“But he wasn’t violent. Okay, so he gets excited sometimes, says things he shouldn’t and even makes occasional threats, but he’s never ever hurt anyone. He won’t even kill spiders.”
“He’s not under arrest, Harley. We just need to clear him, okay?”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Do you know anyone else who might have a grudge against Mrs. Trumble?”
“Other than almost everyone in the neighborhood that she’s terrorized at one time or another, no. For pity’s sake, Bobby, you remember what she’s like. Remember the time she called the police on you and me and Cami for stealing cherries off her cherry tree?”
“Yeah. We did steal cherries.”
“That’s not the point. We were fifteen, the tree hung over the sidewalk and we took a few cherries. Why call the cops?”
“I’m not arguing that she was a petty, spiteful old lady. But she’s been murdered. I’ve got to check out all angles, and that includes the feud with Yogi. If he didn’t do it, we’ll find that out. But he was here, and he may have seen something or someone that’s important. Or maybe she said something we need to know.”
He was right. She knew that. She didn’t like it, but she knew it.
“Fine. But do me a favor—you talk to him. He gets all defensive and obstinate with the police most of the time. He knows you and trusts you.”
“I’d planned on it. I don’t think he shot her, but he may have seen someone leaving when he got here, or—”
“Bobby. I saw someone. Earlier . . . before I came to talk to you. There was a car here, a big new car. Black. That’s the reason I didn’t stop then, I thought maybe I’d catch her alone instead of while she had company.”
“What model car?”
“Black. Big, like a . . . a Lincoln. Not a limo or anything, but one of those long cars.”
“Did you get a license plate number?”
“Oh please. I’m doing good to remember the color. Wait—it was a personalized plate. I remember seeing that but not paying much attention since I was thinking about other things. GR8 something.”
“Great?”
“G-R-eight. Great . . . I don’t know. I only remember the first three letters. Some of those personalized messages on license plates are confusing.”
“That’ll help.” He’d taken out his pad and was writing again. “When Yogi gets here, tell him I’d like to talk to him before he leaves. Might as well get it over with now.”
“I’ll tell him. He’s not going to be happy.”
Bobby nodded, eying the street now crowded with news vans and reporters. “Damn media. They get to a scene before the ME most of the time.”
Evening shadows slowly sucked away the afternoon sunshine. Strobe lights illuminated the yard. Cables and wires snaked across pavement, and cameras balanced on shoulders and tripods. A man in jogging shorts spoke into a microphone being held by a leggy blonde reporter in a stylish red suit. Bobby swore softly.
“My witness. Shit. What’s he doing talking to the media?”
He stalked across the yard toward the unsuspecting reporter eagerly asking questions, and Harley stood indecisively. The jogger was a neighbor who lived several houses down from Yogi and Diva. There had never been any problems with George Reed that she knew about, and he was probably just repeating what he’d seen. Yogi could be in serious trouble. Why hadn’t he stayed home?
Diva came with Yogi, and they arrived in the big lime-green Volkswagen van her father had named Vanna, parking down the street. It was probably best. The van was recognizable, as it had been decorated with Picasso-like body parts painted by her brother, some of the art in rather questionable taste.
Scurrying toward her, Yogi’s face was a mixture of relief and worry. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
“I presume you mean King. He’s fine. A little smelly and shabby for having only been gone two days, but other than that, he’s his usual self.” Harley put out a hand to stop Yogi. “Uh, did Bobby happen to mention Mrs. Trumble to you?”
“She’s dead.” Yogi nodded. “I know. But that doesn’t have anything to do with King. Can I go get him now?”
“I’m sure they’d be grateful, but I have to tell you that Bobby wants to talk to you before you leave. He just wants to ask a few questions.”
“Like what?”
“Well, probably something along the line of, Do you have an alibi, and maybe even—why were you seen down here earlier today? Damn, Yogi, you promised.”
She’d meant to remain calm, but irritation and worry made her voice rise. Yogi darted a glance toward Diva, then said with injured dignity, “I didn’t really lie to you, Harley. I promised not to go next door, not down here.”
“So if you knew she had King, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know she had King. I couldn’t sit home not doing anything. I came down here to ask her. You seemed so sure she had him, and I thought I’d save us all some trouble if I could just ask her what she wanted from me. I didn’t know she was dead. Not when I first got here.”
“Jesus. So you saw her lying dead on the floor and you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I didn’t know what to do. She was already dead. When I didn’t find King anywhere, I just took off. I still don’t understand why he didn’t bark or come when I called him.”
“He was drugged and locked in a closet.”
“Oh. That explains it. Look, I need to go get him now.”
Harley glanced at her mother, but Diva was watching Yogi walk toward the house, a tiny frown marring the smooth line of her brow. “Be careful,” she murmured, and then turned to Harley. A gentle smile replaced the frown. “Things often are not what they seem. But there are times they’re exactly what they seem to be.”
Well, that was a strange thing to say. Harley frowned.
“So, which applies here? You’re not trying to tell me—”
“Good heavens, no. Of course not. I’d never say anything like that. Rama and Ovid assure me that all will be well.”
“Rama and Ovid need to go back to their own world,” Harley snapped, losing patience. “I don’t think the police will buy that particular line of reasoning. If there’s anything you need to tell me, I’ll be glad to listen. Is there?”
The faint tinkle of bells accompanied Diva’s graceful sweep of one arm through the air. “I think you already know all that’s necessary. Listen to the universe.”
“I feel like I’m listening to the Sphinx. Diva, please don’t talk to me in riddles. This has been a terrible day for me. I’d planned on a few hours lying in the sun, doing a little laundry, nothing too stressful after last week. It hasn’t worked out well. I’m afraid the police may think Yogi killed Mrs. Trumble. Doesn’t that worry you at all?”
“I trust in the universe.”
A dull throb moved from Harley’s temples to spread behind her eyes. She rubbed at them with her fingertips and sighed. When she opened her eyes, she saw Bruno Jett. He stood across the street, wearing a black tee shirt and Levi’s, leaning against a light pole and watching the scene with interest. What was he doing here? He didn’t seem the type to be gawking with the rest of the neighbors. A man with a rap sheet as long as his should avoid police, not come watch them at their work.
Unless he was somehow involved. Was he? This might be her best opportunity to see what she could find out. After all, she wasn’t trespassing and there were plenty of police around. Could it get any safer?
“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said to her mother, reminding her that Bobby wanted to talk to them and not to leave yet. “Just wait here for me.”
Without waiting for a reply, she crossed the street, weaving a path through reporters and curious bystanders. One of the reporters stopped her, thrusting a microphone in her face to fire questions at her.
“We saw you talking to the police, and wonder if you can tell us anything about this tragic death of your neighbor.”
“Uh, not really.” Harley blinke
d in the blinding light of a strobe bobbing overhead.
“We understand the victim was discovered by a neighbor. Do you know who found her?”
Harley blinked again and shook her head. “The police aren’t saying. Excuse me. I feel a little dizzy.”
It wasn’t a complete lie.
By the time she reached Jett, Mrs. Shipley had managed to corner him. Her skinny arms were waving as she talked animatedly, and fading sunshine and strobe lights glittered off the rhinestones studding her long yellow tee shirt. Sixty-seven and widowed, she wore tight orange leggings, sandals, and too much makeup. This week her hair was a spectacular orange, the brittle dry strands sticking up like flames. She looked like a lit match.
“Hello, Harley Jean,” Mrs. Shipley said when she stopped on the curb, “I was just telling Mr. Jett that nothing like this ever happens on our street. It’s very quiet there, especially now that you’ve all grown up and left home. Oh my, when you and Bobby Baroni were kids, though, the things y’all did. I remember when—”
“How’s your gallbladder, Mrs. Shipley?” Harley interrupted, recognizing the trapped expression in Jett’s eyes. “You know, Diva was telling me about a new treatment researchers have come up with recently. I’m sure she’d be glad to tell you about it so you can ask your doctor.”
“New treatment? Well, it’s about time. The things I’ve suffered, just because my doctor refuses to keep updated. I certainly will talk to her.”
“Now would be a good time. She’s standing right over there all by herself.”
As Mrs. Shipley hustled across the street toward Diva, Harley turned back to Bruno Jett. A faint smile pressed one corner of his mouth.
“You obviously have no shame at all, Harley Jean.”
“Harley. Only old ladies who’ve known me since the sixth grade can call me Harley Jean. What are you doing here?”
A shrug lifted his shoulders. “Saw the commotion when I was passing by and decided to stop and check it out. Any objections to that?”
“I’d have thought you’d avoid this kind of situation. What with being a salesman, and all.”
“Then you’d be wrong, wouldn’t you.” Shifting slightly, he studied her with a deliberately rude stare, his gaze traveling from her feet to her face, then dropping to her chest. “So what grade are you in now, Harley Jean?”
Glaring at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Very funny. I was just wondering if you have a catalogue or brochure for the costume jewelry you sell.”
“No. I’m more a wholesale kind of business.”
“A pity. What company did you say you’re with?”
“I didn’t. Look, just what is it you really want to know? You’re about as subtle as a tank, and it could take all night for you to get to the point. I have things to do, places to go, people to see.”
He didn’t seem at all nervous or worried, or even guilty, but stood staring down at her with a faintly superior expression that she found irritating. Her eyes narrowed.
“Why do you think I want to know anything? You’ve obviously misunderstood. I’m just making small talk with a neighbor and being polite, that’s all. You really do think a little too highly of yourself.”
“Yeah, I might, but I know a con when I hear one, and you, Harley Jean Davidson, are trying to run one on me. A word of warning—don’t even try.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he grabbed her chin between his thumb and fingers and kissed her full on the mouth. Too shocked to do more than make a choked noise, it was over before her reflexes recovered, and he stepped back while she just stared at him.
“If I’d known it was this easy to shut you up, I’d have done that earlier. Later, Harley Jean.”
He’d already gone three steps by the time shock wore off enough for her to call after him, “I could have you arrested for assault, Bruno.”
If he heard her, he didn’t acknowledge, but disappeared into the crowd lining the curb and jostling in the street, all trying to see what was going on in Mrs. Trumble’s house. Fuzzy pink light flicked on as the street lamps hummed into service, and still she stood staring after Bruno Jett. He sure didn’t act like some criminal needing to be discreet, but what did she really know about jewel thieves? Not much.
Maybe she should rectify that.
“You want me to what, baby?”
Patiently, Harley repeated into her cell phone, “See if you can hack into some information about Bruno Jett. If anyone can do it, you can, Tootsie. You’re a computer whiz.”
“Look, you’re asking me to do something illegal. Not only that, but I’m not entirely sure you need to be stepping on this guy’s toes. He sounds like he could be dangerous.”
Sitting in her car, Harley squinted out the windshield as Mrs. Trumble’s body was wheeled out on a gurney and put into a coroner’s van. Yeah, even fatal. But somehow, she didn’t think whoever had killed the widow would show up to watch the police investigate.
“Then we won’t tell him I peeked, okay? Look, a killer could be living next door to my parents. I’d feel so much better if I knew he’s just a thief. Please? Just for my peace of mind.”
Tootsie sighed. She held the cell phone closer to her ear and crossed her fingers. Then he said, “All right. But nothing classified. Jail time is not my idea of fun time.”
“Good enough for me, Tootsie. You’re a doll.”
“Yeah, well you owe me.”
“Anything. Within reason, of course.”
“Your black sequined gown?”
“You’ll look much better in it than I do, but okay. Want the matching slingbacks?”
“I’ll have the information for you first thing in the morning at the latest, baby.”
When she hung up, she sat in the car for a moment, unwilling to go back to the house and unable to move her car for all the news vans and police cars still parked in the street and driveway and yard. Maybe she’d ride with Yogi and Diva when they were through talking to Bobby, not that it was that far to walk. She just didn’t think she had the strength.
Once the doors had been closed on Mrs. Trumble, she got out of the car and went to find Bobby. It’d been over an hour, and by now, he had to know everything Yogi could tell him. She found the officer who’d questioned her earlier as he was loading stuff into his trunk.
“Hey, Officer Delisi, do you know where I can find Bobby—uh, Lieutenant Baroni?”
Closing the trunk lid, he said, “If he’s still here, he’s probably inside with the techs. It takes them a while to finish up.”
At the back door, a uniformed officer barred her way. “No one allowed inside, lady.”
“I’m the one who found the body, and I need to speak with Detective Baroni.” Her eyes narrowed when he gave her a disbelieving look and shook his head. “Look, officer, my parents are in there being questioned, and I need to speak with Lieutenant Baroni.”
“There’s no one being questioned in here, and I suggest you go get your kicks somewhere else. Damn ghouls, always comin’ around screwin’ up a crime scene just trying to get a look . . . .”
By the time she found Bobby, he was standing by his car talking to some guy with a huge tool box, and she was pretty irritated.
“Hey, who’s questioning Yogi and Diva? I thought you promised you’d do it. You know how Yogi is, and he could end up saying the wrong thing and—”
“What are you talking about, Harley?” he interrupted. “I haven’t seen Yogi. He took off with the dog and said he’d be back, and that was well over an hour ago.”
She blinked. “He did?” Turning, she looked down the street, but there was no sign of the big lime-green van. She hadn’t even noticed they’d left. “Well, I guess they’re waiting for you at home, then. I’ll go check on them. He was pretty stressed when he was here.”
“I’m headed there myself.”
“Good. Give me a ride. My car’s blocked in and I don’t really feel like walking.”
Bobby shook out a cigarette and lit it, sq
uinting at her over the curl of rising smoke. “If he doesn’t cooperate, it’s going to look pretty bad, Harley.”
“Don’t borrow trouble. He didn’t do it. She was dead when—I found her.”
Damn, what an idiot she was. She’d almost betrayed Yogi, and that wouldn’t be good at all. It was up to Yogi to tell Bobby everything.
Narrowing his eyes at her, Bobby studied her face so hard she was grateful for the fuzzy street lights. The bad thing about knowing someone so long and so well was that they could pick up on stuff you’d rather they didn’t. It was a double-edged sword.
“Right,” he said, and she knew he suspected her of holding out on him.
When they pulled up in front of the house on Douglass, light gleamed through the stained glass transom over the door and in one upstairs window. It looked quiet and serene, with only the faint tinkle of Diva’s wind chimes on the front porch making any sound. As she fumbled for the car’s door handle, Bobby said, “You’re gonna have to tell me where they went.”
“Who?”
His head jerked toward the house. “Yogi and Diva. They’re gone.”
“No, they’re here—aren’t they?”
But he was right. No lime-green van stood in the driveway in front of the garage, and no dog barked out the front door. King always barked at visitors. Or passing cars. The house looked empty. The heavy night air still held a trace of the day’s heat, but a cold chill seeped through her. Oh no.
Four
“So where did they go?” Harley jostled her brother’s arm again, impatiently and much more energetically, so that he rolled over on the couch, blinking sleepily at her.
“Who? Go where?”
“Yogi and Diva—have you slept through everything? Useless, that’s what you are,” she said when he nodded blearily. She looked over at Bobby. “What now?”
“It doesn’t look good when a key—witness—isn’t available for questioning.”
“You were going to say suspect, weren’t you.” Her throat tightened with fear and worry. This was terrible. The police suspected Yogi of murder, she just knew it.
Hound Dog Blues Page 5