Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries)

by Brown, Virginia

Just checking out shop inventory or shipping manifests couldn’t be too bad. Nothing more complicated than a few boring hours on a Tuesday afternoon when she’d rather be doing anything else. Then she’d present dear Aunt Darcy with a bill, including the twenty dollar charge for drinks at The Peabody.

  Life had its perks. She’d try to keep that in mind while she went through the motions of finding Aunt Darcy’s imaginary smuggler. Really. She’d probably just forgotten she’d ordered fake zebra skins or bath powder and imagined the worst. It was probably due to the gin she kept hidden in bottles for a little pick-me-up. A wee nip here, a wee nip there, and by the end of the day she’d pickled her brain. It was amazing no one had caught on in all this time, but if they had, it was one of those things that went politely unmentioned in the family. Like inherited insanity. Most of the time she thought her entire family was nuts. It was uncomfortably close to the truth.

  But this was nothing like her last foray into thievery and flying bullets. This would be quick and easy. And profitable. Her favorite things.

  Time to get back to work and put the weekend’s ordeal behind her. She finished logging in her time for last week, then took the elevator down two flights to the ground floor and parking lot where her trusty little ’91 silver Toyota waited in the shade. Good transportation, one of those cars that were fuel efficient and comfortable. Best of all, it was paid for.

  First, she decided as she juggled the keys and brown backpack she used as a purse, she’d replace her broken cell phone. That was imperative. It was her link to the world.

  Poplar Avenue was busy as always, traffic snarling up on occasion, and she shoved the car into second gear and shot through an orange light at Perkins, clicking on her right turn signal just before reaching the cellular phone store.

  By the time she left, she was nearly two hundred dollars lighter and thirsty. She’d stop for a Coke first, then sign out the van by noon to make her Radisson pickup on time. Tour Tyme housed the company vehicles in a rented garage off Poplar, not far from the main offices. The size vehicle used depended on the size of the tourist group. No point in wasting gas.

  After picking up the van, she headed downtown to the Radisson to pick up her group. They’d be waiting for her in the open-air lobby divided with walls of old brick. Victorian Village wasn’t far from downtown and the river. It was a remnant of life in the nineteenth century. A few houses had been donated to the city and kept up with city funds as a reminder of what life had been like over a hundred years ago. Somehow, the incongruity of the tree-shaded elegance in a tiny pocket right next to Juvenile Court never quite registered with city officials or visitors. Still, the three-story homes held an aura of times gone by, of what it was like to live without modern amenities if you were a wealthy family. None of the hovels from the Pinch District on the river had been restored, she’d noticed. That area had been settled by Irish immigrants in the early- to mid-eighteen hundreds, called Pinch or Pinch-back for the look on residents’ faces and their sunken bellies, a pinched look of hunger and deprivation. Her ancestors had probably been among them at one time. Fortunately for them, not on the nearby slave block, however. A historical marker was the only remnant of the auctions of human beings that used to take place near a backwash of the Mississippi River. A lamentable part of Memphis history.

  It was a nice afternoon, and the women from Michigan were a fun group that enjoyed the sights and made Harley laugh. They were there to enjoy themselves, and had no qualms about saying what they didn’t like. The Magevney House, furnished in period pieces and with an elegance visible despite the under-funding in recent city cutbacks, was always a favorite. There were even delicious rumors of lingering ghosts, and the women were disappointed they didn’t make an appearance during their tour.

  Afterward, Harley took them back to the hotel across the street from the Redbirds’ new baseball stadium. She gave them advice on which sights she thought they’d be more interested in seeing, which Blues clubs on Beale Street they’d enjoy, and reminded them to get to the lobby of The Peabody Hotel before five if they wanted to get good photos of the ducks marching from the marble fountain up the red carpet rolled out to the elevator that would take them to their penthouse home for the night. Then they could go on the roof to see the ducks basking in their twenty-five thousand dollar cage complete with oil murals on the back wall, elaborate beds, a wading pool, and plenty of food. The ladies liked that suggestion best, and Harley left them buying more film in the gift shop.

  It was after six by the time she left the van at the garage and the keys at the office, and the car wash would be closed. She’d intended to wash away any traces of King’s brief travels left in the back seat of her Toyota while her parents had been cruising around town avoiding the police. Removal of the dog’s hair and potent canine fragrance would have to wait.

  It was a fairly short drive from the Tour Tyme garage down Poplar Avenue, one of the main thoroughfares in Memphis, to Kenilworth Street. Her apartment was an upstairs flat in a renovated brick house across from the zoo, convenient to peacocks, monkeys, and Overton Square, a fading intersection of restaurants, quirky shops, and a New Orleans style hotel.

  Harley parked in back of the apartment house on a pea-gravel slot that ended in a railroad tie bumped up against a gigantic oak tree. The other residents had garage space, but one of them would have to move or die for her to get one. That was all right. Her Toyota was built to last.

  A wide hall with a tiled foyer led to all the apartments. The spacious staircase in the middle rose to the second floor and her apartment on the north side. Two doors opened off the foyer into downstairs apartments, and a door under the staircase led to the basement laundry room. All the conveniences she needed, plus indoor plumbing. The last hadn’t always been handy in her younger years.

  Lugging her backpack by one of the straps, she tackled the stairs at a run. Exercise of any kind helped keep her in shape, particularly since bean burritos had a way of adding a little fat if she didn’t watch it.

  Even with her apartment still showing signs of being ransacked, looking more like the bottom of a trash barrel than her usually neat, free-of-kitsch refuge, it was good to be home again. The cupboards in the kitchen had been emptied out, drawers dumped on the floor, couch cushions tossed, and her mattress dragged off the bed. There had to be something that would take out the smell of the olive oil spilled everywhere before it turned rancid in the heat. She’d already scrubbed it off the floor, but it had left a definite residue. She’d cleaned up the bath powder dumped in the bathroom, refolded towels and put them away, but it needed deep cleaning and she didn’t feel like it. Especially since Morgan would show up at any moment.

  She opened the French doors leading to the balcony and turned on the ceiling fans to circulate fresh air. White sheers in front of the open doors fluttered in the breeze that brought in the fragrance of newly mown grass and the lemony sweet scent of magnolias in bloom. It also allowed in the faint roar of lions and snarl of tigers from the Overton Park zoo across the street. It was a simulation of the African delta that she rather enjoyed most of the time.

  By the time Morgan arrived, she’d managed to vacuum the living room and replace books on shelves, restoring a good portion of the former order she craved. If she wasn’t a neat freak, she still preferred things tidy. A rebellion against her childhood, Tootsie had once told her. He loved to psychoanalyze everyone, including himself. Self-analysis would certainly be a pip in his case, with multiple-choice reasons for Tootsie’s preference for women’s clothing.

  “Hey you,” Mike said, coming in her apartment door with Taco Bell sacks and smelling delightfully of hot peppers and cumin. “I brought extra nachos.”

  “Yum. I smell sour cream, too. You can stay.”

  “You’re so easy.”

  When he grinned like that, her heart did a little flip. Relationships had never worked out for her, and she didn’t know if this one would, either. After all, they’d had less than a happy start, what
with her thinking Mike was a jewelry thief, and him thinking she was mixed up in the thefts herself. It’d only been a week since they’d hooked up. You need to keep your distance, logic warned again. But when had logic ever done anything for her?

  “Only for a man who brings me extra nachos,” she said. “I’ve got the plates ready on the coffee table. Beer or Coke?”

  “Coke. I’m on duty in a little while. Late shift.”

  “Oh.” That was a bummer. “Another sting operation?”

  His shrug indicated unwillingness to confide details. That was the thing about cops who worked undercover. They could be damnably tight-lipped when they wanted to be.

  The bean burrito with extra sour cream beckoned beneath the paper around it. It was a staple in her diet. Halfway through the flour tortilla and beans, she looked up at Morgan. Damn. He looked good enough to eat, too. Six-two with dark hair and killer blue eyes, he had a body like one of those naked marble statues that were popping up in Memphis gardens—perfect. And the tight black tee shirt and snug black jeans displayed his potential. He’d gotten a haircut. It barely touched his collar in the back. His face was all hard angles and planes except for his mouth. It had a sensuality to it that promised a woman all kinds of delicious things without him saying a word. A small scar right below his bottom lip showed white against the color of skin no one could get in a tanning booth or lying on the beach. Oh yeah. Definitely delicious stuff. Any man who could give her the shivers just by looking at him had to be lethal.

  “So, how was your day?” he asked when they’d polished off one Taco Bell sack and started on the other one. “Find any bodies?”

  “You really need to get over that. It’s not like I make a habit of it.”

  “God, I hope not. So, get a raise?”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding. I hope you brought the stun gun back. Penney is more irritated about unauthorized use of it than impressed by anything else.”

  Morgan didn’t look surprised. He rarely looked surprised by anything, probably a sideline of his job, to look like he’d seen everything.

  “Yeah, it’s in my car.”

  She licked a glob of sour cream off her fingertips. “Don’t suppose you can fix my tickets after all, can you?”

  “Harley—”

  “Never mind. Just thought since I was instrumental in capturing jewel thieves, the MPD might want to overlook a couple of minor traffic offenses.”

  “Another time. So, what’s your next plan?”

  “As soon as I finish off these nachos, I’m going to finish cleaning. Care to help with the heavy stuff?”

  Morgan stood up and stretched, an intriguing sight. What a body. Hard abs, great pecs and lats—oops, there went that flutter in the pit of her stomach again.

  “So where do we start?” he asked. “Looks like you’ve got a lot done in here.”

  “The bedroom. Whoa, sport. Don’t get excited. My mattress and box springs came off the frame again and I can’t get them back on right by myself.”

  He grinned, and something dark and sexy glittered in his eyes. “Oh yeah, we’ll fix it and then test it.”

  “I thought you were on duty.”

  “Always. I may have to frisk you for contraband.” He moved close, ran his hand over her tee shirt, and gave her a wicked leer guaranteed to summon goose bumps and anticipation. “Committed any crimes lately?”

  “I’ve been bad,” she whispered when she could catch her breath, “very bad. Arrest me, copper.”

  “My pleasure, lady. And yours.”

  That was one of the things she liked best about Morgan. He always knew what to say.

  Three

  “This is the fabric room,” Aunt Darcy said, sweeping out one arm to indicate a large room on the second floor of the shop. “We have swatches and textile books in here for our clients to use in choosing new drapes and furniture. Our designers work here a lot.”

  “And is this where you found the, uh, illegal stuff?”

  “No. I just wanted you to see it. You haven’t visited since we expanded and remodeled. It has grown a lot in the past year, and we run a multimillion dollar business now. Letting Harry in has its upside, but now . . . I just don’t know. Someone is smuggling in banned goods, and he’s the only one who has complete access to our overseas connections. He takes trips abroad to choose new items, visit wholesale suppliers, things like that.”

  Harley glanced around the spacious room with long windows allowing in the morning light. Built-in shelves housed huge fabric books, and other slots held bolts of material. Light wood floors and white painted walls gave the room a clean, open feeling.

  The old two-and-a-half story Victorian house, built by a cotton merchant in the nineteenth century as an out-of-town getaway and weekend retreat, had gone through quite a few incarnations over the years since the heirs had sold it. Boarding house, whorehouse, children’s home, restaurant, and thrift shop had done some damage. Aunt Darcy had bought it as a labor of love fifteen years before, and she’d opened her design shop after some extensive and expensive renovations. Of course, the prime real estate that had once surrounded the house had long been sold, and now traffic went up and down a major thoroughfare only a quarter mile away. Designer’s Den sat on a side street that ended in a cove, flanked by an accounting firm, a beauty shop, and an empty building. The aluminum siding was a tasteful blue with white trim, and the parking lot in front had crushed seashells that matched the trim. In the back, a huge storage area and cargo doors were a recent addition, some of it utilizing what had once been the servant’s quarters. An impressive operation.

  “So where did you discover the items you think may be illegal?” she asked, and her aunt flashed an annoyed frown.

  “I don’t think they’re illegal. I know they are. Real zebra skins, an endangered species of elk, and ivory objets d’art. Also, there’s powdered rhinoceros horn and Cuban cigars.”

  Okay, the last she knew was definitely banned.

  “Where did you find them?” she asked again, and Darcy led her back down the stairs.

  “I found things packed in various crates,” she said, “tucked into armoire drawers, antique chests, and wrapped in carpets.”

  Keys clinked as she unlocked a set of double doors that led into a cavernous storage area. Huge carved armoires, teak chests, rolls of carpet, oriental vases, statues, and greenery reminded her of the import warehouse where she’d nearly met her doom hiding from a jewelry thief. No fertility gods that she could see, however, a small disappointment.

  Darcy crossed to another locked room, a small area more like a walk-in closet. Inside were several animal skins that looked like the real thing, a huge jar of some kind of powder, and a wooden case with Havana stamped on it. The cigars, no doubt. Yep. Looked like illegal goods.

  “I hid these here so I could show them to you,” Darcy said. I don’t know what to do with them.”

  “What’s in the jar?”

  “I’m sure it’s powdered rhinoceros horn. I think people use it as a kind of aphrodisiac or something. I read that in Cosmo. Here. Take some and get it tested, will you?”

  “Tested? And who do you suggest I get to do that? The neighborhood drug runner?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Harley. You have connections.”

  “I don’t have connections. I just know people who know people who have connections.”

  “Good. Now here.” She’d put some in a tan envelope. “See what you can find out about it.”

  “Just for curiosity’s sake, how does Harry explain this powder? I mean, he’s got to call it something on manifests or invoices, or explain it somehow.”

  “I haven’t seen invoices for these things, but he does order a lot of French bath powder.”

  Harley carefully took a sniff of the envelope. “Well, it does smell nice.”

  “Maybe to another rhinoceros. It’s atrocious. Honestly, it seems you’d have inherited some sense of style or good taste from the Eaton side of the family.”
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br />   Ignoring that, Harley asked, “So how do you figure Harry’s involved? I mean, why do you suspect him of the smuggling?”

  Taking a deep breath, Darcy said with unusual venom, “He’s a bastard. I should have listened to Mama and Daddy, but it was just so tempting—he put a lot of money into the shop. That’s how I was able to expand and remodel. At first, he was a silent partner. Then he started going on buying trips, sending back furniture and accessories from places like England, France, and Italy that were quite suitable. Not long after that, we got in some shipments from Russia, China, and Colombia. Not expensive antiques, just things that I’d call junk. We argued about it, and Harry insisted that there’s a market here for it.”

  A bitter smile twisted her lips. “I’m afraid he was right about that. I was amazed at how well and quickly some of the most awful pieces sold. So I kept quiet, thinking that this was just a new trend, or he just knew a lot of people with bad taste. Then we started getting shipments like this one, only I never thought to actually look inside the trunks and armoires when they were delivered. Harry took care of all that, said he had a certain clientele that preferred the more kitschy stuff. He’d brought in his own designer—a perfectly wretched woman—and she handles all those clients. When one of the clients called and said his furniture was late, I uncrated one of the carved chests from Colombia and found the Cuban cigars. I started looking around then, and found this other stuff. These skins are illegal, Harley. And there’s more. Look.”

  Darcy opened a wooden chest. Straw chaff drifted to the floor as she lifted a beautiful figure of what looked like a dog holding a scepter.

  “This is an Egyptian god, a jackal holding an ankh, probably carved five thousand years ago. It should be in a museum, Harley, and in that other crate are ancient Mayan statues. I’m afraid they’re stolen, and I’m convinced Harry is responsible for smuggling them into the country. I’ll lose everything. Everything!”