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

by Brown, Virginia

  “Dammit, you nearly killed me,” she got out, but by then the employee had backup, and Harley was hustled off to the office to make explanations while the police were summoned. Not one of her finest moments.

  Fortunately, one of the Iowa women had seen Cheríe assault Harley, or it could have been much worse. As it was, Memphis Tour Tyme had to make good on the broken Edwardian vase and promise not to send Harley back to the art gallery. Mr. Penney was most unhappy with her.

  “Your personal problems are overlapping onto company time,” he said, and his usually dour expression went even more grim than normal. “Perhaps you need a leave of absence to sort out your family affairs.”

  “Uh, unpaid?”

  The look he gave her indicated affirmative, and Harley escaped Penney’s office as soon as possible. Tootsie shook his head when she leaned over his reception desk.

  “Baby, you’re lucky you still have a job. He wanted to fire you. Fortunately, I convinced him that wouldn’t be in his best interests.”

  “Just what kind of hold do you have over the ogre? There must be something. He’s not the understanding type. He’s one of those ultraconservatives that borders on fanatical.”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, baby.”

  “I never have understood that cliché.”

  “It has something to do with telling a horse’s age. Or being smart enough to shut up while you still have a job.”

  “Ah. That last I understand quite well. Thanks, Tootsie. Well, I’m going to look at this as a positive opportunity.”

  “Oh please, God, don’t tell me.”

  “Yep. Now I have more time to focus on who killed Harry. If Cheríe is to be believed—and since she’s already told the police about it, it’s pretty hard to unring that bell—there’s a witness who overheard Darcy threaten to kill Harry. If there is a witness, and this witness did tell the cops Aunt Darcy threatened Harry, then I want to find out who it is and what they heard. It’s certain Bobby won’t tell me anything, even if I went temporarily insane and asked him.”

  “Any hope of talking you out of this?”

  “Not much. The sooner the police have the real killer in custody, the sooner Aunt Darcy pays me the five thousand she’ll owe me, and the sooner I can come back to work. After a short vacation, maybe. Alaska might be nice this time of year. I’ve heard those cruises can be very relaxing.”

  “Darling, I’m sure you’d manage to change all that.”

  “I’m beginning to think that’s my talent. I’ve been wondering about it. Everyone has a talent, y’know? Maybe mine is snooping.”

  Tootsie lifted a brow and pursed his lips. “That’s not a talent, honey. It’s more on the level of snoring. Not quite annoying enough to get you killed, but close.”

  “Okay, we’ll refer to it as my new habit then. Did you find the address of the sister in Atoka, by chance?”

  “By Internet, not by chance. Darling, think about it before you carry that fine little ass of yours all the way out to the wilds of Atoka. Two people have been killed. I’m not at all sure you should do any more snooping.”

  “You’re probably right. Now, about that address . . . ”

  Tootsie gave it to her, though not without a lot of eye rolling, pouting, and warnings that she should let the police handle it and not risk getting into any trouble.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be careful. Just don’t mention any of this to Morgan tonight, okay? No point in worrying him.”

  “Um hm. You two just make it in time for my performance tonight. Let me meet this man of yours so I can see for myself if he’s good enough for you. You’d think he’d be keeping you home at nights instead of letting you run the streets and sleep with corpses.”

  Harley shuddered at the memory. “Stop complaining. All night in the dark with a corpse and a crying Cami taught me a few things.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the right things. I’m not seeing much improvement yet.”

  “You’ll see. I’m much more cautious.”

  He sighed. “Somehow, I don’t find that as comforting as I once would have. Lately, your survival skills have been stretched to the limit.”

  “Don’t worry,” Harley said again, “I have no intention of getting into any trouble.”

  And she meant that. She really did.

  Ten

  Morgan surprised Harley. When he showed up at her apartment looking delicious in a dark blue knit shirt and tight black jeans that hid none of his best attributes, she half-expected him to refuse to go to Tootsie’s show at Numbers.

  Instead, he shrugged. “Sure. No problem, if you’d rather go there than a movie.”

  “Uh, you do know these are guys dressed up as women, don’t you?”

  He grinned, and she loved the way it deepened the sexy groove on one side of his mouth. “Yeah, I know. We had the place under surveillance one time. No, I won’t tell you why. That was a few years ago. Everything came out all right.”

  “You’re a man of constant surprises,” Harley said. “Is there anything else I should know about you?”

  “If you mean, do I like to play dress up in fishnet hose and women’s underwear, no. But that doesn’t mean I have a problem with guys who do. As long as they stay on their side of the fence, if you know what I mean.”

  Harley smiled. One more mark on the plus side of her mental checklist. As a boyfriend, he had real possibilities. Not that she was looking. No, the best thing to do was just float along and see how things worked out. To hell with her biological clock or Cami’s warnings. They were two different people.

  “Then I’m sure we’ll have a good time,” she said, “because I understand most of those guys are really good at fence-sitting.”

  Morgan gave her a skeptical look, but didn’t balk, so she figured he was doing all right.

  After Wally burgers at Morgan’s favorite dive, a hamburger joint on Poplar that served cheeseburgers named after the first owner, cold beer, and hot grease, they went out the back door to reach Morgan’s car. It was jammed between an old van and a Jaguar. Wally’s had an eclectic clientele. Cool night air washed over Harley’s arms and the back of her neck, and crickets in the weeds behind a tall wooden fence that had seen better days almost drowned out the sounds of traffic. Red, blue, yellow and green lights along Poplar flashed off and on, advertising liquor stores, restaurants, dollar stores, and a major pharmacy. The ripe smell of fried onions had permeated Harley’s clothes, and she rolled down the car window to air out.

  “You didn’t eat much,” Mike said, and she shrugged.

  “I’m not that into cheeseburgers as big as truck tires. One of those could feed a family of four for a week. Besides, you ate my leftovers so nothing went to waste.”

  “You sure you’re not a vegetarian? I never see you eat burgers.”

  “If you’re referring to half a cow between two buns, no, you’ll never see me eat that much meat. No wonder that’s your favorite place to go. Talk about a value meal.”

  “We could have gone somewhere classier. Somewhere you usually go.”

  “Like Sekisui? Somehow, I didn’t figure you as a sushi kind of guy.”

  He laughed and changed the subject. “So how do you like my ride?”

  “Nice. One of your undercover cars?”

  “Nope. Not anymore. I bought this at the police auction a while back.”

  Harley nodded approval. It was an older model Corvette, a red convertible that had either been extremely well kept, or completely remodeled. Maybe the last, because this one had a built-in CD player in the dash.

  “Is that Meatloaf?” she said when a familiar song played, and then sang along to Paradise by the Dashboard Lights. That song always put her in a good mood.

  “It reminds me of my foolish youth,” she said when Morgan asked if she wanted to hear it again. “I lost my virginity to that song. In the back seat of a car, with the dashboard lights—such a romantic glow. Ah, those were the days.”

 
“Half the teenagers in the eighties lost their virginity during that song,” Morgan said with a laugh. “The power of suggestion.”

  “Oh please. As if any of us needed a suggestion. All we needed was the right person and fifteen minutes alone.”

  “That long? Most teenage boys have the staying power of a gnat.”

  “Yeah, but I think Bobby had been practicing alone in his room at night.”

  “Bobby . . . Baroni?”

  Oops. She caught his surprised glance at her and managed a careless shrug. “That’s the one. It was a long time ago. We both realized pretty quickly we function much better as friends.”

  For a minute he didn’t say anything. Harley wondered if it bothered him, but even if she’d wanted to, there was no way to undo what she’d said. After a moment of silence, she figured he’d had time to get over the shock and said, “I’m not usually the kiss and tell type. I just kinda forgot for a minute that you know him.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  His grin let her know he wasn’t that bothered. Another mark on the plus side. Damn. If the past was any indication, right around now she’d find out his divorce wasn’t final yet or his mother wanted him home by midnight to massage her feet. She hated waiting for the other shoe to drop. The suspense could get unbearable.

  “Has it occurred to you,” she said to change the subject, “that Harry Gordon’s car wasn’t at the shop when he was murdered? How did he get there? And who has it now? Dead men don’t usually drive.”

  “Probably the murderer. Or it’s been ditched somewhere, sold to a chop shop and is in ten different counties by now. The police haven’t found it yet. But they will.”

  “If it was the murderer, that lets Aunt Darcy off the hook, wouldn’t you think? She can’t drive two cars at once.”

  “And she can’t account for all her time, either. She could have come back for it. Taken a taxi out there. Gotten someone to pick it up. Gave it to a crack dealer.”

  “Now you’re bordering on the ridiculous, but I get your point.” Obviously, the police had already investigated all those possibilities. There had to be another explanation. One that she liked a lot better. One that didn’t make it so plausible Aunt Darcy could have murdered Harry.

  Harley settled back against the car seat and tried not to think about it. The night was gorgeous, not to mention the man sitting beside her. The top was down on the car, the smell of magnolia blossoms was heady, and Diva had said everything would turn out all right in the end. Right or not, Harley was going to go with that promise for the evening.

  Numbers was full of gorgeous women who weren’t. Lucky for her that her self-esteem was pretty healthy, Harley thought, or she’d feel extremely intimidated by these ladies who’d been born with a Y chromosome. How could men look as damn good as women? It didn’t seem fair somehow.

  “Hey baby,” a familiar voice said right behind her, and Harley turned, then jumped back when confronted by what looked very much like Madonna in her Viking queen costume. Silky blond hair that fell around bare shoulders framed a carefully made-up face, complete with the tiny mole at the corner of red lips. He wore black leather, fishnet hose, and carried a short whip, and the bra had huge brass brads along the straps, band, and the tips of very pointed cups.

  “Good God, Tootsie, those things are dangerous. You could poke someone’s eyes out.”

  He laughed and wiggled the sharply-pointed bra cups. “Like ’em?”

  “They’d make great oil funnels. You look very Goth. Is that cleavage?”

  “Of course, dahling,” Tootsie said with a laugh. “A little bit of false advertising never hurts. So, is this the hot boyfriend?”

  He was looking behind her, surveying Morgan through long false eyelashes that did nothing to hide his obvious assessment.

  “Oh. Yeah. Mike Morgan, this is Tootsie Rowell, Madonna’s evil twin sister.”

  “No, I’m Madonna’s better twin sister.” Tootsie shook hands with Morgan, and it was odd seeing him look like a woman and act like a man as he made eye contact and offered a firm hand grip. He seemed to size Morgan up, but Morgan was doing the same. Harley tried not to roll her eyes. Even men in bras had that male territorial thing going on, it seemed.

  “Okay, now that the introductions are over,” she said in a chirpy voice meant to convey reassurance to both men, “show us where you want us to sit.”

  Their version of arm wrestling ended, and Tootsie smiled. “Very nice.” He looked back at Harley. “There’s been a wardrobe malfunction—don’t get excited, it’s nothing like Janet Jackson’s—so instead of wearing my black velvet evening gown and long white gloves, I’ve dressed as the Viking queen. It just seems so very appropriate anyway, don’t you think?”

  He seated them at a table in front and ordered them a complimentary beer. Then with a promise to return after the show, he disappeared into the back. Harley watched him go, admiring how good he looked in spike heels and the black leather bikini studded with brass buttons.

  “Nice guy,” Morgan commented, then frowned and said, “Or nice girl. Which does he prefer?”

  “He’s not sensitive about it. He’s come to terms with his lifestyle and doesn’t really care what everyone else thinks. He’s very well-adjusted.”

  “That’s good to know. Not many in his position are so lucky.”

  This was totally weird. A conversation about the lifestyle of a cross-dresser and gay adult in current society was not something she’d ever envisioned having with a man like Morgan. Or anyone else. Thankfully, the show started and four black guys dressed as the Supremes in soft rainbow shades of chiffon came on-stage and did a great job with My Baby Love, then segued into Where Did Our Love Go before relinquishing the stage to Tootsie-Madonna.

  With his blond wig, Viking queen costume, and alto vocals, Tootsie was a hit, as he’d promised. Just like in Madonna’s video, some well-built young men in tight black leather pants hefted Tootsie onto their shoulders and carried him around while he belted out Material Girl.

  Harley sighed. “He’s got great legs. And he might be wearing the wrong costume for that song, but he’s much prettier than Madonna.”

  Morgan just grinned.

  After the show and Tootsie’s standing ovation, he came to sit down at the table in front, still in drag. “You were great,” Harley said. “And I mean that sincerely. You’re fantastic.”

  “I don’t have Madonna’s range, but I do all right.” Tootsie lifted a beer. “Here’s to all our friendships, may they endure everything that life throws at us.”

  They clinked beer bottles together and Harley said, “Sláinte.”

  “Did you just say something naughty?” Tootsie asked with a lift of his carefully plucked eyebrow.

  “No, it’s Gaelic for ‘to your health.’. My great-grandmother taught it to me years ago. She likes to take a wee nip now and then of what she refers to as her beverage, but I happen to know it’s a quart bottle of beer. PBR. Warm. Hidden between the washer and dryer in her laundry room.”

  “PBR?”

  “Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

  Morgan looked amazed. “Do they still make that?”

  “They do.”

  Laughing, he clinked his half-full beer against her second one. “Then slaw—what?”

  “Slawn-cha m’hor, cor-deh,” she enunciated, “or great health, friends.”

  “Sleinte cairde!” they all said in unison, and Harley smiled happily. The evening was going along much better than she’d dared hope. Warmed by friendship and two Coronas, she felt almost giddy.

  It was bound to go downhill.

  A little past midnight, when the club had thinned out some and even those unemployed were considering going home, Harley made one last trip to the bathroom before they left. The lights had gone out in the long hallway. It was pretty dim except for the glow from the bar and an exit sign, but she had already made a few trips and figured she could find it even in the dark.

  One gla
nce in the mottled bathroom mirror was enough to convince her that four beers were past her limit; she looked like something out of Fright Night, with her hair in wispy spikes on one side, limp on the other. And she had what she referred to as Christmas Eyes, green orbs surrounded by bloodshot red. Yep. Time to call it a night.

  Just as she was getting her jeans pulled back up and tucking the ends of her tee shirt into the waistband, the bathroom light went out. “Hey! I’m still in here!”

  Man, these guys closed early. Most bars stayed open until two, the cutoff time for serving alcohol. Muttering to herself, she fumbled with the latch on the stall door, then eased out and felt her way along the tiled wall. She bumped into the sink and ricocheted off the opposite wall, swearing loudly as she careened toward the door. She felt like a pool ball. That thought made her giggle.

  “Six-ball in the corner pocket,” she sang out as she wrenched open the bathroom door, and ran right into a solid wall of muscle. Before she had time to apologize, a smelly bag was yanked over her head and her arms were pinned in a viselike grip as she was dragged a few feet down the hallway and out into the alley. She knew that last only because she felt a warm breeze on her bare arms and heard the noisy rattle of the central air unit that cooled the club. There was something else, too—a car motor close by. It sounded like it had bad gas, the pistons knocking loudly.

  Whoever had her meant to put her in that car, and she was just as determined not to go as he was to force her into it. It was a fierce struggle. Somehow, Harley got her legs up, bent, and one foot braced on each side of the open door, resisting his efforts to wedge her inside. Breathing hard, he swore at her in an unfamiliar language that didn’t need an interpreter to understand, then grabbed at her legs. To do that, he had to release one of her arms. She made instant use of that flaw in his plan, and blindly grabbed for a handful of his clothes to pull him off-balance.

  Fortunately, she’d grabbed a handful of his anatomy that effected her immediate release. He made a high-pitched sound like a loose fan belt and dropped her, and she gave a hard twist of her wrist just for good measure. His family jewels were probably missing a few stones by now, she figured as she crawled away and stumbled to her feet, ripping the bag from her head to yell for help.