Pillow Stalk

by Diane Vallere

“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 distance. 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.

  May I suggest that you are in the valuable position of changing the way people view movies forever, and by destroying the existence of this blemish on our country’s cannon of film, you will rewrite history in the eyes of future film aficionados? I see it as irresponsible for you to continue to preserve these movies, because their very presence forever alters the way film is viewed from a historical perspective.

  This is more than a suggestion. It is your obligation as a patron of the arts.

  Sincerely,

  A Concerned Moviegoer

  It was quite a letter: well written, well argued, and the kind of thing that would have been kept in a file and pulled out each year at the office holiday party if it hadn’t led to an act of vandalism.

  Another email from John Phillips popped into my inbox. News about the break-in was the subject. I opened the second attachment and stared at a newspaper clipping. The action described undermined the humor of the letter. I toggled back to the letter and printed off a copy. Somebody had to have looked into the letter and connected the two. I called John back.

  “John? You said ‘he’.”

  “I said what?”

  “He. You referred to the writer as ‘he’. But I’m sitting here reading this letter and there’s no signature.”

  “Well sure I said he. That’s what ties the whole thing together. There was a name on the return address of the envelope and I don’t know a lot of women named Richard Goode.”

  Richard Goode, I kept telling myself, was a common name. I didn’t want to think that there was a bigger reason for the murder at the theater, that the man responsible for our programming, the man who dealt with stress with a bag of mary-jane, the man whose chair I had occupied not even ten hours ago, was involved in this, but pieces of what I knew fit. He had access to the pillows in my trunk, and had fought me on the Doris Day film festival. But other pieces of the puzzle remained unconnected to him, not making sense.

  I held the letter in my hand and grew angry. People’s lives were at stake. Their futures. And I doubted that Richard had told the police about his anti-Doris Day stance. I called the Mummy and left a message on his voicemail for him to call me back. His home number was at the studio and I’d promised Tex—I’d promised Tex nothing. We were beyond promises of me minding my own business. We were officially in “I’m involved” mode. I looked up Richard’s home address.

  The addition of Mortiboy to the family unit presented a couple of unforeseen problems, not the least of which was what to do with the two of them while I was gone. So I did the unimaginable. I let the two of them have free reign of the apartment and I left.

  Richard Goode lived in east Dallas, in a neighborhood not very far from the Mummy. More flat roads, many of them unpaved. It was on the way to Garland, and the further you drove in that direction the more you got into the part of Texas people thought of when they never lived here: flat, dusty, less cosmopolitan, more folksy. The real estate was cheaper than in Dallas county or Collin county, which put the smarter, more frugal folks out that way instead of in the higher profile areas like the forever burgeoning downtown. Richard hadn’t gone far enough in that direction to really benefit. He was frugal-adjacent.

  Prior to today, I’d been to Richard’s place one time, and I relied on memory and instinct more than the address on the piece of paper, made two wrong turns, but eventually drove down the alley that led to his house. There were no cars in the driveway. I parked the Explorer at the curb and caught the tail of my tunic in the door when I shut it. The fabric tore when I tried to yank it free.

  I approached the front door and rang the bell. No answer. I knocked for good measure, waited a couple of minutes, and headed around back. The street was deserted. No children playing, no people lounging on their front porch. Unusual for a residential neighborhood.

  The back door was preempted by a screen door that hung from one broken hinge. I pulled it open and knocked on the door between. Unexpectedly, the door swung open.

  “Hello? Richard? Are you home?” I called through the hallway. No voices met my question. “Richard?” I called one last time.

  Common sense, courtesy, and general intellect told me to leave. But instinct, coupled with questions about why the back door was open if no one was home, why the neighborhood was noticeably quiet, and why Richard Goode’s name was signed to a letter sent to AFFER years ago, trumped common sense. And if answers were on the other side of the floor that separated me from the rest of the house, then I was going in.

  I tiptoed across the worn floor, a poorly measured and cut piece of linoleum roll made to look like tile. The seams by the bottom of the cabinets were not lined up and grime had since discolored the gap. As a decorator, I had a knack for assessing a room quickly, picking out the pieces that made up the personality of the person. It was a necessary skill in being able to design a new room for people who wanted to feel at home in it, not feel like they’d walked into a stranger’s house.

  At first glance, Richard’s living room was a study in post-college dorm room. Mismatched bookcases lined three walls. A futon, unfolded, faced the flat screen TV, probably worth more than all of the furniture combined. An empty wine bottle sat
on the makeshift coffee table. Even though the bottle was empty, he’d shoved the rubber cork back into the neck.

  “Richard?” I called again, answered only with more silence. I scanned the bookcase. The shelves were packed, upright and then covered with books on their sides. Books on filmmaking. Directors. Producers. Script Supervisors. How to break into Hollywood. How to make it in the movies. How to do anything and everything I could imagine relating to the industry.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for. Richard had a computer set up on a small table by the front door and a tiered bookcase next to it. I moved forward, no longer aware that I was trespassing in another person’s house. The shelves of this bookcase were full, too, this time with scripts. Shelf after shelf of scripts. I slid one out of its space on the shelf. The Monkey Conspiracy by Richard Goode. I slid it back in and pulled out another. Venom and Intimacy by R. Godenov. A third: Freak Show Superhero by Ricardo Godinsky. I got the feeling he’d been experimenting with pen-names that never quite worked.

  I pulled another script off of the bottom shelf. Raging Bull. Next, Taxi Driver. Next: Fitzcarraldo. He kept his own assortment of unsold screenplays on the shelves by those of works that he respected. I knew he respected them. He’d pitched some of these very same movies to the Dallas Independent Group for Movies over the past year and I’d been there to hear it. There was no surprise in finding proof of Richard’s passion for film; you didn’t become the director of a film society that presented only old movies on the big screen if you didn’t like—no, love—that kind of thing. Yet was this an interest, a passion, or an obsession? Before I’d read that letter I would have thought the former. Seeing this, coupled with the declarations he made in the letter, I wasn’t sure.

  A car turned into the cul de sac. I had more questions now than I’d arrived with, but there was no time to search for answers. I had to get out of there.

  I ran out the back door and pulled the door shut behind me. Two steps away I doubled back and tried the knob. It was locked. The handbrake clicked on a car out front and I hurried down the stairs and around the side of the house. A green sedan sat in Richard’s neighbor’s driveway.