end of the phone. He sounded like he was chewing something. My bet was on sandwich.

  “This is Madison Night. I want to report a stolen car.”

  “Where you at?” asked the voice.

  “Don’t you have that information on your caller ID?”

  “Ma’am, it’s a routine question. I’ll need your address.”

  I gave him my contact info and answered a series of questions. He said he’d send a patrol car out to take my report. The proper channels were doing little to diffuse my attitude.

  If Tex had known about my knee injury, I didn’t think he’d be so willing to hijack my car. Not one to play the victim, that was fine by me. The him-not-knowing, not the carjacking. That was definitely not acceptable.

  I unlocked the front door and flipped the Closed sign to Open. As long as I was spending more time at the studio, it didn’t hurt to be available should opportunity come knocking. I shut Rocky inside the office and spent the next half hour cleaning up the lamp mess. After hauling the broken pieces to the dumpster, I selected a replacement floor lamp from the storage unit. I hoisted it onto a dolly and pushed it inside close to the now-empty spot. A rectangular impression on the carpet marked where the marble base of the arc lamp had sat. The round metal base of the new lamp covered most of the impression but left exposed corners. I could fix that with a vacuum but it would have to wait
until later. A royal blue squad car with Dallas Police emblazoned on the side in aggressive italics pulled up to the curb in a red zone.

  “Madison Night?” asked the chubby officer who stepped out from behind the wheel. I quickly recognized him as Officer Clark, the same officer who had been with Officer Nast when I was attacked outside Hudson’s house.

  “Yes. My car was stolen.”

  “Where was your car when this happened?”

  “Right where yours is now.”

  He took notes on a form clipped to a board and asked questions about the make, model, and year without looking up.

  “License plate number?”

  “I don’t know. It was a rental.”

  “Where were the keys?”

  “Probably in the door.”

  “You left your keys in the door?” His head snapped up.

  “I was unloading the truck with the help of a—a volunteer. I believe he’s the person who stole it.” The officer took notes. “You probably know him. Tex Allen?”

  “Lieutenant Tex Allen?” His head snapped up again.

  “Yes. Lieutenant Allen stole my car.”

  Officer Clark turned his back on me and went inside the squad car. The windows were tinted to protect against the hot Dallas sun but through the crack in the door’s opening I saw him pick up his radio. He glanced at me, pulled the door shut behind him, and turned the other way. Finally he got out of the car.

  “Looks like a mix-up. Lieutenant Allen says you knew he was borrowing your car to help out with your work here. He’s at a…” He flipped through a small notepad. “He didn’t say. A local residence? Says you borrowed some stuff from somebody and he’s helping you put it back?”

  “He and I did not arrange that.”

  “Listen, ma’am, if you want to file this as a stolen vehicle to make up for some one-night stand with Lieutenant Allen, that’s your decision.” He tipped his head and made a note on his pad. “One of the more creative ways to get back at him, I’d say. I’ll write up the report and we’ll start the investigation but you will have wasted a lot of people’s time and tax money, and chances are you’ll have your car back in a couple of hours. I’d say you need to forget about Loverboy Cop and move on.”