Silence. Well, heck, she’d tried. She hadn’t really thought he’d go for it, but it’d been worth a shot. And he hadn’t arrested her for anything yet, so maybe the day wasn’t a total loss.
“Fine,” he said shortly, startling her. “Deal.”
Shocked, since she really hadn’t expected agreement, she stared at him.
“We’ll talk over a beer,” he said, and flipped open the lock on the door. “After you.”
She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders and gave a nod. “Sounds good to me, sport. You buying?”
His gaze had dropped to her chest when she flung back her shoulders. Now he dragged his eyes up to her face and nodded. “Sure.”
While it wasn’t the most awkward time she’d ever spent with a man, it hardly ranked with the Top Ten Best. Bruno Jett bristled each time she dragged the conversation back to who he was and why he’d moved next door to her parents. Not exactly the cooperation she’d hoped to find.
“Look,” she finally said in exasperation, “you’re not living up to our deal. If you want me to answer your questions, you have to answer some of mine.”
“Oh, is that the way it works?” He eyed her over the rim of his beer.
“Yes. In a perfect world, that’s the way it works.” She leaned closer. “So—who are you and why did you move next door to my parents?”
He seemed to consider his reply carefully, then said, “Mike Morgan. The house was available and inconspicuous. We had no idea your parents would be fugitives from justice.”
“They’re not.” She glared at him. “They’re victims, not fugitives.”
“Appearances to the contrary.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem, as you should know quite well. After all, who’d have thought you’d actually be on the right side of the law?”
“Point taken. And enough of that line of conversation. We’re not exactly in a secure place to be discussing business.”
“Then maybe we should go to one. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’d like to go to bed tonight and not worry that my parents are going to be arrested for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can help with that.”
“I’m sure I can.” He leered at her, and she gave him a disgusted look.
“Don’t get any bright ideas, big boy. You’re not my type.”
“No? What’s your type? Baroni?”
“Bobby? We’re old friends. He has a girlfriend named Angel. How could I have a serious relationship with a man who dates strippers named Angel?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Tell me about it. Now—where can we talk privately?”
“I know just the place.”
She should have figured he’d want to go to his house, and after squashing a few qualms about being alone with him, she followed him into his kitchen, watching idly as he punched a code into the blender. Or what looked like a blender. It was really, he explained when she asked, a sort of silent alarm triggered by intruders. It let him know if anyone came snooping around, and where they went.
“So that’s how you knew I was in the basement?”
“Handy little gadget, isn’t it.”
“Yeah. Very 007. So now that we’re alone, Bruno—or Mike—fill me in. What’s going on?”
“You have to know I can’t tell you much. You already know more than is healthy. And I was warned about you. Want some coffee?”
“Don’t try to back out now, Morgan. We had a deal—and who warned you? Oh. Bobby.”
“I can’t tell you everything you want to hear.” He held up a hand when she started to sputter angrily, and added, “But I’ll tell you what I can.”
That sounded fair enough, and she nodded warily. “Okay.”
It wasn’t much. By the time she’d finished a second cup of hot coffee strong enough to strip her stomach lining, she’d only learned that he was involved in the effort to apprehend the East Memphis jewelry thieves. She’d already figured out that much. Disgruntled, she sat back in the kitchen chair.
“So, you’re like a fence or something? You actually deal with the bad guys who’re doing the thefts?”
He shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Well, that’s not an answer. Or cooperation. Aren’t you supposed to know if you’re a fence or dealing with the jewel thieves? Do you even know who they are?”
“We have our suspicions. Tell me about your parents, Harley Jean. I know they’re flaky, but they seemed fairly harmless until lately.”
While she couldn’t deny the flaky part, she vigorously defended the suggestion they were dangerous. “They’re just different, that’s all. They—”
“Travel to the beat of a different drummer?” He shrugged. “Yeah, I gathered that much. Your mother offered to read my cards for me when I first moved in.”
“Diva’s very generous that way. She charges other folks for it. Look, I know they’re not the average kind of parents, but who is these days? And they’re a lot more normal than some I could name, even some of the Junior Leaguers that seem so prim and proper but hide gin bottles in their toilet tanks so no one will know they drink too much.”
That was very true. Her aunt Darcy, Diva’s younger sister, was everything Diva wasn’t: on all the Cotton Carnival lists, charity function lists, Junior League lists, and on a first name basis with influential politicians and business executives, but she hid gin bottles in the back of the toilet tank so her husband and children wouldn’t know she liked a few nips now and then. As if they didn’t know already. Only casual acquaintances would miss the obvious.
“Even normal people can get mixed up in bad situations,” Morgan said. “Maybe that’s what happened.”
“It’s possible, but not likely. Yogi makes metal yard art, and Diva makes crystal dream catchers they sell at flea markets. What could they be mixed up in?”
“Well, for starters, Yogi was seen coming out of Mrs. Trumble’s house about the time of her murder. That looks pretty bad. Mrs. Trumble had abducted Yogi’s dog and was holding him for some kind of obscure ransom. That looks even worse.”
“And you had a pile of stolen jewels big enough to choke a mule on your coffee table,” she said crankily, “but you’re not accused of murder.”
“Mrs. Trumble didn’t take my dog, either. Look, Harley, it’s great to defend your parents, but maybe you should listen to Baroni. Stay out of this. You’ll only complicate things and make them worse for your parents. If you know where they are, tell me or Baroni. We can help out if you’ll let us.”
She bent under the table to retrieve her backpack, then stood up. “It’s been a lovely evening. Thanks for the coffee.”
He caught her arm before she reached the back door. “Just think about it. There’s got to be a connection between the murder and your parents’ disappearance. What if they didn’t leave on their own? Have you thought of that?”
“Of course I’ve thought of that.” She jerked free of his grasp and he didn’t reach for her again. “I’ve tried to think of plausible reasons for them leaving, but the only thing I keep coming back to is that Mrs. Trumble is dead and somehow my parents are involved and in trouble.”
“And that doesn’t indicate a problem to you?”
“Has anyone ever pointed out your lack of sensitivity?”
“On numerous occasions, but that doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“The hell it doesn’t. I’m going home.”
He followed her outside and waited until she’d fired up her bike before saying, “Here’s my cell phone number. Call me if you need me.”
Stuffing the scrap of paper into her pocket, she revved the motor of her bike and said, “Don’t stay up too long waiting for my call.”
“Right. Anyone ever tell you that you look like Evel Knieval on estrogen? That thing’s an orgasm on two wheels.”
She strapped on her helmet and smiled. “Damn right it is. A six hundred and forty-five pound vibrator.”
He ignored that,
and said only, “Better convince your parents it’s in their best interests to come back and deal with the issues. If they’re innocent, running isn’t helping their cause.”
“If they’re innocent? They are, and I intend to prove it.” She revved the engine again, and then coasted smoothly down the driveway and out into the street, leaving Bruno Jett/Mike Morgan staring after her. At the end of the street, she had the thought she needed to put action behind that last bit of bravado. Trouble was, she had no idea where to look for her parents.
Even though it was late and she had to get up early, she cruised several of the most likely places Yogi and Diva might be, finding nothing. In growing desperation, she rode out to East Memphis and Grandmother and Grandfather Eaton’s home. This was the house were Diva had grown up, a Colonial style most popular in the fifties, set on an acre lot studded with tall oaks and expensive landscaping. All the lights were on in the front, the house lit up like Christmas, but that was normal. Grandfather Eaton believed in security, and he didn’t mind paying the electric bill. The wide driveway ran up one side, ending in a four-car garage behind the house, but there was no sign of a puke green van. Not that she’d really expected it. Diva had left home at seventeen and never looked back. Her ideas of life were vastly different from her mother’s.
Harley sat for a few minutes, engine idling, and tried to think where else they might be. And as she sat there, a police cruiser came up behind her and flashed his lights and siren.
Oh, just great. Neighborhood Watch at work. She remained where she was while the officer ran her plates, then he approached with wary caution.
“Do you have a current tag, ma’am?”
She did, of course. A new one. It was safely locked in the garage where she kept the bike.
Nearly twenty minutes and a ticket later, she reflected on the bad karma in her life as she saw her grandfather strolling down the driveway in his robe. Drawn by the flashing blue lights, he recognized Harley at once.
“Are you in trouble, young lady?”
“No sir, not really. You’re up late. Have you seen Diva?”
Lawrence Eaton’s mouth thinned. “Deirdre has not visited us in a while.” Blue lights very similar to a K-Mart special flashed on and off on his face and silvery hair. His features were smooth and aristocratic, and it was hard for Harley to believe he was seventy-eight. “Have you come for a visit this late?”
“I planned to visit soon,” she said dutifully, “but at the moment I’m looking for Yogi and Diva. And their dog.”
“Perhaps,” he said stiffly, “they’ve run off to San Francisco with flowers in their hair.”
So okay, Grandfather Eaton might be a bit behind the times, but he definitely had a good memory.
“Well, they did that once. I don’t think they’re planning on it again.” She shifted on the seat of the bike, balancing on both feet, and the police officer returned with her ticket. Definitely bad karma. She must have been a Nazi in a former life. Sighing, she tucked it into her pocket and reached for the helmet she’d put on the back. “I really need to find them, Grandfather. I hate to run off without seeing Grandmother, but would you mind telling her that I’ll visit very soon?”
“Yes, of course I’ll tell her.”
A twinge of guilt smacked her right between the shoulder blades. He suddenly looked so frail standing there, a tall, slender man with silver hair and something rather lonely in his eyes, and she heard herself say, “Unless I can visit for a few minutes now. Will that be all right?”
It was, of course, more than all right. She really shouldn’t mind so much, but the huge house always seemed so empty, even when her aunt and cousins were there for the frequent family gatherings that Diva tried to avoid and Yogi shunned. Not that he was ever missed. Eaton disapproval of their son-in-law still held strong after thirty-two years.
Diva had never been comfortable with the Junior League set, preferring rock and roll and long-haired hippies that included John Davidson, a boy from the other side of town who had only his charm to recommend him. And his lack of ambition. That was the family history from her grandparents’ point of view. Diva saw it completely differently, of course. Materialism and lack of social conscience had never held an allure for her, and once she’d met Yogi, he’d shown her a way of life that was much more appealing. That was during the days of Vietnam and peace protests, flowers in the hair and Haight-Asbury, and they’d run off together to San Francisco some time in the late sixties. Things could have turned out much differently for Harley if they’d stayed in California. But thankfully—from Harley’s point of view—when they’d moved to Memphis, she’d taken to living in a real house like a duck took to water. And maintained a relationship with her grandparents as best she could.
Harley spent the better part of an hour drinking lemonade and eating homemade oatmeal cookies with Grandmother and Grandfather Eaton before she was able to tear herself away. It was difficult making idle conversation when she had a case of the screaming meemies worrying where Yogi and Diva could be, and if Yogi was going to be charged with murder.
But when she left, she had a doggie bag of cookies tucked into her backpack, and she had promised to attend a Saturday luncheon with her cousins Madelyn and Amanda, two of the most stuck-up, condescending twits she’d ever met. But they were family, her Aunt Darcy’s daughters, and she endured their company about as willingly as they endured hers. The things one suffered for family peace.
Grandmother Eaton stood in the kitchen doorway in a silk robe, with the light behind her gleaming on her perfectly coiffed hair, a shade of silver that could almost be called platinum like Diva’s, but hers was short and impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place. Isabella Eaton was the antithesis of her oldest daughter, prim and proper, stylish and straitlaced. Diva must have been a great shock to her nervous system.
“Remember, Harley,” she said, “you’re expected Saturday after next at twelve sharp. Your Aunt Darcy will be here with the girls.”
The girls were around her age, Harley thought, hardly qualifying for the misnomer, but she only nodded. “Yes, Grandmother. I’ll be on time.”
After a beat, her grandmother added, “If Deirdre should wish to come, she’d be most welcome.”
“I’ll tell her.” This was the uncomfortable part. She never felt easy being the go-between for mother and daughter. Neither understood the other, and she always got caught in the middle. She strapped on her helmet, felt her grandmother’s disapproval of her transportation even from several yards away, and said, “It’s really late. I’d better go.”
“Be careful,” her grandfather said. “We’ve had a lot of burglaries lately. You need to put in an alarm system if you don’t already have one.”
“I don’t have much jewelry, but thanks for the advice.”
“It’s not always jewelry that criminals are after.”
Oh gee, that was a comforting thought.
“But don’t get a cheap company to install it,” Grandfather added, “or you may end up like Charles Freeman.”
“Charles Freeman?”
“Our neighbor. He didn’t take my advice, and thieves broke in a few weeks ago and stole all his wife’s jewelry.”
“Yes,” her grandmother interrupted, “they stole a very valuable necklace. Thankfully, it had just been appraised not long before, so the insurance company will pay full value, but still . . . .”
“He should have gotten a reputable alarm company. The alarm didn’t even go off as it should have, and by the time the police got there it was too late.” Grandfather nodded sadly. “He’s had losses in the market recently, hit some bad times, and now he’s worried the police suspect him of stealing his own wife’s jewelry. I warned him, but no, he had to go and use the company recommended by the jeweler, a local firm only in business a year. Foolishness.”
An idea popped into Harley’s head, full-blown and probably ridiculous. But not impossible. It was an idea she’d explore and then trade to Crime Stoppers for cold
cash, if it panned out. Bobby would learn to take her more seriously one day, by God.
“Grandfather,” she said with a smile, “you’re an absolute genius.”
He looked surprised but pleased. “Just a little common sense, really, to go with reputable firms rather than fly-by-night businesses.”
“Exactly what I think. See you next week. And thanks again.”
Elated, she rocked the bike off its stand and took off at a sedate speed that wouldn’t disturb the neighbors or annoy the police. When she stopped at the red light right next to Memorial Park cemetery with its fake Italian grotto and low fieldstone walls, she considered the remarkable coincidence that Charles Freeman had been victim of a burglary soon after having a valuable necklace appraised.
Two possibilities came immediately to mind. One, he was trying to scam the insurance company, and two, alarm company employees were responsible for the theft. Both were plausible, the latter the most likely. It’d be too easy to get around security measures if you’d installed them in the first place, and it would give easy access to houses all over Memphis. Oh yeah. This idea definitely had merit. And the police had probably already realized it, even though they still obviously thought Yogi was somehow involved. She had to prove he wasn’t.
It had to be close to midnight by now and she was overdue for bedtime, but should get her motorcycle tag out of the garage to prevent another ticket. If she hadn’t been so rattled, she’d have remembered it when she got the bike. When she arrived back on Douglass, the silver Jag was gone from the driveway next door, but the garage door was shut and the lights were on inside the house. No cars were out front, but she saw Morgan’s shadow in his kitchen. Unless she wanted to risk another confrontation, she’d better be quick and quiet.
She flicked on the garage light and retrieved the metal tag from the shelf where she usually hid the keys, then closed and locked the door behind her. A light shone in the window of her parents’ kitchen. She should turn it off, but the thought of going inside the empty house was unappealing. It looked forlorn without her parents there, and she realized how much she depended upon them to always be there. Bummer. Almost thirty years old and still clinging to mama and daddy. Her personal life was pretty bleak. How depressing.
Hound Dog Blues Page 9