Hound Dog Blues (8 page)

“Now would be a good time. She’s standing right over there all by herself.”

As Mrs. Shipley hustled across the street toward Diva, Harley turned back to Bruno Jett. A faint smile pressed one corner of his mouth.

“You obviously have no shame at all, Harley Jean.”

“
Harley
. Only old ladies who’ve known me since the sixth grade can call me Harley Jean. What are you doing here?”

A shrug lifted his shoulders. “Saw the commotion when I was passing by and decided to stop and check it out. Any objections to that?”

“I’d have thought you’d avoid this kind of situation. What with being a
salesman
, and all.”

“Then you’d be wrong, wouldn’t you.” Shifting slightly, he studied her with a deliberately rude stare, his gaze traveling from her feet to her face, then dropping to her chest. “So what grade are you in now, Harley Jean?”

Glaring at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Very funny. I was just wondering if you have a catalogue or brochure for the costume jewelry you sell.”

“No. I’m more a wholesale kind of business.”

“A pity. What company did you say you’re with?”

“I didn’t. Look, just what is it you really want to know? You’re about as subtle as a tank, and it could take all night for you to get to the point. I have things to do, places to go, people to see.”

He didn’t seem at all nervous or worried, or even guilty, but stood staring down at her with a faintly superior expression that she found irritating. Her eyes narrowed.

“Why do you think I want to know anything? You’ve obviously misunderstood. I’m just making small talk with a neighbor and being polite, that’s all. You really do think a little too highly of yourself.”

“Yeah, I might, but I know a con when I hear one, and you, Harley Jean Davidson, are trying to run one on me. A word of warning—don’t even try.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but he grabbed her chin between his thumb and fingers and kissed her full on the mouth. Too shocked to do more than make a choked noise, it was over before her reflexes recovered, and he stepped back while she just stared at him.

“If I’d known it was this easy to shut you up, I’d have done that earlier. Later, Harley Jean.”

He’d already gone three steps by the time shock wore off enough for her to call after him, “I could have you arrested for assault, Bruno.”

If he heard her, he didn’t acknowledge, but disappeared into the crowd lining the curb and jostling in the street, all trying to see what was going on in Mrs. Trumble’s house. Fuzzy pink light flicked on as the street lamps hummed into service, and still she stood staring after Bruno Jett. He sure didn’t act like some criminal needing to be discreet, but what did she really know about jewel thieves? Not much.

Maybe she should rectify that.

“You want me to
what
, baby?”

Patiently, Harley repeated into her cell phone, “See if you can hack into some information about Bruno Jett. If anyone can do it, you can, Tootsie. You’re a computer whiz.”

“Look, you’re asking me to do something illegal. Not only that, but I’m not entirely sure you need to be stepping on this guy’s toes. He sounds like he could be dangerous.”

Sitting in her car, Harley squinted out the windshield as Mrs. Trumble’s body was wheeled out on a gurney and put into a coroner’s van. Yeah, even fatal. But somehow, she didn’t think whoever had killed the widow would show up to watch the police investigate.

“Then we won’t tell him I peeked, okay? Look, a killer could be living next door to my parents. I’d feel so much better if I knew he’s just a thief. Please? Just for my peace of mind.”

Tootsie sighed. She held the cell phone closer to her ear and crossed her fingers. Then he said, “All right. But nothing classified. Jail time is not my idea of fun time.”

“Good enough for me, Tootsie. You’re a doll.”

“Yeah, well you owe me.”

“Anything. Within reason, of course.”

“Your black sequined gown?”

“You’ll look much better in it than I do, but okay. Want the matching slingbacks?”

“I’ll have the information for you first thing in the morning at the latest, baby.”

When she hung up, she sat in the car for a moment, unwilling to go back to the house and unable to move her car for all the news vans and police cars still parked in the street and driveway and yard. Maybe she’d ride with Yogi and Diva when they were through talking to Bobby, not that it was that far to walk. She just didn’t think she had the strength.

Once the doors had been closed on Mrs. Trumble, she got out of the car and went to find Bobby. It’d been over an hour, and by now, he had to know everything Yogi could tell him. She found the officer who’d questioned her earlier as he was loading stuff into his trunk.

“Hey, Officer Delisi, do you know where I can find Bobby—uh, Lieutenant Baroni?”

Closing the trunk lid, he said, “If he’s still here, he’s probably inside with the techs. It takes them a while to finish up.”

At the back door, a uniformed officer barred her way. “No one allowed inside, lady.”

“I’m the one who found the body, and I need to speak with Detective Baroni.” Her eyes narrowed when he gave her a disbelieving look and shook his head. “Look, officer, my parents are in there being questioned, and I need to speak with Lieutenant Baroni.”

“There’s no one being questioned in here, and I suggest you go get your kicks somewhere else. Damn ghouls, always comin’ around screwin’ up a crime scene just trying to get a look . . . .”

By the time she found Bobby, he was standing by his car talking to some guy with a huge tool box, and she was pretty irritated.

“Hey, who’s questioning Yogi and Diva? I thought you promised you’d do it. You know how Yogi is, and he could end up saying the wrong thing and—”

“What are you talking about, Harley?” he interrupted. “I haven’t seen Yogi. He took off with the dog and said he’d be back, and that was well over an hour ago.”

She blinked. “He did?” Turning, she looked down the street, but there was no sign of the big lime-green van. She hadn’t even noticed they’d left. “Well, I guess they’re waiting for you at home, then. I’ll go check on them. He was pretty stressed when he was here.”

“I’m headed there myself.”

“Good. Give me a ride. My car’s blocked in and I don’t really feel like walking.”

Bobby shook out a cigarette and lit it, squinting at her over the curl of rising smoke. “If he doesn’t cooperate, it’s going to look pretty bad, Harley.”

“Don’t borrow trouble. He didn’t do it. She was dead when—I found her.”

Damn, what an idiot she was. She’d almost betrayed Yogi, and that wouldn’t be good at all. It was up to Yogi to tell Bobby everything.

Narrowing his eyes at her, Bobby studied her face so hard she was grateful for the fuzzy street lights. The bad thing about knowing someone so long and so well was that they could pick up on stuff you’d rather they didn’t. It was a double-edged sword.

“Right,” he said, and she knew he suspected her of holding out on him.

When they pulled up in front of the house on Douglass, light gleamed through the stained glass transom over the door and in one upstairs window. It looked quiet and serene, with only the faint tinkle of Diva’s wind chimes on the front porch making any sound. As she fumbled for the car’s door handle, Bobby said, “You’re gonna have to tell me where they went.”

“Who?”

His head jerked toward the house. “Yogi and Diva. They’re gone.”

“No, they’re here—aren’t they?”

But he was right. No lime-green van stood in the driveway in front of the garage, and no dog barked out the front door. King always barked at visitors. Or passing cars. The house looked empty. The heavy night air still held a trace of the day’s heat, but a cold chill seeped through her.
Oh no.

“So where did they go?” Harley jostled her brother’s arm again, impatiently and much more energetically, so that he rolled over on the couch, blinking sleepily at her.

“Who? Go where?”

“Yogi and Diva—have you slept through everything? Useless, that’s what you are,” she said when he nodded blearily. She looked over at Bobby. “What now?”

“It doesn’t look good when a key—witness—isn’t available for questioning.”

“You were going to say suspect, weren’t you.” Her throat tightened with fear and worry. This was terrible. The police suspected Yogi of murder, she just knew it.

“I didn’t say that. I said witness.” Bobby sounded irritable. He raked a hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes at her. “Where could they have gone? If you know, or even think you know, where they might be, it’d be better for them if you go ahead and tell me now. I’ll do what I can to make things easier for them, Harley, you know that.”

Flopping down into an overstuffed chair with huge pink peonies rioting over the ivory slipcover, she blew out a heavy breath of frustration. Crystals and half-finished dream catchers made of wire, feathers, and yarn were scattered on the coffee table. Magazines were piled in a wicker basket, and her mother’s hair ribbons with the tiny bells lay curled atop a
Southern Living
magazine from 1998. It was Diva’s favorite issue, with plans for verandas surrounded by flowers. It was abnormally quiet in the house, no New Age music coming from the CD player, no Elvis music, no Yogi grumbling about politics or the government, no goofy dog barking at passing cars, joggers, other dogs, or falling leaves. It was more than just quiet—it was depressing.

She looked up at Bobby, who’d propped one leg on the arm of the couch and sat staring at her. “I have no idea where they’d go,” she said truthfully. “They could be anywhere.”

“Did Yogi ever threaten Mrs. Trumble?”

“Daily. But not like you mean. He said she was a mean, spiteful old lady and he shouldn’t ever have trusted her, but he never said he wanted to kill her. He did say he wished her bad karma would hurry and catch up to her, but that’s about it.” Leaning forward, she put her head into her hands and closed her eyes against a stab of pain. “I need an aspirin. Or morphine.”

Bobby stood up. “Diva still keep the aspirin in that frog-shaped bottle?”

“Yes. Listen—Bruno Jett was down there. I saw him. I talked to him.”

“Forget Jett.” Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, and when he came back, he had a glass of water and two aspirin. As she sat up, he added, “And don’t go over there, either.”

“Why are you on Jett’s side?” she asked after swallowing the aspirin. “He’s not very nice. He’s a smartass, too.”

“That’s not against the law. If it was, you’d be serving hard time. Look, Harley, just stay away from Jett. I want your promise on that.”

“He lives next door to my parents. How far away am I supposed to stay?”

“You know what I mean, dammit. Don’t go looking for trouble in dangerous places.”

She flopped back into the comfy chair cushions. “You’ve changed, Bobby. This is not an attractive side of your personality.”

“Get used to it. It’s the side you’re most likely to see if you trespass over there again.” He frowned, and she recognized a certain wariness in his expression. Why? What was there that he didn’t want her to know?

“What’s going on, Bobby? What is it about Jett—besides his surly personality and long rap sheet—that I should know?”

“That’s it. You already know all you should. He’s not someone you need to go snooping around, Harley. Trust me on that.”

“Ah yes. The trust factor. I remember when my good friend Bobby trusted my parents, when he knew my father was not the kind of man capable of murder.”

“Jesus, Harley. I never said I thought Yogi did it, I just said I need to question him. A witness put him coming out of Trumble’s house about the time of her death. He needs to give me a solid alibi or reason for being there, especially when he’s got a restraining order out on him.”

“You know Mrs. Trumble took his dog. Maybe that’s not a great reason for being there, but it’s certainly a valid one.”