Hound Dog Blues (34 page)

“Do what?”

“Stay so . . . serene. Mother Earth kind of thing. Calm, cool, collected. Like you never worry about anything.”

“Worry would mean I don’t trust in the universe.”

“Right. I forgot. Some of us aren’t in tune.”

“Then get a tune-up. Didn’t I tell you destiny was in charge?”

“I seem to recall something about Rama and Ovid predicting disaster.”

“Not at all. They said all would be well.”

“They didn’t mention pain and suffering, I note.”

“Rainbows only appear after rain, Harley.”

“Uh huh. You must have been expecting some kind of storm, then, or you wouldn’t have taken off like you did. If you knew
destiny was in charge
, why’d you and Yogi run away instead of staying and getting everything resolved?”

Diva smiled. “We did that for you, Harley. There are lessons we all have to learn. This life lesson was for you. To help you grow. To give you confidence in your own abilities. To give you a future. You’ll understand all one day. Just benefit now. Listen to your spirit guides.”

Harley took a sip of her tea to keep from saying something tacky. This kind of discussion merely reaffirmed that life was returning to normal. Or what passed for normal in her world. Yogi, who was in the kitchen loudly declaring that the Gestapo were ripping out his prize pot plants, only sealed that realization. He’d be lucky not to get arrested before the night was over. If it wasn’t for Bobby, and probably Mike, he’d definitely be on his way to 201 Poplar and a cell. It was nearly two in the morning. All she wanted to do was sleep.

She stood up. “I’m going home.”

“Stay here. You can sleep in your old room,” Diva said, but Harley shook her head.

“No, I think I need my own things around me right now. You understand.”

“Of course I do.” Diva smiled. “Light your candles, cleanse the negative energy from your house. Let the positive energy flow through you again.”

The only thing positive she wanted to flow involved a tub of water and bath salts. Harley went outside, ignoring the flashing blue lights and Sadie Shipley standing on the curb across the street. Her bright yellow robe lit up the night.

“Harley Jean, are you all right?” she called, and Harley knew she couldn’t ignore her completely.

“I’m just fine, Mrs. Shipley. Diva will tell you all about it tomorrow.”

Just as she got her bike started, Mike Morgan appeared on the sidewalk. “You need to give a statement.”

“Is tomorrow soon enough? I’m not sure I’d make much sense tonight.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s just fine.”

She looked at him. He wore a dark blue tee shirt that fit his muscled torso like a second skin. White lettering said Memphis Police Department on one side. Very nice. Tempting. She had to say something, anything noncommittal.

“Guess now that you’re not undercover anymore, you’ll be moving, huh.”

“I have my own place.”

She realized she didn’t even know if he was married. He could have a wife, six kids and a dog, a house with a white picket fence . . . . She nodded.

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to go home to your family, then.”

He cocked his head to one side. “It’s not nearly as exciting as living next door to your parents. Or the occasional drop-in visitor to my basement.”

“Ah. Probably not. Yogi and Diva know fascinating people, it seems.”

“And have an interesting daughter.”

Her heartbeat escalated. She nodded. “I’ve heard that.”

“I’ll just bet you have.”

When he didn’t say anything else, she raced the bike engine a little. “Well. Gotta go. See you around, I guess.”

He stepped back from the bike. “That’s possible.”

On the way home, she thought about a hot bath and cool bed sheets. It’d take a while to get her apartment back in order, but it could wait until the next day. Oh God. She didn’t even remember if she had a tour group. She’d never make it through an entire day touring the Jungle Room or Sun Studios. Maybe Tootsie could call in a relief driver. Otherwise she’d be driving in a coma.

It took all her energy just to clean up enough to reach her bed, and she ran a bath and sat in a tub of hot water until her skin looked wrinkly and her muscles relaxed. Then she put on an old football jersey made of thin nylon mesh that had the number sixty-nine on the front. Tiny holes allowed in cool air. It was stuffy in her apartment, but not hot enough to pay for the air conditioning. She’d settle for ceiling fans.

Armed with a glass of wine and the remote to the TV, she sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed and lit a lavender candle. Aromatherapy. Diva would say it was cleansing the aura. It didn’t really matter which. Right now she needed to forget everything for a while. She found a cable music station that played New Age, the television screen going dark with only the name of the song scrolling past as panpipes played. Then she lay back on her pillows and willed her tense muscles to relax.

Images hovered, a mental replay of the day’s events, Archie and Bates bodies were foremost in her mind. Maybe she should have stayed with her parents after all. Anything for a distraction. The peace and solitude wasn’t as comforting as she’d envisioned. God, she’d give anything for some company. Cami was probably with Bobby—who was probably sneezing his fool head off with all the cat and dog hair—and here she sat alone. Celibacy was a bitch. Right now she’d settle for a one night stand, someone strong and sexy enough to take her mind off all that’d happened.

“You’re not much of a housekeeper, are you.”

Harley sat bolt upright, stifling a scream. Mike Morgan leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. A faint smile curved his mouth.

“What the hell . . . how did you get in here?” Her heart pounded so hard it was like native drums in an old Tarzan movie. Morgan held up a small metal object that she recognized as her door pick.

“Handy little thing. I’m considering appropriating it as police evidence. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“Ah. It’s broken. A dozen pieces. Still somewhere in the parking lot of NuVo Rich warehouse. Is this a social call, or official?”

“Officially a social call.” He pushed away from the door. “Thought you might need to unburden your soul tonight. You know. After everything.”

Right. She saw the slight gleam in his wicked blue eyes. There were other ways to de-stress. She smiled.

“Somehow, you don’t fit the image of a priest.”

“Thank God.”

“Before you say anything else—is there a wife in your life? Kids? Dog? Picket fence and a house in the suburbs?”

“No wife. No kids. No dog. Guilty on the house in the suburbs, but no picket fence.”

“Just checking. A girl has to be careful, y’know.”

“Right.” He held up something he’d been holding. “I brought you this. You left it behind and I thought you might need it.”

It was the wooden phallus she’d used as a club. She started to laugh. “Think I might need that tonight?”

“You never know.”

“Every woman should have a pet penis.”

He grinned. “Or two.”

Oh yeah. This could be interesting.

“By the way,” she murmured when he pushed her back on the bed, “how good are you at getting parking tickets fixed?”

“Not too good. I’m much better at this . . . and this . . .”

She sighed. “Oh yeah.”

Hazy light slanted through
the open blinds and across the rumpled bed. Really, there were times that she couldn’t argue with Fate. It seemed to know what she needed even when she had no clue. Maybe she was better at conjuring up results than she’d thought.

Still sweaty, despite a healthy air conditioner humming cool air through the bedroom, she rolled over and tapped Mike on the shoulder.

He let out a muffled groan and muttered under the pillow, “You’ve ruined me. I’ll never recover.”

“You’ll recover,” she said. “Think there’s anything to that myth about fertility gods?”

That brought him out from under his pillow. His head popped out like a snapping turtle, and he looked about as friendly.

“What does that mean?”

She gestured to the wooden phallus sitting on her dresser across from the bed. It leaned in majestic splendor against the mirror so it looked as if there were two of them. “There has to be some reason people think those things work.”

He followed her gesture and grinned, rolling to his back. “It might be the power of suggestion.”

“Are you suggesting—”

He took her hand and brought it closer to him. Taking some initiative, she curled her fingers around his rising interest. Ah. Nice.

“Am I supposed to live up to that thing?” Mike asked after a moment, and his voice sounded a little breathless.

“If you mean the willy, no. If you mean live up to your potential, oh yeah. But don’t worry, you do just fine, Morgan. Just fine.”

And that was an understatement.

HARLEY RUSHES IN

The Blue Suede Memphis Mysteries

Book Two

Excerpt

“You da
One
, baby.” Tootsie grinned, then tossed back a strand of his long auburn hair and inspected his newly painted nails with a critical eye. The smell of Raspberry Soufflé nail polish thickened the air of Memphis Tour Tyme offices. “Now you da famous
One
,” he added.

“You mean infamous.” Harley tried and failed to be modest. She rustled the front page of the Sunday edition of the Commercial Appeal, Memphis’s only major newspaper. There it was, in black and white and blurred color:

Local Tour Guide Breaks Jewelry Theft Ring and Helps Crack Murder Case,
read the large headline. The leading sentence in the article said so much less than had really happened:

Harley Jean Davidson, 27, tour guide for Memphis Tour Tyme, had a narrow escape from jewelry thieves Friday night that ended with an arrest on charges of grand larceny, attempted murder, and two counts of murder. Ms. Davidson was instrumental in capturing the suspect . . .

She looked up with a satisfied smile. “I just love it when justice works.”

“Don’t get too excited yet,” Tootsie said as he applied a top coat of clear polish over the bright raspberry color on his nails. “A jury could always set him free.”

Harley frowned. That was daunting.

When Tootsie added, “But at least it’s a good photo of you,” she studied the blurred color of the picture apparently taken as she was leaving the warehouse. Her short blonde hair stuck straight up, her green eyes looked red, the man’s tee shirt she wore hung almost to her knees, and she had an expression on her face like she’d just been hit with a stun gun. She’d been so focused on skipping out, she hadn’t even noticed the reporters or photographers at the crime scene. Just her luck. She sighed.

“I bear a startling resemblance to Billy Idol. My hair looks like porcupine quills. And my mouth is open. I think I’m drooling.”

“A natural look for you, baby.”

“That’s unkind,” Harley said, but all in all, wasn’t totally displeased. The article gave her credit for hunting down dangerous felons, which in a way she had, although after running for her life, it’d certainly seemed more like she was the one being hunted. An unpleasant memory, but not without some residual benefits.

“So,” she said as she handed Tootsie yesterday’s paper, “with all this free publicity for Memphis Tour Tyme, I’ll bet Mister Penney is happy.”

Mr. Penney owned and operated Memphis Tour Tyme, and while rarely seen on a daily basis, frequently made his presence felt. Never in a pleasant way.

Tootsie lifted a perfectly arched brow. “The ogre isn’t often happy.”

“How true. He always looks like a basset hound. Sad brown eyes. Floppy ears—did I say that last out loud?”

Tootsie grinned. “You did. I’m trying to picture a bald basset hound.”

“Spare yourself. It’s not pretty.”

“He wants to see you first thing this morning, you know.”

She grimaced. “I was afraid of that. And his mood is . . . ?”

“Inscrutable. Like the Sphinx.”

“Or the basset.”

“Right.” The phone rang, and he punched a button and gave his usual “Good morning, Memphis Tour Tyme, how may I help you?” spiel. After he transferred the call he handed her a stack of pink message slips and said, “The phone’s rung all morning, people wanting you to find their dog or cat, and one even wants you to find her iguana. No lie. A Mrs. Beasley wants you to find a necklace she lost when she was in high school way back in the sixties. Oh yeah, and your aunt Darcy said she has to speak to you as soon as possible.”