Thelma felt her face distort in a kaleidoscope of expressions—from confusion to anger. She focused on her husband. “Stuart, what is he saying? Does he want me to have an abortion?”
“That is one option . . .” the doctor began.
“Hush,” Thelma ordered. “Stuart, talk to me.”
“Yes, Thelma. That is what he suggested,” Stuart whispered.
“After days of struggling not to lose the baby and now they want me to dispose of it? After all of this?”
“Yes, Thelma.”
“Do you think they’re right? Do you think that’s what I should do?”
“This is not my decision, Thelma.”
“Not your decision. But Stuart, this is your baby, too.”
Stuart took her hand between both of his. He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. He blew it out and looked into Thelma’s eyes. “You are the one carrying this child. This is happening inside your body. I have only a glimmer of what that means. I can only imagine how that feels. I promise you, Thelma, I will support you one hundred percent, no matter what you decide. Every day. I will never waver. But I am not a woman. I am not carrying this baby. I have no right to impose my opinion on you.”
Thelma did not want to think. She did not want to decide. But Stuart was right. If he told her what he thought she should do, she would feel an unintended but powerful coercion to do what he wished—and this disempowerment would haunt her forever. “I want to go home, Stuart. I want to go home now.”
Bobby was born in a moment of joy tinged with fear. Soon, that fear was justified. As an infant, Bobby’s eyes did not track a moving object well. He hardly ever cried, prompting friends to say she was lucky—and then quickly turn away. Bobby’s physical skills developed at a slow pace, his verbal skills even more slowly.
But Stuart kept his promise to Thelma. No matter how slow Bobby’s progress, no matter how much it pained him, Stuart offered words of encouragement every day. Until the final day when he went to the shed and never returned.
Chapter Eleven
My next move was a visit to Bobby. As I pulled into the parking lot of the Comal County Jail, it hit me—I’m not a police office anymore. Seeing Bobby today was not going to be that easy.
I walked inside and hope was reborn. Monica Salazar was behind the front desk. She had never been in any of my classes but I saw her often. Three days a week, she stood outside my classroom waiting for her boyfriend, Ronnie White, to emerge. Every day, her tummy got a little larger and the bald yearning in her eyes got a bit more forlorn. Over the semester, we developed a smiling relationship. Then one day, she was gone.
I’d seen her around since she joined the Sheriff’s Department a few months back, but we had never spoken. She looked less vulnerable with her uniform, badge and gun than she had standing alone in the hall in her oversized shirt. But I still saw the naked yearning in her eyes.
“Officer Mullet?”
“Yes.” I should have corrected her. I could have claimed I responded out of habit. But I knew better. I knew what I was doing. I was impersonating an officer. I was breaking the law. “Monica. Or should I say Deputy Salazar? How have you been?”
“For you, it’s still Monica. You were so kind to me,” she said.
“I only smiled.”
“That’s more than . . . more than . . .” she looked down at her desk and fiddled with her files. She looked up composed. “What can I do for you today, Officer Mullet?”
“I’m here to see an inmate. Bobby Wiggins.”
“Wait right here. I need to check and see if you need an escort.”
Before I could stall her, she was gone. Maybe I should be gone, too. Then again, maybe I’d get lucky.
Brow furrowed, mouth pursed, she came back into view. “You are no longer a police officer.” The blackness in her eyes accused me of every wrong ever done from the Lindberg kidnapping to the hanging chads in Florida. She leaned toward me over the counter, her voice barely above a whisper. “You try this again, Ms. Mullet, and I’ll have to report you.” A cloud of indecision passed across her face. “But I could get in trouble if I don’t report you now.”
“Monica, how is your baby?”
To my great relief, her face lit up like a tree at Christmas. “Oh, Cesar is not a baby anymore. He is in preschool. He is so handsome. He will break many hearts one day. Ah, let me show you.” She pulled a frame off the top of her desk and pressed it into my hand.
A darling dark-haired boy beamed up at me. The photographer had captured that twinkle in his eye that foretold of much adolescent angst for the girls in his future. “Oh, Monica, if I was thirty years younger, I’d be falling in love right now.”
She bent her head down and, in a whisper I had to strain to hear, said, “You know, I never married Ronnie.”
“No, Monica. I didn’t know.”
“His family.” She shrugged as if the flexing of her shoulders explained and excused the shadow racism had cast across her life.
Not exactly an upbeat morning. I’d failed in my mission. I’d tiptoed on someone’s heartache. And I still had done nothing to help Bobby.
*
Back at home, I rattled around in the tin can again. Somebody had to listen to me. If I couldn’t tell anyone what I wanted to do, I couldn’t do it. I pulled out a piece of paper and wrote a letter to Bobby. If he put me on his visitors’ list, then I could visit him just like any friend. I slapped a stamp on the envelope and slipped it into the mailbox just as the mail truck turned onto my street.
Now what? Bobby might be able to convince his mother to talk to me, but I doubted he could sway Dale Travis. The telephone wasn’t the answer either. It was too easy for Travis to avoid my calls. Tomorrow, I’d drive down to Houston. I’d sit in the lobby of his office all day if need be. I wouldn’t leave until he talked to me.
Chapter Twelve
With a plan in place, I slept well that night and woke up on my own before the sun raised its head. As soon as my eyes opened, I was charged up and ready to go. But if I left now, I’d hit Houston in the middle of rush-hour traffic, and driving in the Bayou City is difficult enough without complicating it more.
The morning sun was awake and glowing by the time I brewed up a pot of coffee. I grabbed a cup and a yellow pad and pencil on my way to the backyard. It was late February, but in South Texas that meant spring had sprung. The temperature had dipped into the upper forties overnight, but the first rays of the sun had already warmed the air up to sixty degrees.
I settled into a green Adirondack chair and reveled in the peaceful moment. The air filled with bird song. Green shoots of perennials and weeds pushed up from the ground. Bud stalks thrust up from the evergreen bed of columbine. Soon that patch would be a riot of yellow and red with hummingbirds swooping in to squabble over the nectar.
I pulled my eyes back to my blank pad of paper and started a suspect list. Of course, the first culprits on my list were the members of the band. At the top was Trenton Wolfe. Did I put him there because he was the most likely perpetrator or because he was the least likeable person? I’d think about my motivations later. Now I needed to figure out his motive. He struck me as an angry young man. Buried rage echoed from many of his lyrics. Did he write those words or just deliver them? As leader of the group, he’d be in a strong position to clash with the manager. Over money? Over scheduling? Over marketing? Or was it personal? I made a note to check on any possible overlap between spouses and girlfriends of Faver and the boys in the band. For that matter, I’d better look for boyfriends, too—a threat of revealed secrets often invited violent reactions.
Next on my list was Stan Crockett. Of all the people on the stage, he had the most influence over Wolfe. Was that a source of conflict with Faver? But he’s so skinny, so pale, so low-key, he looks half dead himself. It stretched my imagination to believe he possessed enough passion to wrap a guitar string around anyone’s neck with sufficient force to kill.
That thought brought up the imag
e of the pools of blood in Solms Halle the night of Rodney Faver’s murder. In a flash, the vision morphed into the ocean of red surrounding my Charlie. The memory was so vivid I could still smell the distinct odor of fast food mingling with the scent of spilled blood. A dull ache shot out from my heart to the tip of every limb and swathed my mind like cotton batting.
Oh, Charlie. If only we had met somewhere else. If only we had not met at all. I squeezed my eyes tight and forced the image to fade. I drained my coffee cup and turned my attention back to my list.
Happy Parker—the guy on the drums. A name like that would make me homicidal. Was it his real name? I could only hope it wasn’t, but the tags some women hang on their children made me believe childbirth was the leading cause of temporary insanity.
The keyboard guy was next. What was his name? You never heard a thing about him. That in itself could be a reason for him to be hostile toward Rodney Faver.
Who else could’ve clashed with the band manager? Mike Elliot, the manager of Solms Halle was a good prospect. I couldn’t imagine Mike doing something that violent, but then, that’s what all the neighbors say when the police haul away the serial killer living next door. Mike was a more probable suspect than Bobby. He had access to the keys. He was smarter than Bobby—smart enough to do the deed unseen and slip the bloodstained key into Bobby’s pocket. But would he let Bobby take the rap?
Who else? That question took me back to thinking about the spouses and girlfriends again and brought to mind Faver’s other clients, the road crew and the inevitable groupies. Who in that herd of humanity could be angry or desperate enough to kill? I needed to get lists of names and look at each one.
I couldn’t think of anyone else right now. But I was sure more names would crop up as soon as I started digging. But no one had authorized me to dig yet. Time to get dressed and down to Houston.
I pulled open my closet door. The contents were depressing. I’d been wearing uniforms to work for too long. The only new clothes I’d bought in years were jeans. My teaching wardrobe still hung on the rod, but it was all so dated and schoolmarmish. I settled on a black and tan jacket dress that looked like it might have a life outside the classroom. I checked to make sure the short sleeves were long enough to conceal the botched indiscretion on my arm. I pulled out a pair of black pumps from the bowels of the closet. I hadn’t worn them for such a long time, I had to wipe off the dust. I thought about polishing them, but then decided the humid Houston air would strip the shine off in two seconds flat.
I hopped into my red Beetle and hit the road. I drove down Route 46 past scenic vistas, trashy trailer parks and rickety emu pens. Then I whipped onto the most boring stretch of pavement ever created by man, Interstate Highway 10—more than 200 of the ugliest miles on the planet stretching down to Houston. I popped in a Susan Tedeschi CD to mute the pain.
At long last, I arrived in the thriving metropolis itself. I didn’t know if it was real or just an illusion, but the lanes of the highways in Houston felt narrower than those on any other major thoroughfare in the country. I clenched my teeth as I navigated through the tight terrain.
I arrived downtown and pulled into the parking garage for the high-rise office tower that Foster, Travis and Crum called home. The cost of getting my car out of that inner sanctum sounded more like a ransom than a parking fee.
Inside the office tower, I stepped into the elevator and pressed twenty-seven. There was a twenty-eighth floor, but access to it required the insertion of a membership card. There was no indication of what kind of membership card, but I guess if you had one, you knew it.
The doors opened into the lobby of the esteemed legal giants. Straight ahead, across a football field of deep gold carpet, were the glass walls of a conference room. Looking through it, you got a megalomaniac’s view of the cityscape beyond. To my right was a cluster of three seating areas. The chairs and love seats in each grouping were upholstered in rich burgundies and golds.
To my left was an extravagant curve of walnut topped with a custom cut slab of glass with rounded edges—the desk of Ms. Arbuthnot, according to the bronze nameplate on its surface. I now had a name for the snotty-voiced woman. The fact that she did not disclose her first name on that plate confirmed all my worst suspicions about her.
“May I help you?” she asked in a tone that rattled my teeth. Her gray suit was buttoned up top to bottom. Her black hair pulled back so tight it stretched the skin on her face and revealed a pair of crafted ears adorned with small gold hoops. Her lips did not curve in welcome but slashed two fine parallel lines of radish red across her face. She had an elegant but razor-sharp nose designed to look down and disapprove. At the moment, it was pointed at me.
A woman like this summoned up two polar opposite sensations in me. One was the urge to flee. The other was the perverse desire to stick out my tongue or give rude gestures with my hands. I controlled both reactions and plastered a pleasant smile on my face as I approached. “Good morning,” I chirped. She arched one plucked eyebrow in response. “I’d like to see Mr. Dale Travis, please?”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked but I didn’t know how. I’d swear her lips did not move.
“No ma’am, I don’t. But I drove up from New Braunfels regarding the Bobby Wiggins case.” Up went that eyebrow again.
“I’m terribly sorry you drove all that way, Miz—Miz?”
“Mullet.”
“Miz Mullet. Yes, I am sorry you drove all that way, but Mr. Travis is far too busy today to accommodate you.”
“That’s fine, Ms. Arbuthnot. I’ll just have a seat and be ready when a small window of opportunity opens in his schedule.”
Her mouth opened and closed.
“I’m in no hurry,” I added.
“As you wish,” she said and swiveled away to rustle a stack of papers.
I passed a ponderous afternoon in the august presence of the ice queen. Entertainment was very limited. A few clouds scudded by, breaking the monotony of the pale blue sky. Men and women in suits darted past on their way from the offices on the left to the offices on the right and back again. Few spared the time to give me even a cursory glance. Ms. Snotty Arbuthnot turned her back to me whenever she talked on the phone to ensure that I could not eavesdrop. Drats.
A few hours into my vigil, I yearned for a trip to the restroom but dared not ask my hostess for the location of the facilities. I rose to walk off the urge. My movement provoked a frosty glare that drove me back to my seat. I tried not to squirm.
As if a hidden mechanism ejaculated her from her seat, Ms. Arbuthnot popped up like a jack-in-the-box behind her desk. She stared at me until she was certain she had my full attention. “The offices are closed now.”
“Is there any possibility . . .?” I began.
“You must vacate the premises immediately,” she insisted.
I concentrated on my posture as I walked with measured steps to the elevator door and pressed the button. On the way down, I decided I had to give it one more day. I’d hole up in Houston for the night. After ransoming my car, I stopped and picked up a toothbrush and other necessities, a handful of paperback books and a leather portfolio from the distressed merchandise rack. It had a stain of indeterminate origin on one side but if I held it right, no one else would know.
The next morning, I flashed a fresh smile at the refrigerated visage of Ms. Arbuthnot. She looked much like she did the day before but unlike me, she had a change of clothes. She wore a navy blue suit, its cut as severe as its predecessor, but the look was buffered a bit by the gleam of blue topaz on each earlobe.
Her eyes narrowed. She recognized me, but she was not about to acknowledge it. “May I help you?”
“Certainly, Ms. Arbuthnot,” I smiled. “I need a moment of Mr. Travis’ time.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Alas, no,” I said. Rein it in, Molly. “But I am certain Mr. Travis would like to hear what I have to say.”
The eyebrow cocked up again.
“I am sorry but Mr. Travis’ calendar is far too full today to accommodate you.” She flipped the pages of a day planner. “He does, however, have a small opening available two weeks from Thursday at eleven a.m. Would you care to make an appointment for that time?”
“No, I would not. But thank you just the same. I’ll just wait here until he has a free moment.”
“As you wish,” she said, slamming the planner shut.
I took a seat as far from the officious woman as I could. I laid my portfolio on the coffee table, damaged side down and slid out a paperback, Jolie Blon’s Bounce, by James Lee Burke. I suppose I should have selected a book with a more dignified title, but I knew I could depend on Burke to make the wait seem much shorter.
I was three-quarters of the way into the novel when I realized Ms. Frosty was standing in front of me. “Yes?” I asked.
She stared down at me with a look of distaste distorting her mouth. Her eyes were focused on my upper arm where the bottom of my cow-pie beaker winked below the sleeve. I tugged the arm on the jacket down and smiled.
She switched her gaze to my face. “I am going to lunch now. I would prefer that you would go, too. In fact, it would be best if you did not come back. You are wasting your time here and disrupting our office.”
“Lunch sounds great. Where should we go?” I asked, beaming a high-intensity ray of artificial innocence in her direction.
Her eyes flared wide. She pivoted on the ball of one foot and returned to the fortress of her desk where she stared straight ahead, her peripheral vision keeping me in view.
I surrendered and went to find something to eat. But never fear, Ms. Arbuthnot, I shall return.
Chapter Thirteen
I returned from lunch before the dragon at the gate. I was tempted to slip past her fortress in her absence and sniff out the lair of the elusive Mr. Travis. Before I could act on that impulse, Ms. Arbuthnot returned to her desk. She glared in my direction. I pulled out my book and began to read. Before I reached the bottom of the page, she was looming over me again.
Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Page 5