Pillow Stalk

by Diane Vallere

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 where 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.”

  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 we
ren’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.