Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery)

Praise for the Mad for Mod Mystery Series

PILLOW STALK

“Make room for Vallere’s tremendously fun homage. Imbuing her story with plenty of mid-century modern decorating and fashion tips…Her disarmingly honest lead and two hunky sidekicks will appeal to all fashionistas and antiques types and have romance crossover appeal.”

—
Library Journal

“A multifaceted story...plenty of surprises...And what an ending!”

— Mary Marks,
New York Journal of Books

“If you are looking for an unconventional mystery with a snarky, no-nonsense main character, this is it…Instead of clashing, humor and danger meld perfectly, and there’s a cliffhanger that will make your jaw drop.”

— Abigail Ortlieb, 
RT Book Reviews

“A charming modern tribute to Doris Day movies and the retro era of the ’50s,  including murders, escalating danger, romance...and a puppy!”

— Linda O Johnston,  Author of the Pet Rescue Mysteries 

“A humorous yet adventurous read of mystery, very much worth considering.”

— Paul Vogel, 
Midwest Book Review

“I love mysteries where I can’t figure out who the real killer is until the end, and this was one of those. The novel was well written, moved at a smooth pace, and Madison’s character was a riot.”

—
ChickLit Plus

THAT TOUCH OF INK

“A terrific mystery is always in fashion—and this one is sleek, chic and constantly surprising. Vallere’s smart styling and wry humor combine for a fresh and original page-turner—it’ll have you eagerly awaiting her next appealing adventure. I’m a fan!”

— Hank Phillippi Ryan,  Agatha, Anthony, Macavity and Mary Higgins Clark Award-Winning Author of
The Other Woman

“All of us who fell in love with Madison Night in
Pillow Stalk
will be rooting for her when the past comes back to haunt her in
That Touch of Ink
. The suspense is intense, the plot is hot and the style is to die for. A thoroughly entertaining entry in this enjoyable series.”

— Catriona McPherson,  Agatha Award-Winning Author of the Dandy Gilver Mystery Series

“A fast-paced mystery with fab fashions, an appealing heroine, and a clever twist,
That Touch of Ink
is especially for fans of all things mid-century modern.”

— ReadertoReader.com

“Diane Vallere…has a wonderful touch, bringing in the design elements and influences of the ’50s and ’60s era many of us hold dear while keeping a strong focus on what it means in modern times to be a woman in business for herself, starting over.”

—
Fresh Fiction

Books in the Mad for Mod Mystery Series

by Diane Vallere

Novels

PILLOW STALK (#1)

THAT TOUCH OF INK (#2)

WITH VICS YOU GET EGGROLL (#3)

(
Spring 2015
)

Novellas

MIDNIGHT ICE

(in OTHER PEOPLE’S BAGGAGE)

PILLOW STALK

A Mad for Mod Mystery

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

First Edition

Kindle edition | March 2014

Henery Press

www.henerypress.com

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. 

Copyright © 2013 by Diane Vallere

Cover design by Fayette Terlouw

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No affiliation with Doris Day or Universal is claimed or implied.

ISBN-13: 978-1-940976-08-2

Printed in the United States of America

For Josh

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A large thank you is owed to the many people who set this project into motion (whether they knew what they were doing or not!). To my parents, Mary and Don Vallere, for finding that jewel of an apartment while I was busy at work. To Debbie Hargrove, who gave me a copy of
Pillow Talk
as a going away present when I left Texas. And to Josh Hickman, who did the impossible and introduced me to a part of Dallas that I fell in love with.

I want to thank the many readers and writers who gave me feedback on opening pages and early drafts: Susan Chalfin, Jennifer Gates, Katherine Grey, Polly Iyer, Susie Klein, Andrew MacRae, Mannid Pock, Kellie Rix, Barb Schlichting, Susan Schreyer, and Steve Shrott. And to Gigi Pandian, who not only helped with feedback, but liked Madison enough to encourage me to revisit her in our joint novella project.

Thank you to Ramona DeFelice Long, who asks the questions that need to be asked and makes my writing better, to Richard Goodman, who showed the appropriate amount of enthusiasm while still challenging plot points, and Margery Bubinak for helping with that last bit of polish. Thanks to Kendel Lynn, my fellow Capricorn, whose friendship encompasses far more than the world of writing.

And, of course, to Mary Ann Kappelhoff, for being exactly who she is.

ONE

“Mr. Johnson, I’m calling to discuss the disposition of your mother’s estate,” I said into the yellow donut phone.

“Are you a lawyer?” asked a gruff voice on the other end of a crackly line.

“No, sir, I’m an interior decorator. Madison Night. I own Mad for Mod on Greenville Avenue.” I paused, giving him time to react. When he didn’t, I continued. “I assure you I mean no disrespect. In my experience, you are about to be faced with the time consuming challenge of handling your mother’s affairs, and I am in a position to take a portion of that challenge off your to-do list.” Internally, I cringed at the holier-than-thou tone that had crept into my voice. It was an oral knee-jerk reaction to people not taking me seriously. “Mad for Mod specializes in mid-century modern design. Your mother’s house was—”

“What was your name again? Madison?” he snapped. “What are you, twenty?”

“Madison was my grandmother’s maiden name.” I pushed my long hair away from my face, then used my index finger to free a couple of strands that were stuck to my hairline, thanks to the Dallas-in-May humidity. “I’m forty-seven, and I’ve been in this industry for over twenty years.”

The man was obviously more distraught over the death of his mother than the fact that my grandmother’s surname had come into fashion sometime in the nineties, but at times like these, minor details could change the course of our conversation.

“My mom didn’t have anything valuable. Her whole house was insured for fifteen thousand dollars, and I’d be better off if it had burned down and I got the check. Now I’m stuck with a bunch of junk I could never convince her to throw away.”

I wrote
$15,000
? on the side of a real estate flyer that sat on my desk and put on my best can-do attitude. “Mr. Johnson, I’m prepared to make an offer on the entire estate. If you accept it, I can bring you a check tomorrow, and you can be on your way back to Cincinnati as soon as tomorrow night.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re offering to write me a check for stuff you haven’t even seen?”

“That’s correct.”

“Lady, if this is a joke, you have a lousy sense of humor.” He hung up on me.

I drummed my fingers against the top of my desk and stared at the flyer, temporarily distracted by the overdone graphics and the photo of the listing agent.

Pamela Ritter, a recently licensed realtor, stared back at me, a picture of blonde hair and blue eyes not all that different from my own, though she was half my age.
Blast from the Past!
screamed the heading, above listings for a string of ranch houses on Mockingbird.
Live like a Mad Man!
promised the copy on the side. Turquoise bubbles filled the background, and starbursts, outlined in red, gave it a comic book
Pow! Bam! Bop!
feel.

Pamela had jumped on the new movement to capitalize on all things fifties, thanks to a recent pop culture focus on the Eisenhower era. I’d been nurturing my passion for mid-century decorating since I was a teenager, since I first watched
Pillow Talk
after learning that I shared a birthday with an actress named Doris Day. I had surrounded myself with items from the atomic age long before Pamela was born, and thanks to my business, I’d found a community of others who shared my interest and appreciated my knowledge. I crumpled up the flyer and tossed it at the trash bin. It bounced off the rim and landed on the carpet.

I glanced at the brushed gold starburst clock mounted close to the ceiling. Photos of rooms, stills from Doris Day movies, swatches of fabric and paint chips from the hardware store covered the bottom two thirds of the wall, thumb-tacked to cork squares I’d glued on top of the paint. Arrows and notes connected a couple of the inspiration points and identified those ideas that I had earmarked for a specific client. Merchandise and props to make an authentic mid-century room were not cheap or easy to come by, and I depended on the obituaries to identify estates that might be rich in the era’s style. Thelma Johnson, age seventy-nine, lifetime resident of a two bedroom split level in the M streets, had that kind of estate, but her son wasn’t interested in my sales pitch.

I twisted my blonde hair back into a chignon, then secured it with a vintage hairpin. It was ten minutes to six. I could leave early. Nothing was going to happen in ten minutes. I flipped the open sign to closed, locked the doors, and carried the small bag of trash out the back door, swatting the light switch on the way. I emptied the trash into the dumpster and rummaged through my handbag for my keys before noticing the flat tire on my powder blue Alfa Romeo.

I bent next to the tire and a slash of pain shot through my left knee. After a skiing accident two years ago, I had been left with a reminder that I had to look out for myself, because no one else would. The chronic pain forced me to acknowledge my limitations. It kept me from doing the kinds of things that independent women knew how to do for themselves and Texas women took for granted that someone else would do for them. And today, it would keep me from getting home ten minutes early.

I went back inside the studio and called Hudson James, my handyman. “What are the chances you’re up for rescuing a damsel in distress?” I asked.

“Depends on the damsel.”

“Thanks to a flat tire, I’m stranded at the studio. I’d try to change it myself,” I said, but stopped when the humiliating reality of me calling a man to ask for help resonated in my ears. I never thought I’d be that kind of woman.

“Madison, it’s no problem. I’m in the neighborhood and I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

Hudson’s blue pickup truck pulled into the alley by my studio and parked next to the dumpster. His longish black hair had curled with the humidity, the front pushed to the side, behind his ear, the back flipping up against the collar of his black t-shirt. “I thought you were calling because you had a job for me,” he said.

I flushed. “I might,” I said, “I’m still working it out. A woman died—”

He held up a hand. “I don’t want to know the details.”

“It’s just business.”

“I look at you and I see sweetness and innocence, not a ruthless business woman.”

“Don’t let the blonde hair and blue eyes fool you.”

“Honey, they had me fooled me the first time I laid eyes on you.” He winked and took the keys from my hand. Before he turned back to the car, his eyes swept over my body. “Is that a new dress?”

I looked down at my dress, a light blue fitted sheath that was significantly more wrinkled than it had been when I left the house hours ago. A series of circles in gingham, stripes, and polka dots had been appliquéd to the neckline and hem.

“It’s a new-old dress. Early sixties. From an estate sale in Pennsylvania, before I moved here. The woman died in a car accident—”

“Enough! I like the dress. I like the dress on you. But I don’t need to hear the obituary of the woman who owned it first.” He disappeared next to the tire.

“It’s good for business,” I said.

“The dress or the estate sales?”

“Well, both. But the only client I talked to today was over the phone, thank you very much.” Maybe things would have gone differently if I had met Steve Johnson face to face. Not because of the dress, but because he’d see that I was legitimate.

Inside the studio, the phone jangled. Technically, Mad for Mod was still open, and every phone call was prospective business. “Do you mind if I get that?”

“Nah, go ahead. This’ll take a couple of minutes.”

I picked up the ball of paper by the wastepaper basket and set it on the corner of my one-of-a-kind desk, then reached for the phone.

“Mad for Mod, Madison Night speaking,” Isaid. I heard a click, then a dial tone. I sank into the chair and batted the crumpled-up flyer back and forth across the slick surface of the desk.

The desk was a gift from Hudson, a hodgepodge of parts from items too damaged to repair. It had cost him more in time and vision than materials, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. More than once I’d asked him to be a partner in my business, and every time he declined. He was reliable, artistic, genuine, and best of all, smelled like wood shavings. In a parallel universe, I might have entertained romantic thoughts of us, but life as it was for a single, forty-seven year old businesswoman with trust issues didn’t allow for fantasies like that. And even if I was capable of giving in to attraction, I had long learned one lesson: men may come and go but good handymen last forever.

I closed up the studio for the second time. The phone mocked me from the other side of the back door. I ran back in and answered on the third ring, slightly out of breath.

“Ms. Night, this is Steve Johnson. You called me about my mother’s estate?” His voice had changed. The gruff had been traded for something else. Either way, I launched into my spiel.

“Mr. Johnson, I know it’s unorthodox for me to have made an offer over the phone, but if you have time available tomorrow, I’d be more than happy to meet with you in person.”

“That’s not necessary. I changed my mind and I’m willing to sell. Take this number down and call me in the morning.”

I grabbed a thick black marker out of the orange Tiki mug on the desk, flattened out Pamela’s real estate flyer, and scrawled the number across her bright white smile.

“Perfect,” I said, too eagerly, considering the circumstances. And then, for the second time that day, Steve Johnson hung up on me, leaving me to wonder what exactly had happened to change his mind.