“You’re allowed one or two. But next time don’t take me along, please. I think I wet my pants.”
HARLEY STOOD in the middle of Cami’s kitchen, cell phone in hand, gritting her teeth with frustration. “He’s ignoring my calls.”
“Or whoever was chasing him caught up with him.” Cami continued, washing out dog and cat food bowls.
“That’s rather an appealing thought at this moment,” said Harley. “Aren’t you through feeding your zoo yet?”
“Mostly. I just have to feed the birds now.”
“You have birds?”
“No, the wild birds. I did have birds but not anymore. They were fosters anyway. I found them a good home. I’m glad, because they were really loud and obnoxious.”
The phrase sparked a memory, and Harley said, “Did you give birds to Tootsie’s significant other?”
“Yes. Have you seen them?”
“I heard them long before I saw them. Tootsie neglected to inform me they got them from you. So you’ve met this elusive Steve?”
“He’s really nice, not at all what I pictured. Not that I think Tootsie incapable of attracting the right kind of girlfriend. Boyfriend. Partner?”
“Yeah, I have trouble knowing what to call him, too. Of course, I have trouble knowing how to refer to Morgan so that’s not a surprise.”
Cami finished washing out the dishes and stacked them in a wooden drainer to dry. “If I ever get a boyfriend again, I’ll know what to call him. Often!”
Harley nodded sympathy. “Sometimes we just have dry spells. For a while after your divorce I thought you weren’t going to date again. I’m glad to see you’ve changed your mind about that.”
“It doesn’t do me any good to change my mind if I don’t have anyone I’d like to date, though.”
“What happened to you and Bobby? I thought you two were getting close.”
Cami shrugged. “I don’t know. I think we have too many childhood memories between us or something. There are times I just can’t help thinking what a big jerk he was when we were kids.”
“But we had some fun times, too. Rolling yards, drinking cherry wine behind the garage, dodging Mrs. Trumble’s broom . . .”
They both laughed. Then Cami said, “And of course, there’s the whole Harley and Bobby thing, too.”
Harley waved a hand at her. “Oh, that. It was very brief, and we figured out pretty quickly that we’d kill each other if we hung around together too much. We were teens. It was a trial and error thing. No broken hearts, no regrets. You know that.”
“Yes, but sometimes I wonder if Bobby feels the same way you do.”
Surprised, Harley asked, “Why do you think that?”
“He gets so mad at you that I can’t help thinking he cares more than he says.”
“Bobby gets so mad at me because he can’t control me, not because he’s in love with me or anything. He’s always had control issues. That’s why we were never serious. I have the same kind of issues.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Doesn’t it?” Harley tried Jordan’s number again without success. She punched in a few pithy remarks to text him, but her phone rang before she could finish. “Aha! The worm calls.”
“I’m going outside to feed the birds,” said Cami. “I don’t think I want to hear this conversation.”
“Probably not. Hello? Jordan? Listen, I have a few questions for you, and you damn well better have some good answers.”
“Just who is this?” a female demanded. “Why do you keep calling my husband?”
Dumbfounded, Harley couldn’t think of a thing to say before the woman began yelling at her again. “Hey, wait a minute,” she finally recovered enough to say, “he’s not married. I mean, he’s getting a divorce.”
“Is that what he’s telling you? And you believe him? You must be some kind of idiot then, because he still lives in our house and sleeps in our bed!”
For a moment, Harley couldn’t think of anything to say. Not until the woman who claimed to be Jordan’s wife threatened to come “whip your cheatin’ ass” did she say, “We have a misunderstanding here. Why don’t we meet somewhere and talk about it?”
There was a brief silence before the woman said, “That’s fine with me, but if you think you’re gonna get one over on me, you better bring back-up!”
“All I want to do is talk. How about Waffle House? That’s public enough.”
“Which one?”
“You pick.”
After another short silence the woman said, “American Way.”
“Meet you there in an hour.”
“Just so you know—I’m packing.”
Great. Harley rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not carrying a gun, so I’d rather you leave yours at home or in your car if you don’t mind.”
“I might.”
“So, do I look for the angry woman with the big gun, or what?”
“I’ll be sitting in the No Smoking section wearing a red sweater and cloche hat.”
When Mrs. Cleveland hung up, Harley stood there indecisively for a moment. This may settle everything. Then again, it could complicate everything. Whichever, she’d find out in an hour.
Chapter 7
HARLEY MADE IT to the Waffle House in a little over the hour she promised. She had gone by her parents to get her bike. It was better for quick getaways, she reasoned.
The evening had grown chilly with the setting of the sun. The Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce with 88B twin cams and over-under dual exhaust purred like a well-tuned kitten. If there was such a thing. She cut the motor, set the kickstand, and pulled off her helmet. It matched the black, gold, and chrome of her bike, and she tucked it under her arm as she went inside.
Seated in the No Smoking section was a woman that could only be Mrs. Felicia Cleveland. She wore a red sweater and hat that Harley guessed was called a cloche. And she didn’t look very friendly. She had long red fingernails that kept up a constant drum-roll atop the Formica table. A mug of coffee sent up a spiral of steam. Curly black hair rioted from beneath the red hat, and violet eye shadow made her brown eyes look big and exotic. Her complexion was dark, and her figure was slender.
“Mrs. Cleveland?” Harley inquired as she came to a halt next to the table, and the woman gave a start as she blinked up at her. “I’m Harley.”
Felicia Cleveland’s jaw sagged. “But . . . you’re white!”
“Uh, I know. Sorry. May I sit down?”
“Oh, I can’t believe this shit! What is he thinking? My God, he must be crazy!”
“Yes,” said Harley, “it’s nice to meet you too.” She slid her helmet across the hard plastic seat and sat beside it. “Just to get this out of the way—are you carrying?”
“No. But I can get to it if I have to, so don’t try anything.”
“Okay, so that means . . .?”
“It means don’t mess with me, buttermilk.”
“I’m going to pretend that the last is a teasing reference to my lack of a tan and not an insult. We can be adults and civil, and while I would like to talk to you about what’s going on, I can and will get up and leave if your attitude remains belligerent.”
Jordan’s wife tilted back her head to study Harley for a moment. Then she nodded once. “I think we understand each other fairly well. What I want to know is how long have you been seeing my husband?”
“Four days, and if you mean by seeing sleeping with him, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He’s a friend of my friend, and I was asked to conduct an investigation for him. That’s the extent of our relationship. I’ve only seen him once in the last six months. Now. I have questions of my own.”
“First answer one more question—what kind of investigation?”
“That’s between me and him,” Harley replied and saw that it didn’t go down well with her. “Jordan calls you Filly, right? Well, according to him, you two are in the middle of a divorce. Is that true?”
“Of course not! I have no idea w
hy he’d tell you something like that, either. He still comes home to sleep at night.”
“Are you aware of any . . . accidents he may have had lately?”
“Accidents? You mean, like in a car?”
“No, more like being pushed in front of a car.” It was a slight twist on the truth, but that was okay. Obviously neither Jordan nor his wife or ex-wife or whatever she was cared much about accuracy.
“That’s absurd. Nothing like that has happened, or he would have told me. You’re making all this up, and I’d like to know why.”
Harley had begun to think someone’s imagination was running amok, and it was not hers. “How long have the two of you been married” she asked.
“Three years and eleven months,” was the prompt reply. “We have plans to go to the Bahamas for our fourth anniversary next month. Jordan sent off for brochures.”
Harley frowned. “So are there any financial problems?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I can run a credit check and have the answer to that in just a few minutes. Look, I don’t know why Jordan says you’re getting a divorce, and you say that’s not true. If I were you, however, I’d have some questions for him when he comes home tonight.”
“He’s out of town on business,” said Felicia. “He won’t be home until Sunday or Monday night.”
Since Harley knew that wasn’t true, she pondered for a moment. Then she looked up at Mrs. Cleveland. “When did he leave to go out of town?”
“Yesterday.”
“Then why do you have his cell phone? Wouldn’t he have taken that with him?”
“He has a company phone he uses when he’s out of town, of course. What does all this have to do with you and my husband? I’m still not convinced you’re not shacking up with him.”
“Has your marriage always been based on lack of trust?” asked Harley. “Look, one of you is lying to me. Jordan called me today from the same phone you used to call me, so I know he didn’t go out of town yesterday. He was here in Memphis today. I have Caller ID.”
“I don’t care what you have. I’m telling you the truth. He’s out of town.”
Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy at all. A waitress appeared at the end of their table, order pad in hand. “May I take your order?”
“More coffee,” Felicia said. “Extra cream.”
Because she wasn’t quite through trying to figure out what was going on, Harley said, “Same here.”
Once the waitress had brought a steaming mug of coffee for her and refilled Felicia’s mug, Harley leaned forward and asked, “So are you Jordan’s first wife? Second? Is there another Mrs. Jordan Cleveland around?”
She expected more belligerence. Instead, she got uncertainty.
“I don’t know,” Felicia said. “I’ve wondered about that sometimes, too.”
“What do you know about his business dealings? Do they take him out of town a lot? Are there any discrepancies in your checking accounts, on your credit cards, or any other bills?”
“Not really. Oh wait—there was an odd charge on our Visa. I asked him about it, and he said it was an error and he’d taken care of it already. Since he’s an accountant, he always handles our money. Do you really think he’s mixed up in something dangerous?”
“Let me put it this way—if he’s not, I sure have pissed off the wrong people.”
“I’m guessing you have an explanation for that remark?”
Harley nodded. “I do. Jordan called me earlier today and asked me to help him, said someone was trying to kill him. He said he was just off Poplar. So when I got there, no Jordan in sight. But along comes a black Mercedes and a couple of assassins shooting at me. The only conclusion I can come to is that they were looking for Jordan, since I’m not on anyone’s hit list that I know about, and according to him, he is.”
Felicia’s eyes had gotten huge. “So who does he think is trying to kill him?”
“You.”
“What?” Felicia’s screech caused heads to turn and one of the waiters to drop a dish that broke with a loud crash, but she didn’t seem to notice, just kept shrieking. “What the hell are you talking about, fool?”
Harley waited while Felicia sputtered and fumed; she waved her hands in the air and almost knocked off her silly-looking red hat. When she finally calmed, she looked at Harley and sucked in a deep breath.
“I’m not trying to kill my husband. Or I wasn’t. I may now.”
Harley nodded sympathy. “I can’t say that I blame you if he’s accused you with no truth. But here’s the thing—someone is trying to kill him. Who do you know that may be behind it?”
Felicia shook her head. “I have no idea. Maybe someone he works with?”
“Yes, that’s an angle I need to explore if I decide to continue helping him. He hired me to get proof that you’re trying to kill him. I don’t know if he truly thinks that or if he’s lying about that, too.”
“What all has he said to you about me?”
“Personally? Not much. A lot about how you’re behind the accidents, though. So why would he think—or say—that you’re trying to kill him?”
“Probably because I’m thinking about it now,” said Felicia with a scowl. “If I’d known he was doing and saying all this, maybe I would have taken a shot at him.”
“Your gun isn’t in your purse though, right? You left it in your car, right?”
Felicia flapped a hand at her, and light sparkled from a huge diamond ring on her left hand. “Oh, I’m not going to shoot you. This is such a small place, the percussion would make my ears bleed.”
“Great. I feel so much better,” said Harley.
It wasn’t the most comforting reason she’d ever heard for not being shot, but she accepted it. Now she had to figure out who was telling her the truth, Felicia or Jordan. If she had to make a snap decision, she’d just figure they were both lying, and she should walk away. That was her first inclination. But somehow she felt there was more to it than that. If they both had something to hide, then both were lying. But why? It bugged her that she’d believed Jordan’s version of the story, even though she hadn’t totally bought it. There were always two sides to a story.
Now it looked like there might be three.
HARLEY SAT IN her car outside Memphis Tour Tyme and flipped through the pages of her little notebook for what must have been the twentieth time. None of it made sense. She’d written down all pertinent information, as well as her own impressions, yet still couldn’t figure out what was going on with the married/not married/soon-to- divorce-or-not couple.
And Jordan hadn’t returned any of her calls. She’d briefly debated going by the apartment, but the thought of his roommate dissuaded her. Now it was finally Monday so he should be back at work at the accounting firm in the White Station Towers. If she had to, she’d show up there and ask for him. She was giving him one more chance to return her call before she visited him at work.
It would be a quick visit anyway, since she had to be at work herself before noon when there was a tour group headed to Graceland. Not her favorite place to go, though it had nothing to do with Elvis and everything to do with her skirmish with a killer at the back of the mansion in August. Still, she’d gotten over that. Mostly.
Sunlight streamed through her windshield and heated up the car’s interior. She unfastened the top couple buttons of her Henley shirt and wished she’d worn shorts instead of the khaki slacks MTT employees wore in cool weather. Fall hadn’t come to Memphis yet, although the days and nights were a lot cooler.
Her cell phone played “California” by Phantom Planet, and she fumbled at her waist where it was clipped to keep it safe. She’d had to change companies in order to get any damage insurance at all. AT&T had finally reached its replacement/repair limit.
The protective rubber cover hindered her attempt to slide it on and answer. It took three cuss words and two more slides before she managed. By then the caller was gone
.
Harley tapped a few times until she got the call log. Jordan Cleveland’s work number. “About damn time,” she muttered. She hit the dial icon and waited. He answered on the third ring tone.
“Harley,” he said before she could speak. “You saved my life! I can’t thank you enough. If not for you, those guys would have caught me, and I’d be dead.”
“If not for you, I wouldn’t have been shot at and end up in trouble with the cops,” she retorted. “And I met your wife, by the way. She said she doesn’t know who’s trying to kill you, but it isn’t her.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Jordan blew out a heavy sigh. “She would say that, of course. What did you expect? And why did you call her?”
“That’s another thing. I didn’t call her, I called you. She had your phone. She said you go out of town on business and leave it with her because you use another phone just for business.”
“And you believed that? What kind of investigator are you?”
Harley wanted to reach through the phone and smack him. “Obviously, the kind that’s getting pissed off at being lied to, that’s what kind! What floor do you work on?”
“Why?”
“Because I want a face-to-face. I have more questions, and you’re going to answer them truthfully, or I’m done. Got that?”
“I hired you and paid you. You can’t quit.”
“You only made a down payment, and I’m not a car. That doesn’t buy the whole thing. Now you have two choices here. You can answer my questions honestly, or you can hire someone else.”
When he didn’t say anything, Harley said, “Okay. Got it. See ya.”
“No, wait! I need you, dammit. All right. I’ll meet you in the lobby. I don’t have long since I’m pretty busy, though.”
“This shouldn’t take long. Be there in twenty minutes.”
White Station Towers was straight down Poplar from the Memphis Tour Tyme offices. A straight shot that under normal circumstances should take only ten minutes. It was the middle of the day, however, and a lot of Memphians were out for lunch. Public transportation was way over-shadowed by private transportation. Few people rode the MATA bus. Most Memphians carpooled or drove their own vehicle. Cars crowded the lot outside Houston’s and in the Half-Shell lot directly across eight lanes of traffic. Harley nosed into the turning lane as soon as possible and waited as patiently as she could before finding an opening in the steady stream of cars. She bullied her way through it. Only one or two drivers honked, and she ignored them.
Return to Fender Page 9