BITE THE MOON
A Texas Hill Country Mystery
Diane Fanning
Copyright © 2007 by Diane Fanning
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
First Edition
First Printing: July 2007
Published in 2007 in conjunction with Tekno Books and Ed Gorman.
Printed in the United States on permanent paper.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
(attached)
Photograph on cover by Peggy Parks Photography
This book is dedicated to Pete—just because
Chapter One
Moonlighting a security gig at Solms Halle was as good as it gets for a uniformed cop. I relished every opportunity. There were few fights—even fewer drunks who maintained belligerence once you hustled them out into the open air. It was fun any night, but tonight was plum. Trenton Wolfe was the top bill.
When the management booked Wolfe, he had just finished recording his latest CD, Wolfe Pack, and had not yet released the chart-topping single, “Bite the Moon.” Now that he had, he was riding a meteor into the stratosphere as the hottest new act in country music. The boisterous bodies packed into the old dance hall and stringing out into the street were proof that a legend was being born. The band honored the engagement in this obscure venue in gratitude for all the stage time Solms Halle gave them before anyone knew their name.
Although there was a chill in the air tonight, and all the wooden shutters were raised to let the fresh night breeze drift in through the screens, Solms Halle was hot and sweaty from the overflow crowd. The nightspot was nearly as old as Texas. Its unpainted, rough-hewn plank walls testified to its small-town dance-hall history.
The narrow picnic tables—worn smooth from the sliding of cold, wet bottles of beer—and the bench seats—shined to a high gloss by the rubbing of innumerable backsides—stretched out in tight rows perpendicular to the stage. The sitting-in-an-old-barn atmosphere was guarded with zealous neglect. Any attempt to fancy-up Solms Halle was likely to cause its death as a Hill Country institution.
The driving country beat of Wolfe’s music vibrated in the walls and floorboards, slid out the open windows and down the street where it danced on the rushing waters of the Guadalupe River. For half an hour, the band played old favorites for their longtime fans. When they started into a track off the new CD, I was enjoying myself too much to call it work.
Then, I heard the first scream. It echoed with the faintness of an off-mike back-up singer. Curious but not yet concerned, I headed up a crowded side aisle, pushing through the milling, bouncing, dancing gaggle of customers that blocked the way.
I was halfway up the length of the hall when the shriek of multiple female voices rose to a crescendo that overpowered the throbbing of the speakers pouring out a tale of lost love. One by one, the musicians stopped playing. The last to remain oblivious to the nearby panic was the drummer, who pounded out a mindless, manic solo—lost in the rhythm of his own world. I got a few steps forward while everyone else sat frozen in place listening to the eerie harmony of screams blending with the relentless drums like a ghoulish punk concerto. At last the silence of the other musicians disrupted the depths of the drummer’s intense concentration. He lost his rhythm and his drumsticks clattered to the stage floor.
As if that sound were a secret signal, the stillness of the audience broke and they rose to their feet as one. My shouts for order dissolved in the cacophony the moment they passed my lips. Between the women fleeing from the restroom toward me, and the curiosity seekers pushing against my back, an impenetrable bottleneck grew.
I stepped up on a bench and from there to a tabletop. I jumped across from table to table, hoping to reach the stage, commandeer a microphone and calm the crowd. On the way, I flipped out my radio and called for assistance. I needed backup—bad.
I kicked over abandoned beer bottles, spraying foam on my pants legs and shoes, as I sprang across the room. When I reached the midpoint, I had a clear view of Trenton Wolfe. He stood on the stage and glared into the once captivated crowd that had transformed into an unruly mob.
Even in his state of apparent annoyance, the appealing good looks that had graced dozens of magazine covers were still intact. His perfectly sculpted six foot three frame had fueled my fantasies and those of most every other woman I knew. His chestnut brown hair, just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt, appeared as if it had never been fussed over and yet it was always in a perfect state of dishevelment—as if he just rose from a pleasurable encounter in bed. His face had a proportioned symmetry with a chin you could rely on. It was friendly, yet menacing. He had the bad-boy look that drove a lot of us crazy. His full, sensuous lips could part in a smile warm enough to melt a javalina’s heart but, at the moment, they were pursed in disgust.
By his side was his bass player, Stan Crockett. He was a bit taller than Wolfe and leaner than Ichabod Crane. Skin wrapped around his bones like saran wrap clinging to a turkey carcass. His deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks perched on a scrawny neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. That apparatus was balanced on a body so lanky, it appeared as if it might suddenly splinter at the waist. At the end of toothpick arms were hands with skeletal fingers that somehow created magic every time he touched a bass guitar.
Word was that despite his cadaverous appearance, Crockett was a laid-back, happy man who smiled easily and often. Unfortunately, on a face like his, a grin looked like a grimace and a full smile like the mocking of a ghoul. At the moment, he was not smiling. His compressed lips were in constant motion as he whispered to the mute star of the show.
I ran up the length of picnic tables toward the two. I jumped to the floor, battled my way through the dense crowd in the small space between the table and the stage and vaulted up onto the platform.
I grabbed the microphone and ordered the crowd back into their seats. My shouts were as effective as the whispered rebuke of a chaplain during a prison riot. By now, many of the intoxicated in the crowd were taking offense at the pushing and shoving and were throwing punches in response. Oh, man, oh man, where was my backup? I strained my ears but could not hear the sounds of approaching sirens, nor did a look through the windows reveal any flashing lights racing to the scene.
Mike Elliot, manager of Solms Halle, clambered onto the stage and shot me a glance of desperation. I didn’t think it would do much good but I shouted into the microphone again. Mike tried to hustle Trenton Wolfe and his group out of the hall. Trenton was not making his job any easier. I could not hear a word he was saying, but he was yelling at Mike and his arms flailed the air like a windmill run amok.
Unlike more modern facilities, there was no backstage entrance at Solms Halle—no easy exit for performers. Mike and a few beefy volunteers formed an arrowhead that struggled to maintain its unity and pierce through the noisy crowd.
I slid off the stage and sidled along the wall to the ladies’ restroom where all the brouhaha had begun. Light slipping through the crack at the bottom of the door illuminated a mishmash of bloody footprints on the floor.
I slammed my back against the wall by the doorframe and drew my gun. The churning chaos around me parted like the Red Sea. I took a deep breath and kicked
open the door. I moved into the doorway with my gun extended in a shooter’s stance. “New Braunfels Police Department. Throw down your weapons.” I scanned the barrel of my revolver from one corner of the small bathroom to another. Nothing moved. But there were four stalls. Any one of them could conceal a perpetrator.
If someone in one of those stalls shot at me right now, I doubt the plywood doors would even slow down the bullet. I exhaled a guttural shout and kicked open the first stall door and drew a bead on the vacant toilet. I moved to the next one. I could taste the fear in my mouth. It coated my tongue with a green slime that made my stomach lurch. I kicked open the next door and the sick sensation grew.
What was behind the next door? The lady? Or the tiger? Again, I kicked. No victim. No bad guy. Nothing but porcelain.
Now all that was left was the last stall, I could smell my sweat and feel it form a clammy pool on the nape of my neck. I kicked that last door open. Nothing.
I breathed again. But it was ragged. What had started as a small spot of tightness in my chest had expanded to embrace my whole upper body in its painful grip. I turned back to the doorway to the hall where the tops of a few foolish heads leaned in to see what was up. When they saw my gaze turn on them, the heads pulled back like turtles retreating into their shells.
With flashlight in hand, I shone the light in the narrow hallway outside the restroom door. I followed the trail of blood to where it led in the other direction. It ended at another door. Through the crack at the bottom, blood still seeped—as thick as glue, as dark as dirty oil—but still it moved.
I grabbed a paper towel from the bathroom dispenser and crossed the hall. In my right hand, my gun was at the ready. With my left hand, I laid the towel on the knob. I tried to turn it. It was locked. From the hinges, I saw that the door opened out. A kick would not do the trick. I needed the key. I reached on top of the doorsill. No luck. I shone the flashlight around looking for a nail that held a key. Nothing there. I needed Mike. Whoever was bleeding in there might still be alive. From the consistency of the blood, I doubted it, but it was possible. I was torn. Guard the door? Go find a key?
Before I could decide my problem was solved—Mike Elliot was by my side, a chunky key ring in his hand. He slid the key in the knob and backed away from the door. I stepped up, turned the key and released the lock. I pulled the door open a crack then slid to the side where I would be shielded as I eased the door open with my foot.
I led with the barrel of the gun, then jerked into position—knees bent, gun pointed straight ahead. One glance and I returned the gun to my holster and traded it for my flashlight—whoever had transformed this ordinary utility closet into an abattoir was no longer there.
Sticky blood pooled like a major coke-syrup spill on the floor. Up the wall and across the cleansers lined up on the shelves, runny dime-sized droplets of blood formed a distinctive pattern—a line of streaky spatter rose up in a peak, descended and rose to a second peak—the classic formation of arterial gush, just like the pictures I saw at the seminar. It looked like the chart for an electrocardiogram—very bad news for the body sprawled at my feet in a lake of blood.
A small cardboard box nestled in the small of the victim’s back, arching his body upward. Tossed across the upper half of his torso was an orange plastic rain poncho—the disposable kind Wal-Mart sells for a couple of bucks. It seemed odd that there were smears of blood all over the side of the poncho facing toward me, but I didn’t have time to ponder that puzzle now.
I pushed the poncho aside with the butt of my flashlight to check for a pulse. His neck was sliced through to the spine, throwing his head back into a bucket where his hair floated on the blood that accumulated in the bottom.
I crouched down to check for vital signs. The spot where I should press to check for a pulse was no longer there. I knew it was futile, but still I lifted his limp wrist and held my breath as my fingertips sought any glimmer of life. No throb. No beat. No life.
Embedded in the shredded tissue of his throat, I saw a metallic glint. I focused the beam of the flashlight and discovered the source to be a guitar string. I followed its length and noticed the ends pulled through a block of wood and twisted tight. Death by guitar string—that had to be a first. And Solms Halle was the perfect setting for it. My moment of levity gave way to a sudden and severe bout of nausea—the bile rising at the back of my throat, its acid searing my tongue. I threw a hand to my mouth and squeezed my eyes tight, willing the upsurge to back down. If I lost it here, I would contaminate the crime scene and never hear the end of it.
As soon as I had my internal distress under control, I inched my way up to a standing position. I thought the movement was making my head ring but then realized the sound I heard was the distant, shrill wail of a siren. The posse was coming. In seconds, the spinning, flashing lights outside the windows lit up Solms like Las Vegas. I stood my ground by the door, shooing away a morbid looky-loo or two as I waited for my partners-in-arms.
Chapter Two
A sea of blue flooded the hall and parted the mob into manageable groups. Quicker than a cap could fly off a longneck, the crowd was seated at the tables or in neat lines on the floor. Some nursed busted lips, others struggled to steady their bobbing heads, many rubbed mindlessly on the blue ink stamps on the backs of their hands.
When the first detective stepped into the hall, he made a beeline for my position. He flashed his badge with an air of condescension and commandeered my flashlight. When he pointed the beam into the closet, his air of superiority dissolved. He doubled over, covered his mouth and lurched toward the restroom. A newbie. Oh, joy. When he recovered, the look on his face encouraged me to bite my tongue and not speak a single word I was thinking. He took charge of the closet and I stepped in to assist with the drudgery in the hall.
I went tableto-table asking for drivers’ licenses and jotting down names and contact information. While those of us in uniform released the crowd one small table at a time, detectives questioned staff by the vendor table at the entrance to the hall.
Outside an engine roared and a horn blasted the night air again and again in quick succession. A whiff of diesel fumes drifted through the windows and penetrated our noses with that thick nausea-inducing smell. Had to be Trenton Wolfe’s tour bus making a heralded departure.
Moments later, Detective Tim Hawkins plowed into the hall with all the grace of a bulldozer. His red face, clenched fists and quivering paunch were sure indications that someone on that bus did not accord him the respect he thought was his right. I’ve known Tim since I was a kid. And I liked him. But sometimes, his pompous manner opened him up for a full roundhouse punch to his sensibilities.
I turned back to the task at hand. I had to concentrate to keep from transposing digits in phone numbers and butchering the spelling of names as I carried out the mind-numbing chore. At last, the final group of stunned spectators drifted out of the hall and into the night. By morning, many of them would be relating tales of a near brush with death to envious friends who rued their decision not to attend the show. In no time, the town would be buried in an avalanche of half-truths and generous exaggerations.
Yellow crime scene tape encircled the bloodied area next to the stage. It seemed the local posse had called in the cavalry. A white cowboy hat announced the presence of a Texas Ranger. And judging by the stenciling on the back of the Tyvek suits, a herd of Texas Department of Safety Crime Scene Techs was on hand, too.
I was curious and apprehensive about who was lying in the pool of blood on the other side of the tape. I didn’t think I knew the victim but I wasn’t sure—I was too focused on the gore to notice his facial features. I hovered in the background snatching bits of conversation out of the air.
Relief washed over me when I learned the dead body belonged to a stranger. Then I felt ashamed. No one’s death should ever be a relief.
The stranger was Rodney Faver, the general manger of Trenton Wolfe’s band. That made me wonder why the tour bus wasn’t s
till parked outside. I thought someone on board should be a suspect.
I didn’t think I knew any of the personnel from DPS in Austin, but then I saw a familiar face dart under the crime scene tape and scurry outside. Jim Mendoza was a student from the days before I was a cop when I taught chemistry up at the high school. Now, it seemed, he was a DPS tech. I followed him and found him digging through the trunk of his car.
“What have you got in there, Jim?” I tilted my head toward the hall.
“Ms. Mullet?” Jim squinted his eyes at me, not trusting the vision of his former teacher dressed in a blue uniform.
“Yeah. Only it’s Officer Mullet, now.”
“Jeez, this is weird.” His eyes darted around in his uncertainty. “Keep this to yourself, Ms. Mullet, but Ranger Allen is having a fit. We got a dead guy connected to the band stuffed in the closet with a guitar string wrapped around his neck and that stupid cop let the band bus go.”
He grabbed a hard plastic case from the trunk, slammed the lid and, with a nod of his head, disappeared back into the hall. Now I really wanted to know why Hawkins didn’t hold that tour bus at the scene.
I wandered back into the hall where I was told I would need to file a report in the next couple of days but was now free to go home. Across the hall, I spotted Bobby Wiggins, the hall’s janitor. His bowed head swung back and forth as he listened to Mike Elliot. I grew up on the same street as Bobby. He was ten years older than me, but when I was in elementary school, he acted my age. When I moved on to middle school, I realized that Bobby had not grown up at all. He was still a kid. A lot of my peers teased and tricked Bobby, but I usually heard the voice of my mother rat-a-tatting too loud in my head to join in their cruel fun.
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