Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery)

by Vallere, Diane

  I pulled two large photo albums from the bookcase behind me and set one in front of them. “These are all rooms that I’ve done, and a few close-ups of restored pieces. Let me give you a couple of minutes to go through them and talk. I’d really like to put that vacuum cleaner away,” I said with a smile.

  I left them alone with my portfolio and Rocky, the best one-two punch I could come up with on short notice. When I returned to the office, they were all smiles. We discussed room dimensions, my fee, and when I could come to see their new house and take interior pictures and measurements. It felt good to focus on something else for a change, something that usually was the single most important part of my life.

  Close to two hours later, I walked the Duncans to the door and returned to the office. I wanted to start a file on them while the creative juices were still flowing. Getting the details down while they were fresh in my mind would serve to make me look like a detail-oriented genius in time. Rocky slept in the corner while my fingers flew over the keyboard.

  I typed up several pages of notes, referencing items in the storage unit and items I’d seen in the market place. I had a pretty good idea what direction to go to please them, and when I was done with my pitch, they’d seemed more pleased than when they’d walked in, although, considering they’d been held at vacuum-point, it wasn’t a stretch to know things could only get better.

  When I shut down the Word document, I launched the Internet and checked my emails. Digests from my MCM Yahoo loop had been filtered directly to their folders. A couple of automated eBay reminders peppered my inbox along with an announcement from a dealer looking to liquidate a surplus of Danish modern furniture. And in the middle of them all was a note from Susan at AFFER with the subject line: Call John Phillips.

  Hours earlier, I would have made that call. Before finding the threat. Before talking to Tex. Before moving on with my life. I moved the email to the trash bin without reading it. I shut down the computer and locked up the office.

  I drove the Explorer to Old Towne, a strip mall off of Mockingbird. It had been left behind in the age of newly renovated luxury malls, but at the moment it held everything I needed: a no appointment necessary hair salon and a used DVD store. If a doctor with cortisone shots on demand happened to open an office in the vicinity, it would have been perfect.

  There wasn’t much the teenaged stylist could do to my hair. The jagged edges I’d been left with after hacking off my ponytail had created layers too short to blend. The long, smooth cascade of blonde hair I’d once had would take months, maybe a year, to grow back. Forty-five minutes later my hair was layered around my face, pouffy with the humidity and volumizing mousse that had been used. It was shorter than I liked, but that was life. It would give me an excuse to dive into my hat collection for a couple of months.

  I walked a few doors down to the DVD store and went straight to the comedies and looked up P. There it was: a copy of Pillow Talk, mine for a mere seven dollars. Ironically, it was one of the few Doris movies I didn’t own, thanks to my generous lending habit. I left the store and walked Rocky to the car. My cell phone buzzed from inside my handbag. Private Number. I expected it to be from the Duncans. It wasn’t uncommon for new clients to follow up a first meeting with a phone call. I answered with the name of the store.

  “Mad for Mod, Madison Night speaking.”

  “Night, where are you?” asked Tex. “It’s important.”

  “I know this can’t be about the case because you specifically asked me—”

  “Not now, Night. Where can I find Hudson James?”

  “Hudson? I don’t know,” I answered, confused by his no-nonsense tone. “Why?”

  “Because we just issued a warrant for his arrest.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I need to know where I can find him,” said Tex.

  “Hudson is not the man you’re looking for.”

  “Night, you don’t know what you’re talking about. We found evidence that doesn’t put him in a good light and that’s all I’m going to say.”

  “What evidence?”

  Hudson had explained away every single thing that had come up and I didn’t believe he’d been lying. It didn’t fit. “Something isn’t right. You’re trying to jam a square peg into a round hole.”

  “No, I’m trying to solve a homicide.”

  “You’re looking for the wrong man.”

  “Night, I don’t know where these misplaced loyalties toward James are coming from but listen to me. He’s dangerous. He’s a killer. And if I find out you know where he is and you’re not telling me, I swear I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

  “What? What could you possibly have on Hudson aside from gossip and innuendo?”

  Tex disconnected the call.

  I didn’t believe for a second that Hudson was guilty, but I was a little scared about Tex’s threat. Hudson had been at my apartment only last night and Tex knew it, only he didn’t know I knew he knew it. Keeping the men in my life straight would have been like a comical mix-up in any one of Doris’s sex comedies if it weren’t for the severity of my situation. I had to get home and find out if Hudson had returned to the building.

  This time I kept my eyes alert for signs of Hudson’s pickup truck. I didn’t see it. The access to the parking lot was simple: pull in the driveway on the south side and exit through the driveway on the north side. The driveways and the lot made a U around the building.

  I pulled into the long narrow driveway that led to the lot in the back and eased the new Explorer into my space. The driver’s side door scraped against the metal frame that held up the aluminum covering. One more expense I didn’t need. My Mexican neighbors loitered around their lot with a case of Tecate torn open, partially distributed amongst them. I nodded hello and pulled Rocky away from their group and into the back door. From four steps away I could see a note taped to the front of my apartment.

  Even before I reached the door I knew who it was from. My heart skipped a beat. I looked up and down the hallway, for what I wasn’t sure. And then I read it.

  Madison, I’m involved more than I should be and that could become a problem for you. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused. I’m also sorry about the trouble you’ll find on the other side of this door but I didn’t know who else to trust. Yours, H.

  Everything about the note terrified me. Unlocking the door terrified me. I glanced out the window and saw a police cruiser turn into the exit driveway of my building. It stopped midway, before it reached the lot. I didn’t know what they were doing there, but if no other cars attempted to leave, they could park in one of the open spaces and be up to my apartment in about three minutes.

  Carlos Montana, my next door neighbor, came out of his apartment and stared out the back window. “What are those pigs doing now?” he asked angrily.

  Carlos was a retired mechanic. He was never late on his rent, changed my oil for free, and made a mean enchilada. He also maintained a dislike for cops. “Don’t they know nothing?” He let off a string of Spanish words that didn’t sound like compliments.

  “Can you go tell them they can’t come in that way?” I asked.

  “Sure. I’ll stick it to them.” He tore off down the stairs and crossed the lot to his El Camino. I watched long enough to see him pull up head to head with the cruiser, honk his horn and engage in a yelling battle. God bless Carlos. I’d have to cut him a break on the rent next month.

  I turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed the door in. Rocky bounded a few feet inside, yipping happily. Before I could hit the light switch I heard a hiss. Then a whimper. Then Rocky returned to my side. I shut the door behind me and put on the chain, then felt around for the knob on the atomic lamp. I twisted it and almost tripped over a cat carrier.

  Mortiboy was in the house.

  For once, Rocky kept his d
istance. I picked up the blue-grey plastic carrier warily, not sure if the cat and I were on much better terms than he was with Rocky. He crouched low on his paws, with his tail fat and his back arched, and let loose another hiss in my direction. A low, angry yowl emanated from the back of his throat. I leaned down toward the little grated door and stuck a finger between the metal. He took a swipe at me and one of his claws connected. Before I could say or do anything, there was a knock on my front door.

  I picked up the cage and carried it into my bedroom. “Just a minute!” I called out.

  When I returned and looked through the peephole, I found Officer Nast and Officer Clark standing in front of my door. I opened it but left the chain on.

  “Hi, Officers,” I said tentatively.

  “Madison, is everything okay in there?” asked Officer Nast. She leaned in to peer through the narrow opening, her green eyes darting from side to side, taking in my living room.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “It sounded like we heard a yell. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I am. I...” I looked behind me, unsure if I really was. I hadn’t had a chance to see if Hudson was in the apartment, like last night. “I had a kitchen accident. Cut my finger. You must have heard me.”

  I held up my index finger. Mortiboy’s claw had punctured the tip, producing a trickle of blood that spidered its way around the knuckle. It looked worse than it was. Unless the furry devil had given me cat scratch fever.

  “You need to get that under cold water, ma’am,” said Officer Clark.

  “I was just about to do that when you knocked.”

  Officer Nast pushed a hand against my front door. “Are you sure you’re okay in there? Nobody else around?”

  “Just me,” I said. Then we all heard a crash from my hallway.

  “Ms. Night, I’m going to need you to open that door.”

  Rocky, in his fear-slash-enthusiasm over Mortiboy’s presence, had knocked over another lamp. When the officers and I reached the pile of broken ceramic, this time formerly in the shape of a Chinese man, it was with more relief than concern.

  “My dog has developed an unseemly habit of knocking over lamps.”

  Rocky crept out from the bathroom, front paws barely on the carpet of the hallway, back paws securely on the pink tiled floor, both head and tail low. He knew he’d done wrong.

  “Come here, you,” I said, making a big show of picking him up and cradling him, all the while talking to him like he was a very bad dog. The officers looked uncomfortable with my maternal show of doggie affection, exactly what I’d hoped for.

  “Sorry to have bothered you. Keep an eye on that little guy,” said Officer Clark. He reached out and ruffled Rocky’s fur.

  “Will do.”

  I followed the officers to the hallway. Before descending the stairs, Officer Nast turned back to face me. “Madison, from one woman to another, don’t let your emotions get you involved in something you shouldn’t be. Once you start listening to your emotions, you’re burnt.”

  I wondered if she was talking about Hudson or Tex. Either way, I nodded my agreement and smiled.

  Despite the afternoon hour, I donned white silk pajamas and crawled into bed in the middle of the day. Rocky curled up next to my left leg and Mortiboy sat on the corner of the right side of the bed—the closest he’d come to actual contact that didn’t involve bloodshed. I put the new DVD into the player and relaxed back against aqua and pink seersucker pillow shams.

  Pillow Talk was the reason I became a decorator. I was born on April third just like Doris Day, which made me an Aries. I first discovered the actress’s canon of movies when I was thirteen, but as time went on, I recognized pieces of myself in every role she ever played: strong, confident, independent, determined to do everything on my own. Where other people dismissed her body of work as light airy fare, I found it to be effervescent and bubbly in an uplifting manner. I wanted to be a modern day version of her. Capable of accomplishing anything, not needing a man to take care of me, getting by on my talents and intellect. And when I looked at the sets, I lusted to live in a world that looked like that.

  Growing up, I watched her movies over and over, learning the dialogue, idolizing Rock Hudson and James Garner, decorating and redecorating my bedroom to match what I saw, wondering when my own personal romantic mix-up was going to happen. It’s how I first got interested in mid-century decorating, and by studying her vast array of movies down to the smallest details, I’d developed an expert eye for accuracy. Eventually, I literally made it my business to bring the look of her movies to other people who felt the same way I did. I loved this movie. I loved all of Doris Day’s movies.

  But somewhere out there was a person who didn’t.

  I paused in the middle of the Roly Poly song and dug John Phillips’ phone number out of my handbag. A gruff male voice answered midway through the first ring.

  “Could I speak to Mr. John Phillips, please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Madison Night, from the Mummy Theater in Dallas? Is this Mr. Phillips?”

  “About time you called.”

  “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “It’s late. I’ve been waiting for your call all day. So, what did Susan tell you?”

  “Not much. She said AFFER received a letter about Doris Day movies?”

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I always thought that letter would have been funny if it wasn’t so disturbing.”

  “I’m a little lost.”

  “After we got the letter we thought it would be funny to watch a bunch of Doris Day movies, you know, stir the pot. We got into the second reel of Pillow Talk and, let me just say, everybody in that audience got more than they bargained for.”

  I dropped my voice. “So it’s true?”

  “What’s true?”

  “A dirty movie? With her?”

  “Listen. The woman looked like Doris Day and dressed like Doris Day, but I can tell you for certain that was no Doris Day.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The only thing we could do. Turned off the projector, apologized to the audience, and packed it up. The plan was to go back and try to figure out what happened but we never had a chance.”

  “Why not? What happened to the film reel?”

  “Didn’t Susan tell you? Wait, that’s right, she doesn’t know. I might as well tell you, since you’re in the middle of this thing. The day after we showed the movie there was a break in at the AFFER warehouse. The temperature gauges were tampered with, which destroyed about a third of our inventory, but only one thing was missing. Our copy of Pillow Talk.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “How did AFFER recover from the loss of inventory?” I asked.

  “Beneficiaries. People who care about what we do. We replaced most of the movies through donations from the Hollywood community. There are a lot of people out here who are interested in preserving our cinematic history and we were fortunate that they saw value in what we were doing. It took some time, but we built our inventory back up. Never caught the bastards who did it, either. And I still say it had something to do with that letter.”

  “I’m sorry to bring this back to Doris Day, but Susan said you had a beautiful copy of Pillow Talk. Was she wrong?”

  “No, she was right, we do now. Didn’t for a long time. Some grass-roots renovation team was working on an old theater in Cincinnati and found a beautiful print in the basement. Probably hadn’t been shown for fifty years. I’m telling you, this business is amazing. You never know what’s going to show up when some newcomers take over a theater and organize their inventory.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to John to keep him talking, but I wasn’t satisfied that I knew all I had to know.

  “Mr. Phillips, do you think
the letter is related to the break-in or the murders in Dallas?”

  “It would almost have to be. The gist of it is that this guy wanted us to destroy all of Doris Day’s movies.”

  “Are you quoting that or is that what you remember?”

  “You want to read it for yourself? Give me your address and I’ll drop a copy in the mail.”

  “Can you fax it?”

  There was a long pause. Susan had told me that John was retired and in his seventies. I wanted to see these letters but I didn’t know how interested he would be in going out of his way to get them from Hollywood to Dallas on a quick timetable.

  “Tell you what I’ll do. You got email?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll scan them in and email them as an attachment. You can print out your own copies.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  He took down my email address and we disconnected. I spent half an hour obsessively clicking the refresh icon in my inbox before changing out of my pajamas and back into my aqua and white tunic and aqua jersey pants. I took Rocky out for a sprinkle and gave John time to do what he’d promised.

  When I returned inside, I filled a hollow rubber toy with peanut butter for Rocky and tossed it into the living room to occupy him while I sat at the computer. There was one unread email in my inbox. Letter re: Doris Day movies from John Phillips. Rocky made little snorting noises in the background while I read the words of a Doris Hater.

  Dear American Film Rentals,

  Your work in the realm of preserving cinematic history is to be commended. Too many filmgoers are being educated by the likes of Bruce Willis, Will Farrell, and Adam Sandler, unaware that a vast array of movies prior to these created an art form to be revered. While I admire your efforts to continually educate your audiences on the importance of the films in your inventory, I must recommend that you take immediate action against those movies that are a cancer on the landscape of American Cinema, namely, the fluff of Doris Day. As an educated filmgoer, I believe that the ultimate destruction of this kind of nonsense will serve to highlight the greater cinematic achievements that were created during this notoriously otherwise lush window of moviemaking. I believe it is the only responsible action for AFFER to take.