Bite the Moon (20 page)

“
Is he here?”

“
Get real. Do I look like a woman living in domestic bliss with the man of my dreams?”

“
Do you know where I could find him?”

“
For all I know, he’s tinkling the ivories at some Holiday Inn off the interstate in Nebraska.”

“
Nebraska?”

She rolled her eyes and audibly exhaled while shaking her head. “A figure of speech. Okay?”

“
When’s the last time you saw him?”

“ ’
Bout a week before Faver bit it. Good ole Francis Xavier tucked his keyboard under his arm, called me a few choice names, shoved me to the floor and walked out the door.”

“
You haven’t seen him since?”

“
Nah. He did call a couple of times that first week, but I was still pissed off so I hung up on him.”

“
Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“
Probably bunking with Wolfe. He always goes whining to him when he has a problem.” She sneered.

“
I thought all the guys went to Stan Crockett?”

“
Crockett? Shit. He’s not the saint everybody makes him out to be.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
Listen, I only know what Fingers told me and Fingers is not here. I don’t know where he is and I don’t care anymore. Just go away and leave me alone.”

The door slammed in my face.

I headed next for a daytime hangout in South Austin for musicians and the wannabes who wanted to see them: Ruta Maya Coffee. Behind many businesses in Austin beat the heart of an idealist. Ruta Maya was no exception. The company was founded on the principle of returning a fair portion of the profits for the producer of the coffee. Their goal: to empower the Mayan farmer as a viable economic force in his community. As a result, they offered only shade-grown coffee beans from a cooperative of organic producers in the highlands of Chiapas, Mexico. At Ruta Maya, even black coffee was served with a heaping teaspoonful of righteousness.

It was more spacious than the chain coffee shops. Its industrial ceiling with exposed pipes and ductwork loomed over partial walls painted in bright colors and covered with an ever-changing exhibition of artwork. At night, Ruta Maya transformed into an eclectic venue for music and poetry readings. It was so Austin, it was surreal.

When I walked in, I spotted Ray Wylie Hubbard tucked in a corner with a couple of friends. Once the wild child of progressive country music, best known for writing “
Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother”
and his rowdy stage shows, Ray and his music have matured. Blues overtones colored his latest releases, making him one of the most esteemed songwriters and performers in American roots music. His warm, weathered voice and shaggy, unassuming demeanor was a recognizable presence throughout Texas and beyond.

To Ray, Jesse Kriewaldt was, in all likelihood, just another drop in the ocean of unsung songwriters that dogged his steps daily, handing off CDs and looking for a big break. Those were the people I wanted to meet.

I scanned the room, looking for faces filled with more desperation and hunger than Ray had known for years. I spotted a trio of prospects at a table in the middle of the room. I grabbed a cup of coffee and approached them.

“
Hey, guys. Do any of you know Jesse Kriewaldt?”

“
Why?” said a pencil-thin young man with pitch-black hair and skin as white as a subterranean worm.

“
I’d like to talk to him.”

“
Why?” he asked again.

“
I’m an investigator on a murder case down in New Braunfels and Jesse knew the victim.”

“
So?” the worm said.

“
Ease up, Gordon,” said the blond ponytailed occupant at the table. “Yeah. We know Jesse,” he said to me as he stroked a straggly goatee. “Are you a cop?”

“
Nope. Investigator for the defense.”

Blondie pushed a chair out with his foot. “Have a seat. Are we talking about the murder at Solms Halle?”

“
Yes. You know something about it?”

“
Just rumors, man, nothing more. But, hey, I haven’t seen Jesse for days. Usually see him here two, three times a week. Expected to see him here today. What the hell did you do to your face?”

The question took me by surprise. I’d been avoiding my reflection to put the injury out of my mind. My hand flew to my face and an itching sensation crept across my skin. Beneath my fingertips, I felt long streaks and scabs. It was all I could do not to yield to the urge to scratch the wounds bloody. “Oh, that,” I said. “I tripped over a dog.”

“
And he attacked your face?”

“
No. I landed on my face.”

“
Ouch. You know, my sister was real clumsy, too. My mom sent her to special classes to teach her how to fall without hurting herself so much.”

Clumsy? I am not clumsy. Well, maybe a little
. I smiled a puny smile and changed the subject. “Do you know where Jesse lives?”

“
Don’t know that he exactly has a regular place.”

The silent member of the trio spoke up. He was spared the wormy whiteness of his friend by the random fate of being born Hispanic—but he was the palest Latino I’ve ever seen. “He crashed at my place all last month. But I don’t know who’s putting him up now.”

Ponytail darted his eyes around the room, leaned forward and whispered, “You know, Jesse wrote that song ‘
Bite the Moon,’
Wolfe’s big hit. Trenton Wolfe stole it from him.”

“
I heard Jesse claimed that,” I said.

“
Well, it’s true,” Ponytail insisted as the other two provided a back-up chorus of affirmation.

“
How do you know?”

“
We heard the CD,” Gordon the worm spat out as if daring me to call him a liar.

“
You did? Interesting. Do you have a copy of it?”

The three looked at each other then turned to me and shook their heads and sighed. Rats.

“
But he was supposed to see the dead guy up in Solms that day before the show. Did you know that?” Ponytail asked.

“
Did he meet with him?”

“
Don’t know. But he said he was going to work out a deal with the dead guy. He was going to get paid
and
he was going to get attribution. And trust me, it’s easier to get cash than to get songwriting credit when somebody steals your work.”

“
Have you seen him since that day?”

“
Yeah. But he didn’t want to talk about it,” the pale Latino said. “When I brought it up, he acted pretty weird. Like he had bugs crawling under his skin or something.”

“
Really? Do you think he could have killed Faver?”

They looked at me with disgust and horror. Their distaste could not have been more intense if they caught me desecrating the statue of Stevie Ray Vaughan down at Town Lake. One by one, they popped to their feet, stuck their hands in their pockets and filed out the door.

Jeez. Two for two. My tact needed some serious work.

I headed over to Lamar to check out another daytime haunt of local musicians, South Austin Music Store. The neon guitar perched atop the long, flat-roofed building made it impossible to miss. The sign on their lot said “Musicians Parking Only.” I chose to ignore it and pulled into an available slot. If questioned, I’d sing. It wouldn’t be pretty, but then again, nobody around here was expecting a diva.

It was a bit difficult to walk around inside South Austin Music. The place was packed tight with gear. Guitars hung from endless racks on the walls. Basses stood in a cluster as if seeking warmth. Folk instruments gathered together in a corner without ethnic distinction. And, of course, there were amps, accessories, spare parts and a repair shop, too.

I asked around and did find a couple of people who knew Jesse—sort of. But none could remember when they last saw him or knew where he might be now. After running into two stone walls today, I was feeling a bit on the stubborn side and stuck around for a couple of hours talking to everyone who came in and feigning interest in musical paraphernalia when the need arose.

Stars had replaced the sun by the time I headed toward downtown. I grabbed a Thunder sub on the way and ate it in my car. I traveled past the downtown area into the adjacent campus of the University of Texas. There, I went to the Texas Union building, home of the Cactus Café.

For more than twenty-five years, this venue has built an acoustic music tradition and gained national recognition in the process. Many singer-songwriters like Lyle Lovett, Lucinda Williams and Robert Earl Keen kicked off their careers on the Cactus Café stage. Their success was a magnet for those who wanted to follow in their footsteps.

I hung out, listened to some good music and chatted up as many people as I could. The guy behind the bar and all the waitstaff knew who Jesse was—but that was all they knew.

When weariness set in, I called it a night. Earlier in the day, I’d planned to make a detour into San Marcos on my way back home. I wanted to pay a visit to the Cheetham Street Warehouse. If anyone knew Jesse, owner Kent Finley would. But I was just too beat. As I drove past the city on the interstate, I made a mental note to find out which night was open mike and drive back up here then.

All in all, a wasted day. I was whipped, mentally and physically. When I pulled into my driveway, I sat in my car for a few minutes until I found the energy to move.

I trudged up to the door and froze. Light from the street lamp glinted off of something on my doorknob. I whipped out my keys. For the first time in three months I was grateful for the little key chain light my brother-in-law picked up for me at a soybean convention. I shone its little beam on the knob. A loop of guitar string winked back at me.

I pulled my gun and took a step back. A rush of adrenaline washed away my fatigue in a flash. I was on high alert. Gun on the ready. Ears fine-tuned. I edged my way to the back of the house.

I shone my little light on the back doorknob. Nothing there. I eased the key into the lock and shoved the door open. It banged hard into the wall.

With bent knees and extended arms, I worked my way through the house room by room. A wave of nausea swept over me each time I threw open a closet door, a shower curtain, a large cabinet. I found no one.

I went back through the house again, looking for any indication that someone had been inside in my absence. I searched for anything moved, disturbed or missing. I checked all the windows, making sure they were locked. I pulled all the drapes. I examined every opening to my house for signs of forced entry. Nothing was damaged. Nothing was out of place. I exhaled my relief.

I made a cup of chamomile tea and sipped it in the silence of my living room. Listening. Thinking. Rubbing on my arm. Wondering what I was missing. Where was the key to open the door to Bobby’s jail cell? And why couldn’t I find it?

Who killed Rodney Faver? Trenton Wolfe, who made an art of avoidance? Jesse Kriewaldt or Fingers Waller, whose absences made the heart grow full of suspicion?

What about Rodney’s ex-wife in a murder-for-hire scheme? Stan Crockett? Mike Elliot? The only person I could scratch off my list was Happy Parker—and I sure couldn’t credit my outstanding investigative skills for that.

And what about Heather? Unlikely, but not impossible. But why? Killing Happy was an easy fit. Relationships hide fatal bedfellows in ways that no one can imagine from the outside looking in. But what earthly reason would she have to kill Rodney Faver?

And then there was me. I wasn’t on my own list of suspects. But I topped Hawkins’ list. Oh, man, I had to shut off my mind.

I wanted to take a shower to wash off my body’s adrenaline-induced stench, but I was too edgy to confine myself behind a shower curtain with water thundering in my ears. I stood in front of the sink and used a washcloth to clean myself up as best as I could.

I didn’t know if I could sleep. But I would try. I pulled back the bedspread. My eyes were tricking me. I closed them tight. I shook my head. I opened them. It was still there. Another coil of guitar string rested right on top of my pillow.

He hunkered down across the street, concealed from view. He enjoyed seeing the rigidity that snapped into Molly’s body as she approached her front door.

He savored her anxiety as her gun flashed in the glow of the streetlight. He watched her edge carefully around the house. He had a childish urge to sneak up behind her and shout, “Boo!”

She disappeared from sight. Then he saw lights going on in the house one by one. He saw glimpses of her stiff body as she passed by the front windows.

He shifted his weight, uncomfortable and impatient, as she sat still as a sleeping cat sipping from a cup in the chair in front of the window.

She left the room and his sight for an interminable period of time. His thighs cramped. He stood, stretched and shook them out, taking care to remain hidden.

Her bedroom was at the front of the house, but her blinds were drawn. Nonetheless, he could see the shadow of her passing. He knew she was going to bed. All the rest of the house was now dark.