Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) Page 9

  Officer Nast jotted some notes into a small spiral top notepad. “You didn’t see anything but you keep saying ‘he’. Why?”

  “He was a man, Officer. I’m sure of that.”

  “But you can’t tell us anything about him?”

  “No, I can’t. I felt him. I smelled him. I heard him. But I didn’t see him.”

  “What do you mean, you heard him? Did he say something?”

  “He said—he said sounds. Not words. I don’t know.” I stopped talking, and closed my eyes, trying to remember. “I think he said my name. I’m not sure. It could have been another language, maybe German, or Japanese,” I said, cradling my cheek with the plastic bag of ice.

  “Ms. Night, don’t play dumb. I’m sure you can tell the difference between German and Japanese.”

  I slammed the ice bag down on the coffee table. “It could have been Esperanto for all I know. Everything happened too fast. I couldn’t understand him.”

  Officer Nast stared at me for a couple of seconds. Officer Clark stood behind her. “Let’s go outside,” she said, and led the way to my truck. I looked at Hudson, in the corner of his living room. His hands were deep inside the front pockets of his jeans. He had been listening, I could tell, but not interrupting. It had to be hard, having these cops here, having this attack happen in front of his house. I tightened a blanket around my shoulders even though it was warm, and followed the officers out front, leaving Hudson inside with the animals.

  Officer Clark shined a flashlight around the ground, looking for evidence to corroborate my claims. There was nothing.

  “Ms. Night, let me ask you this. Why would someone want to attack you?” asked Officer Nast.

  “I don’t know.”

  She watched me closely. I felt she wanted me to say something specific, but didn’t know what it was.

  Someone knew something I didn’t, and until I figured out what it was, I was in danger. A killer had gotten away with murder twenty years ago and for some reason they were killing again. Something had shaken up a homicidal maniac and he was threatened. And what did I have to do with it? What had I done to threaten a murderer? I’d done nothing. My life was as innocent and dull as it ever had been, just the way I wanted it. Swim in the morning. Work at Mad for Mod in the afternoon. Volunteer at the theater at night. How had a part of that put me in danger?

  “If you think of anything, you call me, Ms. Night. Me. Nobody else.” She handed me her card. I didn’t look at it. “I think we have all we need. I don’t know what happened here, but be careful, ma’am.”

  “Call me Madison,” I said, bristling at the condescension I detected in her tone. While Tex had made ‘ma’am’ sound like a cowboy’s come-on, Officer Nast managed to make it sound old. I walked the two officers halfway down the sidewalk and turned back to face Hudson.

  “Can we sit down somewhere?” I asked.

  “Sure.” Hudson had been quiet during my conversation, standing a few feet away from the officers and me. I met him on the sidewalk and together we walked back into the living room. Rocky trotted by my side.

  I collapsed onto the sofa and Hudson took an armchair. I winced when my knee bent. The pain shot through me like two knitting needles shoved under the kneecap. I hid it as best as I could and settled down into the plush cushions.

  “I’m sorry I brought the police to your house,” I said quietly.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. Last night—I should have given you a ride.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not important.”

  “Yes, it is. I was in a bad place and you caught me off guard.”

  “I didn’t know about Sheila Murphy then,” I said.

  “But you do now.”

  “I read the article after I got home last night.”

  “Madison,” he started, “it wasn’t me.”

  I didn’t say anything at first, though I knew I’d already reached that conclusion. “I believe you,” I said after a long pause.

  “Why?” he asked. It wasn’t the response I expected.

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why do you believe me? Some of my friends didn’t believe me. I almost went to jail. I’d like to know why you do.”

  I reached out and picked a smooth table leg off the coffee table. It was the one he’d been working on in the garage the day I’d first come over to his house.

  “Because of the table legs.”

  “What?”

  “What you did with that old table was art. It wasn’t show-offy. It was completely in sync with the existing nature of the piece. You put yourself, your personality, aside and became one with the project.”

  “That’s my job.”

  I held up a hand to shut him up. “I’m not done. When Rocky came in, you didn’t get mad at him. You stopped your work and played with him. I watched. Your phone was ringing and I know you need the jobs and money but you just stopped what you were doing and played with my dog.”

  “That’s why I should have given you a ride home yesterday. You’re not like everybody else.”

  I thought for a second about Pamela Ritter, and about Ruth Coburn’s daughter. I could have been either one of them, if I’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. “I think I’m more common than you think.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re different. You look at the world differently than other people. You look at me differently than other people do.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, cupping his wine glass with both hands. His eyes focused on the table leg on the coffee table between us. I wanted him to keep talking. I wanted to know what he was thinking. “I like who I am when I see myself through your eyes.”

  I didn’t speak for a long time. I understood him completely. This man in front of me had been in a dark place, a place that I couldn’t even imagine being in. Yesterday’s article had brought twenty years worth of history back to his doorstep. History that was repeating.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked gently.

  He looked up at my face. This time his eyes sought the answers. “How much time do you have?”

  TWELVE

  Hudson was quiet for close to a minute after he agreed to tell the story. His attention went back to the coffee table, though I could tell his mind was far away from the cozy living room where we sat.

  “You’re taught, when you’re growing up, to be a gentleman. Be polite, offer a helping hand when you can, put women first. I’m not saying that women can’t take care of themselves, that’s not the kind of guy I am, but I’m not too self-centered to be able to offer someone help when they need it. That’s the only reason I gave Sheila Murphy a ride that night.”

  Rocky jumped up on the sofa and wedged himself between my hip and the green velvet cushions behind me. I sat sideways and propped my leg on the length of sofa to take the pressure off my knee.

  “I was driving home from—from somewhere I had to be. It was late and dark and I was the only car driving around White Rock Lake. She was running down the road in her underwear. At first I was going to drive past, I thought she was there with her boyfriend or something, like a midnight rendezvous that I interrupted. Then she ran in front of my car and held up her hands. Her face was a mess. She’d been at a costume party and must have been wearing a lot of makeup, and it was smudged and smeared around her eyes like she’d been hit, or crying or something. I pulled over and offered her a ride. She got in and I gave her my shirt to wear, so she wasn’t sitting there exposed.”

  I kept my hand on Rocky’s head, gently massaging my fingers over his scalp, while Hudson told his story.

  “She wouldn’t tell me what happened. She wouldn’t go to the cops, either, said it would cause more trouble than she wanted. I took her to her apartment and dropped her off. A Korean couple in her building was out f
ront, saw us. That’s the last time anybody remembers seeing her alive.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Her body was found the next day at White Rock Lake. She was still wearing my shirt.”

  “But—”

  “There was a cleaning label inside with my name on it. The neighbors described my truck and said they’d never seen it around the building before. The police matched tire tracks from the lake to my tires. They found evidence she’d been in my truck, blonde hairs on the headrest of the passenger seat. They went by the book, and the story they figured out was that I killed Sheila Murphy.”

  “But then why. . .?” I let my voice trail off. I’d been ready to ask why he wasn’t convicted, but I didn’t want to finish the question out loud.

  “The cops weren’t convinced. They couldn’t find a link between us. The press tried to make me out as a—they didn’t think I needed much more motive than wanting to kill a young blonde. They said if I wasn’t arrested, I’d kill again.”

  “Hudson,” I said softly, but no other words followed. I didn’t know how to react, what was appropriate. Mortiboy slunk into the room, looking only at the carpet in front of him. When he reached Hudson’s chair he hopped up effortlessly and turned himself around, then sat down on his lap, facing Rocky and me. Within seconds I could hear him purring.

  We sat like that in his living room for a while, no words spoken. Even Rocky and Mortiboy co-existed, neither challenging the other’s space. A quiet peacefulness I hadn’t felt in days filled the room.

  “How old are you?” I finally asked.

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “You’re younger than I am.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “How come you seem to know so much more than I do?”

  “While my friends were worrying about where to score their next joint I was forced to grow up fast.”

  “Did that make you bitter? Mad?”

  “Everybody has to grow up sometime. That’s the hand I was dealt.”

  I wasn’t sure that I’d have accepted things so easily. “Why did you stay in Dallas?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When it ended. You could have moved away, started over. Fresh.”

  It’s what I’d done. After graduating from college I’d bounced around from one furniture store to another. I could tell eight different types of wood on an armoire from a fifteen-foot distance. I’d gotten my real estate license and sold a couple of houses between two separate bad markets. Eventually I interned for a decorator in Philadelphia who forever altered the things I wanted out of life.

  Brad Turlington. We first met in my late twenties, at Pierot’s Interiors. Half a lifetime ago. He was more than a boss and mentor, and I was more than an employee. We fit together like the right angles on a house designed by Richard Neutra. It was a job in California that ultimately dictated our break up. And after a series of relationships that never quite worked out, I wasn’t prepared for him to come back into my life in my forties, when the owner of Pierot’s passed away and left the store to him. Maturity had led me to want different things in a relationship: compatibility, companionship. But with Brad I had it all. I thought we had the kind of magic that lead to happily ever after, until the day I discovered that happily ever after was only in the movies. That was the day when we’d stood together at the top of a ski slope in the Poconos, when he told me he was already married.

  Sitting around Philly pining away for a married man wasn’t Doris Day’s style, and if ever I was to tear a page out of her playbook, it was at that moment. I broke off all contact with him, figuratively slamming the door in his face. Smart businesswoman that I was, I had a tidy little sum of savings, and thanks to reading Atomic Ranch magazine religiously, I knew that Dallas had some of the most well-priced mid-century ranches in the country. So I negotiated my way out of my lease, donated my belongings to a local woman’s shelter, and moved to the Lone Star state. Land of chain restaurants, big hair, and luxury cars leased to anyone who could make the monthly payments.

  In my early-sixties suits and powder blue Alfa Romeo, I stood out like a sore thumb.

  But the plan was to start over. Who moves to a city where summers consist of over a hundred consecutive days over a hundred degrees? Where the air is so thick with humidity that it’s practically a rainforest? Where the main attractions are the mega-malls? I did. Because Texas was one place that would never, ever remind me of Brad.

  It had been lonely at first. I never told my tenants I owned the building. I rented the studio on Greenville Avenue, with a storage unit in back. Regular trips to dumpsters, flea markets, and estate sales begot me inventory, word of mouth begot me customers, and Mad for Mod begot me a future.

  I made friends with contractors and handymen who could restore items I found discarded in the trash or bought cheap at flea markets. Hudson was the third. He resuscitated a Barcelona chair, built me a Vittorio-inspired wall unit made from hand-molded plywood, wired my studio for surround sound, and asked me if I knew anyone who wanted to adopt a stray Shih Tzu puppy. Thanks to him, my business took off and my life changed almost overnight. Around that time I erased any romantic thoughts I’d entertained and considered myself lucky to have found something close to a partner.

  “About yesterday, Madison, I’m sorry. I thought I’d gotten past it all, the rumors and the gossip, but that article brought it all back. And when you asked me for help, it was too familiar.”

  “Why did you stay?” I asked again. “You could have moved. Given yourself a fresh start.”

  “It would never have been fresh,” Hudson said, pulling me out of my thoughts. “People would have thought I was running away. The rumors would have followed me. Besides this is where I’m from. This is my home.”

  “But you were just out of high school, right? You couldn’t have had this house,” I said, looking around at the comfortable retro-interior.

  “This was my grandmother’s house. She raised me. When she passed away I inherited it. It’s the only thing I feel connected to. I wasn’t going to leave that feeling behind.”

  “It’s a nice house. It feels like a home.”

  “It’s mostly what she had, what she left behind. I’ve fixed up a few things, reupholstered the sofa, painted here and there, but I still feel her. That’s how I wanted it to be.”

  The room fell quiet again. I could feel his internal struggle with what had happened and how he’d adapted. I knew, no matter where he went or what he tried to do that a background check would turn up the details of his past. The murder of Sheila Murphy would follow him for the rest of his life. It angered me how his life was different because one night he’d tried to do something for someone in trouble. It wasn’t right. He was so talented and he’d been robbed of the opportunities he should’ve had. What I wanted to say but couldn’t, was that he could have been so much more.

  “I had a choice. Hold on to the past or move forward. It wasn’t a hard decision to make.”

  I thought about Brad. The romantic weekend getaway to the Poconos Mountain resort when he said he would love me forever. The view from the peak of Big Boulder, covered in a fresh dusting of fairy tale snow that cast the world in innocence. And the look in his eyes when he told me, at the top of that mountain, that he was married. He said he would leave her for me.

  I thought about the accident, where I blew out my knee skiing away from him; I thought about the doctors and the pain. And the two dozen roses that were delivered to my hospital room while I recovered, pink and yellow, with a note on stationery from Pierot’s Interiors, that simply said, “I’m sorry. I need more time.”

  What Hudson said was true. We all make choices. My choice to leave Pennsylvania with a torn kneecap and a map to Texas had delivered my new beginning. I’d run from my past while Hudson had accepted his.

  Que
Sera, Sera.

  “Madison, Madison…” Hudson’s voice sounded hollow, far away.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled, repeated the process, and opened my eyes.

  He stood next to the sofa with a green blanket in one hand and a white pillow in the other. “It’s late. You can stay here if you’d like. Take the bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

  “Mmmmmmm,” was the best I could manage as conversation.

  “Come on.” He lifted me to a sitting position.

  I tipped my sleepy head against his shoulder and breathed in the smoky, woody scent of his shirt. After another labored breath I blinked to wake up, then stood. A bolt of pain shot through my knee. Hudson put a hand on each side of my waist to steady me. We were close. I could feel his breath and smell the wood shavings, and something else, soap? I closed my eyes another time and buried my face in his chest, absorbing the scent. When I opened them and tipped my face up, his face was closer to mine than before.

  The wine had dulled my senses as well as my judgment. We kissed. It was long, soft, and urgent. His hands encircled my back and held me against his body. It was an escapist moment that, for a second, pulled me away from reality. When our lips parted, reality crashed into me like a forceful wave.

  “You can stay here tonight,” he said again, in a soft voice, his warm hand cradling my bruised face. His fingertips lightly traced my cheekbone, where I’d hit the ground. I tipped my head into his warm, calloused palm, and stared into his amber eyes. Rocky was out cold on the bottom of the sofa, his belly exposed, his paws spread out above his head and below his feet. Hudson’s offer was tempting, but I couldn’t accept it.

  “I have to go home.”

  “It’s after two. And, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right staying here,” I said. The look on his face told me I’d hurt his feelings. “That’s not it. But after what happened out there, I want to be in my own house. And I won’t be alone. I’ll have Rocky.”