Hound Dog Blues (7 page)

“Why would she have seen him?”

“Sometimes he gets loose, and she complains. So I thought she might know where he was. I was right, obviously.”

“She didn’t tell you she had the dog?”

“Uh, she was very dead when I got here.”

“So the first time you saw her today was when you found her body?”

This wasn’t working out quite as she’d hoped. She took a deep breath. “No. I saw her a little earlier when I was still looking for King.”

“And what was that conversation like?”

“Brief. Loud. She chased me with a broom.”

He looked up, pen poised over the pad. “So you were pretty mad at her, huh.”

“More along the line of terrified. For an old lady, she was extremely energetic. We didn’t really have a conversation.”

He started writing again. Harley tried to focus on anything but the ideas that kept popping into her head. Yogi wouldn’t hurt anyone. He knew Mrs. Trumble’s threat to sue was just spite with nothing to back it up. Abducting King was just spite, too. Yogi knew that. Right?

To her relief, Officer Delisi only asked a few more questions, and she described how she’d heard a noise and gone inside—only a slight stretch of the truth—and found King, then stumbled over Mrs. Trumble. He finished up by telling her not to leave town, that she’d need to be available for more questions.

She was glad to see Bobby approaching, crossing the lawn to the driveway where they stood. “I called your parents to come get the dog,” he said. “Some of the guys are getting a little irritated with King. There’s talk of an accidental shot in his direction.”

“I completely understand.”

“Harley—I’ll need to talk to Yogi about why and when he violated the restraining order.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, I know he came down here. Someone saw him.”

Damn
. “Maybe it was a mistake.”

“No, it’s not a mistake. A jogger saw Yogi leaving this house around two-thirty, give or take a few minutes. Time of death is around then. You understand, don’t you, that we’ll have to question him?”

For a moment she couldn’t answer. Panic gripped her, cold and paralyzing. Finally she said, “Bobby, you know he’s incapable of killing someone. He’s a conscientious objector.”

“Yeah, with a record of arrests for sit-ins and protests that often led to violence.”

“But
he
wasn’t violent. Okay, so he gets excited sometimes, says things he shouldn’t and even makes occasional threats, but he’s never ever hurt anyone. He won’t even kill spiders.”

“He’s not under arrest, Harley. We just need to clear him, okay?”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Do you know anyone else who might have a grudge against Mrs. Trumble?”

“Other than almost everyone in the neighborhood that she’s terrorized at one time or another, no. For pity’s sake, Bobby, you remember what she’s like. Remember the time she called the police on you and me and Cami for stealing cherries off her cherry tree?”

“Yeah. We did steal cherries.”

“That’s not the point. We were fifteen, the tree hung over the sidewalk and we took a few cherries. Why call the cops?”

“I’m not arguing that she was a petty, spiteful old lady. But she’s been murdered. I’ve got to check out all angles, and that includes the feud with Yogi. If he didn’t do it, we’ll find that out. But he was here, and he may have seen something or someone that’s important. Or maybe she said something we need to know.”

He was right. She knew that. She didn’t like it, but she knew it.

“Fine. But do me a favor—
you
talk to him. He gets all defensive and obstinate with the police most of the time. He knows you and trusts you.”

“I’d planned on it. I don’t think he shot her, but he may have seen someone leaving when he got here, or—”

“Bobby. I saw someone. Earlier . . . before I came to talk to you. There was a car here, a big new car. Black. That’s the reason I didn’t stop then, I thought maybe I’d catch her alone instead of while she had company.”

“What model car?”

“Black. Big, like a . . . a Lincoln. Not a limo or anything, but one of those long cars.”

“Did you get a license plate number?”

“Oh please. I’m doing good to remember the color. Wait—it was a personalized plate. I remember seeing that but not paying much attention since I was thinking about other things. GR8 something.”

“Great?”

“G-R-eight. Great . . . I don’t know. I only remember the first three letters. Some of those personalized messages on license plates are confusing.”

“That’ll help.” He’d taken out his pad and was writing again. “When Yogi gets here, tell him I’d like to talk to him before he leaves. Might as well get it over with now.”

“I’ll tell him. He’s not going to be happy.”

Bobby nodded, eying the street now crowded with news vans and reporters. “Damn media. They get to a scene before the ME most of the time.”

Evening shadows slowly sucked away the afternoon sunshine. Strobe lights illuminated the yard. Cables and wires snaked across pavement, and cameras balanced on shoulders and tripods. A man in jogging shorts spoke into a microphone being held by a leggy blonde reporter in a stylish red suit. Bobby swore softly.

“My witness. Shit. What’s he doing talking to the media?”

He stalked across the yard toward the unsuspecting reporter eagerly asking questions, and Harley stood indecisively. The jogger was a neighbor who lived several houses down from Yogi and Diva. There had never been any problems with George Reed that she knew about, and he was probably just repeating what he’d seen. Yogi could be in serious trouble. Why hadn’t he stayed home?

Diva came with Yogi, and they arrived in the big lime-green Volkswagen van her father had named Vanna, parking down the street. It was probably best. The van was recognizable, as it had been decorated with Picasso-like body parts painted by her brother, some of the art in rather questionable taste.

Scurrying toward her, Yogi’s face was a mixture of relief and worry. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

“I presume you mean King. He’s fine. A little smelly and shabby for having only been gone two days, but other than that, he’s his usual self.” Harley put out a hand to stop Yogi. “Uh, did Bobby happen to mention Mrs. Trumble to you?”

“She’s dead.” Yogi nodded. “I know. But that doesn’t have anything to do with King. Can I go get him now?”

“I’m sure they’d be grateful, but I have to tell you that Bobby wants to talk to you before you leave. He just wants to ask a few questions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, probably something along the line of, Do you have an alibi, and maybe even—why were you seen down here earlier today? Damn, Yogi, you
promised
.”

She’d meant to remain calm, but irritation and worry made her voice rise. Yogi darted a glance toward Diva, then said with injured dignity, “I didn’t really lie to you, Harley. I promised not to go next door, not down here.”

“So if you knew she had King, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know she had King. I couldn’t sit home not doing anything. I came down here to ask her. You seemed so sure she had him, and I thought I’d save us all some trouble if I could just ask her what she wanted from me. I didn’t know she was dead. Not when I first got here.”

“Jesus. So you saw her lying dead on the floor and you didn’t
tell
anyone?”

“I didn’t know what to do. She was already dead. When I didn’t find King anywhere, I just took off. I still don’t understand why he didn’t bark or come when I called him.”

“He was drugged and locked in a closet.”

“Oh. That explains it. Look, I need to go get him now.”

Harley glanced at her mother, but Diva was watching Yogi walk toward the house, a tiny frown marring the smooth line of her brow. “Be careful,” she murmured, and then turned to Harley. A gentle smile replaced the frown. “Things often are not what they seem. But there are times they’re exactly what they seem to be.”

Well, that was a strange thing to say. Harley frowned.

“So, which applies here? You’re not trying to tell me—”

“Good heavens, no. Of course not. I’d never say anything like that. Rama and Ovid assure me that all will be well.”

“Rama and Ovid need to go back to their own world,” Harley snapped, losing patience. “I don’t think the police will buy that particular line of reasoning. If there’s anything you need to tell me, I’ll be glad to listen.
Is
there?”

The faint tinkle of bells accompanied Diva’s graceful sweep of one arm through the air. “I think you already know all that’s necessary. Listen to the universe.”

“I feel like I’m listening to the Sphinx. Diva, please don’t talk to me in riddles. This has been a terrible day for me. I’d planned on a few hours lying in the sun, doing a little laundry, nothing too stressful after last week. It hasn’t worked out well. I’m afraid the police may think Yogi killed Mrs. Trumble. Doesn’t that worry you at all?”

“I trust in the universe.”

A dull throb moved from Harley’s temples to spread behind her eyes. She rubbed at them with her fingertips and sighed. When she opened her eyes, she saw Bruno Jett. He stood across the street, wearing a black tee shirt and Levi’s, leaning against a light pole and watching the scene with interest. What was he doing here? He didn’t seem the type to be gawking with the rest of the neighbors. A man with a rap sheet as long as his should avoid police, not come watch them at their work.

Unless he was somehow involved. Was he? This might be her best opportunity to see what she could find out. After all, she wasn’t trespassing and there were plenty of police around. Could it get any safer?

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said to her mother, reminding her that Bobby wanted to talk to them and not to leave yet. “Just wait here for me.”

Without waiting for a reply, she crossed the street, weaving a path through reporters and curious bystanders. One of the reporters stopped her, thrusting a microphone in her face to fire questions at her.

“We saw you talking to the police, and wonder if you can tell us anything about this tragic death of your neighbor.”

“Uh, not really.” Harley blinked in the blinding light of a strobe bobbing overhead.

“We understand the victim was discovered by a neighbor. Do you know who found her?”

Harley blinked again and shook her head. “The police aren’t saying. Excuse me. I feel a little dizzy.”

It wasn’t a complete lie.

By the time she reached Jett, Mrs. Shipley had managed to corner him. Her skinny arms were waving as she talked animatedly, and fading sunshine and strobe lights glittered off the rhinestones studding her long yellow tee shirt. Sixty-seven and widowed, she wore tight orange leggings, sandals, and too much makeup. This week her hair was a spectacular orange, the brittle dry strands sticking up like flames. She looked like a lit match.

“Hello, Harley Jean,” Mrs. Shipley said when she stopped on the curb, “I was just telling Mr. Jett that nothing like this ever happens on
our
street. It’s very quiet there, especially now that you’ve all grown up and left home. Oh my, when you and Bobby Baroni were kids, though, the things y’all did. I remember when—”

“How’s your gallbladder, Mrs. Shipley?” Harley interrupted, recognizing the trapped expression in Jett’s eyes. “You know, Diva was telling me about a new treatment researchers have come up with recently. I’m sure she’d be glad to tell you about it so you can ask your doctor.”

“New treatment? Well, it’s about time. The things I’ve suffered, just because my doctor refuses to keep updated. I certainly will talk to her.”