My Nightmare Is Yours

***SCROLL DOWN FOR A PEEK AT CHAPTER 1***

A retro dream job turns deadly when the music stops—and Madison Night may be siding with the wrong suspect.

Mid-century modern interior decorator Madison Night’s latest job should be a dream: transforming a 1950s ranch house into a retro recording studio. The catch? The client is a music producer who’s both a friend of Madison’s ex and the ex of one of her closest friends. Already caught in the crossfire of a messy post-divorce battle, Madison does her best to stay neutral—until murder takes center stage.

When pop singer Vanessa Wright, one of the producer’s two clients, is found dead in the park outside his home, neutrality is no longer an option. A former child star on the brink of a career-defining comeback, the victim had everything to gain—and someone determined to stop her. As Madison balances swatches and soundproofing with secrets and suspects, she uncovers fractures within the singer’s inner circle. 

Her police captain boyfriend is convinced the producer may be guilty, and Madison finds herself on the opposite side of the investigation. Being right would cost her personally. Being wrong could cost more than a decorating job. With motives piling up faster than records in a jukebox, Madison must uncover who silenced the singer before the microphone drops on murder.

This is the thirteenth book in the Madison Night mystery series, featuring an over fifty amateur sleuth, mid-century modern design, and crimes where personal loyalties blur the truth. Perfect for readers who love smart heroines, retro flair, and traditional mysteries with real stakes.

CHAPTER 1:

The photo was unfortunate on many levels. A middle-aged band promoter and a former child star, grinning at the camera from a music-industry party where everyone in the background had the sheen of edgy hipster. The problem wasn’t the style, or the event, or the former child star, it was the middle-aged band promoter, Ned Duncan, who happened to be the ex-husband of my friend Connie. The most unfortunate part was that Connie saw the picture in the paper first. 

“He’s winning,” Connie said, staring at the page. She set the newspaper back on her kitchen table but didn’t look away. 

I craned my neck to get a better view, not easy considering the image was upside down from my angle. We were sharing the paper over cappuccinos and scones in her kitchen, an atomic masterpiece I designed for her and Ned prior to their divorce. They’d dreamed of updating their kitchen, something ultracool, and after receiving a windfall in the form of a forgotten insurance claim that finally paid out, they hired me. Calling it a masterpiece wasn’t bragging; it was a testament to the original inspiration point, the kitchen featured in The Glass Bottom Boat. As a mid-century modern interior decorator who shared a birthday with Doris Day, I drew great inspiration from the actress’s movies (and life). I’d always wanted to design a kitchen like this one and considered it the crown jewel of my portfolio. 

Connie and Ned had been the perfect clients. Perfect, that is, until Ned was caught on a clandestine getaway with his secretary in nearby Shreveport, Louisiana. Thus, the divorce. 

Connie flicked her fingers against the picture of Ned. “He’s in the society pages. With Vanessa Wright.”

“I don’t think they’re still called ‘society pages.’”

“You know what I mean. This is Dallas. They don’t feature nobodies.”

“What’s Ned doing with Vanessa Wright?” I asked, gently pulling the paper away from her and turning it so I could get a better view.

“Ned has no scruples,” Connie said. “She’s barely legal.”

“It says here she’s twenty-eight.”

“And he’s fifty-eight. You do the math.”

Connie stood and moved behind me, where she could peer at the paper from over my shoulder. “Look at him, all chiseled and mature and plaid. Meanwhile, I’ve gained twenty pounds and am drowning in debt. It’s not fair how time has a different agenda for men and women.”

I didn’t know when “plaid” had become a sign of victory in the who-moved-on-first competition, but it didn’t seem the time to ask. 

It would have been easy to tell Connie she was wrong, to try to boost her spirits after seeing her ex-husband looking, well, pretty darn great in the picture in the paper, but the words would have fallen on deaf ears. Connie and Ned had been divorced for a few years now, and after a brief mourning of what might have been, life should have moved on. I’d watched Connie close down her Etsy business and buy a local turnkey flower shop, throwing herself into the experience of becoming an expert. She tried speed dating, and I suspected she’d signed up for a couple of dating apps, too, but so far, no prospects populated her future. 

Instead of telling Connie what she needed to learn for herself, I focused my attention on the article. 

Ned Duncan was a hipster music publicist who had gotten on alarmingly well with my ex and, because of that, had blurred the line between client and friend. He and Connie shared similar mid-century tastes and, while married, had looked as if they’d been made for each other, like extras in an Elvis movie. I’d played an unfortunate role in Connie finding out the truth about Ned’s “business trip,” and while I believed she was better off knowing, I often wondered whether, if she hadn’t discovered the evidence while in a room full of people, she would have looked the other way and pretended things were still good. 

In addition to the photo with Ned, there was a publicity photo of Vanessa from her latest album cover. I scanned the article, looking for something to divert Connie’s attention from Ned as pervy older man and found the information in the second paragraph. 

“It says Vanessa Wright is looking to record her first album. That picture is from an industry party. She’d be a good client for Ned, especially if she’s looking to shed her innocent image.”

“I’ll bet he wants to help her shed her image.” She planted her hand on the newsprint then scrunched the paper into her palm. 

“I was reading that,” I protested.

“We don’t need to give Ned a moment more attention that we already have.” She balled the page up and plunged it into the trash bin in the corner. She sat down and pulled the lemon scones toward her. She took one and raised it to her mouth then stopped before taking a bite. A moment later, she flung the scone at the wall. Scones aren’t built for high-impact situations, and the pastry shattered into a spray of crumbs. Rocky, my feisty shih tzu, sprang into action, snarfing up as many of the crumbs as he could manage. 

“Damn it, Madison, why does this have to be so hard?” Connie asked. 

“Nobody said life was easy.”

“It’s easy for him.”

“You don’t know that.” I studied Connie’s expression, flushed and blotchy and wet with tears she fought to stop, and a suspicion crept onto my radar. “Tell me you don’t know that.”

She shrugged. “I sometimes check up on him.”

“Why?”

“To see if a piano fell on him while he was walking down the street.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed out loud. At least she still had her sense of humor. “If Ned checked up on you, do you know what he’d see?”

“A chubby middle-aged woman with perpetually dirty fingernails and a mountain of business debt?”

“A confident woman who bet on herself in her second act.”

“I don’t feel confident. The only pants I can wear have an elastic waist.”

“All of my pants have elastic waists. That’s how they made them in the sixties.” 

Part of my business plan was to buy out estates of recently deceased women of a certain age, and after a decade in business, I’d amassed more vintage clothes than they used in a season of Mad Men. 

Today’s ensemble, a khaki camp shirt and matching Bermuda shorts, came from the estate of Hilary Syddall nee Benton, a female pilot who’d been a member of the Ninety-Nines. Hilary frequently competed in air derbies and was among the first women to be considered for the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron in the early forties. From her scrapbook, I knew she’d chosen marriage and family instead but had continued to pilot her plane well into her eighties. Drawing on the fit of her wardrobe, I assumed she’d been significantly shorter than I was, and I’d converted several pairs of her trousers into shorts. 

I reached behind me for a nearby box of tissues and extended it toward Connie. “Haven’t you taken up running? You might feel better if you burn off some of that anxious energy.”

She blew her nose, a loud foghorn honk. “I’ll go for a walk if you’ll come with me. You’re wearing Keds, right?”

“Always.”

“Can your knee handle it?”

“I’ve been doing physical therapy for three years now. My knee is stronger than ever.”

Neither of us mentioned why my knee was an issue. Regardless of the original accident, planning around the pain had become a part of my life. 

I clipped Rocky’s leash to his collar. It was a gorgeous, sunny spring day in Dallas, on the cusp of the heat wave that always showed up mid-April and wouldn’t leave until October. I pulled on a straw, cone-shaped hat to keep the sun from my face.

After her divorce, Connie had floundered with her personal style, moving from rockabilly to vintage concert T-shirts with jeans to The Royal Tenenbaums–type jogging suits. Lately she’d taken to wearing pullover sweatshirts and matching pull-on pants. She claimed it wasn’t worth wearing real clothes to the nursery, which was plausible, but I couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn something that didn’t stretch. 

I waited in her kitchen while she went to her bedroom to change. She returned in a pretty pink cotton tunic and cropped pants. She’d smoothed her hair and applied lip gloss. I chalked it up to her wanting to feel better about herself, so I didn’t comment. 

“Ready?” she asked. “If you’re up for it, we can go to Native Texas Park. It’s a mile and a half away, though…”

“My doctor says I’m looking at an inevitable knee replacement, but I’m not ready to give up on this set. Let’s go.”

The sun was on the rise, winking off bumpers of cars parked along the sidewalk of Connie’s neighborhood. We strode at a comfortable pace. I adjusted my hat and let Connie lead while Rocky sniffed things along the way. We reached the entrance to Native Texas Park and followed the path. 

“Do you come to this park often?”

“Sometimes.” She looked around nervously. “It’s a nice walk from my house, and I sometimes see the same people, so it’s starting to feel familiar.”

As if on cue, a jogger turned the corner. Connie smiled at him as he passed us, and he nodded at her in return. 

When we reached the edge of the park, Connie stopped. “Maybe we should turn back.”

“Why? I thought the whole point was to get to the park and see some familiar faces.”

“I lied.” She blocked my path. “This is Ned’s neighborhood. I changed before we headed out because I thought we might see him. I do sometimes—see him—but I don’t think he’s ever seen me.”

Warning bells rang in my imagination. “Connie…”

“I can’t get over him, Mads. It’s too easy for him to move on.”

“You have to forgive him.”

“Did you forgive Brad?”

Oh. Okay. Connie was going there.

“It’s not the same.”

“Did you forgive him?” she asked again, as if I hadn’t spoken. “For lying, for taking the easy way out instead of admitting what he did? For not trying to rebuild his life after the full truth came out?”

“Brad Turlington was an old boyfriend who used me and then committed suicide. That was a lifetime ago. I’m with Tex now, and it’s the best relationship of my life. I don’t think about Brad. He made his own choices.”

“I wish I could be more like you,” Connie said wistfully. 

I let the conversation lapse for reasons I didn’t want to face. 

The path wound around benches, trees, and shrubs in an irregular loop where visitors played catch with each other, their children, or their pets. The occasional whoop of a small child or bark of a dog pierced the otherwise calm sounds of chirping crickets and buzzing insects. We were already in the thick of the park; it felt foolish to turn back now. 

“Let’s sit for a moment,” I suggested. 

We chose a wooden-and-iron bench with a small brass dedication plaque. It felt good to sit. I removed my hat and tipped my face up toward the sun, a rare moment of indulgence in UVA rays. 

After a couple of minutes of silence, Connie said, “I don’t know who I am without him.”

She stared at the center of the park at families having fun together. “I thought it would be me and Ned forever. I changed up everything in my life after the divorce was official, but I’m still stuck in first gear. I can’t find myself. I’ve gone to yoga, started meditating, get monthly tarot card readings, and even met with a psychic. I can’t move on. I thought if we casually ran into him, if I got that out of the way, I would see he’s not all that and would prove to myself that I’m over him. I even chose this park because—don’t judge me, okay?”

“Why did you choose this park, Connie?”

Connie looked away. “I’ve been stalking him. No biggie, just social media stuff. He lives in that apartment building over there.” She pointed to a tall complex beyond a copse of trees. “He’s called me a few times, but I never answer. He texts me on holidays too. I was afraid if he wanted to get back together, I’d say yes, so I blocked his number. Sometimes I think if I forgave him, things would be so much easier, but I can’t.”

I should have been surprised by Connie’s admission, but I wasn’t. She was a great friend, always willing to sidekick when I needed her, and she’d even rented out a corner of my design studio prior to buying the flower shop, keeping me company between clients while propping up the notion that we were two independent businesswomen taking on the corporate power structure. I’d never questioned her willingness to drop everything to go along with my schedule, even when I got tangled up in murder investigations. The most recent had taken place on a cruise, and when I got back, Connie told me she’d spent the week planting bulbs. I loved that she’d found something to throw herself into, but I questioned if she was using her new business as an excuse to keep from living her life. 

I said, “By the time Brad showed up in Dallas, it wasn’t the same. My life in Dallas was already established, and there was no place for him in it. It isn’t fair to you to compare yourself to me. The two situations are totally different.”

What I didn’t tell Connie, what I didn’t like to admit to myself, was that I still had unresolved trust issues because of Brad Turlington and how that whole situation had ended.