Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) Page 8

  “You read the newspaper?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe everything I read.”

  “There are worse sources for information.”

  “And there are probably better ones, too. What happened here today?”

  “This isn’t the time or the place for that conversation.”

  “Okay, then tell me what you know about the murder in the newspaper.”

  “Madison, I like you. But I’m a cop. Telling a civilian about a confidential police investigation does not rank high on my list of things to do.”

  “I’m not asking for your secret handshake. You’re the one who keeps saying I’m connected. I want to know what happened here, and why you’re using me to get to my friend. I have questions.”

  “You’ll have to figure out another way to get your answers. I’m not getting into this with you.” He took a couple of steps away from me and held out his hand. “Now come on.”

  “Tex, if I’m connected, then I want to know what is going on. If you won’t tell me, I know someone who’s probably all too happy to tell his side of the story,” I said loud enough for the entire group of cops to hear.

  Through the crowd, Ruth Coburn materialized, hysteria and shock evident in her expression and stance. She pointed a finger directly at me.

  “You! You did this to her! She came to see you!”

  “Ruth, I’m so sorry,” I offered. I stepped forward and reached my arms out, wanting to console her.

  “She wasn’t supposed to be here! She only came here to impress you!” One of the cops put an arm around her waist and kept her from attacking me. “It’s your fault!”

  My breath caught in my throat. Tex turned back to face me.

  “Madison, I’m telling you, stay out of it. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “This is my life, Tex. Do not tell me what to do.” I turned in a huff and stormed away from the theater. Rocky followed reluctantly, yapping wildly at the chaotic scene in the background.

  Anger propelled me away from the Mummy to the Explorer and out of the parking lot. The venom in Ruth’s words didn’t hit until I was a few blocks away. The trembling in my fingers took over again as her voice echoed through my mind, making it increasingly difficult to keep the large SUV on the road. I pulled over and gulped at the air in an effort to calm down. I punched on the hazard lights. Cars whizzed past me, a few swerving dangerously close to the side of the truck.

  Once I’d gotten the shaking under control, I turned off the hazards and moved the truck back onto Garland Road. If I could go home, go to bed, go to sleep and wake up with this as nothing more than a nightmare, I would. But it wasn’t. It was all too real. Ruth’s words hung in my head, repeating over and over like a record with the needle stuck. It’s your fault. I didn’t know how or why. I couldn’t begin to understand how a mother feels after losing a daughter. I knew it was her grief, her hysteria, that had caused her to lash out at me. Unless she knew something else. Why had her daughter gone to the Mummy? I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to go someplace idyllic, to a world where murders didn’t exist. Slowly I drove to Thelma Johnson’s house.

  Seventy-five percent of the population keeps a spare key hidden within three feet of the entrance. I found Thelma Johnson’s under a blue ceramic pot that sat to the left of the front door. I unlocked it and called hello to the empty house. My missing cell phone sat on the dining room table, the battery dead. There was no sign of Steve Johnson, and perhaps he’d made his peace with his mother’s death faster than he’d anticipated. Rocky followed me into the house. It was as I’d left it, like a time warp. The world outside of this house may have held murderers, but inside it was 1960.

  The charity truck had picked up the eighties velour sofa and the matching La-Z-Boy chair. Rectangles marked off the rug where furniture had once sat. I walked up the stairs and sat in the middle of her bedroom floor where the four-poster bed had anchored the room. The yellow and white wallpaper bathed me in calm. The chandelier, a white dome of iron decorated with sage green and ochre flowers, cast shadows of distorted daisies on the walls. Frilly yellow gingham curtains hung from a whitewashed wooden rod accented with white metal finials. The fabric tinted the natural light that filtered into the room. It softened the environment more than a Calgon Take-Me-Away moment ever could. I wanted to stay there, to sit in the middle of that room for the rest of my life. In that room, protected by the golden glow of sunshine and daisies, I felt like nothing bad could get to me.

  Rocky sniffed the baseboards, the closet, and the feet of the long, low walnut wardrobe. His leash trailed behind him. He disappeared inside the closet for a few minutes and returned with a white leather shoe between his teeth. He carried it to me to play with. Instead, I pulled it out of his mouth and picked him up, cradling his body close to me. He fought my affection, not understanding I needed his comfort more than he needed to play.

  We sat that way for a while, until he finally wriggled free. While this stranger’s house felt safe, it felt unfamiliar. These weren’t my things. They weren’t arranged the way I would have arranged them. As long as they sat in this house, they were Thelma Johnson’s, a declaration of who she was. Once they left, wrapped in newspaper, nestled in a box, packed away in my storage room or displayed in my studio, a digital picture of them printed out and pinned to my wall of ideas, they would cease to be hers and become available to one of my clients.

  Rocky followed me down the stairs to the living room where I began collecting small items that I could carry and fit in the back of the truck. It would take two people to carry out the wardrobe, the sideboard, and the dining room table. When I’d first embarked on this project I thought I could count on Hudson. Today, I wasn’t sure. The more I thought about his reaction last night, and what I’d read in the article, the more I wanted to hear his side of the story. Hudson wasn’t a killer. Not the Hudson I knew. He was more to me than a friend. Aside from the fact that he didn’t know my own deep, dark secrets, he was the closest thing I had to a confidant, and until last night, I had trusted him completely.

  I looped Rocky’s leash to the white wrought iron banister and began a series of trips in and out of the house, starting with the contents of her closet, then her vast hat collection, finally emptying out her wardrobe. I rolled knickknacks in newspaper and cradled them in empty cardboard crates that had been left propped inside the front door. The logo on the crates were for mangoes; I kept similar crates at the studio. They were lighter than most boxes, easy to carry, and best of all, free.

  Exhaustion and a full SUV dictated when I was done for the day. The house was nowhere near empty; aside from the closet, I hadn’t even started on the bedroom. But there was something so peaceful about that room, even with the bed missing, that I didn’t want to disrupt it. I angled one last dining room chair into the back seat, collected Rocky and left.

  Thelma Johnson’s house was in the M-streets, a highly coveted area of real estate despite the difficult housing market. Across the street, children lobbed a rubber ball back and forth while a man washed his car. Rocky barked out the window at them. The children waved and smiled. Their world was so serene compared to mine.

  I drove down Monticello to Greenville and turned right, following it until I reached the cross street that led to my parking space behind the studio. I set Rocky up in my office and continued on to my storage unit out back.

  Within months of moving to Texas, it had been filled with mid-century objects d’art and my design studio had become a stunning testament to what I was capable of doing with a small budget and a passionate client. I advertised with the local realtors who specialized in fifties and sixties ranches before people like Pamela had jumped onto the trend. Those contacts had led me to buying the small twelve-unit apartment building where I lived. Thanks to the crash of the real estate market my bid had been accepted. Thank
s to the other tenants who lived in my building, I could pay the bills and worry less about getting my design business off the ground. When I first moved here it was with a door slammed on my past, a busted-up knee, and a fresh new life in front of me. Now, that fresh new life was at stake.

  A hodgepodge of items filled the interior. Bookcases, shelves, armoires, tables, all covered with framed paintings, glassware, clocks, candles, lamps, wall hangings. I made several trips from the truck to the storage unit, transferring as many of Thelma Johnson’s newspaper-wrapped belongings as I could, until my knee threatened to give out and my energy level threatened to expire.

  I collected Rocky, who jumped around my legs as though he’d been kept captive for a week. I looped his leash around my wrist and we ducked out the back door. Hours had passed since I left Tex at the Mummy, and the day had turned to dusk. In an odd way, my productivity had been doubly successful; I’d kept myself from thinking about the murders. But now, with no more distractions, questions trickled into the back of my mind. Questions that needed answers. Explanations for things I needed to understand.

  Foolishly, I drove to Hudson’s house.

  Hudson was in his garage like he’d been two days earlier. I parked across the street and watched without letting him know I was there. Clear safety glasses covered half his face. His T-shirt and jeans were once again covered in wood shavings, and the buzz of a sander filled the air. A single light bulb illuminated the garage, enough to cast light on his workbench but not enough to let me see what he was working on. The sun had dropped and I was thankful for the cloak of the dark SUV.

  Rocky sat on my lap, watching him with the same interest as I did. Hudson lifted the piece of wood he sanded. Against the light, I recognized a table leg I’d given him a week ago. Gently his hand rubbed over the curve, smoothing away shards or splinters of wood that remained from the sanding. He pulled off the safety glasses and breathed onto the wood, then polished it with a discolored rag that sat on the workbench. There was a gentleness to his movements. At that moment, I wanted to talk to him, to tell him I’d read the papers, and that I didn’t believe he had anything to do with a murder twenty years ago. I hopped out of the truck and waited while Rocky climbed down the sideboard. Gently I shut the door behind me.

  Hudson stopped working. I crossed the street and he squinted my direction. The darkness made it hard for me to see. I held up a hand in what should have been a wave but looked more like an Indian How.

  “Madison,” he said, and raised his hand too, then dropped it suddenly. He crossed the garage and slammed the door down, putting a hinged metal barrier between us. A few seconds later a second door slammed from somewhere inside his house.

  Being here, alone, was dangerous. I stopped, halfway across the quiet street, my feet rooted to the ground. I shouldn’t have come, but now I was afraid to leave.

  He’d been so angry yesterday when I asked him for a ride. I thought there must be some explanation, but maybe there wasn’t. I turned around and willed myself back to the Explorer with Rock’s leash in my hand. As my hand reached out for the door handle, a sudden force slammed my body against the truck. Rocky broke away and took off into the darkness as I struggled for balance.

  ELEVEN

  “Ungh,” I grunted. My palms slammed into the side of the midnight blue Explorer.

  The attacker grabbed my ponytail and yanked me backward, then pulled my head from side to side.

  I lost my balance and fell. I powered my good leg underneath me and rose again, twisting side to side, trying to shake free, but couldn’t. My feet searched the ground for footing. I started to fall a second time. Our feet scuffled on the side of the road, kicking up dirt and loose gravel. Birds flew out of a nearby tree, the flapping of their wings echoing the sound of my Keds smacking the street.

  The man pulled me up by my hair and thrust me forward and I fell again. My kneecap crashed against the asphalt. My palms scraped the street. I powered my good leg underneath me and stood. “Vola j’shiva,” he grunted, and pushed my face into the side of the truck. I turned my head and my cheekbone slammed against the metal door. I felt for the bag still slung across my chest. My fingers closed on the scissors. I threaded my fingers through the handle and reached behind me, stabbing wildly at nothing. I tried to scream but no sound came out.

  I twisted my wrist and hacked at my ponytail, chopping at clumps of hair haphazardly. The man let go. I turned around with the scissors in my hand, but he was gone, vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

  I wanted to leave. I yanked at the door handle, repeatedly. I pulled on it over and over, so frantic I couldn’t concentrate on the simple task of unlocking the door.

  Two strong arms encircled me, pinning my own arms to my sides. I screamed and lifted my legs and pushed against the door but I couldn’t win. I wasn’t strong enough.

  “Madison, it’s Hudson, it’s okay. He’s gone. I’ve got you now.”

  “Let go of me!” I screamed and writhed in his arms. I gulped the air, panting loud, almost animalistic breaths.

  “Shhhhhh. He’s gone,” he whispered in my ear. My hacked off hair flew into my face, covering my eyes. I struggled again, trying to get free.

  “It’s okay,” he repeated. “Stop fighting me. Shhhhh,” he said. “I’m going to let you go. You can leave if you want.” His voice was a calm note to my hysteria. He relaxed his arms and placed a hand on each of my biceps, then slowly turned me around so I faced him.

  “No,” I said, and pushed my fists into his broad chest. I leaned against the truck and searched his face for answers, signals, indications that these were about to be my last minutes alive. Instead of the threat I’d felt out front of his house, he looked as scared as I felt.

  “It’s over. He’s gone.” He reached a hand out and pushed my now-freed hair out of my eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t come out sooner. I should have known.”

  “Who’s ‘he’?” I asked. As the fight or flight adrenaline wore off, it was replaced with an off-the-charts throbbing in my knee.

  “I don’t know. I thought I saw someone hanging around the house yesterday, but I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “Where’s Rocky?”

  “He ran into the house when I came outside.”

  “Can we go look for him?” My voice shook with the question and the implied companionship.

  “Your knee. You’re hurt.” He bent down as though he were going to carry me.

  “I want to walk,” I said, pushing him away. Slowly, gingerly, I advanced toward his house.

  He slung an arm around my waist and guided me to the front door. Rocky sat on one side of the screen, Hudson’s black cat Mortiboy sat on the other, hissing at him. There was a small pile of puppy poo on the welcome mat.

  “I thought I was the one who had the crap scared out of them,” I said to Hudson, trying, and failing, to make light of the attack.

  He held the front door open. “Go inside. I’ll take care of this. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hallway. I called the cops, they should be here soon.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance, almost on cue, as if to prove he was telling the truth.

  I scooped up Rocky and walked through the house. Mortiboy crossed my path and jumped onto the sofa. Good thing I’m not superstitious. I shut the bathroom door behind me and set Rocky on the toilet. He watched with eyes that trusted me, that knew I was the person to keep him safe. But who was the person to keep me safe?

  I looked at my reflection. My blonde hair hung in dirty, sweaty jagged clumps around my face. I hadn’t put on much makeup that morning and dark circles under my eyes aged me considerably. A three-inch long scratch and a purple bruise already showed on my cheek. I started to cry, my already red face turning crimson. I muffled sobs and splashed cool water over my face, my hands, my wrists. It revived me temporarily. I raked wet fingers through
what remained of my hair to keep it back.

  My shirt had torn during the fight, exposing part of my bra. The knee of my Capri pants was shredded and blood had caked to the frayed edge. I looked more punk rock than sixties sex comedy, like I was wearing a makeshift Halloween costume. I blew my nose three times, picked up Rocky from the toilet, and flushed the tissues.

  There was a tap on the door. “Madison? You okay in there?” asked Hudson.

  I opened the door.

  He held a wine glass in one hand and a plastic bag filled with ice in the other.

  I took the wine glass and gulped it too fast. Almost immediately my muscles felt sluggish, like a paper towel that’s been used to mop up a spill. When I pulled the glass away from my lips he gently pressed the ice against my cheekbone. “There are a couple of officers out here that want to talk to you.”

  I looked past Hudson and saw Officer Nast and a short, squat male officer standing in Hudson’s living room. I ran my fingers through my hair again and hobbled down the hallway to meet them. Halfway there I stumbled and bumped into the wall, knocking an abstract painting askew. When I righted it, I noticed a small HJ in the corner.

  “Ms. Night, this is Officer Clark. Can you tell us what happened out there?” Officer Nast said. With the hand not holding her notepad, she fed her hand between her neck and her long unbound brunette hair, and flipped it out, away from her collar.

  “I didn’t think it would be you.”

  “Who’d you expect?” Officer Nast said, obviously annoyed.

  “I-I don’t know.” That was a lie. Tex hadn’t made a secret that he thought Hudson was guilty of something. I’d been certain he’d grab the opportunity to come, invited, into Hudson’s house.

  I relayed the little that I could remember. “He came from behind, he knocked me around, and he ran away. I don’t know where he came from, and I don’t know where he went. I don’t know what he wanted.”