“I didn’t say that. I said witness.” Bobby sounded irritable. He raked a hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes at her. “Where could they have gone? If you know, or even think you know, where they might be, it’d be better for them if you go ahead and tell me now. I’ll do what I can to make things easier for them, Harley, you know that.”
Flopping down into an overstuffed chair with huge pink peonies rioting over the ivory slipcover, she blew out a heavy breath of frustration. Crystals and half-finished dream catchers made of wire, feathers, and yarn were scattered on the coffee table. Magazines were piled in a wicker basket, and her mother’s hair ribbons with the tiny bells lay curled atop a Southern Living magazine from 1998. It was Diva’s favorite issue, with plans for verandas surrounded by flowers. It was abnormally quiet in the house, no New Age music coming from the CD player, no Elvis music, no Yogi grumbling about politics or the government, no goofy dog barking at passing cars, joggers, other dogs, or falling leaves. It was more than just quiet—it was depressing.
She looked up at Bobby, who’d propped one leg on the arm of the couch and sat staring at her. “I have no idea where they’d go,” she said truthfully. “They could be anywhere.”
“Did Yogi ever threaten Mrs. Trumble?”
“Daily. But not like you mean. He said she was a mean, spiteful old lady and he shouldn’t ever have trusted her, but he never said he wanted to kill her. He did say he wished her bad karma would hurry and catch up to her, but that’s about it.” Leaning forward, she put her head into her hands and closed her eyes against a stab of pain. “I need an aspirin. Or morphine.”
Bobby stood up. “Diva still keep the aspirin in that frog-shaped bottle?”
“Yes. Listen—Bruno Jett was down there. I saw him. I talked to him.”
“Forget Jett.” Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, and when he came back, he had a glass of water and two aspirin. As she sat up, he added, “And don’t go over there, either.”
“Why are you on Jett’s side?” she asked after swallowing the aspirin. “He’s not very nice. He’s a smartass, too.”
“That’s not against the law. If it was, you’d be serving hard time. Look, Harley, just stay away from Jett. I want your promise on that.”
“He lives next door to my parents. How far away am I supposed to stay?”
“You know what I mean, dammit. Don’t go looking for trouble in dangerous places.”
She flopped back into the comfy chair cushions. “You’ve changed, Bobby. This is not an attractive side of your personality.”
“Get used to it. It’s the side you’re most likely to see if you trespass over there again.” He frowned, and she recognized a certain wariness in his expression. Why? What was there that he didn’t want her to know?
“What’s going on, Bobby? What is it about Jett—besides his surly personality and long rap sheet—that I should know?”
“That’s it. You already know all you should. He’s not someone you need to go snooping around, Harley. Trust me on that.”
“Ah yes. The trust factor. I remember when my good friend Bobby trusted my parents, when he knew my father was not the kind of man capable of murder.”
“Jesus, Harley. I never said I thought Yogi did it, I just said I need to question him. A witness put him coming out of Trumble’s house about the time of her death. He needs to give me a solid alibi or reason for being there, especially when he’s got a restraining order out on him.”
“You know Mrs. Trumble took his dog. Maybe that’s not a great reason for being there, but it’s certainly a valid one.”
For a moment, Bobby didn’t say anything. The mantel clock ticked loudly, and outside on the front porch, Diva’s wind chimes made a musical sound.
“They took King with them,” her brother said, and she and Bobby both turned to look at him. Sprawled on the couch, evidence of the reason for his total relaxation burned out in an ash tray on the floor, Eric blinked sleepily. “Yogi and Diva took King with them when they left.”
“Where did they go?” she and Bobby asked almost in unison. Harley got up and went to stand beside the couch. “Did they say where they were going, dude?”
“Said they’d be back in a few days.” He waved a languid hand. “Told me to be sure I go to all my classes.”
“So you saw them leave?” Bobby asked. “Did they take anything unusual with them?”
Harley glared at him. “You mean like a gun? Cripes, Bobby, give it a rest.”
“I was asleep,” Eric said, and gestured toward the dining room table. “They left us a note.”
Bobby got to it before she did, but she read over his shoulder, recognizing Diva’s firm, looping scrawl: “Gone for a few days, we’ll be fine. Eric, stay with Harley while we’re gone, and don’t miss any of your classes.” She’d signed it with love and a postscript that they’d taken King with them.
“Just great,” Harley muttered. She ran a hand through her hair, letting the short strands slide through her fingers as she studied the note. Baby-sitting a twenty-two year old held little appeal for her.
“No offense, chick,” Eric said, “but I don’t want to stay with you. You won’t let me smoke in your apartment.”
Turning, she nodded. “Not even a Marlboro. I wonder why they don’t want you to stay here.” Then a glance at the overflowing ash tray and empty Coke cans on the floor answered that question. She shuddered. “So, where do you want to stay?”
“I can go to Snake’s place. He lives just off-campus. I need a few bucks, though. I’m broke.”
It was worth a twenty not to have to clean up after him, she figured, and Harley gave him her stash money without a qualm. Bobby was on his cell phone, talking in his cop voice where she couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, and she slung a leg over the padded arm of the couch to lean close to her brother.
“Hey, where do you think they went?”
Stuffing the money into the pocket of his baggy, low-riding black pants, he shrugged. “I dunno. Pickwick, maybe. They like it up there.”
Pickwick dam and lake up on the Tennessee River was a favorite camping spot for a lot of Memphis residents. This time of year, it’d be crowded on the weekends. It was entirely possible they’d gone up there to meet friends, but in the middle of the week, unlikely. Still, would they go alone if they felt threatened here? Yeah, that seemed more likely.
“Don’t say anything about that,” she murmured when Bobby clicked off his cell phone and turned around, and her brother nodded agreement.
Bobby looked at the two of them huddled on the couch, and his eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Harley? And don’t try to deny it. Maybe you should go to the precinct tonight to make your official statement. Take your toothbrush.”
“Bobby, this cop routine is getting old fast,” she said. “You might try remembering that you were my friend before you were a cop.”
“You might try remembering that Mrs. Trumble was murdered. If Yogi didn’t do it, hasn’t it occurred to you that he might be an eyewitness? And if he is, whoever pulled the trigger will want to find him, too, but not for the same reason.”
It had occurred to her. And it was a terrifying thought, but so was Yogi being arrested for murder. She felt trapped between two terrible possibilities, and didn’t know which was worse. It was possible Yogi hadn’t really seen anything or anyone, just been at the wrong place at the right time. That was the best worst case scenario. The police would find the real killer and all this would blow over. She didn’t even want to think about the two worst case scenarios. Not now. She just wanted a little time to think about her options first.
“If I see Yogi or hear from him, I’ll tell him you want to talk to him,” she said finally, and Bobby blew out an exasperated breath.
“Fine. Play it that way. Don’t come whining to me when it blows up on you. And don’t be asking me for any favors any time soon, either.”
“Gee, Bobby, are you sure? I have this parking ticket I need fixed�
��”
He cut her off with a very rude comment that would have been an insult from anyone else. She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him.
“We’ve already discussed that, and you need to talk to your girlfriend about that kind of service.”
Stalking to the door, Bobby turned to look back at her. “This isn’t a game. We’re not kids anymore. This is grown-up stuff, Harley. A wrong choice can have serious consequences. Think about that.”
He was right, and she knew it. Indecision clutched at her, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say in return. The screen door banged shut behind Bobby, echoing in the still house. After a moment, her brother stood up and stretched.
“Can you give me a ride over to Snake’s place?”
She turned. “Where’s your car?”
“In the shop again. It always seems to be breaking down.”
“I think you’re supposed to do more than just put gas in it. Try using oil, water, things like that.”
“Yeah. The brakes went out. One of the rotors.” Yawning, he moved slowly toward the kitchen. “Want something to eat?”
“Aren’t you worried the least bit? God, Yogi’s practically accused of murder, or he has some murderer after him, he and Diva have taken off for God only knows where, and all you can think about is something to eat?”
Turning in the doorway, he blinked in mild surprise. “If I don’t eat, will all that go away?”
“Never mind.” She didn’t have an argument for his line of logic, not that it mattered. “My car is over by Mrs. Trumble’s house. Get your stuff together, and we’ll go get it. You can borrow it for a day or two, but you have to put gas in it and not gun it or ride the clutch, or—”
“I hear ya, chick.” His muffled voice came from the kitchen, sounding like his head was stuck inside the open refrigerator. “What are you gonna use for transport?”
“My bike. No smoking in my car, either. I put potpourri in the ash tray.”
“Chiiick,” he said, dragging it out to show his disapproval.
“I mean it. Last time I let you borrow it, you set the ash tray on fire. Be ready to go in ten minutes or I leave you here.”
Without waiting for a reply, she went out the front door and across the porch. It was quiet and peaceful here, when only a few streets over Mrs. Trumble’s house was churning with police activity and curiosity seekers. Mrs. Shipley’s lights were on across the street; she was probably at her window with binoculars. It’d be just like her. She had to know everything that went on, and then had to tell it. If she lived near Mrs. Trumble, she’d have been able to tell the police everyone that had visited within the past month. Just as well she didn’t. Yogi would be arrested by now.
A single car garage sat to the side and behind the house. At the rear was Yogi’s workshop, and since the van was too tall to fit inside the 1930’s era garage, it had become a repository for all kind of odds and ends. Fitting a key into the lock hung on the old-fashioned double garage doors, she flung one open to slip inside. It was dark, and she fumbled for the light switch and clicked on a single bulb overhead. Stacked chairs, ladders, cans of paint that were probably older than she was, metal cabinets, PVC pipe, and various and sundry other of Yogi’s collections cluttered the concrete floor, but in the center, draped in a soft cover, stood her pride and joy. It represented years of working at a high-stress job before she finally ended up at Memphis Tour Tyme, but she didn’t regret one single day of headaches and grinding teeth she’d suffered to make payments. She pulled off the cover.
A tricked-out Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce with over/under dual exhaust, paid for, by God, and all hers now after two years of payments that would stagger Donald Trump. Gleaming chrome and gold and black in the dim light, the machine waited in shiny splendor.
She took the helmet off the back, strapped it on her head, and straddled the bike, firing it up with a flick of her thumb. She coasted out of the garage, Twin 88 cam clicking so perfectly it was only a humming throb.
When she looked up, Bruno Jett stood directly in front of her. Her stomach dropped, and the breath locked in her lungs. The motion light gleamed brightly on his dark hair, illuminating his face and bemused expression.
“A hog?” he finally said. “This yours?”
She flipped up the visor of her helmet. “Why not? Think I can’t ride it? And it’s not a hog. It’s a Softail Deuce. About three hundred pounds lighter than a hog.”
“A biker chick. That explains your name.”
“My parents were into motorcycles when I was born. With the last name of Davidson, it was a given. May I help you with something? Why are you over here?”
“I’m not pretending I lost a dog, I just got distracted by the bike.”
His car was still in the driveway, a silver Jag that looked far too expensive and new for a man living in this neighborhood. Just one more detail to add to the growing list of Reasons to Suspect Bruno Jett of Nefarious Activities.
“Yeah, well,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him, “I’m thrilled you like it. Now, if you’ll just get out of my way and go on home, I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see.” That was a replay of his smart-ass comment when they’d been in front of Mrs. Trumble’s house earlier, and she was gratified to see he recognized it.
The corners of his mouth tucked in slightly. If he smiled, his face would probably crack. That thin scar on his jaw might just be the beginning. “What an excellent memory you have,” he said.
“Long memory, short fuse. Excuse me? I believe you’re still blocking my way.” She gave the bike a little gas, gunning the engine enough to indicate her willingness to run him over, but not enough to actually do it. He made her nervous. Very nervous. Criminals should be ugly, not look like Bruno Jett. It was that lean, muscled look that got to her every time. And the eyes. An old song said the devil had blue eyes. She believed it. How else could women be seduced into sin so easily? Every disastrous man in her life had had blue eyes.
“Chick,” her brother said at her side, and she remembered that she was taking him to get her car.
“Hop on back,” she said without taking her eyes from Jett, who seemed to know he had an effect on her libido because he leered so wickedly it left her breathless. And slightly queasy.
“Running away so soon?”
Ignoring him, she waited until Eric was securely behind her, then eased out the clutch on the bike and rolled forward. Jett stepped out of the path, a little more quickly than she was sure he had intended, and she felt him watching as she gave the bike a spurt of gas and zoomed from the driveway into the street. Eric grabbed at the seat strap to hold on, leaning back.
There were still a few cars clustered on the street in front of Mrs. Trumble’s house, but the van with her body was gone. Yellow tape swagged between several trees; police milled about, mostly inside, though earlier, they’d prowled the yard for clues. It was nerve-wracking.
What if Yogi had left something behind? Something that might be misconstrued as evidence against him? Whatever her father was, he was no killer, she knew that much. He couldn’t be. Oh yeah, he might bluster and threaten, but he was just too softhearted to actually act upon his threats.
Stopping her bike behind the Toyota, she put her feet down for balance. Her brother eased off the bike, and she took her car keys off the key ring and handed them to him.
“No speeding, no riding the clutch—”
“Chick,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Call me as soon as you hear from Yogi.”
Ah. A sign he cared. Some of her irritation with her brother eased.
“Sure. You’ve got my cell number. Keep in touch.”
“I thought your cell phone was broken again.”
“Replaced it. No thanks to that snotty clerk spouting off about a limit on replacements.”
Lugging a small backpack that probably held more weed than clean underwear, he loped the short distance to her car, and she headed back to the house. She’d left her backpack with
all the necessary things like her driver’s license in the living room. When she pulled up in the drive, she noticed that Jett’s silver Jag was gone and his garage door down. Light gleamed in his kitchen window that looked out over the driveway and her parents’ house.
What was up with that guy? She hated to think he was a criminal, but his rap sheet sure did say otherwise. And that pile of jewelry on his coffee table spoke volumes. It’d be too big a coincidence that a jewel thief had turned to a respectable career as a costume jewelry salesman. Oh yeah. But even if he was part of the ring of thieves now plaguing East Memphis, that didn’t mean he had anything to do with Mrs. Trumble’s death. Old assault charges still weren’t murder. As far as she knew, Jett had never even met Mrs. Trumble. Still . . . .
There was something about him, something that didn’t fit. While she didn’t really believe in psychic ability like Diva did, instincts went a long way in her book. And instincts warned her that Bruno Jett was up to something.
Cutting off the bike, Harley sat staring at Jett’s house for a long moment. There was no sign of activity, no indication he was home other than the kitchen light. Since moving in he’d had plenty of visitors show up, cars parked in the drive or in front of the house. Was he at home?
If he was gone, maybe she could do a little snooping around, just to see if he had anything of interest to the police. Bobby didn’t seem inclined to worry about Jett, but there were times he leaned toward the belief that Harley had too active an imagination. While that might be true, this time was different. It didn’t make any sense, but she felt Diva was right, that Jett was involved in all this somehow. There was no plausible reason for her suspicion of him other than the jewelry he hadn’t satisfactorily explained . . . and the feeling she had that Bobby was holding something back. Maybe Jett did have a murder conviction on his record, and Bobby didn’t want her to know. He had this macho thing about “I know what’s best for you” going on most of the time, so that was probably his reasoning now. It was very irritating.
Hound Dog Blues Page 6