Hound Dog Blues (14 page)

“Yes, of course I’ll tell her.”

A twinge of guilt smacked her right between the shoulder blades. He suddenly looked so frail standing there, a tall, slender man with silver hair and something rather lonely in his eyes, and she heard herself say, “Unless I can visit for a few minutes now. Will that be all right?”

It was, of course, more than all right. She really shouldn’t mind so much, but the huge house always seemed so empty, even when her aunt and cousins were there for the frequent family gatherings that Diva tried to avoid and Yogi shunned. Not that he was ever missed. Eaton disapproval of their son-in-law still held strong after thirty-two years.

Diva had never been comfortable with the Junior League set, preferring rock and roll and long-haired hippies that included John Davidson, a boy from the other side of town who had only his charm to recommend him. And his lack of ambition. That was the family history from her grandparents’ point of view. Diva saw it completely differently, of course. Materialism and lack of social conscience had never held an allure for her, and once she’d met Yogi, he’d shown her a way of life that was much more appealing. That was during the days of Vietnam and peace protests, flowers in the hair and Haight-Asbury, and they’d run off together to San Francisco some time in the late sixties. Things could have turned out much differently for Harley if they’d stayed in California. But thankfully—from Harley’s point of view—when they’d moved to Memphis, she’d taken to living in a real house like a duck took to water. And maintained a relationship with her grandparents as best she could.

Harley spent the better part of an hour drinking lemonade and eating homemade oatmeal cookies with Grandmother and Grandfather Eaton before she was able to tear herself away. It was difficult making idle conversation when she had a case of the screaming meemies worrying where Yogi and Diva could be, and if Yogi was going to be charged with murder.

But when she left, she had a doggie bag of cookies tucked into her backpack, and she had promised to attend a Saturday luncheon with her cousins Madelyn and Amanda, two of the most stuck-up, condescending twits she’d ever met. But they were family, her Aunt Darcy’s daughters, and she endured their company about as willingly as they endured hers. The things one suffered for family peace.

Grandmother Eaton stood in the kitchen doorway in a silk robe, with the light behind her gleaming on her perfectly coiffed hair, a shade of silver that could almost be called platinum like Diva’s, but hers was short and impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place. Isabella Eaton was the antithesis of her oldest daughter, prim and proper, stylish and straitlaced. Diva must have been a great shock to her nervous system.

“Remember, Harley,” she said, “you’re expected Saturday after next at twelve sharp. Your Aunt Darcy will be here with the girls.”

The
girls
were around her age, Harley thought, hardly qualifying for the misnomer, but she only nodded. “Yes, Grandmother. I’ll be on time.”

After a beat, her grandmother added, “If Deirdre should wish to come, she’d be most welcome.”

“I’ll tell her.” This was the uncomfortable part. She never felt easy being the go-between for mother and daughter. Neither understood the other, and she always got caught in the middle. She strapped on her helmet, felt her grandmother’s disapproval of her transportation even from several yards away, and said, “It’s really late. I’d better go.”

“Be careful,” her grandfather said. “We’ve had a lot of burglaries lately. You need to put in an alarm system if you don’t already have one.”

“I don’t have much jewelry, but thanks for the advice.”

“It’s not always jewelry that criminals are after.”

Oh gee, that was a comforting thought.

“But don’t get a cheap company to install it,” Grandfather added, “or you may end up like Charles Freeman.”

“Charles Freeman?”

“Our neighbor. He didn’t take my advice, and thieves broke in a few weeks ago and stole all his wife’s jewelry.”

“Yes,” her grandmother interrupted, “they stole a very valuable necklace. Thankfully, it had just been appraised not long before, so the insurance company will pay full value, but still . . . .”

“He should have gotten a reputable alarm company. The alarm didn’t even go off as it should have, and by the time the police got there it was too late.” Grandfather nodded sadly. “He’s had losses in the market recently, hit some bad times, and now he’s worried the police suspect him of stealing his own wife’s jewelry. I warned him, but no, he had to go and use the company recommended by the jeweler, a local firm only in business a year. Foolishness.”

An idea popped into Harley’s head, full-blown and probably ridiculous. But not impossible. It was an idea she’d explore and then trade to Crime Stoppers for cold cash, if it panned out. Bobby would learn to take her more seriously one day, by God.

“Grandfather,” she said with a smile, “you’re an absolute genius.”

He looked surprised but pleased. “Just a little common sense, really, to go with reputable firms rather than fly-by-night businesses.”

“Exactly what I think. See you next week. And thanks again.”

Elated, she rocked the bike off its stand and took off at a sedate speed that wouldn’t disturb the neighbors or annoy the police. When she stopped at the red light right next to Memorial Park cemetery with its fake Italian grotto and low fieldstone walls, she considered the remarkable coincidence that Charles Freeman had been victim of a burglary soon after having a valuable necklace appraised.

Two possibilities came immediately to mind. One, he was trying to scam the insurance company, and two, alarm company employees were responsible for the theft. Both were plausible, the latter the most likely. It’d be too easy to get around security measures if you’d installed them in the first place, and it would give easy access to houses all over Memphis. Oh yeah. This idea definitely had merit. And the police had probably already realized it, even though they still obviously thought Yogi was somehow involved. She had to prove he wasn’t.

It had to be close to midnight by now and she was overdue for bedtime, but should get her motorcycle tag out of the garage to prevent another ticket. If she hadn’t been so rattled, she’d have remembered it when she got the bike. When she arrived back on Douglass, the silver Jag was gone from the driveway next door, but the garage door was shut and the lights were on inside the house. No cars were out front, but she saw Morgan’s shadow in his kitchen. Unless she wanted to risk another confrontation, she’d better be quick and quiet.

She flicked on the garage light and retrieved the metal tag from the shelf where she usually hid the keys, then closed and locked the door behind her. A light shone in the window of her parents’ kitchen. She should turn it off, but the thought of going inside the empty house was unappealing. It looked forlorn without her parents there, and she realized how much she depended upon them to always be there. Bummer. Almost thirty years old and still clinging to mama and daddy. Her personal life was pretty bleak. How depressing.

Maybe she needed to rethink this No Stress thing. It wasn’t working out as well as she’d hoped anyway. Leaving the corporate world had seemed like a good idea at the time; yet walking away from a good paying job to ferry drunken tourists to the Jungle Room at Graceland held less appeal than it had six months ago. An overload of job-related stress, and a breakup with a man entirely unsuitable for anything but target practice, had contributed to her rash decision to leave her job in corporate banking. Another good idea gone bad. She should be on Oprah. Or Dr. Phil. One of those, What Not To Do When This Happens To You shows.

As she walked toward her bike in the driveway, she saw a thin slice of light coming from Yogi’s workshop door. Her heartbeat escalated. It had to be Yogi. Relieved, she navigated a path around a metal sunflower, two plastic rabbits, a ceramic frog, and Yogi’s version of the leaning tower of Pisa to reach the workshop door.

Shoving it open, she said, “Damn, I’m glad you’re back,” and the man bent over a rubbish barrel against the workbench straightened. She caught a quick glimpse of a startled face beneath dark, slicked-back hair, a thin build in a jump suit with some kind of lettering, and then he leaped forward to smack her on the head with something in his hand.

She screamed. Lights like a dozen sparklers exploded in front of her eyes. Then she slumped to the floor and everything went black.

Harley moaned, one hand flopping in a pile of rags. Someone took her hand and held it, fingers pressing her pulse. Aware, but as if through a thick fog, she fought her way out of black, clinging shrouds. Blinding light shone down, intense and obliterating everything else. Daylight already? Then the sun eclipsed and a face swam into view, a blur at first, then sharpening until she recognized Morgan staring down at her. He looked worried. How sweet.

“Hey,” he said when she tilted her head and looked at him, “looks like you took a fall.”

“Nunh unh.” She tried to push to a sitting position, but his hand kept her down. The sun swayed, and when she blinked again, turned into a hundred watt light bulb. Her head hurt. Her tongue felt thick. There was a strange pounding behind her eyes. “Ouch. Didn’t fall. Got hit.”

“Got hit?” He peered into her eyes. “Who?”

“Greasy guy. A mechanic maybe. Hey, watch the hand.”

“Which one?” He’d parted her hair to find the lump on her head, but his other hand rested on her ribs just below her breast.

“Both. Oooh, my head hurts.”

“I imagine it does. That’s a nasty bump. What’d he hit you with?”

“I don’t know.” She paused, then said, “It looked like a piece of pipe. Felt like a tree.”

“Why would a mechanic be here?” He looked around the workshop. “Did you know the guy?”

“Never saw him before. Not sure I’d know him if I saw him again. Hey, how’d you find me out here?”

“Saw the lights on. Why’d you come back?”

“Not to turn off the lights. Can you fix traffic tickets, by any chance?”

“No. So why’d you come back?”

“To get my new motorcycle tag. Which brings me back to the ticket—”

“Sit up.”

When she did, he slid an arm behind her and lifted her. She thought about resistance then decided she didn’t have the energy. Besides, he seemed to have a plan.

“Where are we going?”

“To my house,” he said, swinging her up into his arms and walking toward the door.

She grabbed the doorframe and clung to it. “No. Not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You’re going to report this, aren’t you?” He nodded, and she said, “Yeah, so I wanna be here, not next door with a cold cloth on my head.” There was no way she’d let the cops have free rein in her parents’ house without supervision.

“Just how hard did that guy hit you? What do you think you’re going to miss?”

He sounded irritated, but she didn’t really care. It was a small victory but a solid one, and she sat on the back porch steps while he called it in. Within minutes, a patrol car was in front and Mrs. Shipley stood on the curb taking in every detail. Not even a Benadryl and vodka cocktail would make Sadie Shipley miss this much excitement.

Harley gave her statement while uniformed officers searched the workshop, the yard, and the house. Whoever hit her had already ransacked the house. She went inside and gazed sadly at the mess. Everything was turned upside down.

“It looks like the inside of a goat’s stomach,” she said. “Crime is really getting out of hand.”

“So what were they looking for, Harley?” Bobby Baroni walked through the front door, frowning as he looked around at the mess.

“I should know? Stuff to sell, I guess.”

“Then why didn’t they take the TV or VCR?”

He had a point. She frowned, but that made her head hurt so she stopped. “How should I know? Maybe they got interrupted.”

“If that was true, then why hang around to smack you in the head. There’s something odd going on here, Harley.”

“Tell me about it.”

Sweeping a pile of broken crystals onto the floor from the overstuffed chair she flopped into it, groaning a little. Even her teeth hurt. And Bobby sounded pissed off.

“No,
you
tell me about it.”