Bite the Moon (16 page)

“
Oh, Molly, come on in.”

I slid in before the door was all the way open. “Shut it. Lock it. Pull the drapes.”

“
We don’t have any drapes, Molly. What happened to you?”

I put my hand up to the side of my face. No surprise she never noticed the damage the other day when she was riding my back. “You know, when I fell over your dogs and down your steps.”

“
Oh my, you are a mess,” she said.

“
Thanks,” I said. She was no prize either. Her eyes were as red as overripe strawberries and the tip of her nose looked like Rudolph’s on a drunken binge. But now, the tables were turned. She was calm and I was the hysterical one.

“
Why, Molly, you’ve got a gun.”

I leaned my back against the front door. “Yeah, a gun. Molly’s got a gun. Now, please, get Molly some water. A nice cool glass of water.”

Heather headed to the kitchen, casting a leery eye in my direction as she progressed. “You’re not scared of the dogs, are you?”

“
No. No. Not the dogs,” I said between greedy slurps from the glass.

“
They won’t bite you, you know.”

“
Sure. Sure,” I said.

Pete and Labia had quieted down and were now sprawled on the floor impersonating bearskin rugs. Crapper, on the other hand, still circled my ankles growling.

“
C’mon. Sit down,” Heather said guiding me by the elbow to the sofa.

I collapsed and in a flash, Crapper jumped up on the back of the sofa and walked across it as agile as a cat. He plopped down his rump and bared his teeth at me.

I rolled my eyes and figured the best tactic was to ignore him. “So, Heather, you rang?” I bit my tongue before I made a rude comment about a fool’s errand.

“
Happy is . . .” Her lower lip quivered, the tears rolled and the wailing began anew.

Oh, Jeez. I got up and held out my arms. She fell into them, sobbing. I’m not unsympathetic to another bawling woman. Lord knows I’ve had my moments. But now in the middle of the night, my sleep disrupted, my car nearly run off the road, my patience was a limited commodity. I had the urge to shake her until she pulled out of it but, fortunately, she sniveled her fit to a close before I acted upon my impulse.

We sat side by side on the sofa and I held her two hands between both of mine. “Now, Heather, I need you to stay calm and slowly, carefully, explain the problem.”

“
Happy is dead.” She choked back a threatened sob. “They killed him.” Her lower lip quivered and pools puddled in her eyes.

I patted the back of one of her hands. “Who killed him, Heather?”

“
The same people that killed Rodney.”

“
You said ‘them.’ Do you know it’s more than one person? Do you know who they are?”

She wailed again and shook her head.

“
Come on, Heather. You’ve got to calm down and tell me what happened.”

“
They said it was suicide.”

“
Who said it was suicide?”

“
The sheriff’s people and that constable man.”

“
Why did they say that?”

“
There was a note.”

“
Where?”

“
In his wallet.” The last word squeaked out as a new wail commenced.

“
Where did this happen? And what happened?”

Heather sucked in a deep, wet breath. “Down on 306. They said he deliberately ran off the road over a steep incline. They say he was thrown from his Harley, and about a hundred yards away, his hog was in flames. But I know it’s not true. I know it.” Her drenched tissue-filled fist pounded down on her knee.

“
How do you know it, Heather?”

“
Because the note they say he wrote was all wrong.”

“
Wrong? How?”

“
It said he killed Rodney and couldn’t live with it. But he didn’t. I know he didn’t.”

I was torn between jubilation that Bobby’s release from jail could be imminent and horror that Heather might be right. Whoever killed Rodney might have struck again. Were they—was he—after the whole band?

Heather shook herself like a wet dog and snuffled down her tears. “Happy just could not do that, Molly. Happy runs away from everything. I’m the only backbone Happy’s got. Molly, are you listening?”

“
Yeah, Heather.”

“
I know what you’re thinking,” Heather continued. “This is good for Bobby. Now you can pin it all on a dead guy and Bobby can walk free. But you can’t let them do this, Molly. You can’t let them pin it on Happy. Maybe Bobby did do it. What then? You want a killer walking the streets? Getting away with murder? Do you?”

“
Heather, listen to me. Bobby’s in jail. If it was not suicide . . .”

“
It wasn’t,” she shouted. “Aren’t you listening?”

“
Hold on, Heather. Just a minute. Hear me out. If Happy’s death is a homicide, doesn’t it follow that whoever killed him killed Faver, too? That means it’s not Bobby. Who else could it be? Think.”

Heather responded with a new mindless wail.

“
Come on, Heather, help me. Where did Happy go when he tore out of here yesterday?”

“
I don’t know,” she shrilled.

“
Think, Heather. Where do you think? Who does he turn to?”

“
I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe Stan. I don’t know. Stan keeps the band together. He takes care of problems. But, usually, Happy turns to me.”

“
Stan Crockett?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Do you think . . .”

“
Stan? No. Not Stan.”

“
Heather, you are going to have to trust me. My first responsibility is to get Bobby out of jail.”

“
But, Happy . . .”

“
I know. I know. I won’t forget Happy,” I vowed. “I won’t let them pin this on Happy without proof. But right now, every hour—every minute—hurts Bobby. A little delay can’t hurt Happy now.”

Her wail soared up and echoed on the cathedral ceiling. Oh, good grief. I should have chosen my words with more care.

He pulled his black Expedition into the garage and shut the door. At one time he wished there were windows in here to let in a little daylight. Now he was glad that there were none.

He turned on the overhead lights and picked up a utility light with a 200-watt bulb. He turned it on and inspected his vehicle.

Dead bugs splattered all over his windshield. That indicated he’d been out in the countryside late at night. He made a mental note to clean off the glass before he drove out of the garage. The front grill held more insect carcasses. Ditto on that.

He knelt down to inspect the chrome bumper. As he suspected, there was a gash of red paint and a small indentation. He sprayed industrial cleanser on the spot and rubbed until every trace of red was gone. He set the rag aside to dispose of later.

He grabbed a small rubber mallet and lay down on his back on the concrete slab. He pulled his head and shoulders under the front of the Expedition. He tap-tap-tapped on the back of the bumper, pounding with a light touch in tedious repetition on the convex metal. At last, it was smooth.

He pulled himself out from under the SUV and examined his handiwork from the outside. No visible sign of indentation remained. He ran a hand over the surface and felt a slight, lumpy irregularity, but not enough to be significant.

He went to his workbench and cobbled together four pieces of one-by-six board, forming a three-foot-long rectangle. Using his power saw, he cut a piece of plywood to the same dimensions. He flinched with the noise and wondered if it would have been wiser to do it the hard way with a hand saw.

When he finished, he laid the piece of wood on top of his rectangle and hammered it in place. He flipped it over and surveyed his box, then caulked the outside seams.

He opened a bag of Quikrete and dumped its contents into a shiny wheelbarrow. He turned out the lights in the garage, raised the door and stepped outside. The first hints of daylight streaked the sky, but brightened little else. He scanned the area for observers. Seeing none, he rolled the wheelbarrow out of the garage and squirted water into it with a garden hose.

Back inside the garage, he opened the passenger’s side and pulled out an SSG .30 caliber rifle from the floor of the backseat and laid it on the workbench. Using a plastic bucket, he scooped the wet concrete out of the wheelbarrow and poured a layer of it in the bottom of his box. Then he laid the green gun on top of it and sighed with regret. It had performed as promised and done its job well. He poured more of the concrete mixture over the rifle until the weapon disappeared, and the sloppy gray mass rose to tickle the top edge of the board.

He rolled the wheelbarrow over to the far side of the garage and tossed the bucket in it. He would have to dispose of them, too. What a waste. He picked up the rag with its smears of red paint and dropped it in the wheelbarrow as well.

He pulled Happy Parker’s cell phone out of his pocket, pressed in seven digits and hit the button with the symbol of a green telephone receiver. When his call was answered, he said, “Lieutenant Hawkins, please.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another as he waited for the detective to come on the line. At the sound of Hawkins’ voice, he continued. “Molly Mullet was at Happy Parker’s place in the middle of the day yesterday. She returned to his cabin about 3:30 this morning.”

He pressed down on the red receiver button without further comment. He pressed the cell phone into the concrete by the barrel of the rifle and pushed it down below the surface.

He cleaned the windshield and scrubbed the front grill of the Expedition. He spotted more insect remains on the back of his side mirrors and wiped them down well. He tossed the rags and brush he used to clean off the bug remains into the wheelbarrow.

He opened the tailgate, lowered the back seats and covered the whole rear area with a sheet of heavy-duty plastic. He hoisted the wheelbarrow and its contents into the back. He drove off to dispose of his cargo while the concrete in the box set and hardened.

I punched Dale Travis’ home phone number on my cell with more than a bit of trepidation. If it were me, I’d want to head up to New Braunfels. I’d appreciate getting a head start on the morning rush hour. But I wasn’t an attorney and didn’t think like one. At the butt crack of dawn, he might not care about any of his clients.

On the third ring, his graveled voice barked, “This better be good.”

“
I think it is, Mr. Travis, or I would not have called you at this ungodly hour. This is Molly Mullet.”

“
What is it?”

“
There’s a suicide-note confession to the murder of Rodney Faver.”

“
Was the suicide successful?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Oh my God. Not Bobby?”

“
No, sir. Happy Parker.”
Does he have doubts about Bobby’s innocence after all?

“
The drummer?”

“
Yes, sir. I’m at his house right now.”

“
Is he there? Are investigators there? You aren’t involved in his death, are you?”

“
No to all three questions, sir. His girlfriend called me after she got the news of Happy’s death.”

“
I’m heading your way. I should be there by eight this morning—barring a traffic jam in Seguin.”

“
A traffic jam in Seguin?”

“
Big city sarcasm, Molly. Meet me at the coffee shop across from the courthouse at eight. You can do that, right?”

“
Yes, sir. But there is one complication. I’m not sure that the cops are right. I’m not sure it was a suicide.”

“
That’s not our concern, Molly. Our job is to get the charges dismissed against our client or, at the very least, get him out on bail while the DA sorts out this new development. Understood?”

“
Yes, sir. But what if someone killed Happy? What if it was the same person who killed Faver? What if he’s out to take down the whole band?”

“
A lot of what ifs, Molly. But here is a certainty: Bobby is not coping well in jail. Our responsibility is the welfare of our client. The devil take the rest. Your job is not, and never has been, to solve this crime. Your job is to dig up enough information to create enough reasonable doubt that no jury will convict our client. Is that clear?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Okay. Keep your priorities straight. See you at eight.”

Looked like I was headed for another day without end. When I got home, I lay down to take a quick nap, but was too jazzed to sleep. After wasting half an hour trying, I got up, took a shower and dredged through my closet looking for something to wear. I settled on a brown straight skirt, long-sleeved white blouse and a tapestry fabric vest. It screamed teacher to me, but it could be mistaken for paralegal fashion.

I had more than an hour to kill when it struck me that Thelma Wiggins might not know what was going on. I decided to pay her a visit before I went to the coffee shop.

I climbed up the steps of her front porch and pulled back my arm to knock. Before my knuckles hit wood, the door swung open. Thelma stood in the doorway with something close to a smile on her haggard face.