She cranked the CD up just past the comfort level to cover up any other noises Happy—who was not here—might make. I’d heard this song. I liked this song. But I definitely preferred it at a few decibels lower, where it would not distort as it came out of the speakers.
Heather still prattled on in her attempt to distract me, but although I saw her lips moving, I could not hear a word over the loud music. Deep in the background I heard a rumble that was not part of the soundtrack. A rumble that turned into a throaty growl. I realized it was the telltale sound of a Harley just a moment before it flashed past the window.
I jumped up and ran to the door. Before I reached it, I was hit from behind. Heather was on my back like a rabid monkey. I staggered forward and fell on my face. I liked hardwood flooring, but not when it smacks me in the nose. I looked up and there was Crapper’s nose just inches away from mine. He snarled. I rolled. Heather fell to the side.
I scrambled to my feet. I launched out the front door. Saw a flash of chrome turning out of sight down the drive. Then I tripped over a big white lump of dog and tumbled down the steps. The side of my face slid on the stone walkway before I came to a stop. The pain from that scrape barely had time to register in my neural pathways before Heather was on my back again.
I pushed up with both my arms. Hard and fast. Heather lost her balance and hit the ground with a thud. But Crapper was still attached to my leg. My jeans prevented him from digging into the skin but I could feel the sharp edges of his teeth scraping on the outside of my ankle. I yelled. He dropped his grip. Good. As much as Crapper was annoying me, I did not want to hurt the little dog.
Pete and Labia, peaceful and oblivious, were roused to their guardianship of the property by my yell. Now, barking and galloping, they pounded their big paws at me, drool flying in every direction. I slipped into my car. Slammed the door. I backed up as quickly as I could while taking care not to hit one of the dogs—not an easy feat, as they minced around my car liked crazed carnivores on speed.
Once I cleared the dogs, I tore down the drive, following the motorcycle dust. I reached the end, no motorcycle in sight. I rolled down the windows and listened. There. To the right. I heard the throb of an engine echoing in the hills. I whipped out onto the road following the sound.
I took curves faster than the law and my ability as a driver allowed. I pushed the car and myself trying to gain ground. Then the road ended in a T. Where now? I listened again but could not hear the faintest rumble. I’d lost him. Crap.
The burning sensation on the side of my face screamed for my attention. I flinched as my fingers traced the tracks of the tears in my skin. I lowered the visor and regretted it. Red, scraped, raw. It hurt twice as much now that I saw the damage. Wincing with each touch, I flicked tiny bits of dirt off the surface. My face throbbed with more intensity than one of Happy’s drums.
I turned right and headed back to New Braunfels. What did Happy’s flight mean? The first, most obvious, conclusion was that Happy killed Faver. Coming in a close second: Happy knew who killed Faver. Then there was the third, useless but practical theory: Happy was a paranoid freak.
Couldn’t think of any more reasons now. I had to decide which one was right. Three possibilities. One suspect. It was like the Lady and the Tiger or the—wait, that’s three choices. Damn, what a day. I couldn’t even get my analogies to fit.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next day, I made another weary round of phone calls. Every band member’s number ended in an answering machine except for Happy’s. There the phone rang and rang and rang. I imagined Heather standing beneath the cathedral ceiling with both hands covering her ears as she muttered, “I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you.” All the while, little Crapper stood by the telephone, back hair bristled, teeth bared, throat throbbing with a suppressed growl, knowing it was me on the other end of the line.
I continued down the list of phone numbers of band associates, my mind tuning out a bit more with every digit I pressed. When someone answered a phone call at last, I was stunned and confused. I’d lost track of what numbers I dialed. “Hello, how are you?” I said, stalling for time to reconfigure my brain.
“Fine. Who is this?”
I rapidly scanned my list and decided most likely I’d just reached Faver’s ex-wife. “This is Molly Mullet. Is this Teresa Faver?” I winced, hoping I’d guessed right.
“Tess. It’s Tess. But not Faver anymore. I dropped that SOB’s last name and went back to the one I was born with—Tess Holland. Who are you?”
“Molly Mullet.”
“Well, I got your name first time ’round, sweetie. But your name don’t tell me squat. Who are you?”
“I’m an investigator looking into Rodney Faver’s murder for Bobby Wiggins’ attorney.”
“You need money for that boy’s defense fund? As soon as the estate settles, I’ll be glad to make a contribution. In fact, I was fixing to have a statue of Bobby erected in the town square.”
Red flags were flying up faster than gnats on a summer evening. “So you are not at all distressed by Rodney’s passing?”
“Good riddance is all I have to say. Good riddance to bad garbage.”
“You mentioned the estate?”
“Rodney Faver was a festering boil on the rump of life. I’m glad that kid lanced it.”
As we talked, I looked down at a years-old photo I got off the Internet. A bunch of people in a typical stilted publicity shot. There on the far right was Tess, a big-haired blonde with a big-as-Texas bosom. Rodney was on her left and, no surprise, his eyes were not focused on her hair.
“Yeah, but about the estate? I thought you were Rodney’s ex-wife.”
“And praise the Lord for that.”
“Then how would you get anything in an estate settlement?”
“Hank Schoch, that’s how.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hank is the leanest, meanest divorce lawyer this side of the Rio Grande. He got a settlement for me that made the angels sing. I got a big lump of cash up front and a lifetime of alimony checks that would make the angels blush. Even if you divide it by the twenty-three years I put up with his crap, I still came out good. But best of all is what Hank got me if Rodney died. The court ordered Rodney to maintain a million-dollar insurance policy with me as beneficiary. And that was just for starters.”
“Oh, really? And what would you say Rodney is worth to you now that he’s gone?”
“Shoot, I don’t know. Probably more than I can count. Wait a minute, honey, are you implying something here? Well, just hold on a minute. The police done went down that road and it’s a dead-end street. I was in Vegas with three girlfriends, happily investing Rodney’s alimony check into slot machines one quarter at a time. You wanna pin this on somebody other than Bobby, don’t be pointing at me. I got a lot from Rodney while he was still alive. There’s other folks that were getting nothing but screwed.”
“Like who?”
“Take a good look at Trenton Wolfe. He had a love–hate relationship with Rodney for years. One minute he loved him for the success. The next minute he hated him because he was sure Rodney was ripping him off—and he probably was. I never could figure why Trent didn’t move on. He had other better-connected managers beating on his door but he stayed with Rodney. I wondered if Rodney had something on him.”
“Like what? Like something he could use as blackmail?”
“That’s what I been thinking. But shoot, how should I know? Rodney never talked to me much when we were married. He sure hasn’t talked to me since. But I’ll tell you what. There’s something not right about that Wolfe boy. Like he’s hiding something.”
“But you don’t know what?”
“Not a clue. I just sensed it.”
“Okay. Trenton Wolfe. Who else do you see as a likely suspect?”
“There were always a bunch of ticked-off people under Rodney’s feet. But there was one in particular who’d been foaming at the mouth the last couple of months.�
�
“Who was that?”
“Jesse Kriewaldt.”
I paused for more, but she did not oblige. “Who is Jesse and why was he so mad at Rodney?”
“Jesse is a so-called songwriter. He thinks his songs are a gift from God. He’s been pitching one after another at Rodney for years. He’s been pissed off at him for just as long ’cause Rodney never bought one single song for any bands he represented. Jesse seemed to think he was entitled. But now, the boy’s gone over the deep end. He insists that he wrote ‘Bite the Moon.’ ’Course the credits say that Trent wrote the lyrics—and personally, I can hear his ego in every word—and Stan wrote the music. But Jesse said he wrote it all.
“He was supposed to meet up with Rodney that same day. As I hear it, Rodney was planning on giving him some pittance to make him shut up and go away. I thought that was a stupid idea. I know Jesse. And Jesse cares more about song credit than money.”
“So what are you saying, Tess?”
“I’m saying that maybe they did meet. I’m saying that maybe Jesse was insulted by Rodney’s offer. I’m saying that maybe things got real ugly.”
“Do you know if they met?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do.”
“Where can I find Jesse?”
She rattled off his phone number and address and I asked, “What about Happy Parker?”
“Happy? Happy is hopeless. You mean Happy as a suspect?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, have mercy. Happy can’t cope with anything that is not perfectly aligned with the stars. He’s probably sitting up in his cabin in the hills with a quilt over his head pretending that none of this ever happened. Probably trying to convince himself that he never even knew anybody named Rodney Faver. He’s pathetic.”
“You don’t think he had a reason to kill Rodney?”
“Happy doesn’t have a reason to do anything but beat his drums. But you know who I think did it?”
“No. Who?”
“That Bobby they arrested. I think he did him in.”
I wanted to come to Bobby’s defense, but knew this wasn’t the time or place. I stripped my voice of emotion and asked, “Why?”
“Rodney was rude and insulting to anybody he thought was not as smart as him, and that included almost everybody. He’d be especially cruel to someone like Bobby. Rodney talked a lot about euthanasia for the hopelessly stupid. Rodney could’ve pushed the wrong button, and Pow! The kid went off. Not that I’d blame him.”
I hoped the prosecution would not put her on the stand. “Who are the three friends who were with you in Vegas?”
“Oh, so we’re back to me again. Back off, honey. I’m not having you annoy them. It’s bad enough I had to sic the police on ’em. One of the girls isn’t talking to me for that. I’ve tried to help you, and this is what I get. Well, go bark up another tree, honey, and leave me alone.”
The slam of the receiver clapped in my ear. For now, Tess was still a suspect—not on the top of my list but still among the prospective candidates.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I got only a couple of steps from the phone before it rang. I grabbed and said, “Tess?”
“No, ma’am. ’Fraid not. I’m Stan Crockett, and is this Molly Mullet?”
“Yes, Mr. Crockett, so nice of you to return my call.” About damned time, to be precise.
“I understand you’ve been trying to get hold of me, and I understand you’re working for the attorney of this guy who killed Faver.”
“I have been trying to get in touch with you, and I am working for the defense in the Faver murder case, but Bobby Wiggins is innocent until proven guilty, Mr. Crockett.”
“Stan. Just Stan. Hold on to the Mr. Crockett stuff till I’m too old to know any better, okay? And you’re right. Nobody’s proven that boy is guilty yet. I suppose you don’t think he is.”
“No, I don’t. That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“I’ll tell you what—why don’t we talk over lunch. If I spend too much time on the phone, I start getting itchy.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Meet you in forty-five minutes at the Old Solms Mill?”
“Sure. Want to meet out front?
“You got it. I’m kind of tall and skinny . . .”
“I know what you look like, Stan,” I assured him.
“Good. See you then.”
*
The Old Solms Mill? A coincidence or a meaningful choice? The restaurant was right next to Solms Halle. You’d think he wouldn’t want to go near the place.
I climbed out of my pajamas and into a pair of jeans and headed for the door. Just in time I remembered that I hadn’t brushed my hair yet that day and rushed into the bathroom. I wished I hadn’t. My face looked more angry and inflamed today than it did yesterday. I gingerly grazed the side of my face with my fingertips and winced. From eye to chin, the left side of my face was scraped raw.
Half an hour after Stan’s call, I pulled into a parking space in the lot across the street from the restaurant. Solms Halle hunkered on the side of the road as if it was getting ready to cross it. The Old Solms Mill, in contrast, was set back from the street, a long curvaceous path leading the way to its door. Full and half whiskey barrels of herbs and brightly colored annuals and perennials flanked the entrance. The fragrance of rosemary teased the air. I couldn’t resist running my fingers across the closest one and breathing in a more intense rush of the intoxicating scent from my skin.
The silvery-gray weathered wood of the old mill loomed high at the end of the path. I took a seat on a wooden bench in front surrounded by more flower-filled barrels to wait for Stan.
I recognized him as he approached the other entrance to the path. Even in the bright sunshine, he still looked two days dead. He loped up the walkway with a loose, disjointed stride.
I stood up, called his name and introduced myself.
We followed the hostess through the dark, cavernous inside dining room with its rustic bare-beam ceilings—like most folks on a sunny day, we chose to eat outside on the multileveled dining deck. All along the way, people stopped eating or talking and turned to stare. I didn’t know if they recognized that it was the Stan Crockett walking in their midst, or if they were just ogling one of the weirdest looking lanky bodies on the face of the earth. But it was a comfort to know they weren’t eyeballing me.
The waitress led us to the lower level where, because of the sudden drop of land, we were perched more than seventy-five feet over the rushing waters of the Guadalupe River. After placing our lunch orders, we sat in comfortable silence contemplating the water.
After the waitress set down a pair of lime-crowned Coronas, Stan said, “Okay now, what do you want to know from me?”
“I’d like to know who you think had a reason to kill Rodney Faver.”
He leaned back and laughed. “Who didn’t is a better question. Faver seemed to enjoy aggravating people.”
“I don’t think Bobby Wiggins had a reason.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I doubt if he knew Faver well enough to cultivate a genuine dislike for the man.”
“What about you, Stan?”
“Me?” A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, making him look almost alive.
“Did you have a genuine dislike of Faver? Did you have a reason to kill him?”
He grinned and cast his gaze up to the sky. “Probably. I did dislike the bastard. Reason to kill him? Probably had three or four.” He leaned forward on his elbows and looked into my eyes. “But you know what? I also had a lot of reason for gratitude. Yeah, maybe we could have made it without Faver—but maybe not. There’s a lot of serendipity to any success in the music world. All these little pieces come together in a pattern of random magic and an unexpected synergy erupts and propels you to the top. Remove one little piece, take away one word said or one small action taken, and all you worked for could crumble at your feet.”
“So, you’re saying a live Faver was more in your sel
f-interest?”
He shrugged and dropped his eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not. But when things were going as well as they were for us, what reason do you have for taking unnecessary risks?”
The waitress approached and slid our lunch orders on the table. Stan two-handed his burger, took a big bite and wiped his mouth. “So, besides me, who else have you got in your sights?”
“How about Tess?”
“Tess? Hmmm.” He took a long swig of his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a large yo-yo in his scrawny neck. “It was all a little too messy for Tess. She talks like she’s hard-core, but she’s pretty prissy. She’d be worried she might break a fingernail or mess up her hair. But could she hire somebody to do it? All I can say is that there is no mess involved in a cash transaction.”
“You think she did?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“How about Happy Parker?”
“You’re just twisted over him because he scampered off on you the other night. Happy avoids confrontation like a rabbit—stays away from all kinds at all times.”
“Then all he had to do was refuse to answer the door when I knocked.”
“True. True.”
“Made me wonder if he was guilty.”
“Happy? Naw. Happy’s pretty harmless. The only violence he’s capable of committing is the pounding he gives his drums.”
“Well, then, maybe he knows something. Maybe that’s why he ran. Maybe he knows who did kill Faver.”
“Happy? Happy’s not smart enough to figure that out.”
“Maybe he’s smarter than you think.”
“I doubt it. He might be worried that Wolfe did it and if he’s caught, all we’ve accomplished will turn into a mirage—just a shadowy glimpse of success but nothing more. And once you’ve seen a little piece, you want it all. Even a laid-back guy like Happy.”
“Why would he suspect Wolfe?”
“Wolfe was convinced Faver was ripping us off. He bitched about it all the time.”
“But he’d been doing that for years. Why would Happy think that now it would turn to murder?”
Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Page 10