Bite the Moon (13 page)

I slid out of my car, shut the door and turned to greet the canine hospitality committee. Leaning forward, I slapped my hands on my knees. The two big dogs responded by hanging their heads, wagging their tails and sidling towards me. I rewarded both of them with a scratch behind the ears.

The little Corgi was not as easily mollified. He still seemed intent on extracting his pound of flesh. Every step I took forward, he made another lunge at my ankles. We were both distracted from our dance steps by the screeching of a screen door. A shrill voice whined, “Pete, Labia, Crapper, come here.”

The two Pyrenees obeyed her command without hesitation and lumbered up on the porch. She was dressed like an old hippie with a long denim skirt that swept the floor, bare feet and a retro T-shirt proclaiming “Free Love.” Her short, styled haircut and make-up contradicted her dress. The scowl on her face said she was not glad to see me.

The Corgi ignored her, stood his ground between the house and me and snarled. “Crapper. Cut it out and get up here. Now.”

With one last growl, the Corgi swung around, gave me an evil backward glance and leaped onto the porch, where he faced me and bared his teeth. I walked up to the steps, taking care not to get too close to Crapper, the ankle-nipper. “Hi, I’m Molly Mullet. I’m looking into Rodney Faver’s murder and would like to talk to Happy.”

“
Come on up on the porch. Don’t worry about Crapper. He won’t bite. I’ll go see if Happy is here.”

Crapper won’t bite? Right. And bears don’t crap in the woods. And “I’ll go see if Happy is here”? Sure. I know this was a good-sized cabin, but it’s not that big. He’s here all right. But is he here for me? That was the question.

I stood on the porch waiting while the two Pyrenees bumped into me, begging for attention, and little Crapper circled around my ankles making menacing noises. After five minutes, the woman returned, held the door open and invited me in.

The two Pyrenees plopped down on the porch but the Corgi, unfortunately, followed me in—his eyes pinned on my ankles. The living room was rustic and sophisticated. High cathedral ceilings with rugged hand-hewn beams, a bold rock fireplace on the far wall and lots of windows for an exquisite view of the rugged countryside formed the backdrop for a United Nations of drums. Everywhere I looked, I saw drums from around the world: a djembe from the Ivory Coast, a pandero from Puerto Rico, a dondo drum from Nigeria, bodhrans from Ireland and ashikos from New Zealand.

“
Happy’s not here now, but I’ll be glad to answer your questions,” the woman said and stuck out her hand. “I’m Heather. Have a seat.”

I settled into a dark brown, distressed leather sofa and asked, “Were you at Solms Halle that night?”

“
What night?” Heather said as she twirled a ring in circles on her right ring finger.

Was she really that dumb? “The night that . . .” I began.

“
Oh, oh, yes, of course. The night that Rodney died. Oh, yes.”

“
Yes? You were there?”

“
Oh, no. No. I wasn’t there. I . . .”

A small thud echoed in the back of the house. Heather’s eyes darted side to side as she gasped and jumped to her feet. “You know,” she said in a louder voice, “I don’t really like country music all that much. I’m really more of a blues person. You know, why don’t we listen to some blues while we talk?” She walked toward the CD player.

A muffled crash made her jump. “One of my favorites of all time is a duet with John Lee Hooker and Bonnie Raitt. It’s called
In the Mood
. Have you heard it? I just love it. Here it goes. Listen to this.”

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.

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.”