Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) by Diane Vallere Page B

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