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

donate the whole estate to charity.”
    I didn’t like going head to head with a charitable donation. I’d lay odds that Thelma Johnson’s estate was filled with the kind of mid-century modern style that had been untouched for decades, but I knew a charity would benefit from the donation more than I would.
    “Circumstances kept me from calling you back.” I felt Tex’s presence before I saw him, but looked at the doorway to confirm what I felt. I was right.
    He leaned against the doorframe, not bothering to hide the fact that he was listening in on my conversation.
    “But I understand your decision. Again, I’m sorry for your loss,” I finished, and hung up.
    Tex crossed the office, finally settling his muscular frame into the seat in front of the desk. His gaze was less flirtatious than direct.
    “What was that about?” he asked.
    “If I tell you, you’re going to think less of me,” I said.
    “How so?”
    “It involves my opportunistic business side.”
    “I didn’t know you had one of those.”
    “The decorating business I mentioned? I told you I specialize in mid-century modern. I’ve discovered the best way to get authentic inventory is from the original owners. And the best way to find the original owners is to read the obituaries, and contact their next-of-kin before they hold a yard sale.” 
    “Thelma Johnson,” he said.
    I nodded.
    He stood up and paced back and forth inside the small office. My cell rang again before I could ask what he was thinking.
    “Take the call.”
    “Madison Night,” I spoke into the phone, with my eyes trained on Tex.
    “Ms. Night, it’s Steve Johnson again. Listen, I had a thought. My mom had a lot of stuff. If you can come by now, we can talk about what you’re interested in.”
    I’d overestimated Mr. Johnson’s charitable impulse. It appeared as though his interest in my cash offer was now equal to my interest in his mother’s kitsch and had trumped any karmic points he thought he’d get by giving it all away.
    “I can be there in twenty minutes,” I said, studying the expression in Tex’s eyes.
    The drive to the Johnson estate was in silence.
    I got the feeling that Tex was used to figuring women out quickly, but I knew I wasn’t so easy to read. The outside package—vintage clothes, blonde hair, and Doris Day obsession—all said Time Warp. The business savvy and independence said Modern Woman. I knew it all added up to me, a single woman who had learned, through a series of false starts and dead ends, to take care of herself. Everything about me said Madison Night, but Tex’s listening skills might have been a little rusty.
    “You mind explaining why we’re here?” he asked after pulling the Jeep alongside a curb in front of the Johnson house.
    “I told you already.”
    “This time I want details.”
    I took a deep breath. I wasn’t used to explaining my actions, and no matter what words I chose, there was a pretty strong chance that I’d look heartless.
    “I read the obituaries every night. Thelma Johnson died on Saturday. She was born in 1928. I’ve found that women born in the twenties and thirties tend to own the kinds of items I use when doing a house in a mid-century theme. Usually these women are the original owners. The furniture is generally pretty worn, lived in, and needs a fair amount of TLC to bring it back to its original state, but I’m lucky. I’ve got help with that—I’ve got that covered.”
    “The colleague you mentioned earlier. What’s his name again?”
    “Hudson James. Why?” I asked.
    He nodded. I couldn’t explain what I felt at the moment, or why it felt like talking to Tex about Hudson suddenly felt like I was talking about a secret I wanted to keep to myself. True, Hudson did work for me. Good work, good enough that once I’d found him, or he’d found me, I’d let my other freelance contacts fall by the wayside. Still, I wanted the lieutenant to see me as an equal, not someone who needed help to