Read Online Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) by Diane Vallere - Free Book Online

run her own life. Something made me want to not attach myself to anyone at the moment.
    “You have his card?”
    “Not on me.”
    “So…Thelma Johnson,” he said. “What’s your connection to her?”
    “She fit the profile. Nothing more to it.”
    I got out of the Jeep and so did Tex. Our doors slammed at the same time. He walked around the front and stood in my path.
    “So now you know what I’m doing here. Just consider this: it’s not easy to have the conversation that I’m about to have without insulting the people who just experienced a loss. I’d really prefer if you’d wait in the Jeep while I go in there and talk to her son.”
    He aimed his keys at the car and a double beep sounded. Pretty sure that meant, despite my request, he was coming in with me.
    “Fine. Then please remember, this is my business, and I have a few ground rules. If you’re going in with me, you have to act like you work for me. Can you do that? Or would it be too much of a threat to your masculinity?”
    “Hand me that scarf,” he said and pointed to my handbag.
    I looked at the paisley silk square knotted on the handle, then back at him, then back at the scarf. I untied it and held it out. He tied it around his neck, tucking the ends into his shirt like an ascot. Then he walked around the back of the Jeep, pulled off his cowboy boots and replaced them with brown wing-tipped oxfords that had been tucked behind his seat. Last, he replaced his aviator frames with square black plastic reading glasses from the glove box.
    “Now I look like I work for you.”
    I shook my head at the transformation.
    “What can I say? I’m adaptable.”
    He followed me up the steps to the front door where I rang the bell. A man with little more than a fringe of hair circling the rest of his bald head answered. He wore a white polo shirt, curls of chest hair peeking out at the open collar, khakis, and an expensive-looking silver tank watch strapped to his wrist.
    “Mr. Johnson? I’m Madison Night.”
    “Call me Steve,” he said, looking past me, to Tex.
    “This is my assistant,” I said, and let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished, not sure if Tex expected me to provide a full introduction.
    “Come on in,” Steve said, holding the door open for us to enter. I stepped past him into the small foyer that separated the front door and the kitchen. Tex followed. I would have paid good money to have seen Tex’s reaction when I called him my assistant but at the moment all of my good money was going toward Thelma Johnson’s belongings.
    The kitchen was small but efficient. A laminate table sat under the picture window, the sill lined with a neat row of African violets in white ceramic pots. A corner display shelf filled the space between the cabinets and the window held a collection of Eva Zeisel china in hues of white, aqua, and pink. With just a glance, I could tell she had almost the entire set.
    My eyes swept the room and took in the Danish modern chairs neatly tucked beneath the table. Yellow curtains, faded with fifty years of sunlight, showed off an atomic print of dingbats and daisies.
    “So, how do you do this? You’ll be quick, right?” said Steve Johnson.
    “I’d like to walk through the house first, then make you an offer, if that works for you.”
    “Sure, but you won’t take too long, right? I think I can catch an earlier flight.” 
    “You’re not a fan of Dallas, are you?” I asked.
    “I want to get out of this godforsaken city,” he answered. “I can’t believe Mom stayed here.”
    “Didn’t she live here her whole life?” I asked. My initial assessment of the furniture was that these belongings hadn’t seen a moving truck or the critical eye that accompanies a major move from city to city. They looked lived in and loved, and like they’d been where they were for a very long time.
    “Yeah, but some people try to move on after tragedy. Not Mom. I offered to move her to Cincinnati to live with me but she