Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) (3 page)

“Uh . . . ”

“I knew you’d agree. Now, don’t you say a word to Mama about this, because she’d never understand, especially when she told me I shouldn’t have a partner at all, that I should keep it all in my own name and hands, but you know how it is nowadays, with the economy and all. I swear, I don’t know what the world is coming to with all those Republicans in Congress. It’s just a shame, is all, a dreadful shame. We’ve been Democrats all our lives, and even with that scandal—well, he was still better than a Republican, don’t you think? Though it
was
such a nasty business with that cigar and all, and so unnecessary. Maybe—oh well. Not that it matters. This isn’t about politics.”

“Well,” Harley finally got in, exasperated that a woman who talked so slow could say so much so quickly, “what
is
it about, Aunt Darcy?”

“Why, sugar, it’s about illegal smuggling. Didn’t I say? Someone is smuggling illegal goods into my shop, and I think my partner is behind it.”

It had started out to be such a nice day. She’d felt so good when she woke up, being famous and richer by a few bucks. Solving a crime and snagging a hot guy just made things so much better she hadn’t even cared that she still had bruises and scratches from her ordeal. How quickly things could go to hell.

“Aunt Darcy,” she said patiently, “you need a private investigator. Or a cop. I’m a tour guide. It’s not at all the same thing.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s in all the papers. Of course you investigate things, just like that woman on cable television—the book writer. What’s her name? Oh, it doesn’t matter. You were able to solve the jewelry thefts and caught the man who murdered that elderly woman, and I’m sure if you can do that, you can do a simple thing like find out who’s smuggling things into my shop. I could lose everything, Harley, if the police found out about this. Just spy on Harry and tell me if he’s in on it. I think he knows who’s doing it and just won’t tell me.”

“And Harry would be—?”

“My partner. Harry Gordon.” Darcy took another puff of her cigarette, a long brown thing that smelled vaguely like cloves and reminded Harley of the pot her brother Eric smoked. “Harry’s supposed to be a silent partner,” her aunt continued, “but he’s been coming in to the shop a lot more the past year, and then—well, I just found it this past weekend.”

“Found what? Drugs? Weapons?”

Darcy blinked, her long lashes batting over eyes that seemed an unnatural turquoise. “No, nothing like that. Illegal imports. Endangered animal skins. Ivory. Things like ancient artifacts that I know can’t be legal. Statues. Vases. Some kind of powder. It isn’t drugs. It just isn’t legal. Powdered rhinoceros horn or something like that. The federal government banned these things, and I don’t know who is doing it or how they’re getting them through Customs. But if my clients found out I was involved in any kind of illegal business, I’d be bankrupt in a week.”

The waitress brought Darcy’s gin and tonic, and she held up two fingers to indicate another one as she pulled the first one toward her.

“So you see, don’t you,” Darcy continued, somehow managing to smoke and talk and drink in almost the same breath, “why it must be kept very,
very
quiet?”

“Aunt Darcy—”

“I’ll pay any expenses you may run into, of course. And I’ll buy your lunch. Order anything you like.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your confidence in me,” Harley began, “but—”

“Listen here, Harley Jean Davidson, we’re family. Family always sticks together. If you can help find out who killed some strange old lady, you can certainly help me find out who’s trying to ruin my business!”

It was the strangest thing about Aunt Darcy; just when you thought she was three bricks shy of a full load, and a wilting violet to boot, she turned into Raging Bull.

Harley groaned. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do, but don’t expect miracles.”

The frown that had briefly distorted Darcy’s face vanished, and her smile was serene and reassuring. “Now, sugar, I know you’ll find out who it is. Come to the shop tomorrow and I’ll tell you everything you need to know. You can do one of those stinger things, like the police.”

“Sting. Stinger is a drink. And no, I don’t—” She paused. Aunt Darcy had stopped listening so there was no point in even trying. The waitress delivered her aunt’s second gin and tonic, and she scooped it up. How did the woman suck down so much gin and not fall out onto the floor? If
she
drank like that, she’d end up paddling in the fountain with the ducks.

Aunt Darcy glanced at her watch. “Oh, I’ve got to run, Harley. I’m supposed to meet a client at their house in Harbor Town. A new job, very expensive. Remember now, not a word to anyone. If it got out, I’d be ruined.”

Kissing the air beside Harley, she left in a flurry of clove cigarette smoke and lingering perfume. Harley got stuck with the check and no lunch. Sixteen dollars for a Coke and her aunt’s two gin and tonics? That was too pricey for her budget, but it wasn’t the waitress’s fault and she left a tip as well. Twenty bucks to listen to some ridiculous story that would prove to be just a mistake.

It wouldn’t be the first time her aunt had thought someone was trying to ruin her business. Last year, she’d been convinced a rival design shop was stealing her clients by telling lies about her all over town, and she threatened to sue for libel. That had turned out to be a mistake. And the year before that, there’d been the disagreement with furniture manufacturers—well, no point in dredging all that up now. She’d go just to keep peace. And to recoup her twenty dollars.

After stopping at Taco Bell to pick up brunch, she crossed Poplar to the office parking lot with only one near crash. There was a parking space in the shade and she grabbed it. Leaving her car’s windows down would be an open invitation to steal it, but parking in the sun meant the temperature inside might reach a hundred and fifty degrees in the summertime. Even though it was still relatively cool, no point in taking unnecessary chances. Toyotas, especially older ones like hers, were prime targets for chop shops, one of Memphis’s major business attractions for budding young entrepreneurs.

Air conditioning inside gave her a spurt of energy. If she ran up the stairs to the second floor instead of taking the elevator, it might work off some of the junk food she’d eaten lately.

By the time she reached the Tour Tyme offices, she was out of breath. Staggering into the reception area, she hung over Tootsie’s desk for a moment, gasping for air. He didn’t look up.

“You’re still on call. I didn’t put you on the schedule since I didn’t know when you’d be back. There’s a Graceland run,” Tootsie said. He’d filed his fake nails into a perfect oval. “You can take that tour if you want. Tourists from Nevada. What do you think of this color?” He held out his nails for her to inspect. He’d changed colors already, a deeper shade of purple.

She leaned forward as the black dots in front of her eyes faded. “Nice. Perfect Plum?”

“Claret Craze. I went to Stein Mart on Sunday and found a gorgeous dress in a deep claret. Very Jennifer Aniston. Do you think my hair would look good cut like hers?”

“This year’s cut or last year’s?”

“Last year.” He tugged at the end of his pony tail, soft auburn strands curling around his palm. “I’ve been thinking of cutting it a little shorter, since every so often I like to go as Cher. She can be a refreshing change, but I have to wear wigs and they get hot.”

“Keep it long,” Harley advised, “it’s more flexible.”

“Right. It’s a mystery to me how you can know about nail polish colors and hair lengths when you so obviously don’t apply it to yourself.”

Inspecting her nails—or where they’d be if she didn’t bite them—she said reflectively, “Cami has never given up hope I’ll turn into a girly-girl. She keeps me updated. If I had polished nails they’d have to be in bubble gum flavor. Or bean burrito.”

Tootsie ignored the last. “So Charlsie’s van broke down. How about a one o’clock pickup at the Radisson? Only four women from up in Michigan, but they want to go to Victorian Village.”

“Great. I like going to the Village.”

She took the log book down the hall to catch it up since she hadn’t entered her mileage or time last week. There had been other things on her mind, like finding her parents after King, their neurotic dog, had been abducted and the neighbor responsible for the dognapping was murdered. Of course, the police had immediately suspected her father had killed the neighbor, so he and her mother had gone on the run. And then there was Harley’s narrow escape from jewel thieves and psychotic murderers when she tried to get evidence to clear her father. That still made her shiver when she thought about it. Why had she thought changing jobs would eliminate the stress in her life? It’d obviously followed her. But at least being a tour guide was less stressful than working in marketing for a corporate banking firm whose managers talked like drill sergeants to their employees. It’d do for now. She looked at it as a working vacation. And time to decide what she really wanted from life.

Here she was, closer to thirty, unmarried, with no kids or mortgage or even a steady boyfriend, drifting through life as aimlessly as a dandelion thistle in the wind. Diva said she was a late bloomer, but her mother had no expectations for Harley other than that she be happy in whatever she chose to do. It was a simplistic view of life that often bumped up against the harsh corners of reality.

But then, that was how Diva was, an idealistic dreamer with a proclaimed connection to the psychic world that was uncannily accurate at times. Enough to validate her beliefs in her own abilities, anyway. Harley wasn’t always so sure. There were the times Diva was right on the money with a prediction or warning, or even just a certainty about someone. Like last week, when she’d been so sure Bruno Jett was connected somehow to their dog’s disappearance. It’d turned out that he was, though indirectly. And Diva had been sure all would turn out well in the end, which it had, but not without a lot of stress. And panic. But both those predictions could be explained away as coincidence.

Then there was her warning about the Chinese pug . . . that one was harder to explain away. Diva couldn’t have known that Harley would almost be hit in the head with a heavy ceramic pug. It was just that kind of obscure thing that made Harley wonder if her mother really did use a sixth sense at random moments. Practicality demanded Harley apply rational explanations to the unexplainable. There were times, however, it was impossible. Diva often defied logic.

When the phone rang, Harley wasn’t surprised to hear her mother on the other end say, “When Darcy asks you to help her, consider it carefully. It will set you on a different path.”

“Aunt Darcy already asked. I didn’t fully agree, but I didn’t refuse. And how’d you know about it?”

Ignoring that, Diva said, “It’s your choice, Harley. Just be sure it’s what you want to do.”

Diva’s low alto vibrated softly in her ear, and Harley toyed with the impulse to ask her advice. Then the moment passed, and she said only, “I’ll be sure.”

It was a lie, of course. She’d been roped into it with cords of familial guilt, lassoed by a master. Jewish mothers had nothing on Southern women, and a Southern Jewish mother was a force to be reckoned with. She should be grateful, she supposed, that Aunt Darcy was Methodist. Otherwise, there was no telling what Harley might have agreed to do for her.

Just checking out shop inventory or shipping manifests couldn’t be too bad. Nothing more complicated than a few boring hours on a Tuesday afternoon when she’d rather be doing anything else. Then she’d present dear Aunt Darcy with a bill, including the twenty dollar charge for drinks at The Peabody.

Life had its perks. She’d try to keep that in mind while she went through the motions of finding Aunt Darcy’s imaginary smuggler. Really. She’d probably just forgotten she’d ordered fake zebra skins or bath powder and imagined the worst. It was probably due to the gin she kept hidden in bottles for a little pick-me-up. A wee nip here, a wee nip there, and by the end of the day she’d pickled her brain. It was amazing no one had caught on in all this time, but if they had, it was one of those things that went politely unmentioned in the family. Like inherited insanity. Most of the time she thought her entire family was nuts. It was uncomfortably close to the truth.

But this was nothing like her last foray into thievery and flying bullets. This would be quick and easy. And profitable. Her favorite things.

Time to get back to work and put the weekend’s ordeal behind her. She finished logging in her time for last week, then took the elevator down two flights to the ground floor and parking lot where her trusty little ’91 silver Toyota waited in the shade. Good transportation, one of those cars that were fuel efficient and comfortable. Best of all, it was paid for.