Pillow Stalk (Madison Night Series #1)

Pillow Stalk (Madison Night Series #1)

by Diane Vallere
Pillow Stalk (Madison Night Series #1)

Pillow Stalk (Madison Night Series #1)

by Diane Vallere

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Overview

HUMOR AND DANGER MELD PERFECTLY...

"A multifaceted story...plenty of surprises...And what an ending!" - New York Journal of Books

Interior Decorator Madison Night has modeled her life after a character in a Doris Day movie, but when a killer targets women dressed like the bubbly actress, Madison's signature sixties style places her in the middle of a homicide investigation.

The local detective connects the new crimes to a twenty-year old cold case, and Madison's long-trusted contractor emerges as the leading suspect. As the body count piles up like a stack of plush pillows, Madison uncovers a Soviet spy, a campaign to destroy all Doris Day movies, and six minutes of film that will change her life forever.

Praise for PILLOW STALK:

"Make room for Vallere's tremendously fun homage. Imbuing her story with plenty of mid-century modern decorating and fashion tips, not to mention a steady patter of Doris Day trivia, Vallere debuts a well-paced cozy series. Her disarmingly honest lead and two hunky sidekicks will appeal to all fashionistas and antiques types and have romance crossover appeal." - Library Journal

"If you are looking for an unconventional mystery with a snarky, no-nonsense main character, this is it. Madison is a strong leading lady who lands in lots of quirky situations. Instead of clashing, humor and danger meld perfectly, and there's a cliffhanger that will make your jaw drop. You'll look forward to the second Mad for Mod mystery." - RT Book Reviews

"A charming modern tribute to Doris Day movies and the retro era of the 50s, including murders, escalating danger, romance... and a puppy!" - Linda O. Johnston, Author of the Pet Rescue Mysteries

"Pillow Stalk is an intricately plotted and well-written book, I really enjoyed the story. I can't imagine decorating a house in the style from Doris Day's movies but it makes fine reading." - Leanne Davis, Fresh Fiction

"It was fast and furious, had a lot of info, characters, suspects, and even a few tangled romances. I love mysteries where I can't figure out who the real killer is until the end, and this was one of those. The novel was well written, moved at a smooth pace, and Madison's character was a riot." - ChickLit Plus

"This was a delightful read for me. I particularly enjoy and like Doris Day and was so surprised that Pillow Talk was mentioned in the book along with Doris Day. It's nice having a cute, cozy mystery to read, I look forward to more in the series!" - Lynn Demsky, bookreporter.com

"If you love the Technicolor movies of Doris Day and Rock Hudson and watch Mad Men for fashion tips, author Diane Vallere has written a mystery that will appeal to the mid-century modern heart." - Joanne Hamilton-Selway, ReaderToReader.com

Books in the Mad for Mod Humorous Mystery Series:

MIDNIGHT INK (prequel novella in OTHER PEOPLE'S BAGGAGE)
PILLOW STALK (#1)
THAT TOUCH OF INK (#2) (April 2014)
WITH VICS YOU GET EGGROLL (#3) (April 2015)

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Series Collection, if you like one, you'll probably like them all...

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781940976068
Publisher: Henery Press
Publication date: 03/04/2014
Series: Madison Night Series , #1
Pages: 272
Sales rank: 687,453
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.57(d)

About the Author

Diane Vallere is a fashion-industry veteran with a taste for murder. She writes the Style & Error Mystery Series and the Mad for Mod Mystery series, and has short stories in several anthologies. She started her own detective agency at age ten and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since.

Susie Berneis is a versatile voice over artist with numerous narration credits to her name. She has an ear for dialect and a love for the process of developing characters, cultivated in her 20-plus years of experience as a community and regional stage actress. Based in Ann Arbor, (home of the University of Michigan, where she received her BA in English and Theatre) Susie now takes great joy in playing all the characters she encounters in her narration.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

"Mr. Johnson, I'm calling to discuss the disposition of your mother's estate," I said into the yellow donut phone.

"Are you a lawyer?" asked a gruff voice on the other end of a crackly line.

"No, sir, I'm an interior decorator. Madison Night. I own Mad for Mod on Greenville Avenue." I paused, giving him time to react. When he didn't, I continued. "I assure you I mean no disrespect. In my experience, you are about to be faced with the time consuming challenge of handling your mother's affairs, and I am in a position to take a portion of that challenge off your to-do list." Internally, I cringed at the holier-than-thou tone that had crept into my voice. It was an oral knee-jerk reaction to people not taking me seriously. "Mad for Mod specializes in mid-century modern design. Your mother's house was —"

"What was your name again? Madison?" he snapped. "What are you, twenty?"

"Madison was my grandmother's maiden name." I pushed my long hair away from my face, then used my index finger to free a couple of strands that were stuck to my hairline, thanks to the Dallas-in-May humidity. "I'm forty-seven, and I've been in this industry for over twenty years."

The man was obviously more distraught over the death of his mother than the fact that my grandmother's surname had come into fashion sometime in the nineties, but at times like these, minor details could change the course of our conversation.

"My mom didn't have anything valuable. Her whole house was insured for fifteen thousand dollars, and I'd be better off if it had burned down and I got the check. Now I'm stuck with a bunch of junk I could never convince her to throw away."

I wrote $15,000? on the side of a real estate flyer that sat on my desk and put on my best can-do attitude. "Mr. Johnson, I'm prepared to make an offer on the entire estate. If you accept it, I can bring you a check tomorrow, and you can be on your way back to Cincinnati as soon as tomorrow night."

"Let me get this straight. You're offering to write me a check for stuff you haven't even seen?"

"That's correct."

"Lady, if this is a joke, you have a lousy sense of humor." He hung up on me.

I drummed my fingers against the top of my desk and stared at the flyer, temporarily distracted by the overdone graphics and the photo of the listing agent.

Pamela Ritter, a recently licensed realtor, stared back at me, a picture of blonde hair and blue eyes not all that different from my own, though she was half my age. Blast from the Past! screamed the heading, above listings for a string of ranch houses on Mockingbird. Live like a Mad Man! promised the copy on the side. Turquoise bubbles filled the background, and starbursts, outlined in red, gave it a comic book Pow! Bam! Bop! feel.

Pamela had jumped on the new movement to capitalize on all things fifties, thanks to a recent pop culture focus on the Eisenhower era. I'd been nurturing my passion for mid-century decorating since I was a teenager, since I first watched Pillow Talk after learning that I shared a birthday with an actress named Doris Day. I had surrounded myself with items from the atomic age long before Pamela was born, and thanks to my business, I'd found a community of others who shared my interest and appreciated my knowledge. I crumpled up the flyer and tossed it at the trash bin. It bounced off the rim and landed on the carpet.

I glanced at the brushed gold starburst clock mounted close to the ceiling. Photos of rooms, stills from Doris Day movies, swatches of fabric and paint chips from the hardware store covered the bottom two thirds of the wall, thumb-tacked to cork squares I'd glued on top of the paint. Arrows and notes connected a couple of the inspiration points and identified those ideas that I had earmarked for a specific client. Merchandise and props to make an authentic mid-century room were not cheap or easy to come by, and I depended on the obituaries to identify estates that might be rich in the era's style. Thelma Johnson, age seventy-nine, lifetime resident of a two bedroom split level in the M streets, had that kind of estate, but her son wasn't interested in my sales pitch.

I twisted my blonde hair back into a chignon, then secured it with a vintage hairpin. It was ten minutes to six. I could leave early. Nothing was going to happen in ten minutes. I flipped the open sign to closed, locked the doors, and carried the small bag of trash out the back door, swatting the light switch on the way. I emptied the trash into the dumpster and rummaged through my handbag for my keys before noticing the flat tire on my powder blue Alfa Romeo.

I bent next to the tire and a slash of pain shot through my left knee. After a skiing accident two years ago, I had been left with a reminder that I had to look out for myself, because no one else would. The chronic pain forced me to acknowledge my limitations. It kept me from doing the kinds of things that independent women knew how to do for themselves and Texas women took for granted that someone else would do for them. And today, it would keep me from getting home ten minutes early.

I went back inside the studio and called Hudson James, my handyman. "What are the chances you're up for rescuing a damsel in distress?" I asked.

"Depends on the damsel."

"Thanks to a flat tire, I'm stranded at the studio. I'd try to change it myself," I said, but stopped when the humiliating reality of me calling a man to ask for help resonated in my ears. I never thought I'd be that kind of woman.

"Madison, it's no problem. I'm in the neighborhood and I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

Hudson's blue pickup truck pulled into the alley by my studio and parked next to the dumpster. His longish black hair had curled with the humidity, the front pushed to the side, behind his ear, the back flipping up against the collar of his black t-shirt. "I thought you were calling because you had a job for me," he said.

I flushed. "I might," I said, "I'm still working it out. A woman died —"

He held up a hand. "I don't want to know the details."

"It's just business."

"I look at you and I see sweetness and innocence, not a ruthless business woman."

"Don't let the blonde hair and blue eyes fool you."

"Honey, they had me fooled me the first time I laid eyes on you." He winked and took the keys from my hand. Before he turned back to the car, his eyes swept over my body. "Is that a new dress?"

I looked down at my dress, a light blue fitted sheath that was significantly more wrinkled than it had been when I left the house hours ago. A series of circles in gingham, stripes, and polka dots had been appliquéd to the neckline and hem.

"It's a new-old dress. Early sixties. From an estate sale in Pennsylvania, before I moved here. The woman died in a car accident —"

"Enough! I like the dress. I like the dress on you. But I don't need to hear the obituary of the woman who owned it first." He disappeared next to the tire.

"It's good for business," I said.

"The dress or the estate sales?"

"Well, both. But the only client I talked to today was over the phone, thank you very much." Maybe things would have gone differently if I had met Steve Johnson face to face. Not because of the dress, but because he'd see that I was legitimate.

Inside the studio, the phone jangled. Technically, Mad for Mod was still open, and every phone call was prospective business. "Do you mind if I get that?"

"Nah, go ahead. This'll take a couple of minutes."

I picked up the ball of paper by the wastepaper basket and set it on the corner of my one-of-a-kind desk, then reached for the phone.

"Mad for Mod, Madison Night speaking," Isaid. I heard a click, then a dial tone. I sank into the chair and batted the crumpled-up flyer back and forth across the slick surface of the desk.

The desk was a gift from Hudson, a hodgepodge of parts from items too damaged to repair. It had cost him more in time and vision than materials, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. More than once I'd asked him to be a partner in my business, and every time he declined. He was reliable, artistic, genuine, and best of all, smelled like wood shavings. In a parallel universe, I might have entertained romantic thoughts of us, but life as it was for a single, forty-seven year old businesswoman with trust issues didn't allow for fantasies like that. And even if I was capable of giving in to attraction, I had long learned one lesson: men may come and go but good handymen last forever.

I closed up the studio for the second time. The phone mocked me from the other side of the back door. I ran back in and answered on the third ring, slightly out of breath.

"Ms. Night, this is Steve Johnson. You called me about my mother's estate?" His voice had changed. The gruff had been traded for something else. Either way, I launched into my spiel.

"Mr. Johnson, I know it's unorthodox for me to have made an offer over the phone, but if you have time available tomorrow, I'd be more than happy to meet with you in person."

"That's not necessary. I changed my mind and I'm willing to sell. Take this number down and call me in the morning."

I grabbed a thick black marker out of the orange Tiki mug on the desk, flattened out Pamela's real estate flyer, and scrawled the number across her bright white smile.

"Perfect," I said, too eagerly, considering the circumstances. And then, for the second time that day, Steve Johnson hung up on me, leaving me to wonder what exactly had happened to change his mind.

CHAPTER 2

"We got a problem," Hudson said, startling me. He leaned against the white doorframe of my office and rubbed at his hands with a neon yellow terrycloth towel. "Your trunk is stuck, and I can't get to the spare."

"I bet it's caught on a pillow." He raised his eyebrows. "I know, I know, I have to stop driving around with inventory in my trunk, especially when I have a perfectly good storage unit."

"How about this. You take my truck home. I'll see what I can do about the trunk and the tire."

"What if you can't fix it?"

He looked at me as though that wasn't a possibility and I smiled. Since we first started working together, I challenged him with items either bought for pennies or rescued from the trash. Chipped wood chairs, broken clock radios, and the occasional portable bar, all so in need of repair, others had thrown them away. But Hudson saw the same potential in the discarded objects that I did, and had never failed at a job. I liked to think his skills gave new life to items owned by people who were now in a place that needed no decoration. Inanimate reincarnation, if you will.

"I'll bring your car by tonight and you'll 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 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."

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Pillow Stalk"
by .
Copyright © 2013 Diane Vallere.
Excerpted by permission of Henery Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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