Hound Dog Blues (9 page)

For a moment, Bobby didn’t say anything. The mantel clock ticked loudly, and outside on the front porch, Diva’s wind chimes made a musical sound.

“They took King with them,” her brother said, and she and Bobby both turned to look at him. Sprawled on the couch, evidence of the reason for his total relaxation burned out in an ash tray on the floor, Eric blinked sleepily. “Yogi and Diva took King with them when they left.”

“Where did they go?” she and Bobby asked almost in unison. Harley got up and went to stand beside the couch. “Did they say where they were going, dude?”

“Said they’d be back in a few days.” He waved a languid hand. “Told me to be sure I go to all my classes.”

“So you saw them leave?” Bobby asked. “Did they take anything unusual with them?”

Harley glared at him. “You mean like a gun? Cripes, Bobby, give it a rest.”

“I was asleep,” Eric said, and gestured toward the dining room table. “They left us a note.”

Bobby got to it before she did, but she read over his shoulder, recognizing Diva’s firm, looping scrawl: “
Gone for a few days, we’ll be fine. Eric, stay with Harley while we’re gone, and don’t miss any of your classes
.” She’d signed it with love and a postscript that they’d taken King with them.

“Just great,” Harley muttered. She ran a hand through her hair, letting the short strands slide through her fingers as she studied the note. Baby-sitting a twenty-two year old held little appeal for her.

“No offense, chick,” Eric said, “but I don’t want to stay with you. You won’t let me smoke in your apartment.”

Turning, she nodded. “Not even a Marlboro. I wonder why they don’t want you to stay here.” Then a glance at the overflowing ash tray and empty Coke cans on the floor answered that question. She shuddered. “So, where do you want to stay?”

“I can go to Snake’s place. He lives just off-campus. I need a few bucks, though. I’m broke.”

It was worth a twenty not to have to clean up after him, she figured, and Harley gave him her stash money without a qualm. Bobby was on his cell phone, talking in his cop voice where she couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, and she slung a leg over the padded arm of the couch to lean close to her brother.

“Hey, where do you think they went?”

Stuffing the money into the pocket of his baggy, low-riding black pants, he shrugged. “I dunno. Pickwick, maybe. They like it up there.”

Pickwick dam and lake up on the Tennessee River was a favorite camping spot for a lot of Memphis residents. This time of year, it’d be crowded on the weekends. It was entirely possible they’d gone up there to meet friends, but in the middle of the week, unlikely. Still, would they go alone if they felt threatened here? Yeah, that seemed more likely.

“Don’t say anything about that,” she murmured when Bobby clicked off his cell phone and turned around, and her brother nodded agreement.

Bobby looked at the two of them huddled on the couch, and his eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Harley? And don’t try to deny it. Maybe you should go to the precinct tonight to make your official statement. Take your toothbrush.”

“Bobby, this cop routine is getting old fast,” she said. “You might try remembering that you were my friend before you were a cop.”

“You might try remembering that Mrs. Trumble was murdered. If Yogi didn’t do it, hasn’t it occurred to you that he might be an eyewitness? And if he is, whoever pulled the trigger will want to find him, too, but not for the same reason.”

It
had
occurred to her. And it was a terrifying thought, but so was Yogi being arrested for murder. She felt trapped between two terrible possibilities, and didn’t know which was worse. It was possible Yogi hadn’t really seen anything or anyone, just been at the wrong place at the right time. That was the best worst case scenario. The police would find the real killer and all this would blow over. She didn’t even want to think about the two worst case scenarios. Not now. She just wanted a little time to think about her options first.

“If I see Yogi or hear from him, I’ll tell him you want to talk to him,” she said finally, and Bobby blew out an exasperated breath.

“Fine. Play it that way. Don’t come whining to me when it blows up on you. And don’t be asking me for any favors any time soon, either.”

“Gee, Bobby, are you sure? I have this parking ticket I need fixed—”

He cut her off with a very rude comment that would have been an insult from anyone else. She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him.

“We’ve already discussed that, and you need to talk to your girlfriend about that kind of service.”

Stalking to the door, Bobby turned to look back at her. “This isn’t a game. We’re not kids anymore. This is grown-up stuff, Harley. A wrong choice can have serious consequences. Think about that.”

He was right, and she knew it. Indecision clutched at her, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say in return. The screen door banged shut behind Bobby, echoing in the still house. After a moment, her brother stood up and stretched.

“Can you give me a ride over to Snake’s place?”

She turned. “Where’s your car?”

“In the shop again. It always seems to be breaking down.”

“I think you’re supposed to do more than just put gas in it. Try using oil, water, things like that.”

“Yeah. The brakes went out. One of the rotors.” Yawning, he moved slowly toward the kitchen. “Want something to eat?”

“Aren’t you worried the least bit? God, Yogi’s practically accused of murder, or he has some murderer after him, he and Diva have taken off for God only knows where, and all you can think about is something to eat?”

Turning in the doorway, he blinked in mild surprise. “If I don’t eat, will all that go away?”

“Never mind.” She didn’t have an argument for his line of logic, not that it mattered. “My car is over by Mrs. Trumble’s house. Get your stuff together, and we’ll go get it. You can borrow it for a day or two, but you have to put gas in it and not gun it or ride the clutch, or—”

“I hear ya, chick.” His muffled voice came from the kitchen, sounding like his head was stuck inside the open refrigerator. “What are you gonna use for transport?”

“My bike. No smoking in my car, either. I put potpourri in the ash tray.”

“Chiiick,” he said, dragging it out to show his disapproval.

“I mean it. Last time I let you borrow it, you set the ash tray on fire. Be ready to go in ten minutes or I leave you here.”

Without waiting for a reply, she went out the front door and across the porch. It was quiet and peaceful here, when only a few streets over Mrs. Trumble’s house was churning with police activity and curiosity seekers. Mrs. Shipley’s lights were on across the street; she was probably at her window with binoculars. It’d be just like her. She had to know everything that went on, and then had to tell it. If she lived near Mrs. Trumble, she’d have been able to tell the police everyone that had visited within the past month. Just as well she didn’t. Yogi would be arrested by now.

A single car garage sat to the side and behind the house. At the rear was Yogi’s workshop, and since the van was too tall to fit inside the 1930’s era garage, it had become a repository for all kind of odds and ends. Fitting a key into the lock hung on the old-fashioned double garage doors, she flung one open to slip inside. It was dark, and she fumbled for the light switch and clicked on a single bulb overhead. Stacked chairs, ladders, cans of paint that were probably older than she was, metal cabinets, PVC pipe, and various and sundry other of Yogi’s collections cluttered the concrete floor, but in the center, draped in a soft cover, stood her pride and joy. It represented years of working at a high-stress job before she finally ended up at Memphis Tour Tyme, but she didn’t regret one single day of headaches and grinding teeth she’d suffered to make payments. She pulled off the cover.

A tricked-out Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce with over/under dual exhaust, paid for, by God, and all hers now after two years of payments that would stagger Donald Trump. Gleaming chrome and gold and black in the dim light, the machine waited in shiny splendor.

She took the helmet off the back, strapped it on her head, and straddled the bike, firing it up with a flick of her thumb. She coasted out of the garage, Twin 88 cam clicking so perfectly it was only a humming throb.

When she looked up, Bruno Jett stood directly in front of her. Her stomach dropped, and the breath locked in her lungs. The motion light gleamed brightly on his dark hair, illuminating his face and bemused expression.

“A hog?” he finally said. “This yours?”

She flipped up the visor of her helmet. “Why not? Think I can’t ride it? And it’s not a hog. It’s a Softail Deuce. About three hundred pounds lighter than a hog.”

“A biker chick. That explains your name.”

“My parents were into motorcycles when I was born. With the last name of Davidson, it was a given. May I help you with something? Why are you over here?”

“I’m not pretending I lost a dog, I just got distracted by the bike.”

His car was still in the driveway, a silver Jag that looked far too expensive and new for a man living in this neighborhood. Just one more detail to add to the growing list of Reasons to Suspect Bruno Jett of Nefarious Activities.

“Yeah, well,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him, “I’m thrilled you like it. Now, if you’ll just get out of my way and go on home, I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see.” That was a replay of his smart-ass comment when they’d been in front of Mrs. Trumble’s house earlier, and she was gratified to see he recognized it.

The corners of his mouth tucked in slightly. If he smiled, his face would probably crack. That thin scar on his jaw might just be the beginning. “What an excellent memory you have,” he said.

“Long memory, short fuse. Excuse me? I believe you’re still blocking my way.” She gave the bike a little gas, gunning the engine enough to indicate her willingness to run him over, but not enough to actually do it. He made her nervous. Very nervous. Criminals should be ugly, not look like Bruno Jett. It was that lean, muscled look that got to her every time. And the eyes. An old song said the devil had blue eyes. She believed it. How else could women be seduced into sin so easily? Every disastrous man in her life had had blue eyes.

“Chick,” her brother said at her side, and she remembered that she was taking him to get her car.

“Hop on back,” she said without taking her eyes from Jett, who seemed to know he had an effect on her libido because he leered so wickedly it left her breathless. And slightly queasy.

“Running away so soon?”

Ignoring him, she waited until Eric was securely behind her, then eased out the clutch on the bike and rolled forward. Jett stepped out of the path, a little more quickly than she was sure he had intended, and she felt him watching as she gave the bike a spurt of gas and zoomed from the driveway into the street. Eric grabbed at the seat strap to hold on, leaning back.

There were still a few cars clustered on the street in front of Mrs. Trumble’s house, but the van with her body was gone. Yellow tape swagged between several trees; police milled about, mostly inside, though earlier, they’d prowled the yard for clues. It was nerve-wracking.

What if Yogi had left something behind? Something that might be misconstrued as evidence against him? Whatever her father was, he was no killer, she knew that much. He couldn’t be. Oh yeah, he might bluster and threaten, but he was just too softhearted to actually act upon his threats.

Stopping her bike behind the Toyota, she put her feet down for balance. Her brother eased off the bike, and she took her car keys off the key ring and handed them to him.

“No speeding, no riding the clutch—”

“Chick,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Call me as soon as you hear from Yogi.”

Ah. A sign he cared. Some of her irritation with her brother eased.

“Sure. You’ve got my cell number. Keep in touch.”