Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery)

by Vallere, Diane

  Oooooh!

  “Despite what you think, this isn’t about a one-night stand. He stole my car and I want it back.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll take this back to the station and fill out the paperwork. But I just spoke to the guy and sounds like this was a big misunderstanding. You have Lieutenant Allen’s number?”

  “Yes.”

  “You might want to give him a call and straighten the whole thing out.”

  “I want you to fill out the paperwork and treat this like Grand Theft Auto.”

  His eyes went wide. “That was either one hell of a night, or you’re one hell of a woman.”

  I stormed back to my office as best as I could with a bum knee. I fished a bag of ice out of the freezer in the office and held it against the lime green fabric over my knee. I needed to cool down.

  With my free right hand I checked the messages. Two hang-ups. One from a couple who had recently bought a mid-century modern ranch that had been renovated in the eighties. They needed a contractor to undo the damage. I could recommend Hudson, like I had done so many times in the past when these calls came to me. I went as far as dialing the first four numbers before I hung up.

  I thought about last night, the attack, and the kiss. His explanation for what had happened years ago. I hadn’t been lying when I said I believed Hudson’s explanation, but Tex had raised questions in my mind. I dialed their number and, after a brief welcome to the neighborhood, gave them his contact information.

  While I should have spent my afternoon trying to find my next clients, I couldn’t. My mind wasn’t on square backed sofas and floor to ceiling curtains and bullet planters and tulip chairs. It was on four murders that had taken place around Lakewood. I pulled a new lined notepad from the desk drawer and jotted a few notes.

  Sheila Murphy

  Thelma Johnson

  Pamela Ritter

  Carrie Coburn

  What did I know about these women? I put pen to page next to Pamela’s name. Real Estate Agent. Swimmer. Twenty-something. Outside of those few items, I didn’t know much about her. I knew even less about the others.

  I turned to the Internet and typed “Sheila Murphy murder” into Google. The top hit was the article from the recent Dallas Morning News. I didn’t click the link. Instead I scrolled down the page for older information. On page two I found what I was looking for. A copy of the newspaper articles from when she was killed.

  I clicked the link and stared once again at the smiling face of young, blonde Sheila Murphy. It was the same picture the paper had used in the more recent article.

  I learned nothing new from the article. Sheila had been at a costume party near White Rock Lake. She’d gotten into a fight with her boyfriend and left. Witnesses at her apartment building saw her return home in an unfamiliar truck. The next morning, her body was found by White Rock Lake, wearing a shirt that could be traced back to Hudson James, identified as the driver of the truck. Other evidence placed her in his truck, and his truck at the lake, but ultimately a jury did not find him guilty.

  The details matched what he’d told me. Almost eerily so. It was as though he’d been plagued by the account of that night since it had happened, like he relived it so many times that the memory was untainted by age. I wondered if that was true, if he was locked up to this murder like Prometheus bound, waking every day to have his liver pecked at by vultures who continued to believe in his guilt.

  One little fact of Sheila Murphy’s murder nagged at me. There had been no evidence of rape or sexual assault, yet Hudson told me she was in her underwear. He’d been a gentleman and given her his shirt, and that one piece of evidence had been more damning than the rest combined.

  I clicked around other articles but found no mention of this fact. Yet, the question remained. Who had taken her clothes? Maybe it had happened at the party she’d fled. A costume party, the article said. A fight with her boyfriend.

  Of everything I read, this was the only article that even mentioned that a boyfriend existed. There had to be a way to find out who he was, and not just by asking Tex. If the lieutenant could operate his investigation on his own terms, telling me bits and pieces of information while using me as bait, then I would compartmentalize what I found out, too. If I was indeed connected, then I was at risk and I had to take care of myself. Last night’s attack was proof of that.

  I did a Google image search for Sheila Murphy, hoping to find a virtual memorial that showcased a series of pictures dedicated to keeping her memory alive. I hit pay dirt.

  www.Findmykiller.com/SheilaMurphy featured the same smiling image of the young victim I’d come to know from the papers, but below a brief paragraph that summarized the unsolved crime was a gallery of images. I clicked on the first few and found photos of her childhood. I scrolled through three pages and clicked on the last picture. My breath caught in my throat.

  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 try
ing 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 seriou
s! 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.