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

just heard some good gossip about a coworker, that’s all.” I smiled sweetly, wondering if he’d buy it.
    “Madison? Who’s there?” said Susan through the receiver. “Madison!”
    “Hold on, Susan.” I covered the receiver and stared at Tex. “Sorry if I scared you. I forgot you were here.”
    He shook his head. “I’m going back up there. You guys might want to clean that room every once in awhile. Looks like a couple of transients have taken up residency.” He turned his back on me and reclimbed the stairs.
    “The manager is a slob. Not my job to clean up after him,” I called to his back. “Okay, I’m back,” I said to Susan.
    “Who was that?” she asked. “Nobody knows I know this and I don’t want to get in trouble.”
    “That was the cop who’s driving me around for the day,” I said.
    “Who is this and what have you done with Madison?” she asked abruptly.
    “Susan,” I started.
    “What are you wearing?”
    “A white cotton sundress with a fitted bodice, full skirt. Very Liz Taylor in A Place in the Sun .”
    “Shoes?”
    “White Keds.” The modern-retro footwear of choice for the vintage-wearing injured.
    “Okay, it’s you. Should I be worried? Why is a cop driving you around?”
    “Long story. I’m not sure it was a good idea to accept.”
    “Is he cute?”
    I paused for a second before answering, a flash of Tex’s boyish smile, long sideburns, and ice-blue eyes in my head. “You could say that.”
    “Madison, it’s time you had some fun. A cute bad-boy cop could be just what the doctor ordered.”
    The image of Tex was quickly replaced with Pamela Ritter’s lifeless body in my terrycloth robe. “Nobody said this was any fun.”
    “Then you’re not doing something right.” She laughed.
    “What else can you tell me about this Doris Day thing?” I said, bringing the conversation back to where it should have been all along.
    “Not much. A couple of people were testing a print of ours and found it mixed in with the inventory. Nobody talks about it and none of those people are still here.”
    “So how can I find out more about it?”
    “John Phillips was the director, but he retired a couple of years ago.”
    “I thought nobody knew about it?”
    “Nobody outside of AFFER. We kept it on the down-low. But John took a special interest in the whole thing, as you can imagine. I have his number at home. Let me call him and see if he remembers the details.”
    “Promise you’ll keep me in the loop, right?”
    “Absolutely. This is the kind of thing that could really put the Mummy on the map.” 
    She disconnected and I jotted some notes on a piece of paper lying on the desk. Dirty Doris Day footage? It felt naughty just to write it down. I folded the paper into a small square and put it in my handbag.
    I spent the next couple of hours working on research. Lists of Doris Day’s extensive filmography, maps of run times, combinations of movies to pair up for double features. Comparative schedules to determine if it would be better to run them chronologically or thematically. Whether to lump Rock Hudson into one night, Cary Grant and James Garner into another, and whether we’d get a better draw with David Niven, Keith David, or Rod Taylor.
    Knowing Tex was meandering around the theater probably getting bored while I worked kept me busy for longer than I needed to work. My cell phone rang, interrupting my productive streak.
    “Ms. Night? This is Steve Johnson.”
    It took a couple of seconds for me to place the name.
    “Mr. Johnson! Thank you for returning my call.” I paused for a moment, not sure what direction our conversation was going to turn. The pause extended too long. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. Something came up—”
    He cut me off. “Ms. Night, are you still interested in my mother’s estate?”
    “Yes. And call me Madison.”
    “I wish you’d called yesterday like I asked you to. When I didn’t hear from you I made arrangements to