Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) Read Free Page A

wanted to check out the novelty of the outdoor pool, but mostly it was just us. Swimming side by side the retired set fit my lifestyle.
    I tied Rocky to the lifeguard chair and dove into the cool water. My mind focused on the estate of Thelma Johnson. Just a bunch of junk she would never get rid of , her son had said. If I was right, that junk would be right up my alley.
    Between sets, I stood in the shallow end, stretching my shoulders. A motorcycle grumbled from the parking lot. I tugged on my white rubber swim cap too hard, and the rubber split. I pulled the cap off, tucked my goggles under the right leg of my bathing suit, and climbed out of the water. Mr. Popov, one of the occasional pinchers, sat next to my straw tote bag, the flyer with Steve Johnson’s number on top. The old man dangled a white terrycloth robe with pink and blue appliqué flowers from his hand. It was my favorite vintage cover-up, despite the unfortunate grape jelly stain at the hem.
    He looked away as Pamela Ritter walked in, holding a helmet in one hand. She shook her long hair to the side. Mr. Popov let out a low whistle as she strode past us, a far cry from the retro image she used for her promotional real estate flyer. I folded the piece of paper in half and shoved it into the pocket of my robe, not wanting her to see that I carried it with me. When I turned around, Mr. Popov’s hand connected with my behind. I quickly pulled on the robe and tossed the torn swim cap in the trash. I followed Pamela into the locker room, leaving him behind, snickering about, well, my behind.
    She changed into her bathing suit while I dressed in an early sixties, pale pink, double-breasted sleeveless tunic and matching pants. What was a costume to her was my regular style.
    “I don’t get it, Madison. You could do so much more business if you branched out into different eras. I mean, right now the fifties thing is hot, but trends like this don’t last forever. I mean, most people like big houses with central air.”
    “I’m curious. How can you sell them, when you don’t even like them?”
    “You saw my flyer. Great! What did you think of the graphics?”
    I thought it best not to answer that honestly. “Eye-catching.”
    “Did you like my picture? Can you tell I was copying you? Well, you and that old actress?”
    Despite the fact she had worn a dress that I saw last week in an Old Navy ad, it should have pleased me that she had used me as her role model. Truth is, I don’t look my age. The blonde hair, blue eyes and vintage clothes don’t hurt. Neither does the swimmer’s body. But my real secret weapon is the sunscreen I’ve applied every day since college. You can buy five hundred dollar moisturizer at the makeup counter at Macy’s, but you can’t buy long-term foresight. I had a feeling that concept would be lost on Pamela.
    Alice Sweet, a petite eighty-something, arranged her gray hair into a neat row of pin curls. “I saw the picture, Pamela, and I thought you looked darling. You and Madison could be mistaken for twins.” She continued to get ready, the clink of hairbrushes and bobby pins on the counter filling the room.
    “We don’t look that much alike,” Pamela said. She shut her locker and spun the lock, then slipped on a pair of white flip-flops with fluffy flowers on top, probably the only common items in our closets. Seconds after she left us behind she returned, rummaging between Alice’s and my bags in search of something.
    “Did you see my cap and goggles?” She knocked my wicker basket over and my robe fell out. “I can’t swim without them.”
    “I have an extra cap in the trunk of my car,” I said, and held out my keys. “But if you’re going to go out there, wear this. Mr. Popov is in rare form today, and you’ll need protection.” I offered my robe with the other hand, a terrycloth olive branch to show I wasn’t offended by her earlier attitude.
    “This isn’t a photo shoot. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that