Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery)

by Vallere, Diane

  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.”

  She gave me the information and I promised to call right away. We hung up and I flipped back a few pages to check my notes. That’s when I saw it, on one of the sheets between the page where I’d started and the page I was on now. MADISON, YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was planted in a place where I couldn’t have missed it, and that was not a good feeling. I scooped my cell phone out of the picnic basket and did the sensible thing. I called Tex.

  “Allen,” he answered.

  “Tex, it’s Madison. I need to see you.”

  “I knew you couldn’t resist my charm,” he joked.

  “Can you come to the Mummy? Now? I have some information you need to know.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t move, don’t talk to anyone, I’ll be right there.”

  Lieutenant Tex Allen was a lot of things, but right now the only one I was concerned with was that he was a cop. And even before this morning, when I’d sunk down to the bottom of a freezing cold pool, he knew I’d been in over my head.

  He arrived quickly, as if he’d already been in the area. I didn’t ask. He smelled like cut grass and cinnamon. He took the seat in front of me and leaned back and I showed him the notepad. Then I told him about the pool. His fingers grasped the sides of the chair tightly enough to show he was keeping his true thoughts in check.

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean, what else?”

  “Your friend Hudson. What about him?”

  “What are you driving at?” I asked instead of answering.

  “His truck was parked three blocks from your apartment last night. We put a car on it and it never moved. Do you want to tell me wher
e we can find him?”

  “I don’t know where you can find him. Did you try his house?”

  “He’s not there. A couple of officers have been watching his house since you were attacked, and it looks like he skipped town.”

  “He wouldn’t just leave.”

  “Said he loaded up the back of his truck and put a cat carrier on the passenger side.”

  That didn’t fit. I didn’t see him leaving town now, not after everything he’d told me, not after all of the reasons he had chosen to stay in Dallas.

  “If he left, he’ll be back. He has nothing to run away from.”

  “What makes you so sure, Night?” Tex asked, and for the first time that day, I grew uncomfortably warm. I bent down and turned the small space heater off.

  “I don’t think I’m a bad judge of character.”

  “Your last boyfriend. The married furniture designer in Philadelphia? Do you think you correctly judged his character?”

  I leaned forward, right in Tex’s personal space. “That is not fair!” I shouted, and slammed the palms of my hands down on top of the desk. “How do you know about that? And how dare you bring that up to me. I am trying to help you find a killer, not go after an innocent man.” I pushed the chair away from the desk and stood up, needing fresh air and space from the lieutenant. I took two steps and my knee cracked loudly, like a twig underfoot. I winced and buckled slightly, closed my eyes, and hobbled toward the front door.

  “Night, your knee. Was he the one who caused the injury?”

  Like a poison-tipped dart intended to injure me long after it penetrated my flesh, Tex’s comment pierced my spirit. I realized the extent of his background check on me, how much he’d known all along, how much he had kept to himself. There was no denying my reality, not to him.

  “No, Lieutenant, I’m the only one responsible for my injury. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” I pushed the doors open and limped through them, leaving him behind in the office.

  My exit would have been much more effective if I’d thought to grab my keys or phone before storming out the front door. I had to give Tex credit. He waited a solid twenty minutes before coming to find me, leaning against the front exterior of The Mummy. He had my picnic basket in one hand and my personal belongings in the other.

  “You got enough in here to share?” he asked, rocking the basket slightly toward me.

  “Possibly,” I said.

  He sat down on the sidewalk and set the picnic basket next to him. I didn’t move. He opened the basket and pulled out plastic tumblers and a container of tea. After filling two cups, he set them down and tore the end of the loaf of French bread. I crossed my arms over my chest and watched him bite into the loaf and chew, washing it down with a good sized gulp of tea. I was hungry. I was thirsty. Most of all, I wanted to sit back down.

  And, it was my food.

  I took a seat next to him on the sidewalk and snapped a branch of grapes off the vine. My legs stuck out in front of me. I popped three grapes in my mouth, swallowed some tea, and tore off a piece of bread, all without making eye contact.

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” I said before biting the bread.

  “Fair enough,” he replied.

  We ate together in silence. When a good amount of the bread and grapes and cheese were gone I leaned back, letting the hot sun sear my face with my eyes closed.

  “Night, I want you to steer clear of all of this for the next couple of days.”

  I took a deep breath and kept my eyes closed. “As in, what?”

  “As in, let homicide do their job. Find something else to occupy your time.”

  For the first time since the murders had started, I heard him. He had sworn to serve and protect, and at the moment, those responsibilities included me.

  “Fine. I need to focus on business before I go bankrupt.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time for theater stuff when this is over.”

  I leaned forward and opened my eyes, then turned to him. “I know.”

  He stood up and extended a hand toward me. I didn’t want to need his help, but maybe, just this one time, it wouldn’t hurt to let someone help me. I took his hand and let him pull me up off the ground.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Who knows? Get a cortisone shot, do something about this hair, maybe rent a movie.”

  “You’re being smart.”

  “I’m being smart,” I repeated.

  I dropped his hand and hauled the almost empty picnic basket to the new rental. I unlocked the doors and got inside. Before I could close the door, Tex yelled to me. “Hey Night?”

  “Yes?”

  He pointed a finger at me. “You need anything, you call.”

  I smiled but knew I’d already made my one gratuitous phone call for help.

  I drove home and picked up Rocky from the neighbor, then drove to the studio. I’d been half-joking to Tex when I mentioned bankruptcy, but in all honesty the bills were exceeding the cash flow and mine wasn’t the type of business that bounced back quickly from setbacks. I didn’t have any jobs lined up at the moment and there seemed to be no better time than the present to do something about that.

  I let myself in through the back door and turned on a couple of lights. I patted the back cushion of a white rectangular sofa and a layer of dust particles flitted through the air. If nothing else, I could use the time to give the studio a once over.

  I flipped the Closed sign to Open and started cleaning. A small portable Rat Pack-era bachelor’s bar stood by the front door, stocked with a variety of green cleaning supplies. I pulled out a yellow chamois cloth and a bottle of Murphy’s Oil and set to work polishing the wooden chairs, table legs and bars. Next, I used a feather duster to knock the slight layer of dust off of the crevices of each lamp, clock, object d’art, and knickknack in the room.

  The sun streamed through the front windows, glistening off airborne particles. I’d neglected my business for too long and it felt good to clean. It felt as though I was clearing the cobwebs from the life I had before the murders started.

  I put the cleaning fluids and rags into a bucket and lugged them to the office. I wheeled a Dyson out of the closet by the back door and waved the extension wand in the air to suck up the floating filaments of dust. When I reached the corner where the arc lamp had stood, I clipped the attachments onto the hose and got down on my hands and knees, working at the carpet pile to eliminate any signs of the rectangular marble base that had sat there before Rocky knocked it over. Something touched my left shoulder and I screamed.

  A man stood, bent at the waist, his hand inches from me. I whipped the hose of the vacuum cleaner toward him like the barrel of a shotgun, my eyes wide with terror.

  He put his hands up in the air and stepped back, almost colliding with a woman with shaggy jet black hair and black cat’s eye sunglasses. The man’s lips moved, but I couldn’t understand him over the din of the vacuum.

  I used my right hand to leverage myself up to a standing position, and switched off the machine.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “We’re the Duncans.”

  “The who?”

  “Ned and Connie Duncan. We left you a message about our house?”

  I looked around the office. “When, today?”

  “Ned, let’s go,” said the woman, tugging at the sleeve of his madras plaid shirt.

  “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m a little jumpy,” I said.

  They looked at me like I belonged in a psych ward. Good going, Madison. That’s a surefire way to get clients.

  “My dog knocked over a rather large lamp and I’m a little shaky from the crash. Again, I’m sorry,” I said in my most professional tone. “I didn’t get your message but if you’d like we can meet in
my office and discuss what interests you.”

  They exchanged wary looks but ultimately followed me. When they saw Rocky chewing on his rope bone from the nook in the middle of a lime green beanbag chair, they calmed considerably. Shih Tzu as anti-crazy endorsement. That’s a new one.

  The couple sat in the chairs in front of my desk and I sat behind it. I placed them in their early thirties.

  “Now, what did you have in mind?” I asked.

  Ned spoke first. “I think we should be honest. We have pretty strong ideas of what we like: all the classics. Saarinen, Nelson, Wright, you know...we were thinking about doing it ourselves. Well, us and Design Within Reach.”

  Internally, I cringed at the mention of the retailer famous for reissues of classic mid-century designs, even though I knew their mere presence and success validated my own efforts.

  “You bought a mid-century house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I admire your interest in keeping the interior true to the exterior. That’s my business. And you can certainly go the direction you mentioned, with reissues, but I prefer a more honest approach. Actual items, some restored, from the era. Originals mixed in with a little kitsch.”

  “Can you show us your work?” asked the woman. Her sunglasses had the kind of lenses that darkened with sun and now, in the comfort of my office, had faded to clear.

  “Of course.”