Tootsie came out from behind the receptionist desk. “They’ll call. You know they’re okay. Just freaked out and hiding somewhere.”
“Yeah.” She looked up at him. “Look, I need another favor. Think you can find out what alarm company installed security for Charles Freeman? I can tell you what street he lives on, but that’s about it. And I need to know where he took his wife’s jewelry to get it appraised.”
He gave her a curious look but nodded. “Sure, baby. When do you need to know?”
“As soon as you do.” She stood up. “I’ve got an idea or two I need to check out. It may be useful in clearing Yogi. Maybe not, but I’ve got to feel like I’m doing something to help. This not knowing anything is driving me bats.”
“I’ll have to call you with the info. All my good trolling software is on my home PC.”
Tootsie pulled the elastic band from his ponytail to free his hair, and then shook his head to loosen it around his face. Today he wore an electric-blue silk shirt and tight black pants. He looked very retro.
“You look like you need a drink, baby. We can stop at the Poplar Lounge for a burger and a beer, if you feel like it.”
Ordinarily, she’d be glad to go. She always enjoyed cruising the bars with Tootsie, but she shook her head.
“I’m going home to take a hot bath and soak until my skin looks pruney. Maybe Diva will call.”
She didn’t go straight home, but kept her appointment with Bobby, getting to the West precinct a little late but at least in before six. He was waiting for her in a small office with no windows, just glass in the door. He looked irritated, so she put on a bright smile.
“Hey Bobby.”
“You’re late.”
“Why yes, I’m doing just fine, thank you. No, no residual effects from getting smacked in the head.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not so sure about that. You don’t seem to be thinking too rationally.”
“Did you want me to come here just to listen to you bitch? Because I’m not in the mood for it.”
“Harley—stay out of police business. You act like this is some kind of game, snooping around and asking questions, but it’s not. It’s serious stuff. You can get hurt if you keep this up.”
“Thanks for the warning, but the bump on my head says staying out of this isn’t safe, either. Jeez Bobby, it’s not like I’m not already involved, whether I want to be or not. My parents are missing, I got hit in the head, and the new neighbor is an undercover cop. Why can’t I ask a few questions?”
“Because you’re liable to ask the wrong question of the wrong person. We already have a pretty good notion of what’s going on, and you’re liable to screw it all up. Go home. Stay there. Don’t talk to anyone.”
“I’ll explain to my boss that I can’t come in and work. I’m sure Mr. Penny will be glad to pay me anyway.”
“Shit.” Bobby glared at her. “You know what I mean, Harley.”
“Yes. I do. And I don’t like it. You want me to act like nothing’s happened and wait for you to arrest Diva and Yogi for something they didn’t do. Right?”
Bobby stood up. He looked angry. “No, I want you to stay out of police business. That’s all I’m asking. Otherwise, I‘ll arrest you for obstruction.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“Not yet. Don’t push it too far, though. I can’t risk you getting hurt. Dammit, Harley, can you just listen for once? Remember, your track record isn’t that great.”
He had her there. She’d made a career out of doing things her way, and obviously it wasn’t always the best way. After a moment, she blew out a sigh and nodded.
“All right, Bobby. But I don’t promise not to look for them.”
“Call me if you find them first. You know I’ll do everything I can to protect them.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Yogi’s fingerprints are all over Mrs. Trumble’s house. It looks bad for him, if he doesn’t turn himself in soon.”
“Right. I’ll tell him when I find him. Diva will call soon, I’m sure of it.”
“Do what you can, Harley.”
When she left, she hit a few likely spots looking for her parents. When she cruised down Douglass, she happened to see George Reed watering plants in his front yard. She braked. He’d told the cops he’d seen Yogi leaving Mrs. Trumble’s house around the time of her death. No harm in asking him a few questions.
“Hullo, Mr. Reed,” she said pleasantly when she switched off the bike and took off her helmet to walk up his driveway, “your begonias are really lovely.”
Reed, overweight and balding, gave her a curious look. “Thanks.”
“So, uh, about yesterday—”
He held up a hand to interrupt her. “I can’t talk about it. The police told me not to talk to anyone about what I saw.”
“I’m not asking for details. I just want to know if you’re sure it was Yogi you saw coming out of her house. And if you’re sure of the time.”
“I’m sure. I’ve lived down the street from him for five years now. Too bad about the dog. I kinda hoped that mutt was gone this time.”
Another fan of King’s. She wasn’t surprised. The dog had a way of making enemies.
“And you’re sure of the time? I mean, do you wear a watch when you jog?”
He blinked at her. Apparently, no one had asked him how he knew the time, just taken his word for it.
“No,” he said irritably, “I don’t wear a watch, but I left when Montel came on television and got back just as it was ending. That puts it between two and three.”
That was pretty definite. She nodded and started to thank him, then thought of something else to ask. “Did you happen to see a car in her driveway?”
“Not when Yogi came out. That was on my way out. I jog down Douglass to Goodlett, then around to Audubon Park, then back. I saw the car on my way out, a black Lincoln, but only Yogi on my way back.”
She smiled. “You’ve been a big help, Mr. Reed. Thanks.”
So that meant that Yogi was right. She must have been dead when he got there. Whoever owned that car had been the last one to see her alive and probably the one who killed her. It was a relief and a worry at the same time. If they had no compunction about killing an old lady, they’d have no compunction in killing a witness. She had to find Yogi, and quickly.
Several stops later, it was nearly dusk and she’d run out of places and ideas. Still no call and no message, not even from Tootsie. Her cell phone stayed quiet. This could get depressing. She headed for her apartment.
She parked her bike under the oak again. Shadows claimed the ground under the trees and the sun had already dipped beyond the Mississippi River. Crickets chirped, katydids buzzed, and across the road in the zoo, a lion let out a lazy roar. At least the weather was nice. Everything else sucked.
Tromping across brick paving and greenish moss, she went inside and was halfway up the stairs when she remembered she’d washed clothes and left them downstairs in the laundry room. Damn. Usually, she remembered them, but Monday night had been CSI, Miami night, and she’d forgotten to take them out of the dryer. If anyone complained, Mr. Lancaster would be perturbed. He took pride in running the laundry room like he had his Navy crew, taut, shipshape, and with all tenants obeying the rules. One of the rules prohibited tying up washers and dryers with abandoned clothes. This was what, Wednesday? And he’d no doubt already written her a nice, terse note about her infraction.
Doing a U-turn, she headed for the basement laundry room. In daylight it was bright and cheerful, painted a shiny white with green trim, the overhead pipes hidden by acoustic ceiling tiles and the lighting bright fluorescent rings. Now it was dark, and she flipped the light switch as she started down the narrow flight of stairs. A single white iron railing provided support. The bank of washers and dryers sat back to her left, and long folding and sorting tables stretched across the front wall opposite the stairs. A framed picture of the Memphis-Arkansas Bridge and the Missis
sippi River hung over the tables.
Her green plastic laundry basket with her dry clothes sat on the table. How thoughtful. Someone had even folded them. Certainly not Mr. Lancaster, for which she was grateful. The image of a former Navy warrant officer folding her lacy bikini panties was rather disturbing.
She picked up her basket and turned, then dropped it in surprise. Tammy Sprague was lying in front of a dryer. She didn’t look at all comfortable. Or alive. Something dark matted her pale blond hair, and it looked far too much like blood.
Heart pounding, she knelt next to Tammy and was relieved to hear her moan. There was blood but it wasn’t a lot, just a rusty smear. When her eyelids fluttered, Harley said, “Hey Tammy, you all right? Did you fall?”
Tammy blinked for a moment, and her lips moved silently. Then she groaned and tried to sit up.
“You don’t look good,” Harley said, and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Wait here and I’ll call for help.”
“No.” A surprisingly strong hand gripped Harley’s wrist. “Stu—get my husband.”
“Sure. But you might want to get some medical help, too. Falling down the stairs can do some damage.”
Tammy’s eyes uncrossed and she seemed to focus better, fixing Harley with a steady look. “I didn’t fall,” she said with unexpected energy, “someone hit me in the head.”
Harley blinked. “Was it—Stu?”
Now Tammy looked irritated. “Of course not. Whoever it was thought I was you, ’cause he called me by your name.”
Oh boy. Disregarding ex-boyfriends, the only likely culprit would be the greasy guy who’d hit her on the head in Yogi’s workshop. Apparently, he thought she had the necklace that was now in police custody. This could be awkward. And dangerous.
She stood up. “I’ll get your husband. You’ll be okay. And . . . and I’m sorry you got hit.”
What else was there to say? Unless she added that some maniac was out there bashing in heads and looking for a stolen two hundred thousand dollar necklace.
She knew what to expect when she got upstairs, so she wasn’t too surprised to see that her apartment looked similar to her parents’ house. Greaser wasn’t very neat. It looked like a disaster area, drawers dumped on the floor, and even flour bags opened and powdering the counters.
While Stu hurried to the basement and his wife, Harley called Bobby. “Hey, you might want to rethink filing stolen property charges against Yogi.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?” He sounded stressed. And skeptical.
“Because whoever hit me thinks I’ve got the necklace. They just ransacked my apartment and hit my neighbor in the head. Apparently, they confused her with me.”
“Some mistake.”
“That’s what I thought. She’s a real tight-ass. So you might want to drop by and check for fingerprints if you’re in the mood.”
“Right. I’m on the way. Stay there, Harley.”
“Sure.” She hung up the phone, grabbed a few things, and headed back downstairs to the parking lot and her bike. Fat chance. She wasn’t about to hang around to be hit on the head again. Whoever was after that necklace had the bad habit of hitting before asking questions.
Only after she was two miles down Poplar did it occur to her that she had nowhere to go. While it was a safe bet Morgan’s cover was blown, no point in making certain of it by going there again. Besides, she didn’t really trust him. He had his own agenda and would be more interested in that. Bobby had Angel, and her grandparents would ask too many questions, and then they’d treat her to a rehash of all the circumstances that had led to their eldest daughter marrying “that Davidson boy” out in California and not coming back home for fifteen years. Anything that went wrong could be traced directly back to that single error, in their minds. Memories were long on the Eaton side, absolution scarce. No wonder the South had never forgotten the War of Northern Aggression. People like her mother’s family had the emotional tenacity of rabid bulldogs.
That left her with few options at the moment. She didn’t really want to stay with Tootsie, though he wouldn’t mind, but some of his friends were a little too weird for her tastes. Family was definitely out, and friends she could impose on, few. Then she thought of Cami. Perfect. No one would think to look for her at Cami’s house.
She took the Bill Morris Parkway out to Hickory Hill, cruising along at a speed calculated to escape the notice of any police cruisers. No point in inviting trouble.
Hoping Cami was home, she pulled up in the driveway of the neat little house on a busy suburban street and cut her engine. Cami was one of the few people who wouldn’t care if she appeared on her doorstep unannounced, or that they hadn’t talked to each other in a couple of months. She was the kind of friend that they could pick up a conversation where they’d left off. They’d lived close as kids, lost contact for a while after school, still called each other now and then, and got together on whims.
The porch light flashed on when she rang the bell, and above the frantic barking of dogs, Harley heard Cami squeal “Harley!” as she peeped out the hole in the door
It was just the kind of greeting she’d expected. Harley grinned. Camilla Watson had been her best friend from the seventh grade through high school graduation. They’d slept over at each other’s houses, double dated, and gotten into trouble together. Adulthood and change of lifestyles had altered some things, but not their mutual bond of affection.
“So what are you doin’ out here, Harley?” Cami asked, holding a huge orange and white cat back with one foot to let Harley in the front door. “Don’t mind Punkin. He thinks he wants to be wild and free.”
Harley eyed the feline warily. Cats had never been her favorite animal. They were sneaky and evil.
Punkin regarded her with the same degree of welcome, made a brief hacking sound, and promptly ejected something from his throat that was the size of an undigested rat. It landed atop her right foot. Harley froze. Cami promptly and efficiently wiped the blob off her shoe with a paper towel she magically produced from thin air.
“Hairball,” Cami said cheerfully. “It’s all his long hair. Come on in.”
Rethinking her decision to stay with Cami, she stood stock still until Punkin abandoned his role as the welcoming committee. Just on the other side of a baby gate, a flock of dogs still barked loudly, then two of them launched into a scuffle that only ended when Cami stepped over the gate and shoved them apart.
“Uh, maybe I came at a bad time,” Harley said, but was overruled.
“You came at a perfect time. I don’t get much company. They’ll all settle down in a few minutes, I swear. Just step over the gate, will you?”
“Jesus, Cami, are you running an animal shelter?” Harley stared at a variety of cats draped on chairs and a sheet-covered couch, all disinterested in her arrival. Save Punkin, who watched her from the kitchen doorway. A small dog leaped up in the air, barking until shushed with a doggy treat.
“Kinda,” Cami said, “I’m a foster home for dogs and cats rescued by local groups. Not all of these are mine.”
“Thank God. I was beginning to think the divorce got you unhinged.”
“Hah. Getting rid of Jace was the best thing I ever did. I’m grateful, not crazy.”
Then this must be penance, Harley thought, and remembering Jace, probably worth it.
Cami led the way into her den. There was a sense of messy organization to the stacks of magazines, though cat toys scattered on the carpet looked as if they’d been there a while.
“Have a seat,” Cami said, waving one hand toward a stuffed chair covered in a blue plaid sheet and cat hair. “Take off that sheet if you want. And just shove the cats out of the way. They won’t mind.”
Short and slender, Cami’s red hair was different from the blond ’do she’d sported last time Harley had seen her. She wore shorts and a huge football jersey, and her pixie face was serene and oblivious to the Noah’s Ark in her den.
Harley stepped gingerly over a fat dog aslee
p on his back with four legs thrust into the air, dangling paws twitching in some kind of doggy dream. Something squealed loudly and she jumped, only to find that she’d somehow stepped on a furry pink pig with a jaunty bow. The dog woke, rolled over and grabbed the stuffed pig, making it squeal again.
Cami had misled her, Harley realized, as she tried shooing cats from the chair. The furry things did mind being moved. Hisses and claws greeted her attempts. She decided not to sit.
“Here, I’ll move her,” Cami said, and scooped up the remaining squatter to carry it to the couch.
Sitting down with the cat in her lap, Cami eyed Harley expectantly. It was obvious she wondered why she’d come, and now that she was here, Harley wondered the same thing.
“Uh, I need a place to stay for the night,” she said after a moment, and Cami smiled.
“Great. I have a guest room. It’s off-limits to the animals, so you should be comfortable.”
It was the mark of bad manners for a guest to betray any sign of domestic disapproval, Grandmother Eaton had always said, but she’d been friends with Cami too long to care about that sort of thing. Miss Manners would be so anguished.
Relieved and not reluctant to show it, Harley nodded. “That’ll work.”
“So, what’s up? Your new apartment not working out?”
“It was until tonight. Someone trashed it. A burglar.”
“No.” Cami paused in stroking the cat’s head. The animal glared at Harley, obviously holding her personally responsible for its eviction from the chair. “Did the thieves take a lot?”
“Not that I can tell.” Harley decided that eye contact with the cat only made its ears go flatter on its head. “I just didn’t want to hang around. I’ll deal with cleaning it up tomorrow. Are you still with the phone company?”
A change of topic seemed appropriate. It’d save a lot of unnecessary questions and lies.
“Yep, nearly twelve years now. Doesn’t seem like it’s been that long since we were in high school, does it.”
Hound Dog Blues Page 11