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

who’d had access to my trunk the day before Pamela was murdered.
    I turned off all of the lights except the tall pink and white striped floor lamp that sat inside the front door. I sank to the floor and cradled Rocky close to my chest. I’d been alone so many nights before and it had never felt like this. My loneliness was splintered by fear and distrust. I went to bed with more questions than answers and more doubts than confidence, staring at the early sixties pattern of circles on the ceiling long after I’d turned off the lights.
    A week ago, my life had been business as usual. Swim in the morning, open the studio afterwards. Shop estate sales, flea markets, and second hand stores for inventory, and take Rocky for a walk, two times a day. In the wake of my last relationship, a shook-me-to-my-core affair that had ended abruptly, I’d given up on love. The day-in, day-out life I’d designed had been enough. I had my own business, I had my own building, I had my own life. I was independent. Like Doris Day’s character in Pillow Talk . But the biggest problems she had were a playboy neighbor and an overly-forward client. I was in the middle of something horrific—a murder investigation—and I was very much alone.
    Doris Day movies had taught me how to recognize a womanizer. She had shown me, time and time again, how to stand up for myself and resist the advances of single men who were interested in one thing. Fifty years had passed since she’d made those movies, but the messages were still viable. Protect yourself. Spot a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and treat him like a wolf. And when all else fails, storm out of a room and slam the door behind you.
    But there were no Doris Day precedents for homicide. When one of her leading men turned out to be someone other than who he pretended to be, she one-upped him and proved her worth. When one of them threatened her idyllic lifestyle, she stood up for herself. No matter how attractive they were, she took care of herself, first. That’s what I had done when I moved to Texas. I pushed painful memories deep down inside and moved on without looking back. It was time to do that again. I would take care of myself and move on. That was the only option.
    It was a fitful night of sleep, peppered with knee pain and nightmares. I woke at four thirty, barely rested. I showered and booted up the computer. It sat on a Danish modern sideboard that had been beyond repair when I found it. The top was in good condition, but the sliding panels in the front were severely splintered. I had removed them, allowing room for my knees when I sat in my molded fiberglass desk chair. I loved this office, unconventional as it might seem to many people. But unlike most mornings, today it didn’t comfort me. Too many things were spinning out of control. A murder investigation. An old unsolved murder. A suspect who I’d trusted like a friend and business partner for a year. Tex had cautioned me, told me to be careful, but I hadn’t wanted to think about his warning. I didn’t want to think that I was connected.
    I had to find something to take my mind off the murders. I had to take control of something. I opened my Doris Day files and started working on the proposal. There was peace with Doris Day. I understood her, recognized her in me. Nothing bad could happen while I remained focused on Doris. My knee was stiff and swollen despite the anti-inflammatories. I bent it a few times to loosen it up, with only limited success.
    I fleshed out the details of the film festival and wrote blurbs for the movies that I’d selected, formatted the bones of the thing, and emailed it off to Richard sometime around six. The sun was coming up and I was stiff in twenty places other than my knee. I needed to work out. Badly. And with Crestwood still closed, there was only one other option. The Gaston Swim Club.
    I changed into a bathing suit and stepped into a white polyester dress that zipped up the front. I slid my