“True. I’ll think about it. I don’t know where to find her anyway, so it’s probably a moot point.”
“Things have a way of happening for you, baby. Just when they shouldn’t. That’s not always a good thing.”
“What did you find out about Harry Gordon?”
“Do you know how many Harry Gordons there are just in Tennessee alone, much less the rest of the US? I’m trying to narrow it down for you. It’d help if I had a birth date or his Social Security number. I’m trying to backtrack all references to Harry and designers, antiques, things like that at the moment. If I got paid by the hour, I could retire.”
“You’re an angel. A darling. Precious.” No response. She sighed. “I’ll give you a percentage of the five thousand.”
“Now you’re talking my language.”
“So tell me about this dead Cheríe. Where was she from and what did she do? Maybe if I know something about her, I’ll know something about the woman who stole her identity.”
“I don’t know if this is the same one, it’s just the only logical one I could find. Not too much to tell. Her maiden name was Plotz. She married Luke Saucier in 1989, died in 1996 of cancer. Last mailing address was in Atoka, Tennessee. Left behind no children, two sisters, one brother.”
“Sisters’ names?”
“Anna Plotz Merritt, and Frieda Plotz. Brother’s named Bernard.”
“Do you think you could find out anything about the two sisters?”
“You’re a pain in the ass, baby.”
“I know. But you love me. So how’d you look as Liza?”
“Stunning. I suppose that’s a not too subtle reference to the fact you gave me all those Minnelli-style clothes.”
“Well, I do try to pay my debts.”
Tootsie said something rude, then sighed. “All right. But you have to come to one of my shows. I want an honest opinion.”
“Don’t you get that from Steve?”
“Please. He’s in love. He says whatever he thinks I want to hear.”
“Not so very different from the boy-girl thing, I see. A pity. You’d think there’d be more advantages since you don’t qualify for marriage.”
“Why would you think marriage is an advantage?”
“It isn’t?”
“Hardly.” Tootsie laughed. “It’s not like two guys together are conventional anyway. Why bother with a legal ceremony when you can pay an attorney to do things the way you really want them done? It doesn’t change anything, just puts money in the pockets of all the wrong people. But I appreciate the sentiment, baby. Are you coming in at all today? This week?”
“Tomorrow. Put me down for something local. Right now, I want a hot bath and some sleep. I’m beginning to feel like a mushroom.”
“A mushroom?”
“Yep, knee-deep in shit and left in the dark.”
Laughing, Tootsie hung up. Harley thought about calling Morgan, then decided to get a bath first. She really did feel icky. And she’d need to feel human and awake when she talked to him, or she’d end up saying something she shouldn’t.
Baths, Harley reflected as steam rose in waves that fogged the bathroom mirror and deep-cleansed her pores, were a necessary element of survival. Showers were just to get the dirt off. A bath was luxury. Especially with something sweet-smelling in the water, and all the water out of the hot water tank and into the tub. If she ever bought a house, it was going to have one of those big round Jacuzzis in it. A deep one, with lots of water jets.
She didn’t leave the tub until the bubbles went flat and the hot water ran out. Then she wrapped herself in a sheet-size fluffy towel and wore it like a sarong. Not bothering to do more than finger-comb her hair, she padded barefoot into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She needed to go shopping. There wasn’t much in there but some leftover Chinese, a bottle of wine, a beer, and a half dozen eggs. She opted for the Chinese. Mike had brought it, refusing to eat Taco Bell. The fried rice was really good, not too sticky, just enough seasonings so that a generous splash of soy sauce made it perfect. She piled it on a plate, heated it in the microwave, and went to the living room to eat. Twelve hours of fasting could hardly be appeased by one biscuit, even one with butter and strawberry jelly.
It took some work, but she finally got her apartment back the way she liked it. Tidy, no clutter, the white-striped slipcovers back from the cleaners, fitting snug on her fat chairs. She sank down in one of them, liking the way it seemed to close around her.
Cami was wrong. Harley didn’t hear the ticking of her biological clock at all. Maybe she didn’t have one. Or the batteries had run down. Whichever, she’d never dreamed of having kids and the mess that went with them. It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids, necessarily, it just wasn’t a priority. Or even a remote desire.
When girls her age had baby dolls and played house under a tree, she was with the boys playing stick ball or skinny dipping in the nearest pond or creek, depending on where they’d parked their van. Sometimes they’d parked near a beach in northern California, a place that still seemed more like heaven than anywhere she’d ever been. Foamy surf breaking on black rocks, stretches of sand soft as sugar, air that smelled fresh and clean . . . a feeling of complete freedom that she hadn’t had since then. The sixties era of free love and protesting against the Vietnam war were behind when she was born, and the promise of the seventies with civil rights struggles resolved and a fresh determination to change the world in full bloom. Her earliest memory was riding atop her father’s shoulders in a protest, her best memory releasing helium balloons that said PEACE on the rubber faces from the cliff above the Golden Gate Bridge. At that moment, she’d felt as if she was on top of the world and it was waiting below for her like a golden apple. California had good memories, as well as the ones about tarantula-sized spiders and rats the size of raccoons.
By the time she’d finished her fried rice, she’d come to the realization that she was one of those women who’d never wanted children. A freak, by some standards, perhaps. And maybe one day she’d change her mind, but it didn’t seem likely. But that might be because she didn’t have all the right components necessary for a stable life for any children of her own. While going from commune to commune had been a unique, if not totally desirable, lifestyle for her as a child, it wasn’t one she’d want for her own kids. And even if everything came together in just the right way, she still didn’t see herself with a house full of rug rats. That was disturbing in a way, though she couldn’t put her finger on the exact reason. Maybe she was defective. Or just selfish.
She was still pondering her shortcomings when the phone rang. Leaning over, she picked up the cordless. Before she could say “Hello,” Morgan said, “Why aren’t you answering your cell phone?”
“It’s charging. And I’m tired of paying for new ones. I don’t intend to use it except in an emergency.”
“What constitutes an emergency for you—not getting locked in a basement with a body?”
“Bobby has a big mouth.”
“Baroni’s worried about you. He thinks you’ve gone over the edge.”
“And what edge would that be?” This was getting irritating.
“Probably the one you just passed. What were you doing poking around the crime scene, Harley?”
“When did it become your business?”
That stopped him. She could almost hear his wheels turning. He might be super-sexy, but he didn’t own her. Borrowed her for a while, maybe, but there was no signed lease. She was free to do as she pleased. And somehow, that was irritating, too.
“So,” he said more cautiously, “it’s not my business. That doesn’t mean I want to see you get hurt.”
Damn. Good answer. It was really confusing, and she wished Cami hadn’t even brought up all that stuff about being alone and biological clocks and crap. She sighed.
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. I think.”
There was a moment of awkward silence before he sai
d, “I’m on duty later tonight, but if you’re not busy tomorrow night, maybe we can do something.”
“Like what?”
“I’m sure we’ll find something we agree on. Dinner, a movie . . . ”
“A real date? Haven’t had one of those in a while. It sounds intriguing.”
Morgan laughed and she felt better. This was really stupid, feeling so suddenly awkward all because of some damn biological clock and Cami’s Chicken Little warnings. Next time she saw Cami, she’d give her a wedgie she wouldn’t forget for a while.
“Funny, Harley,” Morgan said. “So be thinking of a place you want to eat—not Taco Bell—and what movie you want to see. As long as it’s not some chick flick, I don’t care.”
“You sure? I think the Orpheum is showing Casablanca. That has excitement, danger, guns, all the things guys like.”
“Right. Not enough to outweigh the other stuff.”
“Ah, the love element. Yeah, that is boring. Good thing for you there’s a new Jackie Chan movie out then, huh.”
“Now you’re talking.”
When they hung up, Harley reflected that even though Jackie Chan was one of her favorites, it was irritating that Morgan disliked “the other stuff.” This was crazy. She really was going to smack Cami when she saw her again. It wasn’t that she wanted to be in love, because she’d tried that once and it hadn’t worked out well at all, and she had no intention of being dumb enough to go looking in all the wrong places again, but now she felt defective. Like there was something seriously wrong in her life. Besides the fact her family was inherently insane and she had nothing better to do than stumble over corpses lately, it was a kind of wrong that was more personal.
Great. Just great. When had she become the kind of woman to sit and worry about her love life, or lack of one? She couldn’t let Cami’s anxieties become hers. She had to shake this stuff quickly or she’d end up living in an apartment crammed with cats, dogs, and assorted other creatures, a neighborhood legend, the “crazy cat lady” or something. Maybe Cami was on her way to that distinction, but she didn’t intend to fall into that trap. Oh no.
She called Morgan back, and when he answered, she said, “How about a house call, officer?”
“This doesn’t involve Taco Bell, does it?”
“No. I’ve already eaten. But I have . . . needs.”
“I’m on my way.”
The line went dead and Harley smiled. Oh yeah. He had just the right antidote for any woman’s ticking biological clock.
“Talk dirty to me.”
Harley pried open one eye and peered at Mike where he lay sprawled out on the other side of her bed. Ropy muscles glistened in the dim light of one of her perfumed candles—an attempt at romance—and his chest still rose and fell a little quicker than normal. She smiled.
“I don’t think you can handle any more right now.”
“I’ll rise to the occasion.”
“I thought you were on duty tonight?”
He groaned. “You sure do know how to ruin a moment.”
“It’s a talent. Women in my family are famous for it.” She leaned over and ran a finger over his washboard abs. Luscious. Yep. He was just the thing to put her world back into the right kind of perspective. She’d have to remember that the next time she made the mistake of listening to Cami.
“Speaking of women in your family . . . ” He turned over on his side and caught her wandering hand, smiling when she made a disappointed sound. “I’m not on the case, but I’ve heard that the evidence is stacking up against your aunt. You might suggest she get an attorney.”
“I thought you told me to butt out.”
“Yeah, well . . . this is a little different. Offering advice to a relative isn’t the same thing as going around finding bodies and getting locked in basements.”
“Optimist.”
He sighed. “I used to think you were the normal one in your family.”
“And now?”
“I’m not so sure. You’re more normal than your parents, but that’s not saying so much.”
“You should meet Yogi’s side of the family.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Very wise of you. They make Diva’s side look boring. I have cousins who’d give the guys in that movie Deliverance a run for their money.”
“Remind me to thank my parents for being from Pennsylvania.”
“Don’t let Grandmother Eaton know you’re a Yankee.”
“Harley, the Civil War is over.”
“Hoo hoo, a lot you know. It’s only over for Yankees. The Eaton side of the family has never forgiven nor forgotten. And you don’t even want to know what the Davidson side does for fun down there in Mississippi.”
“It doesn’t involve white sheets, does it?”
“Of course not. They’re not racists, just rednecks. Actually, I like them much better than I do the Eatons, who like to think they’re aristocratic when they’re really just snobs. Except for Granddad. I don’t know how he turned out so nice, but he did. He’s what my grandmother refers to as a true Southern gentleman. Of course, the Eatons used to be bootleggers, you know.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’m just trying to enlighten you as to the kind of people in my background. So don’t expect too much from Aunt Darcy. She’s a product of her environment.”
“And Diva?”
“Is unique. There’s no one else like her. Except maybe Nana McMullen. She’s my great-grandmother on Diva’s side. She was born just before the roaring twenties and prohibition, then went through the Depression, and she has lots of stories she likes to tell, usually just to annoy the hell out of Grandmother Eaton. It’s fun to watch. Proof that no matter how old you get, you can still torment your family.”
“Nana sounds scary.”
“Not Nah-nah. Nana. Like the last two syllables of banana. And she is scary.”
“Remind me to skip your family reunions.”
“Are you kidding? That’s the only time it’s enjoyable being in this family. Of course, a certain amount of drinking is essential if you want to get through the festivities without decking anyone. Or to ease the pain when you get decked by a drunken second cousin.”
Morgan scooted closer and threw his leg across her, pinning her to the mattress while his hand did some delicious exploring. Harley didn’t even consider resistance. He’d be the one to have to explain why he was late for work, not her. All she had to do was enjoy.
So she did.
Nine
Tootsie looked up with a surprised expression when she got to the Tour Tyme offices at the same time he did.
“Baby, I didn’t expect to see you until at least ten.”
“It was too nice a morning to sleep in. I had a relaxing night.”
“I can tell. Morgan, I presume?”
She smiled. “The man really does curl my toes.”
“Too bad he doesn’t do the same thing for your hair.”
“Sometimes you can be such an old maid. So what’s on the agenda today?”
“Mud Island, Beale Street, and AutoZone Park with a group of businessmen from Tokyo, or Victorian Village and the Dixon Gallery with some ladies from Iowa.”
“Tough choice. Iowa gets me, despite the lure of Japanese businessmen who won’t know a word I’m saying.”
“They probably speak better English than you and I do,” Tootsie said, and Harley figured he was probably right.
Tootsie started up the computer and did all the little organizational chores that were his habit while Harley fired up the coffee pot, one of those industrial size ones that was idiot-proof. When she took Tootsie a cup of coffee, black, no cream or sugar, he handed her a printout.
“What’s this?”
“All the info I could find on Cheríe Saucier and the Plotz family. Still working on all the Harry Gordons. Number forty-six has a rap sheet, so . . . Good God. What’d you do to this coffee?”
“Nothing special. Why?”
> “It’s strong enough to wake the dead. That’s probably a handy advantage for you lately, but we seem to be corpse-free in here today. How many coffee packets did you use?”
“One.” Harley checked the coffee filter, and found two packets. “Sorry. They must have stuck together.”
“Here. I’ll make the coffee. You just read. The number four van is being washed, so you’ll have to leave a little early to pick up Iowa at their hotel. Names and times are on the schedule.”
Harley scanned the printout. Interesting. Anna Plotz Merritt had moved to Atoka, but her sister Frieda had stayed in St. Louis to work, then Cincinnati, then disappeared from the radar screen a couple of years after. No record of her marriage, death, or career choices. So that left a wide-open area when it came to possibilities.
“My bet’s on Frieda using her dead sister’s identity,” Tootsie said, sitting back down at the computer with a fresh cup of coffee.
“It’s a distinct possibility. Which leads me to wonder why she’d feel it necessary to do that. There’s no criminal record for Frieda. Why should she pretend to be someone else?”
“Maybe she needs to be someone else because of a divorce, credit fraud, or just because she doesn’t like her name.”
“Yeah, but to take her dead sister’s name? That’s too creepy, even for the Cheríe Saucier that I met. Of course, she may be psychotic. And she may be a killer. Harry’s dead, and so is Julio. We don’t know why, and until we figure that out, we won’t know where to look for the killer.”
“You make me nervous when you use we while talking to me, baby.”
“Just general reference. Don’t worry. I have no intention of dragging you into this except as my research assistant. Okay—research supervisor. You’re a genius when it comes to this kind of thing, as you well know.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to do a little on-line tracking, just someone who knows where to look. I just ask the question. Ask Jeeves and Google do all the work.”
Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) Page 13