Pillow Stalk Page 4

  I felt around the bottom of my wicker handbag and pulled out a stretchy brown bandage and wrapped my knee. I’d learned to take precautions, to protect my injury so it wouldn’t get worse. High heels were a thing of the past, and I’d probably never learn to dance the jive, but I could deal with the damage. I had to. If I wanted to keep moving forward, there wasn’t any other choice.

  I picked up the composition book that the staff used to track our daily box office intake, tucked last month’s calendar of events into the middle of it, and placed it in the bottom of my tote bag so I could analyze it later. Dirt or no dirt, I was going to make sure this thing happened, and whatever arguments Richard used to go highbrow in the middle of a hundred degree summer instead of allowing me to organize three days of sex comedies, I was going to swat away like a cloud of mosquitoes. In a confusing bit of rationalization, I felt I owed it to Pamela.

  Rocky followed me out the front door and sniffed a discarded concrete block while I locked up. Several hours had passed while I’d been inside. The bright Dallas sun had hit its peak, creating oppressively thick air that I now passed through on my way down the street. Walking anywhere was going to feel like a marathon through an oven with a roasting pan of water surrounding me like a portable sweatshop. Call a cab, or walk the five blocks to Hudson’s house and ask for another favor. Hudson, I knew, had a set of keys to my apartment, from the frequent times I’d hired him to go in and fix something. The company of a friend trumped the company of a stranger, and I started the hike to his small house by White Rock Lake.

  Twenty minutes later I stood on the curb in front of a modest white ranch. A trickle of perspiration ran down the back of my shirt. Hudson worked in his garage, in worn jeans and safety goggles. His hair was messy from the humidity and his bare chest was coated with a thin film of sawdust. A portable CD player played the Ramones. Hudson didn’t move to the music, or mouth the words, but I sensed that he knew them as well as anybody, to be able to play this in the background while he worked the kind of magic on damaged materials that brought them back to life.

  The man was too modest. In another man’s hands, the table legs would be sanded, patched with wood putty, and painted, or even scrapped and replaced with a prefab part from Home Depot. Hudson understood the grain of the wood, the process of the repair, and the importance of being true to the integrity of the mid-century design. I didn’t have to tell him what I expected; his work surpassed my expectations every single time.

  A three-legged table sat on its end along the wall behind him. I knew the table. It was a job I’d hired him to do between whatever other jobs he took that paid his bills. No deadline. But still, he had made my job a priority. The first time we met, I’d noticed the deep lines around his eyes, etched into place with the life he’d lived. They made it difficult to place his age. Not knowing made me curious, but not wanting to offend kept me from asking.

  He maneuvered one of my table legs under a sander, stopping occasionally to stroke the shavings off one of the curves, to polish the wood with the palm of his hand. I walked to the garage slowly, wanting to watch the process up close. Soft green grass silenced my footsteps. As I closed in on the garage, the noise of the sander filled the air, drowning out the radio. Rocky barked, but I couldn’t hear him. Wood shavings spun through the air, landing on Hudson’s biceps.

  I caught my reflection in one of the windows of the house, immediately self-conscious about my appearance. My hands flew to my head to smooth down the flyaway hairs that had sprung loose from my chignon. I’d picked up a layer of dirt and grime from the hot, humid walk and I didn’t want him to see me like this.

  He turned off the sander. The Ramones filled the quiet and Rocky caught me off guard, bolting toward the garage like he’d been fired from a canon. The slackened leash pulled from my hand. For a moment I froze, uncomfortable with my surprise visit and my second request for help in as many days.

  Hudson set his equipment aside, pulled on a black t-shirt, and knelt down to play with my dog. Rocky stood on his hind legs, front paws on the contractor’s dusty knees, while Hudson’s fingers got lost in the long fur that framed Rocky’s face. The warmth I felt had nothing to do with the temperature. Rocky hopped back and forth through the wood shavings. After today, that dog was in serious need of a bath.

  After today. This morning. Pamela. Dead.

  I was assaulted by images. Rocky carting a pillow out from under my Alfa Romeo. Flashing lights. Emergency Technicians. Cops. And Pamela, wrapped in my daisy robe, lying dead in the parking lot under my back wheels. The reality—no, finality—of her death slammed into me like a category five hurricane. I’d tried to block it all, push it away, hide it under layers of soft pink and yellow and aqua pillows and Doris Day film fluff but in one moment triggered by a hyper puppy and a half-naked man, the fluff cleared like feathers in front of a fan.

  I stumbled into the garage, more interested in not being alone than self-conscious about my appearance. They both turned and looked at me.

  “Madison, I figured you were close,” Hudson said.

  “Somebody killed her,” I answered. The room spun. I put a hand on a plastic lawn chair to steady myself but it didn’t really help. My knee buckled and I dropped into the chair. “She’s dead. For good.” I squished my eyes shut to try to block out her image.

  When I opened my eyes, Hudson knelt in front of me. His brows pulled together, not following my outburst. The oscillating fan blew past my left cheek then my right. Hudson held out a glass of water. Without speaking I took it and sipped, then held the cool glass against my forehead. The condensation felt good against my flushed skin.

  “Where’s Rocky?” I asked when I realized the two of us were alone.

  “I put him inside,” he said.

  “He can be a terror.”

  He cut me off with the wave of a hand. “The worst he can do right now is annoy my cat.”

  It surprised me to learn that Hudson had a cat, though somehow it fit. Cats were private, self-contained, independent animals, just like he was. They held their affection in check, but when they trusted you and chose to share that affection, it tugged on your heartstrings like nothing else.

  Hudson took the glass from my hand and set it on the workbench. Instinctively I put my hand on his wrist and held on to him while our eyes connected. He knelt down on the ground in front of me. I wanted to apologize for my behavior or explain what had happened or just ask him to hug me for comfort but I couldn’t find my tongue. We stayed like that, me in the plastic white lawn chair and him kneeling in front of me with my grip on his wrist, for longer than I would have thought possible. We were interrupted by a hissing sound followed by a whimper followed by a throaty growl.

  Hudson stood up and opened the door that separated the garage from the house. A large black cat stood, tail fat with fighting instincts, crouched low to the ground in warrior stance, facing Rocky. In addition to the dirt and wood shavings, there was a small dot of blood on his nose.

  Rocky, it seemed, had just lost his first fight.

  “Mortiboy! Stop it,” Hudson said, stepping between the two animals. The cat’s stare didn’t waver. Hudson scooped up Rocky and inspected his small light brown face. Rocky licked the tip of Hudson’s nose.

  “You okay, boy?”

  “Give him to me,” I said. He handed me the puppy and I finally got my hug.

  Where ten minutes ago I had blurted out the words “she’s dead,” now, holding a scared and shivering caramel puppy in my arms while Hudson calmed his black panther of terror down in his, I felt pulled in two directions—literally between a Rock and a hard place. I wanted to get Rocky home and give him a bath and restore him to the once-clean condition he’d been in before today had started. I wanted to shower off what was left of the day, change into cool silk pajamas and put on one of my favorite movies. But I didn’t want to be alone, not yet, and despite the your-pet-can-beat-up-my-pet scenario we’d experienced, Hudson’s company felt right.

 
; “What brings you here?” Hudson asked.

  “I might have a job for you,” I said. “Thelma Johnson’s estate. She lived in the M streets. I haven’t worked out the details yet.”

  Hudson’s face grew dark and he turned his back on me.

  “Hudson, wait.” I reached a hand out and placed it on his back. He didn’t step away.

  “We can talk about this later. Can I give you a ride home?”

  “I can walk,” I said, though I’m not sure it sounded very convincing.

  “This little guy has had enough action for the moment. How about you cut him some slack and accept my offer?” He bent down and ruffed Rocky’s fur while he spoke, swapping the tension in our conversation with tenderness.

  My knee throbbed, more than I wanted to admit. Painkillers would have done their job but I avoided them as much as I could. The dull ache I’d grown accustomed to was a constant reminder to look out for myself. I didn’t want to be seen as a victim, but I didn’t know how much more I could take.

  “Madison, it’s not a problem. Let me get my keys.” He disappeared down the hall.

  His cat had lowered himself to a sitting position on top of the workbench and tucked his front feet underneath his body. I ran my hand over the top of his head. His yellow eyes turned to me, and he pulled away. He didn’t trust me and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Hudson and I walked to his truck, where he opened the door for me, a chivalrous gesture that wasn’t uncommon in Texas. It tended to make me uncomfortable since I’d been opening my own doors my whole life. Instead of pointing out my equal rights and ability to do such mundane things on my own like I sometimes did with other men, I thanked him. I stepped inside, letting Rocky jump in by my feet, and then up to my lap where he hung his head out the window. While I was happy for the company, I was surprised that Hudson didn’t ask me about my outburst, or why I’d collapsed. Six blocks later, we were in front of my apartment. The ride had been all too short, and barely any words had been exchanged.

  I thanked him and walked to the front of my building. Inside, I checked the mail and tucked the newspaper under my arm before turning around. He was still at the curb, watching me. I waved, he waved back, and he pulled away.

  First things first. Someone was getting a bath.

  Giving Rocky a bath quickly turned into me needing a bath and my entire bathroom needing a thorough going-over. By the time I was done with the process, Rocky had air-dried and three towels were damp from absorbing the spray of water that had shot off his fur when he’d shaken his head. I went from my pink pantsuit to the shower to a pair of pale blue, short-sleeved, silk Chinese pajamas. The sun was just starting to drop but there was no break in the temperature. Dallas was like that. In the hot summer there was little more than a five-degree variance in the temperature from morning to night. During those early hours when I swam I got the chance to exist without the oppressive heat and humidity. It was a time just for me.

  I poured a generous glass of wine. Today had been a humble-jumble of a day and I wanted a distraction from Pamela’s murder. I dug through my bag for the notebook from The Mummy and carried it to the sofa, where I got comfortable, and prepared to work on the Doris Day Film Festival. Doris would get me through the night. Rocky snuggled next to me, and I nuzzled his head for a few minutes before turning back to the notebook in my lap. I pulled the calendar out and set it on my low wood coffee table, then flipped through the pages until I found the most recent entries. That’s when I saw the scrap of paper, pressed between the pages. Written on it, in a messy scrawl that tilted backwards were the words: YOUR DAY WILL COME.

  SIX

  It wasn’t meant for me. It couldn’t be. But it was unnerving to see. My pen rolled off my lap and Rocky chewed on it while I stared at the torn piece of notebook paper. The simplicity of aqua blue lines on the clean white paper did little to block the message. And on a day where someone’s days really had been numbered, I was calling this day as over. I tucked Lieutenant Allen’s card between the pages. I’d tell him about it tomorrow.

  I let the empty wine glass sit on the coffee table and walked into the bedroom. That was a risk, I knew, because Rocky didn’t understand about breakable items, but I wanted to crawl into my bed with him curled up at my side, and somehow move from the awake world where people were murdered at swimming pools to dreamland, where murders and threatening notes didn’t exist.

  The next morning, like every morning, I woke up at the crack of dawn, though this time with a sense of dread. The threat from last night lay on my desk, closed in a notebook, but regardless of whether or not it was intended for me, it was there. Routine dictated that I pull on a bathing suit, pack a bag filled with clothes, underwear, and general what-nots, and drive to the pool. But I couldn’t swim; the pool was closed. I had no car; it was at the—somewhere, I didn’t really know where. At the police impound? Still at Crestwood? Driven on a joy ride around Dallas by a couple of cops who’d never been inside a powder blue Alfa Romeo with whitewall tires and white leather interior? Thinking about my car brought back images I didn’t want to face. I pulled the covers up to my chin and slept for an extra forty-seven minutes.

  Rocky woke me the second time, wriggling next to my arm, fishing for attention. I scratched his head and organized my thoughts. It would be another day on foot. Better wear comfortable shoes and pack the bottle of anti-inflammatories.

  Just to be certain that yesterday hadn’t been a nightmare, I peeked out the window at the parking lot. Parked neatly in my space, which must have taken a bit of effort considering the size of my space, was a Jeep. And leaning against the front of the Jeep was Lieutenant Allen.

  He was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans that hinted at a once-fit body that had softened with age. Sandy brown hair, partially wet, had been pushed away from his face, but a couple of locks had air dried and dusted his forehead. His arms were crossed over his chest like every man on the planet who finds himself waiting around for a woman. Only, if he was waiting around for me, nobody had told me that we’d had a date. I didn’t know what he was doing at my building. And that made me a little angry.

  I looked around for my pink and white terrycloth robe, until I remembered I’d loaned it to Pamela and now it was part of a crime scene. I belted a flimsy cotton duster over my PJs and padded down the stairs to the back of the building. It was going on seven o’clock and I knew from history that most of my tenants weren’t even up yet. Not the best time to make a scene.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, crossing the parking lot to Lieutenant Allen.

  “I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot yesterday.”

  “Am I under some kind of surveillance?” I asked angrily. “Is this your way of keeping an eye on me?”

  “You’re not a suspect. Too many credible people saw you swimming and a couple of them know you offered Pamela your robe.” His eyes jumped to my chest and back to my face.

  “So you’ve been sitting around my parking lot hoping to run in to me to tell me that?” I asked.

  “Consider me your personal escort for the day.” He flashed me a mouthful of pearly whites that hit me like a two-gallon drum of unmixed plaster.

  “Let me get this straight. You, a lieutenant, are offering to drive me, a non-suspect, around for the day?”

  “Your car’ll be released soon. I thought it best not to keep you under house arrest. Not having a car must’ve been nightmarish.”

  I shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. I walked to-” I stopped. I wasn’t sure how to describe my relationship with Hudson. Until yesterday, it would have been easy, but something had changed and I didn’t know what. “a colleague’s house,” I finished lamely.

  “I thought you were in business for yourself?”

  “I’m smart enough to recognize when I can use a little help.” Smart enough to recognize a chauffeur, too, I thought. “Are you seriously offering to drive me around for the day?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he answ
ered.

  All of a sudden I realized I was standing in the parking lot in my very sheer pajamas and robe. I knew how transparent one layer was, that’s why I’d pulled on the robe. But I’d never looked in the mirror. Instinctively I balled up my fists and brought my arms in front of me, pretending that I was cold so I could cover my chest. In the middle of a Dallas summer heat wave, where it already felt like we’d hit the eighties, it was a wasted gesture.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Night. Go get dressed and meet me out here. I’ll wait.”

  I wanted to say something brilliant and snappy. I wanted to tell him he’d better have appreciated anything that he did see because he’d never see it again. But I wanted to get back inside the building more. So I did. But I did make him wait another half-hour while I showered, dressed, made coffee, and took Rocky out the front door for a quick piddle.

  Somewhere after the shower and before the coffee I admitted to myself it’s not every day a private citizen gets the opportunity to be driven around by an attractive cop, even if he did seem to be overly aware of his charms, so it was my civic duty to take it. When I finally returned to the parking lot it was in a white cotton v-neck dress with a full skirt, carrying two mugs of iced coffee.

  “Peace offering?” I said, extending one of the mugs toward him.

  He eyed me up and down before taking the offered blue metallic mug. He took a long drink without asking what it was, and the sun sparkled against the blond hairs on his tanned forearm.

  “I almost called you last night,” I said while he was drinking. He pulled the mug away from his mouth.

  “I almost called you, too.”

  “Why did you almost call me?”

  “You first.”

  I set my mug on the hood of his Jeep and pulled the notebook out from under my arm. “I borrowed a couple of files from the Mummy and when I got home I found this.” I opened the notebook to the page that had the threatening message. Last night it had really bothered me. Today I felt a little like maybe it was nothing. It wasn’t even my notebook.