Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) by Diane Vallere Read Free Book Online

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