Hound Dog Blues (16 page)

Bummer. Things were going from bad to worse, but at least murder charges hadn’t been filed. Yet.

By the time she dropped off her load of tourists at their hotel and returned to the office to leave the keys and van, Tootsie was the only one still there. She slumped into a chair in the dingy waiting room and closed her eyes. Tootsie made a sympathetic sound.

“Long day, baby?”

She opened one eye. “Has it been only one day?”

“Yeah, ’fraid so. Have you heard from your parents?”

“Not a word. You’d think they’d call me, leave a message or something. They have to know I’m worried, dammit.” She drummed her fingers against the beige wood of the armchair. “I can understand Yogi not calling. He’s usually pretty oblivious. But Diva should at least call.”

Tootsie came out from behind the receptionist desk. “They’ll call. You know they’re okay. Just freaked out and hiding somewhere.”

“Yeah.” She looked up at him. “Look, I need another favor. Think you can find out what alarm company installed security for Charles Freeman? I can tell you what street he lives on, but that’s about it. And I need to know where he took his wife’s jewelry to get it appraised.”

He gave her a curious look but nodded. “Sure, baby. When do you need to know?”

“As soon as you do.” She stood up. “I’ve got an idea or two I need to check out. It may be useful in clearing Yogi. Maybe not, but I’ve got to feel like I’m doing something to help. This not knowing anything is driving me bats.”

“I’ll have to call you with the info. All my good trolling software is on my home PC.”

Tootsie pulled the elastic band from his ponytail to free his hair, and then shook his head to loosen it around his face. Today he wore an electric-blue silk shirt and tight black pants. He looked very retro.

“You look like you need a drink, baby. We can stop at the Poplar Lounge for a burger and a beer, if you feel like it.”

Ordinarily, she’d be glad to go. She always enjoyed cruising the bars with Tootsie, but she shook her head.

“I’m going home to take a hot bath and soak until my skin looks pruney. Maybe Diva will call.”

She didn’t go straight home, but kept her appointment with Bobby, getting to the West precinct a little late but at least in before six. He was waiting for her in a small office with no windows, just glass in the door. He looked irritated, so she put on a bright smile.

“Hey Bobby.”

“You’re late.”

“Why yes, I’m doing just fine, thank you. No, no residual effects from getting smacked in the head.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not so sure about that. You don’t seem to be thinking too rationally.”

“Did you want me to come here just to listen to you bitch? Because I’m not in the mood for it.”

“Harley—stay out of police business. You act like this is some kind of game, snooping around and asking questions, but it’s not. It’s serious stuff. You can get hurt if you keep this up.”

“Thanks for the warning, but the bump on my head says staying out of this isn’t safe, either. Jeez Bobby, it’s not like I’m not already involved, whether I want to be or not. My parents are missing, I got hit in the head, and the new neighbor is an undercover cop. Why can’t I ask a few questions?”

“Because you’re liable to ask the wrong question of the wrong person. We already have a pretty good notion of what’s going on, and you’re liable to screw it all up. Go home. Stay there. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“I’ll explain to my boss that I can’t come in and work. I’m sure Mr. Penny will be glad to pay me anyway.”

“Shit.” Bobby glared at her. “You know what I mean, Harley.”

“Yes. I do. And I don’t like it. You want me to act like nothing’s happened and wait for you to arrest Diva and Yogi for something they didn’t do. Right?”

Bobby stood up. He looked angry. “No, I want you to stay out of police business. That’s all I’m asking. Otherwise, I‘ll arrest you for obstruction.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“Not yet. Don’t push it too far, though. I can’t risk you getting hurt. Dammit, Harley, can you just listen for once? Remember, your track record isn’t that great.”

He had her there. She’d made a career out of doing things her way, and obviously it wasn’t always the best way. After a moment, she blew out a sigh and nodded.

“All right, Bobby. But I don’t promise not to look for them.”

“Call me if you find them first. You know I’ll do everything I can to protect them.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Yogi’s fingerprints are all over Mrs. Trumble’s house. It looks bad for him, if he doesn’t turn himself in soon.”

“Right. I’ll tell him when I find him. Diva will call soon, I’m sure of it.”

“Do what you can, Harley.”

When she left, she hit a few likely spots looking for her parents. When she cruised down Douglass, she happened to see George Reed watering plants in his front yard. She braked. He’d told the cops he’d seen Yogi leaving Mrs. Trumble’s house around the time of her death. No harm in asking him a few questions.

“Hullo, Mr. Reed,” she said pleasantly when she switched off the bike and took off her helmet to walk up his driveway, “your begonias are really lovely.”

Reed, overweight and balding, gave her a curious look. “Thanks.”

“So, uh, about yesterday—”

He held up a hand to interrupt her. “I can’t talk about it. The police told me not to talk to anyone about what I saw.”

“I’m not asking for details. I just want to know if you’re sure it was Yogi you saw coming out of her house. And if you’re sure of the time.”

“I’m sure. I’ve lived down the street from him for five years now. Too bad about the dog. I kinda hoped that mutt was gone this time.”

Another fan of King’s. She wasn’t surprised. The dog had a way of making enemies.

“And you’re sure of the time? I mean, do you wear a watch when you jog?”

He blinked at her. Apparently, no one had asked him how he knew the time, just taken his word for it.

“No,” he said irritably, “I don’t wear a watch, but I left when Montel came on television and got back just as it was ending. That puts it between two and three.”

That was pretty definite. She nodded and started to thank him, then thought of something else to ask. “Did you happen to see a car in her driveway?”

“Not when Yogi came out. That was on my way out. I jog down Douglass to Goodlett, then around to Audubon Park, then back. I saw the car on my way out, a black Lincoln, but only Yogi on my way back.”

She smiled. “You’ve been a big help, Mr. Reed. Thanks.”

So that meant that Yogi was right. She must have been dead when he got there. Whoever owned that car had been the last one to see her alive and probably the one who killed her. It was a relief and a worry at the same time. If they had no compunction about killing an old lady, they’d have no compunction in killing a witness. She had to find Yogi, and quickly.

Several stops later, it was nearly dusk and she’d run out of places and ideas. Still no call and no message, not even from Tootsie. Her cell phone stayed quiet. This could get depressing. She headed for her apartment.

She parked her bike under the oak again. Shadows claimed the ground under the trees and the sun had already dipped beyond the Mississippi River. Crickets chirped, katydids buzzed, and across the road in the zoo, a lion let out a lazy roar. At least the weather was nice. Everything else sucked.

Tromping across brick paving and greenish moss, she went inside and was halfway up the stairs when she remembered she’d washed clothes and left them downstairs in the laundry room. Damn. Usually, she remembered them, but Monday night had been
CSI, Miami
night, and she’d forgotten to take them out of the dryer. If anyone complained, Mr. Lancaster would be perturbed. He took pride in running the laundry room like he had his Navy crew, taut, shipshape, and with all tenants obeying the rules. One of the rules prohibited tying up washers and dryers with abandoned clothes. This was what, Wednesday? And he’d no doubt already written her a nice, terse note about her infraction.

Doing a U-turn, she headed for the basement laundry room. In daylight it was bright and cheerful, painted a shiny white with green trim, the overhead pipes hidden by acoustic ceiling tiles and the lighting bright fluorescent rings. Now it was dark, and she flipped the light switch as she started down the narrow flight of stairs. A single white iron railing provided support. The bank of washers and dryers sat back to her left, and long folding and sorting tables stretched across the front wall opposite the stairs. A framed picture of the Memphis-Arkansas Bridge and the Mississippi River hung over the tables.

Her green plastic laundry basket with her dry clothes sat on the table. How thoughtful. Someone had even folded them. Certainly not Mr. Lancaster, for which she was grateful. The image of a former Navy warrant officer folding her lacy bikini panties was rather disturbing.

She picked up her basket and turned, then dropped it in surprise. Tammy Sprague was lying in front of a dryer. She didn’t look at all comfortable. Or alive. Something dark matted her pale blond hair, and it looked far too much like blood.

Heart pounding, she knelt next to Tammy and was relieved to hear her moan. There was blood but it wasn’t a lot, just a rusty smear. When her eyelids fluttered, Harley said, “Hey Tammy, you all right? Did you fall?”

Tammy blinked for a moment, and her lips moved silently. Then she groaned and tried to sit up.

“You don’t look good,” Harley said, and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Wait here and I’ll call for help.”

“No.” A surprisingly strong hand gripped Harley’s wrist. “Stu—get my husband.”

“Sure. But you might want to get some medical help, too. Falling down the stairs can do some damage.”

Tammy’s eyes uncrossed and she seemed to focus better, fixing Harley with a steady look. “I didn’t fall,” she said with unexpected energy, “someone hit me in the head.”

Harley blinked. “Was it—Stu?”

Now Tammy looked irritated. “Of course not. Whoever it was thought I was you, ’cause he called me by your name.”

Oh boy. Disregarding ex-boyfriends, the only likely culprit would be the greasy guy who’d hit her on the head in Yogi’s workshop. Apparently, he thought she had the necklace that was now in police custody. This could be awkward. And dangerous.

She stood up. “I’ll get your husband. You’ll be okay. And . . . and I’m sorry you got hit.”

What else was there to say? Unless she added that some maniac was out there bashing in heads and looking for a stolen two hundred thousand dollar necklace.

She knew what to expect when she got upstairs, so she wasn’t too surprised to see that her apartment looked similar to her parents’ house. Greaser wasn’t very neat. It looked like a disaster area, drawers dumped on the floor, and even flour bags opened and powdering the counters.

While Stu hurried to the basement and his wife, Harley called Bobby. “Hey, you might want to rethink filing stolen property charges against Yogi.”

“Oh yeah? Why is that?” He sounded stressed. And skeptical.

“Because whoever hit me thinks I’ve got the necklace. They just ransacked my apartment and hit my neighbor in the head. Apparently, they confused her with me.”

“Some mistake.”

“That’s what I thought. She’s a real tight-ass. So you might want to drop by and check for fingerprints if you’re in the mood.”

“Right. I’m on the way. Stay there, Harley.”