Damning, in light of what had happened a few hours later. Was that why Darcy had been so rattled when she’d come out to the storage area Thursday afternoon? Had she seen Harry come in with more smuggled goods?
“Thank you, Miss Moore. I’m sure Aunt Darcy appreciates your help.”
That lie should have made her nose grow a foot. It’d hardly be a help if Darcy ended up being charged with murder on the testimony of this witness. And that, unfortunately, seemed like a sure thing.
Before heading out to Atoka for a conversation with the Plotz sister, she cruised by her apartment building. Across the street, the park had its share of visitors, carloads of mommies and kiddies arriving at the zoo, bicyclists, and patrons visiting the Brooks Art Gallery. It wasn’t too hard to blend in and still get a good look at the street running in front of her building, just to see if there were any cars staking out her car and apartment.
There was a dark blue Pontiac with a bashed-in front fender parked on Tucker as she’d thought there might be. Her stalker was so predictable, and obviously not too smart or he’d be in a different vehicle. She pulled over to one side under a tree, retrieved her cell phone—heavily padded by a leather case and wrapped in a thick scarf inside her backpack—and dialed Bobby. He answered on the second ring.
“Hi,” she said cheerily, “I have a favor to ask.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard the favor yet.”
“Whatever it is—no.”
“Bobby, Bobby, you’re being shortsighted. I may have Harry Gordon’s murderer parked outside my apartment.”
After a brief silence, Bobby said, “Then let him in. It’d solve so many of my problems.”
“I know you don’t mean that.” When Bobby stopped laughing, she added, “He attacked me last night at Numbers. It occurred to me that he’s probably the same guy who killed Harry, though I haven’t yet figured out why. Anyway, I thought you might want to arrest him on some pretext, assault or illegal parking or whatever, while you connect him to the murder. I’m sure he’s involved in it, and probably the guy who did it.”
“Harley—”
“Ask Morgan about it. He was with me last night when I was attacked. He ran the guy’s plates, and they’re from Ohio and Harry Gordon was in Ohio before he came to work with Aunt Darcy.”
“Harley—”
“The least you can do is talk to Morgan before you make an arrest.”
“We already have a suspect in custody.”
“You do?” She knew that she wasn’t going to like what he said next, and she didn’t.
“We brought in Darcy Fontaine this morning. Harry Gordon was killed with her gun, and so was Julio Melendez. Her prints are all over it, she had motive, and her alibi didn’t hold up. I tried to call you, but you had your phone turned off.”
“Oh. I thought Harry was killed by an elk horn.”
“No, he was just hung on an elk horn. He was killed by a nine millimeter bullet. Just like the one that killed Julio Melendez.”
Some investigator she was, Harley thought in disgust, she’d never even asked what killed Julio. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed that important. Dead was dead.
“I didn’t know Darcy even had a gun, Bobby. Are you sure it belonged to her?”
“Registered in her name, with her prints on it. It’s a safe bet it’s hers.”
Aunt Darcy was just full of little surprises. Damn her. She could have at least mentioned the small fact she owned a gun that had turned out to be the murder weapon.
“So where’d you find the gun?”
“In Mrs. Fontaine’s car.”
A string of expletives danced in her head, but she restrained herself long enough to ask, “I suppose the case against her is pretty strong?”
“Strong enough that the DA is seeking an indictment. Sorry, Harley. I know she’s your aunt, but it really looks like she’s guilty.”
“Bobby, Aunt Darcy may be a lot of things, but you know she’s not a killer.”
“That’s not what the evidence says. And that’s what we have to go by.”
“Did you check out the other designers? The delivery guys? The office workers?”
“You know we did. They’ve all been ruled out. Except for Julio, and he was killed before Harry Gordon, according to the coroner.”
She sighed. “Okay, will you at least check out this guy waiting outside my apartment? There’s got to be a good reason he attacked me last night.”
“Harley, I know any number of people who’d want to attack you. But I’ll send out some uniforms anyway.”
“Thanks.”
“Stay inside until they’ve had a chance to check him out, okay? Don’t do anything on your own. Stay away from him, Harley.”
It seemed best not to tell him she was already outside. “I promise I won’t try to talk to him.”
“Or follow him or pelt him with eggs, or anything else.”
“Bobby, you have such a vivid imagination. Or good memory. I seem to recall an incident in your childhood that involved a dozen eggs, a neighbor’s house, and the police.”
“Good-bye, Harley.”
She smiled as she hung up. Sometimes it was so easy to fluster him.
Atoka was on the northeast side of Memphis, a small community that hadn’t yet been swallowed up by the larger city, so it still had that country feel to it. The inevitable house trailers on one to ten acre lots were scattered about, with older homes on decreasing farmlands still in the majority. New subdivisions were springing up on bare lots of what had once been corn or cotton fields, big houses built so close together the residents could lean out their upstairs windows to exchange handshakes if they wanted. Suburban living at its finest.
Harley found Anna Plotz Merritt at the address Tootsie had given her, living in a mobile home on some wooded acres off the main highway. A dirt drive led off the narrow blacktop road, two deep ruts forming the approach to the trailer. No Trespassing signs were nailed to trees on each side of the drive. A steel cover stretched the length of the metal home, shading the door and windows. Broken lattice panels enclosed a small porch set on concrete, and a couple of lazy dogs slept in the shade. Neither dog bothered to acknowledge her arrival, other than the barest flicker of a tail. She switched off her bike, and silence descended as she propped it up on the kickstand.
Three steps led up to the deck and front door, and Harley navigated around half of a pair of old rubber boots, a naked doll baby with frizzy hair and blue ink tattoos, a few plastic blocks, a rugged Tonka truck covered in mud, and a huge stuffed duck squatting in a lawn chair. The latter had realistic looking feathers and seemed to be leaking. A strange hissing sound came from that direction.
Harley rapped twice on the aluminum storm door and heard someone yell out, “Wait a minute!”
She took a step back to be out of the way when the door opened. The leaking duck got louder. This time she looked more closely at it. It blinked a beady eye.
Startled, she took another step back just as the storm door opened and the duck launched at her in a furious flurry of feathers and hisses. Arms flailing, Harley missed the second step and slid down the rest of the way on her butt and elbows. The duck followed, landing atop her chest and nipping at her face. The beak was hard as wooden pliers, pinching her ear, stabbing her arms when she flung them up to protect herself. It hurt.
She’d never hit a duck before, but there was a first time for everything. Grabbing hold of whatever she could reach, Harley swung it at the feathered fury. The baby doll’s head flew off, but so did the duck. A little shakily, Harley got to her feet.
Someone was laughing hysterically. It wasn’t Harley. She looked up at the porch.
A brown haired, slender woman was bent over at the waist, her face knotted up with laughter. Actual tears slid down her cheeks.
“This is not funny,” Harley said, but the woman she assumed to be Anna Plotz Merritt obviously didn’t agree. She kept laughing. “I mean it,” Harley said. “You
should have some signs posted. Beware of Duck or something like that.”
Shaking her head and wiping her wet face with the heel of her hand, the woman said, “It’s not a duck. Gladys is a goose.”
A goose. Of course. Diva had warned her. She really had to learn to interpret her mother’s predictions better.
“No offense to Gladys,” Harley muttered, “but who keeps geese on their front porch?”
“Geese are good watchdogs.”
“Better than yours, anyway,” Harley said with a glance at the still sleeping hounds. “Are you Anna?”
“Yes. And you are—?”
“Bruised, but my name is Harley.”
Anna glanced past her to the chrome bike sitting between ruts. “Harley on a Harley, huh. Cute.”
“Right. That’s me. Cute. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“If you’re selling something, forget it.”
“It won’t cost you anything but a little time.” Harley tried her most innocent smile, but Anna apparently wasn’t fooled.
“Oh no, anytime someone shows up at my door wanting nothing, it’s always expensive. Usually it’s a man, but if Gladys doesn’t trust you, neither do I.”
“Gladys is mistaken. I don’t even eat meat. Much. Just a few questions, please. Then I’ll leave.” When Anna shook her head and reached for the storm door handle, Harley said, “It’s about your sister Cheríe. She may be in trouble.”
Anna paused and turned to look at her with narrowed eyes. “Cheríe is dead.”
“I know, but her name isn’t. Frieda’s using it.” While Anna looked like she might be thinking about that, Harley added, “And she might be in danger.”
Maybe it was grudging, but Anna invited her inside where it was cooler. And goose-free. The trailer interior was surprisingly nice, with a huge plasma TV on one wall, state of the art sound equipment, expensive leather furniture, and what looked like new carpet. It was at odds with the very nature of the dwelling and general air of shabbiness, but maybe that was the point. Who’d ever think there was anything worth stealing in here?
“Nice,” she said, and Anna nodded.
“When my husband died, he left an insurance policy.”
“Your husband’s death must have been recent.”
“Yes. Are you here to talk about me or Frieda?”
“Well, in a way, both of you. I’m just wondering what you can tell me about your sister. It may have a bearing on what’s happened.”
“Look, I can tell you about what we did in third grade, but that’s not going to be of much use to you now. I haven’t kept up with her in the past few years. So how is Frieda in danger?”
“Someone killed her business partner, Harry Gordon, and if Frieda knows too much, she may be next.” That was subtle, she thought, without accusing Frieda of killing Harry. “Do you know where Frieda might be staying? And why she’d be using her sister’s name instead of her own?”
Anna looked distraught. “Harry . . . Harry Gordon’s dead? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Don’t you get the papers? Or watch the local news?”
“I . . . I’ve been out of town and unavailable. I just got back a few hours ago. No one’s told me anything. When . . . how did it happen?”
“This past Thursday. He was shot.” She tactfully left out the part about Harry hanging on an elk horn and how her aunt was a suspect in his murder, or that Frieda blamed Darcy. Some things were best left unsaid.
“No . . . no one called me.” Anna stood up suddenly, wringing her hands. “I had no idea. And I haven’t talked to my sister in a while. Months. Why would anyone kill Harry—her partner?”
“Well, the police seem to think it has something to do with his business dealings. And since your sister was in business with him, whoever killed him may want to kill her as well.”
Anna had turned toward the window that looked out over empty fields and a wooded tract behind the trailer. She shook her head. “I don’t know of anyone who’d want to kill either of them. I haven’t been in contact with them lately.”
Them? Harley frowned. “Did you know Harry Gordon well?”
“No. I never met Harry Gordon.” She turned back to face Harley. “I only know of him through Frieda. She first met him in St. Louis.”
“Did she work with him in Cincinnati, too?”
Anna hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. There was some kind of trouble with the owner of the antiques business not paying his taxes or whatever and he went to jail, so Frieda went to work for Harry.”
“And she came to Memphis with him?”
“Is that a crime?”
“Not unless he violated the Mann Act and took a minor over state lines, and Frieda’s well over eighteen, I presume. So who else was in business with them? Anyone named Julio?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Good lord, no.”
“Then do you mind telling me why you’re asking all these questions? I thought you were going to tell me why Frieda’s in danger.”
“Well, I’m trying to figure that out myself. See, two of the guys she worked with are dead and now no one can find her. I figure she’s hiding because she knows they’re after her, too.”
“They who?”
“The smugglers. Harry’s partners. Or I should say, former partners. That has to be who killed Harry and Julio. If Cheríe—Frieda—knows anything at all, they’re looking for her.”
Anna went pale, and her hands shook. “I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her.”
“So you don’t know the people who were working with them, or exactly what kinds of business dealings were involved?”
Anna waved one hand, her gaze moving past Harley toward the plasma TV on the wall. “I only know that they traveled a lot and brought back exotic antiques. Ivory, fur rugs, things like that. She used to give me things.”
“ Like that box on the table over there?”
Anna turned to look. A small white box about the size of a candy sampler sat on the kitchen table. Long, skinny dragons were carved on the top and sides, looping together.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “Frieda gave me that.”
“Do you mind if I look at it? It’s very pretty.”
“Well . . . I suppose there’s no harm.” Rather grudgingly, Anna brought over the white box and held it out to Harley. “Be careful. It seems fragile.”
Harley held it in both hands. It was quite pretty and surprisingly light. It looked much heavier. The bone was dense but porous. No machine had carved out these dragons and loops. It must be antique; she was no dealer and wouldn’t know a new piece of ivory from an old one, but she could tell it was worth a lot of money. And it looked familiar, though she couldn’t remember where she’d seen one like it before.
“Your sister is quite generous,” she said, toying with the clasp of the locked box. “You two must be very close.”
Anna held out her hand for the box. “Not really,” she said rather coldly. “We don’t see one another often enough for that.”
As Harley handed it back to Anna, she said, “Don’t you ever worry about anyone breaking in here, stealing things like this?”
Anna shrugged. “If anyone breaks in here, the last thing they’ll be looking for is that box. I’ve got too much expensive electronic equipment for them to waste their time on that.”
“Maybe so, but an alarm system might come in handy. Not that Gladys isn’t formidable all by herself, but you never know what might happen.”
“That’s right,” Anna said, “you just never know. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve still got to unpack. You know how it is when you’ve been away.”
“Sure,” Harley said. “Here’s my business card if you hear from Frieda.” She held out a Memphis Tour Tyme card with her name and number on it, and Anna took it grudgingly.
She wouldn’t call, and no doubt the card would go into the trash the minute Harley got out of the driveway, but Harley suddenly remembered where she’d seen that ivory bo
x. It had arrived the day she met Harry Gordon, and he’d taken it from her and gone into the shop with it. Now Frieda’s sister had it, when Anna claimed she hadn’t seen Frieda in months. Since Anna had been out of town, Frieda must have brought it here. Harry wouldn’t have had time, not if he was busy stowing away priceless artifacts and being murdered, so Frieda had to have left it here. But when? Before or after Julio’s and Harry’s murders? And why bring it here at all? Of all the things smuggled in, why this one box carved with Celtic dragons? That small bone box just might hold a clue as to why Harry had been killed. And once they found out who had killed Harry, they’d find Julio’s murderer as well.
Both men had been killed on the same day in the same place with the same weapon, so it had to be the same killer. And thieves fell out all the time. So Frieda Plotz a.k.a. Cheríe Saucier had just as much if not more motive to kill Harry than Darcy. Now all she had to do was convince Bobby of that.
Piece of cake.
Eleven
“No.” Bobby looked unfriendly. His dark eyes narrowed to slits and his mouth set in a straight line that usually meant trouble for someone. Harley hoped it wasn’t her.
Leaning over his desk, she tried again. “Come on, Bobby. At least investigate her. If I’ve come up with all this info on my own, just think what you could do.”
“That’s another thing. How the hell are you finding out this stuff so quickly? Is someone in my department feeding you info they shouldn’t be?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re the only one I know in your department. Except for Officer Delisi, but I don’t think he likes me very much. He’s still holding a grudge since the King incident.”
“I’m still holding a grudge since the King incident. Where are you getting your info?”
Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) Page 17