Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) Read Free

be ready to go in the morning.”
    I tipped my head to the side and considered his offer. “Okay, but no joy rides.”
    “You got it.” We worked out a plan for retrieving each other’s keys and he turned back to the car. I didn’t gather my things right away, guilt over leaving him with my problem weighing heavy.
    As if reading my mind, Hudson looked up at me. He had one knee on the gravel, one foot planted on the ground, as though he were about to propose to my car. “You better get moving. Rock’s gonna be hopping mad if you’re not home on time.”
    “I was just thinking that.”
    “I’ll take care of the car, you take care of him.” He stood up and slapped his hands against his black denim jeans. A lock of hair had fallen forward and when he pushed it away, his fingers left a dusty streak on his forehead. He walked over to me and put a hand on each of my upper arms. “Madison, it’s okay.” The light caught in his clear amber eyes, highlighting flecks of gold. With his hands gently resting on my arms, he turned me around. “Don’t worry so much,” he whispered and gave me a slight push toward his truck.
    I climbed into the cab, easily four feet higher than my sporty blue coupe and started the engine. The Rolling Stones poured out of the stereo, and for a second I smiled, picturing Hudson’s six foot frame folded up in my little blue Alfa Romeo, listening to the Doris Day CD I’d left in the player.
    He smiled back even though he wasn’t in on the joke, at least not yet, and waved while I drove away.
    It didn’t take long to get from the studio to my apartment building. On a good day, with Advil, I could walk it, but today was trash day, and I’d taken the opportunity to drive around Lakewood in search of castaway treasures that had since been moved to the storage unit behind my studio. I groped in the dark for the chain to the pink and brass floor lamp that sat inside the front door.
    “Rock? I’m home!”
    Soft rose light bathed the room, washing over a small caramel-colored Shih Tzu puppy in his crate, on his hind legs, barking short, hyper yaps.
    “I’m sorry I’m late, Rocky,” I said while he showered me with affection. “I got a flat tire and Hudson came over to help.”
    His obvious enthusiasm had nothing to do with the mention of Hudson or the flat tire, but when it’s late and you live alone, you talk to your puppy and pretend he understands. I clipped on his light blue leash and grabbed my cell phone, then took him out front for a walk.
    Rocky sniffed at a patch of dandelions, then pulled me along the sidewalk. He was named after the other star of Pillow Talk , but it had morphed into Rocky because you can’t have a Shih Tzu without a perky name. And since I’m originally from Philadelphia, most people assumed I’d named him after the boxer, which might have made more sense if he actually was a Boxer.
    We returned to the apartment building, where I showered off the remains of the day, including two smudges of dirt on my upper arms left behind when Hudson had spun me around. I changed into white silk pajamas and Rocky followed me to the kitchen.
    One of us chewed on a slipper and one of us ate a bowl of ice cream. Just another day in the life of an independent, opportunistic, mid-century modern interior decorator with a Doris Day obsession.
    Or so I thought.

    True to his word, Hudson had my car neatly parked in my space the following morning, in time for me to go to Crestwood. Newer, more social swimming pools existed in Dallas, but they weren’t for me. What had started as the only form of exercise my knee could handle had become my escape. The ladies of Crestwood, mostly octogenarians, had long given up trying to fix me up with their sons and accepted me as one of their own. The old men eyed me with a different agenda, one that usually held steady at winks and stares. The more daring were not above an occasional pinch. Occasionally we dealt with a couple of newcomers who