Return to Fender

by Virginia Brown

  Whatever she’d thought Tootsie was going to say, it wasn’t even in the same ballpark.

  “Jordan wants you to investigate and find out who’s trying to kill him.”

  She stood up straight. “What?”

  “I know. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. It’s absolutely moronic, in fact.”

  “Gee, thanks. Why won’t Bobby do it?”

  “That’s the really ridiculous part. Bobby said he’d help. Jordan still wants you.”

  She smiled. “He must have read newspaper accounts about my talents.”

  “I tried to tell him the truth, that you somehow manage to do these things in spite of yourself, and that it usually ends badly for all concerned, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Don’t be tacky. It doesn’t always end badly.”

  “I have a fairly good memory, Harley. You’re only alive because you have an uncanny knack for survival. Rather like cockroaches.”

  She decided to ignore that. “Is money involved by any chance? I mean the kind of money where I get paid for my services? It’d be nice.”

  “Yes, which is even crazier. Why pay someone to make things worse?”

  “Despite your vote of confidence in me, tell Jordan that I’ll be happy to conduct an investigation for him. It might just be that he’s overreacting, but I’ll find out the truth. No problem.”

  “My house, eight o’clock. I’ll serve canapés and wine.”

  “How about pretzels and beer instead?”

  “Your taste buds must have died a horrible death. Domestic beer and pretzels? I can’t do it. It’s inhumane of you to ask.”

  “Force yourself. It’s a deal breaker.”

  Tootsie’s voice came out faintly, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “See you at eight, cupcake.”

  Chapter 3

  IT WAS TWO minutes before eight when Harley parked in front of Tootsie’s house and switched off the Toyota’s engine. It purred like a kitten despite damage done to the body by a psychopathic serial killer. That was not one of her favorite memories, although Nana liked to tell all the residents at the retirement village about it. She had fired a .38 Smith & Wesson that cracked the windshield and stopped a killer from ramming Harley’s car again. Nana really was a pip.

  Tootsie’s house was a Craftsman-style common in Midtown Memphis. The yard was neat and bushes trimmed. Fall flowers bloomed in concrete pots, and ivy curled from hanging baskets. The wooden front door was open behind a glass and wrought iron safety door. Thick-paned windows gleamed with light. Over the front door, a half-circle of stained glass radiated jewel colors. A wide porch ran the length of the house with white Adirondack chairs and a cushioned glider. Fat raindrops still dripped from the eaves.

  Tootsie met her at the door before she could ring the bell. His mouth quirked into a smile. “I’m glad you made it on time for a change.”

  “You should never doubt. Where’s the food? I’m starving.”

  “Such an impolite guest. I’ll let you in anyway.”

  Harley stepped inside the open door onto gleaming oak floors that had recently been refinished. To her left lay the living room, decorated with real Tiffany lamps, oil paintings, tall windows, and plush furniture. To her right were dark oak bookshelves as high as her head. Twelve foot ceilings made them look small. Between the bookshelves was an opening to a sort of parlor. A comfy chair and two parallel loveseats sat in front of the green tiled parlor fireplace. On each side of the fireplace small stained glass windows were set in about four feet above built-in benches. Broadway show tunes played from speakers tucked discreetly behind ornate sconces.

  “Is that Lion King music?” she asked as she followed him to the kitchen situated behind staircases rising to the second floor.

  “No,” he said, “but you’re close. It’s from Cats. ‘Memory.’”

  A loud, blood-curdling scream drowned out the music, pierced her eardrums, and jerked her to a halt a few steps into the room. Tootsie didn’t seem bothered by it, so she took another cautious step into the kitchen just as the scream was followed by what could only be described as a deranged cackling. Tootsie seemed oblivious.

  “Is the evening torture being held in the solarium?” she asked a bit nervously.

  “We don’t have a solarium. I told you weeks ago that Steve got some birds.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention they’re demented?”

  “Please. You’re demented, but I don’t go around warning everyone about you.”

  “And I appreciate that,” she said, “but I’m still not sure I want to be in the same house with Freddy Krueger.”

  “They’re birds, not a crazy murderer from a horror film. Your taste in movies is deplorable.”

  “Thank you. I’ll just be running along now.”

  “Not so fast. It’s time to feed them. You can help.”

  “Oh, no. I’ve seen enough movies to know how that works out. I’m not going to be bait for a couple of vultures.”

  “Chattering Lories, not vultures. And they don’t eat meat, so you’re safe. Besides, you’d probably give them indigestion.”

  Ignoring that, she peered into one of the bowls he’d removed from the stainless steel restaurant-style cooler. “What is that? It’s not your idea of appetizers, is it?”

  “Yes. But it’s for the birds.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it looks like. For the birds.”

  Tootsie sighed. “You can be so annoying, darling.”

  “You keep saying that. When is your friend Jordan getting here?”

  “Any time now. He’s already on his way. Take this.”

  He held out one of the bowls to her, and she inspected the contents before taking it from him. “It looks like canned fruit cocktail.”

  “Really? That’s probably because it’s canned fruit cocktail.”

  “What’s in the other bowl?”

  “Broccoli, some cauliflower, and a monkey biscuit.”

  “You have monkeys too?”

  “No. Follow me, Harley. Quietly, please.”

  Harley followed him through the small breakfast room and into the dining room. A huge wire cage sat on a stand atop a rectangle of thick plastic spread over the oak floor. Inside the cage, two bright red birds jumped from perch to wooden perch. One of them leaped from the perch to cling to the side of the wire cage. He put his curved beak through the bars and stuck out his tongue. It looked like a bottle brush.

  “Hey baby! Come talk to me,” the bird said in a rather guttural tone. She had to laugh.

  “Well, they’re pretty if you like birds,” she conceded.

  “They’re noisy and obnoxious,” said Tootsie.

  “Then why do you have them?”

  “I told you. Steve got them. They came from a rescue. Scoop some of the fruit cocktail into that plastic feed cup inside the cage.”

  Harley eyed the birds warily. “I don’t know about that. Do they bite?”

  “Yes, but don’t let that deter you. They’re not poisonous.”

  She handed him the bowl with the fruit cocktail. “No way. That isn’t in my job description, and I’m not going to do it.”

  “You’re scared of two little birds?”

  “Yes. I don’t see you sticking your hand in there either.”

  “I know. They bite.”

  “See? My point exactly.”

  Tootsie sighed and opened the cage door. He reached in and gingerly placed the broccoli, cauliflower, and the thing that looked like shredded wheat but was a monkey biscuit into the plastic cups. Then he poured the fruit cocktail over the top, flinching a bit as one of the birds shrieked loudly. When the bird followed the screech with a snatch of song, “I’m Popeye the sailor man, I live in a garbage can,” Harley figured the worst was over.

  Beads of perspiration dotted Tootsie’s forehead when he closed the cage door with a relieved sigh. “Steve usually feeds them, but he had to cover someone else’s shift so left too quickly to do it. I’m not comfortable riski
ng my alabaster skin.”

  “Alabaster skin? Seriously?” She rolled her eyes. “So what about feeding me?”

  “Do you bite? I’m still not that comfortable taking risks with my skin.”

  “I don’t bite, but I have been known to nibble. Don’t worry. Not on alabaster skin. So when did you say we’re going to eat? I didn’t stop for dinner.”

  “Don’t worry. I have hors d’oeuvres already prepared.”

  “How do you prepare beer and pretzels?” she inquired as she followed him from the dining room and back into the kitchen. “I mean, it’s pop the top and pour the pretzels into a bowl. How much preparation does that take?”

  “You have such plebian tastes. And I have my standards. No domestic beer and a cheap bag of pretzels will be served in my home. I know you like wine, so I have a bottle of white chilling for you, however.”

  “Great. I suppose you’re going to serve canapés with that instead of plain chips?”

  “Branch out. Try new things.”

  “Now you sound like Morgan.”

  Tootsie put the empty bowls into a dishwasher while Harley sat on a stool pulled up to a new island. A recent kitchen remodeling had been done on a modest scale since Tootsie wanted to retain the integrity of the house his grandparents had owned, but the kitchen island bore a new quartz countertop and a small copper sink.

  The kitchen walls were still painted a sunny yellow, with rows of blue and white plates atop shiny white rails on the walls. Greenery spilled out of hanging baskets in front of the wide window over the farmhouse sink. More blue and white plates sat behind glass windows in an old cupboard that looked like it had come over on the Mayflower. And slouched in a corner were a couple of skeletons and a large tombstone.

  “Those aren’t your last guests, I hope,” she said, and Tootsie rolled his eyes.

  “It’s for the Halloween party. You did get your invitation, I presume?”

  “Uh, maybe. I haven’t checked my mailbox lately.”

  “That figures. Be on time. I may need your help. And wear a costume this year, please.”

  “I was in costume last year.”

  Tootsie arched a brow as he looked at her. “You were not. You wore a leather jacket and jeans.”

  “That was my costume. A biker chick.”

  “Please. You look like that all the time. Try something new. Wear makeup and comb your hair over your ears.”

  “I’ll leave all that to you. You’re better at it.”

  Tootsie placed several bowls in varied colors atop the quartz counter, and Harley leaned close to inspect the contents. None of it looked much like cheese dip. “What’s this greenish one,” she asked Tootsie’s back, “guacamole?”

  Tootsie answered without turning to look at her. “Artichoke hearts and spinach dip. It’s very good. For the quiches I used Gruyère cheese, piment d’Espelette, and—”

  “I’m feeling ill. Tell Jordan I’m sorry I couldn’t stay to meet him.”

  “Harley Jean Davidson, don’t you dare leave.”

  “Using my middle name doesn’t scare me.”

  “Most things don’t scare you.”

  “Not true. Pima display scares me. Is it some kind of insect?”

  Tootsie shook his head. “Piment d’Espelette is a type of red chili pepper, Harley.”

  “Oh. Well, what kind of chips are these?”

  “They’re not chips. They’re toasted garlic bagel slices. Very nice. Try one. Give your taste buds a chance to experience new foods.”

  “You made toast?” She picked one up and looked at it. Round, with a pale center and toasted edges, the crispy little thing did have a nice garlicky smell to it.

  “No, I bought those at an Indian restaurant. They’re much better than the ones I get at the health food store.”

  “Oh.” Harley hesitated and then popped it into her mouth. She’d learned through harsh experience to question food Tootsie served her. He had often tried to trick her into experimental delicacies from what she termed “insect farms.” She’d never quite forgiven him for an escargot fiasco. She’d burped garlic and garden slug for days afterward. In her experience, garlic could disguise a multitude of gastronomic misdeeds and freaks.

  But the toasted bagel slice turned out to be just as its name foretold, and she ate a few of them while waiting on him to finish arranging a black lacquered tray with an array of canapés spread on its surface. She recognized California roll and the tiny quiches but wasn’t familiar with other offerings on the tray.

  “There’s enough food here to feed a small country. What are those?” she asked, pointing to what looked similar to a monkey biscuit for the birds.

  “Shrimp puffs. Next to them are salmon canapés. Just simple hors d’oeuvres for a casual evening. Besides, they’re left over from last night’s small dinner party.”

  “You’re the only person I know who can use that word and not sound silly.”

  Tootsie looked at her. “What word—canapés?”

  “Hors d’oeuvres. If I had said it, I’d sound pretentious.”

  “Darling, you sound pretentious just saying hello.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have plenty of other words in my vocabulary I could use, you know.”

  “I’m sure you do—ah. Saved by the bell.”

  The door chimes rang, and the birds mimicked them. Harley covered her ears with both hands. “I don’t know how you stand those birds,” she said, but Tootsie had already gone into the living room to greet his guest. She grabbed another bagel bite and followed behind.

  As Tootsie opened the front door, a man Harley assumed to be Jordan nearly fell inside. His face was contorted, his lips moved without sound, and his eyes looked like big brown spots. Necktie askew, shirttail out, buttons half-open, and trousers spattered with mud, he staggered forward across the threshold. His voice sounded strangled. “Help!”

  Harley moved forward, but Tootsie caught him just before he fell onto the floor. In a matter of seconds, Tootsie managed to get Jordan half-on, half-off the living room couch. Jordan’s light brown face was a sickly gray, and his large, long-boned hands shook as if they weren’t connected to his arms. He looked vaguely familiar. She peered more closely at him. Then it hit her. “I remember you. You’re Diana Ross.”

  Tootsie made an exasperated sound. “You could help me get him all the way onto the couch instead of talking about his alter-ego, you know.”

  “Anything for Diana Ross.” Harley took Jordan’s feet while Tootsie adjusted his head and shoulders, and they got him stretched out on the designer couch. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been dressed as Diana Ross at one of the Gay Revue competitions.

  Tootsie put a pillow under Jordan’s head. “Are you all right?” he asked him anxiously. “What happened?”

  Jordan seemed dazed and confused. Tootsie fussed over him for another minute or two before he began to get his bearings. His gaze came to rest on her, and though his eyes still looked a bit unfocused, she waggled her fingers at him.

  “Why did you break up the Supremes?” Harley asked for lack of anything else to say that wouldn’t sound too freaked out. Truth was—he was freaking her out. He looked at death’s door, and all recent experiences aside, it wasn’t a good look for anyone.

  “Why do I smell garlic?” Jordan’s eyes slowly began to focus. “Oh, no. It’s the crazy white chick. Is she the one I read about in the paper?”

  Tootsie replied, “Yes. Don’t be alarmed. She’s not armed.”

  “Crazy white chick?” Harley repeated.

  Tootsie looked over at her. “He means that in only the best way.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Ignoring that, Tootsie turned to Jordan again. “Are you all right? What happened to you?”

  “Some idiot tried to run me off the road right into the Wolf River. My car got stuck, and after I got it out of the mud and onto the shoulder, the same guy tried to run me down again.” He paused, obviously having exhausted himself.


  Tootsie stuck another pillow under his head. “Did you call the police?”

  “No. What could I tell them? There’s no evidence, just me being muddy.”

  Tootsie nodded. “You’re safe now, and that’s the main thing.”

  Harley pointed out the obvious. “Yeah, he’s safe for now, but what about when he leaves here?”

  Tootsie glared at her, and Jordan made an odd rasping sound in the back of his throat. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jordan said glumly. “I’m not sure I can get more scared than I already am. So—you’re who I read about. I thought you were older. And someone else. The paper said you solved crimes. Are you any good?”

  Tootsie gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “She’s demented.”

  “That’s what I read.” He tilted his head to look at Harley. “I think the paper also said you accidentally identified the murderers. Is that right?”

  “Pure conjecture on their part. It was said by only one reporter, and she doesn’t properly appreciate my skills.”

  Tootsie broke in. “I still say Bobby Baroni needs to be involved. Harley, you need to convince Jordan that Bobby should help. You can call him to ask.”

  “You can’t be serious. Do I look suicidal? Just because Bobby and I have been friends since junior high doesn’t mean he’ll be nice to me. He’s really picky about police business. And he keeps threatening to put me in jail if I don’t stop finding dead bodies. He’s very disagreeable about things like that.”

  “But he likes you. And he’s a lieutenant in Homicide.”

  “Are you listening? I have no influence with Bobby when it comes to interfering in what he calls police procedure. And I’m not sure he likes me so much, he just tolerates me.”

  “That’s okay,” said Jordan. “I’d rather not involve the police until we have all the evidence we need.”