A cool breeze that smelled of freshly cut grass and jasmine tickled her nose and the back of her neck. Diva’s wildflower garden rustled softly, her wind chimes tinkled a melody, and in the distance, a dog barked. That made her think of King. And her father.
Yogi could always tell King’s bark from other dogs, but she had no idea how he knew. It had to be because he doted on the furry beast. Where could they be? And did their abrupt decision to disappear have anything to do with Bruno Jett? It was possible. Maybe not probable, but possible. Maybe Yogi had seen Jett come out of Mrs. Trumble’s house. After all, Jett had shown up to watch the cops, and he had a lengthy rap sheet, so it wasn’t too far a stretch that he was involved somehow.
It’d be too big a coincidence if Jett had disappeared at the same time as Yogi and Diva—wouldn’t it? She remembered Bobby’s warning that he was dangerous and to stay away. Right.
It took her another minute or two to work up the nerve to risk trespassing again. Since he wasn’t there, however, it didn’t seem quite as daunting. She crossed the pavement and strips of grass newly clipped to the usual suburban height in his yard, a marked contrast to the Davidson lawn’s eclectic look. A peek in the garage window assured her his car was gone. Good.
Standing once more on the porch, she knocked sharply and waited. There was no answer, no sound of footsteps. She gave it a few more moments, and then moved around to the back door.
An aluminum awning curved over the back porch, and the storm door was unlocked. She mulled over using the metal pick she always carried for those times she locked her keys in the car, but decided against it. Breaking and entering was not something she wanted to show up on her résumé. But how else would she find out anything about Jett if she didn’t investigate? Bobby was no help. What if Jett had her parents? Or was responsible for their flight? What if he came back? Should she go in?
Do. Don’t. Which one? Her agony of indecision was brief.
In a short moment, she had her metal pick in the lock and the door clicked softly open. She stepped inside, consoling herself with the firm reminder that she was trying to save Yogi from being arrested for something he didn’t do, or even from Bruno Jett. And after all she didn’t intend to steal anything, even if she was trespassing.
Somehow, she just knew Bobby Baroni would never accept the logic in that. Nor, she thought as she stood for a moment in the dimly-lit kitchen, would Bruno Jett if he came home and caught her prowling around in his house. Feeling more like a sneak thief by the moment, and convinced she’d never have been able to turn to a life of crime, she moved quickly through the gleaming kitchen toward the living room. It was doubtful the jewels would still be atop the coffee table, but he might have them hidden in a drawer or something.
Soft silence enveloped her in the living room. It was furnished with masculine preferences in mind, as she’d expected: large screen TV against one wall, black leather couch and recliner, a generous coffee table with a few magazines, and a thick blue rug atop buffed wood floors. A little tidier than she’d expected. Okay, a lot tidier than she’d expected. Most men of her experience were slobs. Jett had seemed no different. Yet his house felt almost as if he didn’t even live in it. She peered at the magazines. He subscribed to Field and Stream? He didn’t seem the type.
A quick search of the two bedrooms reinforced that impression. Absence of clutter gave it a stark, Spartan look of emptiness. Nothing atop his dresser, bed neatly made, only a few clothes hanging in the closet, three pairs of shoes on the floor. The second bedroom held a set of weights and a bookshelf empty of books. That explained the tight abs and choice of profession. The single bathroom was bright and efficient, with blue tile on floors and tub and sink, and a built-in towel closet behind the door. A bare window held frosted glass panes and a small rectangular disk. She stepped closer, and saw to her dismay that the disk was a burglar alarm sensor.
Oh just great. But why hadn’t it gone off when she opened the back door? Usually, sirens wailed and foghorn blasts sounded to scare away intruders, but it was silent as a tomb. He hadn’t even turned it on, most likely, but an uneasy feeling made her antsy anyway.
There was no sign of a wall safe, and she checked hurriedly in drawers and atop closet shelves before moving to the kitchen again. Another quick check through cabinets and even in the freezer came up empty of jewels. She headed for the back door, and then saw a door leading to the basement. Not all houses in the area had basements, but now she recalled this one did. She hesitated. It made her really nervous to be here, but as long as she was, she might as well check everywhere before leaving.
“No stone unturned,” she muttered, and pulled open the basement door.
A light switch on the right illuminated the basement with a bank of fluorescent tubes that gave off a bluish glow. The staircase was open beneath, wood risers descending to a painted concrete floor. On the opposite wall, a pair of narrow windows were ground level with the lawn, and flanking the other wall were a washer, dryer, and laundry tub. No packing boxes, nothing in storage, just that feeling of eerie vacancy. She hesitated on the third step down.
Opposite the stairs, a small gray box was set into the cinder block wall. Most likely it was a fuse box, but then again . . . she’d just check it out, then she was done. It was too creepy in here to linger long. The wood steps creaked beneath her weight, and she leaped over the last two to land on the basement floor.
The fuse box stuck out from the wall a few inches instead of being recessed. That was odd enough, but there was something about it—she pried at the panel behind the glass top fuses, just on a whim. Her heart thudded into overdrive as it popped open to reveal a small safe behind fake fuses. Pay dirt. Futile, of course, to even try, but she did anyway, turning the small dial that clicked without success. Not that it mattered. This must be where Jett kept his jewels stashed. Oh boy, she could almost smell the Crime Stoppers cash.
Before she had too long to savor her discovery, the unmistakable sound of a car door slamming shut jerked her back to the danger of her predicament. Uh oh. If that was Jett, she was in big trouble.
She raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and shoved hard at the door at the same time she twisted the knob. It didn’t budge. The force of her assault on it sent her bouncing back so that she teetered precariously on the edge of the step for a moment before she caught her balance. How on earth had the door locked behind her?
All right, no need to panic. She still had her trusty metal pick. Nervously picking at the lock, she fumbled, and the pick went over the edge of the stairs to land on the concrete basement floor with a brittle ping. No time to get it and try again. The footsteps sounded close—too close. Okay. Now it was time to panic.
A horrified glance at the basement window told her she’d never wedge herself through it, and even if she could, there probably wasn’t enough time. She leaped over the side of the stairs to the floor, and then scooted up against the cold cinder block wall beneath the wooden steps, trying to blend into the concrete as she heard the unmistakable sound of someone in the kitchen above.
She flattened herself against the wall. It seemed an eternity, but the footsteps stopped at the basement door and she took a deep breath. The basement door opened. Looking up, she saw Jett through the cracks in the wooden stairs.
For a moment he just stood on the top step, the door propped open with his foot, then he let it close softly behind him but remained still and silent. He knew someone was here. The lights . . . she’d left the lights on. She barely breathed, just shallow breaths to keep from passing out, afraid he’d hear her. Bruno Magli shoes descended to the second riser. She briefly closed her eyes, thoughts of OJ and his infamous shoes reverberating ominously in her brain. Surely, it was coincidence.
What if it wasn’t? Were the shoes preferred wear for killers? Some kind of uniform? No, of course not. That was ridiculous.
The shoes descended another step, then another, and she held her breath until her ears rang and her lun
gs ached. If he crossed the room, she might be able to spin around and get up the stairs before he caught her. If she was fast enough, quiet enough, lucky enough . . . .
The shoes stopped on the second from the bottom stair. She saw denim though the gaps, dark socks, long legs—she looked up and her gaze locked with dark blue eyes peering at her through the risers. Oh damn.
He smiled, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. “Well,” he said, taking the last stairs leisurely, giving her too much time to contemplate his next words and actions, “I seem to have an uninvited visitor.”
“I . . . uh, was just looking for you.”
“And now you’ve found me.” He reached the floor and turned to look at her where she’d edged out from beneath the stairs to feel for an escape route in the concrete block walls.
“Why yes,” she said, aware she spoke too brightly, “here you are. Now that you’re home, I’ll just be going.”
“No, I don’t think so.” He moved a few steps closer; near enough she could see the cold, dangerous gleam in his eyes. Uh oh.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, “really. I think I hear my mother calling me.”
“They’re not home.”
She stared at him suspiciously. “And how do you know that?”
“Because that obscene, puke green van is gone from the driveway.”
“Oh.” That sounded logical. After all, it had been Bobby’s first clue. So maybe he hadn’t done anything to them or was responsible for them leaving. Maybe.
“Just what the hell are you doing here?”
“I was looking . . . for . . . for King. The dog. Diva thought she saw him come in here. He got loose again.”
“King needs a keeper. Or a heavy chain tying him down. Kinda like you.”
“That isn’t very nice.”
“I’m not a big fan of nice.” He loomed over her. “I don’t like you being here, and I don’t like my privacy violated. Usually, I tend to get nasty about things like this.”
Uh oh. Not at all a promising conversation. He’d moved so close she could almost count his eyelashes. He didn’t look friendly. At all. She shrank back against the wall with the futile hope she’d just be absorbed and disappear through the concrete. Since that didn’t seem to be an option, she formed another plan.
When he took one more step closer, she exploded into some kind of pseudo-judo move, a foot flashing toward his crotch. He caught her ankle before she could connect, fingers closing firmly and jerking her leg sideways so that she fell backward. Suspended in midair, her arms pinwheeled. His grip kept her from smacking her head onto the concrete floor, but she felt herself flopping wildly like a fish on a hook before he suddenly let her go. With a grunt, she landed on the concrete in a graceless sprawl.
Immediately, he straddled her, knees on each side of her, his hands grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the floor. She wriggled, hips arching helplessly up, banging into him in a move that could be considered erotic if she didn’t intend to knock his balls into his throat. He rode her like a bull at the rodeo until she ran out of energy, panting for breath and glaring up at him.
“Get . . . off . . . me,” she said slowly and distinctly, but he didn’t seem so inclined. It didn’t help that her voice came out all wrong, kinda breathless and uncertain instead of a firm demand.
Sitting back, he looked down at her with obvious satisfaction, irritatingly smug. She ignored him, looking past him to a spot on the far wall, studying a shelf that held detergent and fabric softener, thinking how satisfying it’d be to coat him in April Fresh scent then roll him in Color-Fast Powder with Bleach Crystals.
“If I let you up,” he said, drawing her attention back to him though the fantasy still danced provocatively in her head, “will you be still and listen to me?”
Only a fool would refuse. She promptly nodded, though she had no intention of complying with anything that involved active participation on her part.
“Good. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to leave once I let you up, and if you ever so much as even look this way again, you and I are going to talk locked barrel and the sound it makes going into the river. Understand?”
Well, how anticlimactic. She’d expected questions, not a firmly stated demand that she vacate the premises. It was deflating, but acceptable.
”No problem, Bud.”
“Bruno.” He looked a little skeptical, but released her wrists and stood up, holding out his hand as if to help her up.
She looked up at him suspiciously. It was going to be this easy? Oh no, she wasn’t going to fall for that. He had something else in mind, she was sure, so she just waited for his next move.
“Lie there too long, sugar,” he drawled at the speed of molasses, “and I’ll get to thinking you want me to join you. No problem, if that’s what you want.”
When he started to bend over her, instinct set in and she caught him right between the legs with a hard jab of her foot that brought him down like a sack of wet cement. Collapsing, he clutched his crotch and made interesting retching sounds. If he hadn’t threatened her, she’d feel pretty bad. Well, maybe she did feel a little bad about it anyway, but no time to show weakness.
She rolled to her feet and said through gritted teeth, “That’s what you get for threatening to put me in a barrel.”
He only groaned, rolling on the floor and holding himself. So maybe she’d overreacted. A twinge of guilt struck her, but self-preservation was stronger. She headed for the basement door before Jett could come around enough to stop her, skimming the stairs like a scared cat, and shoving at the door. Her momentum nearly knocked her back down the stairs when the door stayed resolutely shut. Again. Dammit. Catching her balance, she turned to look back at Jett still curled on the basement floor and making those retching sounds.
After a few moments, he looked up. His eyes focused, and when he found her at the top of the stairs, he glared at her and held up his hand and a key dangled from his finger. “Is this what you need?”
Uh oh.
Five
This was trouble. Big trouble. Apprehension made her knees quiver and her mouth dry, but from somewhere she dredged up bravado that bordered on hysteria.
“So, Bruno,” she said with an insincere smile that felt wobbly, “here we are. Hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.”
“I may never be able to father children, but I’ll be just fine.” He sat up slowly, a look on his face that didn’t bode well for pleasant conversation.
“Children are overrated,” she said perkily. “Just as well you won’t add to the population.”
His dark glance in her direction made her stomach flip. “Yeah, the population is out of control,” he said flatly, “so maybe one less person would be doing the world a favor.”
Not a promising response. Would anyone hear her if she screamed? Surely, Mrs. Shipley would hear her; she heard everything. Unless she’d taken her nightly medication of Benadryl and a couple of shots of vodka. What time was it, anyway?
Harley edged closer to the door when he heaved himself up, looking grumpy and pretty uncomfortable. He slowly managed the steps, his gaze riveted on her the closer he got, and she gauged the distance to the basement floor and wondered if she could jump from the top of the stairs and land without twisting her ankle. Or breaking her neck.
“If you move over,” he growled, “I can unlock the door.”
“Oh. Yes.” She hesitated, eyes darting between him and the floor, and he put out a hand to block her leap. She flattened herself back against the door, breathing in shallow little gasps as she balanced on the edge of the steps. Don’t panic, don’t panic . . . .
“Not that far over,” he said. “I don’t feel like holding the door while you limp back up the stairs. Just an inch or two will do.”
She edged aside and he stuck the key into the lock and turned it, swinging open the door with her clinging to it like a baby spider monkey.
Immediately she made a dash for freedom, but he caught her
by the back of her tee shirt and suspended flight to growl a final warning. “Go home and don’t come back, Miss Davidson. Next time, I can’t guarantee you’ll get out in such good shape.”
She looked him up and down, and offered the opinion, “I don’t seem to be the one who’s limping like a three-legged goat,” then escaped before he could respond. She heard the back door bang against the wall, muffling his scathing reply. It was just as well.
She decided to go home rather than look for Yogi and Diva. It was after nine, and she was tired. The day had been too much. She wasn’t used to losing and finding a dog in one day, dealing with a murder and maybe even a murderer, as well as the mysterious and suspicious disappearance of her parents, all in a ten hour span. It was exhausting. She needed a hot meal and a cold drink.
On the way home, down Poplar Avenue past the Brooks Art Museum and the entrance to the zoo, she pondered Mrs. Trumble’s motives for dognapping. Granted, she could be a vicious old biddy, but why would she go to such extreme measures just to get back at Diva and Yogi? After all, they’d paid to have her car repaired, and while it might not have been in the same pristine shape as it was when it rolled off the assembly line in 1959, it had looked nearly as good. As good as a car that old could look.
But Trumble seemed to have gone to a lot of trouble to cause Yogi and Diva grief. It just seemed like a bit much to get revenge for King’s depredations. Maybe Mrs. Trumble hadn’t felt the same. All her days probably ran together. It’d no doubt been a grand diversion for her, if not for Yogi. Still, abducting the dog had been a bit of a stretch, even for Mrs. Trumble.
She rolled into the parking area behind her apartment building and slid into an empty spot under an oak. Peering up at the tree, she wondered if oaks had sap. She didn’t think so. Not the drippy kind, anyway. The garage slots were full, the Sprague’s neat little red BMW gleaming in their space, and on either side of it, Mr. Diaz’s blue Honda CRX, and a dark green Pontiac sedan that belonged to the reclusive Sarah Simon, the human groundhog. If there was a Simon sighting, six more weeks of winter were sure to follow.
Hound Dog Blues Page 7