Bite the Moon (10 page)

“
More power to ya, Molly. Bobby doesn’t belong behind bars.”

“
I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes about that night.”

“
Not a good time,” Mike objected. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

“
C’mon, Mike. It’s Wednesday night. It’s not like I dropped by on a weekend.”

“
C’mon yourself, Molly. You were here that night. You saw everything I did—maybe more. I don’t have anything new to offer. And I’ve answered the questions of cops and nosy neighbors till I’m sick of it.”

“
I really need to scratch you off my list, Mike.”

“
List? List of what? Suspects?” He gave me that you-lost-it-now-Molly-Mullet look. I’d recognize it anywhere. I just nodded.

“
Oh, give me a break. I’m about as suspicious as a piece of road kill. I was so busy that night, I didn’t have time for a threat, let alone follow through. You know that. You were there. See you around, Molly.” He laughed and turned away.

“
Your criminal record automatically qualifies you as a suspect,” I snapped at his retreating back.

He swung around and faced me. “Damn it, Molly.” He prodded my shoulder with the knuckles of one hand. “Take it outside.”

On the sidewalk, he continued his harangue. “That was uncalled for, Molly. What did I ever do to you?”

“
You turned your back on me, Mike. You didn’t leave me a lot of options. I, for one, care about what happens to Bobby Wiggins. I thought you would, too.”

“
I do care about Bobby. I’m sick about it. But I don’t know anything. My stupidity in the past has nothing to do with Bobby. My staff is unaware of my record and I want to keep it that way.”

“
I’m not trying to cause problems, Mike. I’m trying to find answers. I suppose you haven’t told your employer about Lubbock, either.”

“
Well, you supposed wrong,” he spat back. “I was totally up front with him.”

“
Really? Then why would he give a thief a position of such responsibility and authority? Explain that, Mike.”

“
Because the whole thing was just so stupid.”

“
Felony charges go beyond ‘stupid’ in my book, Mike.”

He blew his exasperation through his lips like a horse. “It was all reduced to a misdemeanor in the end. I’m not proud of it. But it happened. And it’s over.”

“
What happened?” I asked.

He shook his head as if in refusal but then he began. “Me and a couple of buddies were screwing around one night. Too much to drink. Too little to do in that dusty outback we called home for four years. Somehow, we thought it would be funny to pull off a gag robbery. I tied a bandana around the bottom of my face while the others waited outside peering through the windows.

“
I pulled out a water gun, struggled to keep a straight face and an upright position and drawled, ‘This here’s a stick-up.’

“
The guy behind the counter was not amused. He pulled out a real shotgun and said, ‘Yeah. And I’ll blow a hole in your empty head big enough for a dozen dust devils to dance.’

“
I dropped my plastic pistol and put my hands on top of my head. I focused my eyes on the barrel of the gun and concentrated on not wetting my pants until the police arrived. My buddies were so shit-faced, they were still doubled over giggling in the parking lot when the flashing lights pinned them in place.”

“
You’re right, Mike. ‘stupid’ is an apt description. What were you all thinking?”

“
We weren’t, Molly,” he said with a sigh. Tugging on the right sleeve of my T-shirt, he added, “We all did stupid things when we were younger.”

“
Okay, Mike,” I said brushing his hand from my arm. “Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that you concealed this stupid incident from your employer . . .”

“
But, I didn’t, Molly.”

“
Yeah, but just for the moment, let’s say that you did.” He started to object again but I waved him quiet. “So your employer doesn’t know. But, somehow, Rodney Faver finds out and he blackmails you.”

“
Aw, c’mon, Molly.”

“
That would be a good motive for murder.” I looked him straight in the eye and watched the color drain from his face. Then bright red patches appeared on his cheeks and anger flashed in his eyes.

“
Yeah, it would be a good motive. But it didn’t happen. I just can’t believe you, Molly Mullet. How could you possibly think I’d do such a thing? Now, don’t get me wrong. I can see how you would think I could kill some lowlife blackmailer. But, damn it, Molly, how could you possibly believe I’d sit around twiddling my thumbs while they hauled off poor old Bobby Wiggins and slammed him into jail.” In his agitation, Mike’s voice rose in volume and pitch. He fidgeted in place. He was drawing stares from passersby.

I moved closer and placed a hand on his arm as I spoke. “You really do care about Bobby?”

The nervous energy lifted from his shoulders and his arms slumped by his sides. “Bobby is a bit older than me, but in a way he’s like a little brother. I fought to get him this job—not many people want to hire somebody like him. But he’s a hard worker, he follows instructions and he never misses a day of work. He even put waders on and trudged in here after the last flood. He’s a simple but good man. There’s no way he killed that weasel Faver.”

“
You didn’t like Faver, I take it?”

“
He was scum. Good riddance. I guess that’s not a smart thing for me to say under the circumstances. But I never liked him. I can’t believe Wolfe did not dump that garbage a long time ago. Faver was probably blackmailing somebody—it wasn’t me—and maybe it was more than one person. Figure out which chicken he was plucking and you’ve figured out who killed him. And it sure wasn’t Bobby Wiggins.”

“
Thanks, Mike. I’ll have to check and make sure your employer is aware of your background. But as long as that pans out, I’ll be moving you to the bottom of my list.”

“
Let me make it easier for you.” He whipped out one of his business cards and jotted the name and phone number of the owner of Solms Halle. “Just do me a favor. Don’t ask for any passes in the same conversation.”

We turned away from each other and a question popped into my head; I spun back around. “Say, Mike, one more question.”

His shoulders slumped but he turned back to face me. “What, Molly?” he sighed.

“
There was an orange rain poncho lying over the body when I opened the closet. Could it have belonged to anyone who worked for you?”

“
Yeah,” he laughed. “Any one of them. We buy those things in bulk and keep a stack in the closet for rainy days.”

“
That’s interesting.”

“
Interesting. Yes. But it also points the finger right back at Bobby. Besides me, he is the only employee with a key to the closet.”

*

When I got home, I made notes about my talk with Mike and cruised the Internet for contact and background information for the names I uncovered at the library. I came up empty on some of them and would have to turn to the databases. But that could wait till tomorrow.

I climbed into bed to finish
Jolie Blon
before I slept. I didn’t quite make it. The last sound I heard was the thunk of the book spine hitting the floor beside my bed. I slipped deeper into oblivion, expecting a good night of sleep.

Noise. Loud noise. Obnoxious noise. My hand slid out from under the covers and slammed down on the snooze button on my alarm. The noise did not stop. I bashed my clock again. A little too hard. It hurt. But the pain woke me up enough to recognize the sound of the telephone. I flipped on the lamp and squinted at the clock face. Little hand on three, big hand on two—3:10 in the morning—time to panic.

Adrenaline surged. Mind raced. Dad in the hospital? Dad dying? I grabbed the phone. “Yes,” I rasped into the receiver.

“
Molly Mullet?” the voice asked. It was not a family member. Was it a doctor? A nurse? A cop? A minister?

“
This is she.” My voice trembled.

“
Back off, girl.”

“
Excuse me?”

“
You heard me. Back off.” There was something wrong with the sound of that voice. It was as if the caller was trying to talk though chipmunk cheeks packed with Milk Duds. It was a muffled, slurpy sound.

“
Who is this?” I asked.

“
Just let it go, Molly Mullet. You’re asking for more trouble than you want. More than you imagined.”

“
What are you talking about?” I knew the answer, of course, but I hoped if I kept him talking the who or the why might start making sense.

“
You know what I’m talking about. Just leave it alone. And don’t worry about idiot boy. He doesn’t have enough sense to appreciate the difference ’tween a bedroom and a cell. With him behind bars, his mama will get a well-deserved break. So back off and let justice run its course.”

“
Lieutenant Hawkins, is that you? Is this some kind of joke?”

The caller laughed and then segued into a choke as if one of those Milk Duds got lodged in his throat. “That’s a good one, Molly Mullet. But I’m not making jokes or playing games. There are a lot of guitar strings floating around Texas. You’d be wise to keep that in mind.”

A charge surged through my body, making my fingers and toes tingle. I was not talking to a prankster. I was talking to Rodney Faver’s killer. The guitar string was a holdback—it was not released to the media. And it had not been leaked.

“
You still there, Molly Mullet?”

“
Yes.”

“
You might want to check your mailbox for a special delivery.”

I heard a click but just sat there on the edge of the bed gripping the phone. I didn’t hang up until that annoying recording intoned, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.”

What do I do now? Common sense made it simple: Don’t go outside until daylight. But sun-up was hours away. I wanted to know what was in my box. I lifted a slat on my bedroom blinds and peered into the darkness. There, at the end of my driveway, sat my mailbox looking innocent and ordinary in the glow of the street lamp.

I should go back to sleep. Yeah. Right. Like I could sleep. I had enough adrenaline flowing through my bloodstream to alarm a dozen people. I pulled on a pair of jeans and padded barefoot out to the living room. I stood back from the window and surveyed my street. Was he out there watching me?

Everything looked normal for the middle of the night. Darkness consumed the interiors of some homes. The faint aura of a nightlight wavered in others. Three doors up, a cat skulked across the street, belly low to the ground, feet moving fast. I closed my eyes and listened. The only menacing sound was the hoot of a predator owl.

I wanted to go out to the mailbox. Now. But what if it was a trap? He could be hiding anywhere. I scanned the cars parked along the street and in the driveways looking for any sign of movement, any flashing gleam from the reflection of the streetlight. Nothing.

He could be anywhere. He could be beyond the truncated backyards of the houses across the street—crouched in Panther Canyon with the deer, the opossums and the skunks. Peering at me through a pair of binoculars. Laughing at my panic.

Or he could be closer. In this old neighborhood, the established trees provided a lot of cover for the stealthy. He could be behind that tree. Or that one. Or the one down the street.

Or he could be even closer. He could be hiding beside my steps, the long stems of the bridal wreath bush forming a canopy over his head. Waiting. Just waiting for me to open that door.

Or he could be long gone, believing he left me as a prisoner in my own home. Amused at my discomfort. Tantalized by my fear.

That did it. I slipped feet into a pair of sandals and approached the front door. My hand grabbed the bronze knob and I paused. I rested my forehead on the cool wood of the door. Fumes from decades of polish tickled my nostrils with a faraway hint of lemon.

I steadied my breath and jerked open the door. Nothing moved. No one jumped out. My confidence edged up one tiny notch. I stepped out on the porch. I heard my heart pounding a desperate staccato in my ears. I pulled the door shut. But not tight enough to engage the latch.

I walked down the steps—one at a time. With each descent, a dozen more beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. The clammy wetness on my neck spread another inch. The itching in my palms intensified.

I headed in a diagonal line across the lawn. I heard the blades of grass crush down and bounce back beneath my feet. I felt the moistness of the dew on my toes. I heard nothing but the continued pounding in my ears. If someone didn’t kill me, I might keel over dead just the same.

I stood before my round-topped rectangle of red-flagged aluminum and prayed it was not a Pandora’s Box or stuffed with the latest in Unabomber-like technology. Would it blow up? Would a rattlesnake spring out and kiss my neck? Or would it be as empty as an unused tomb?

I swallowed and pulled. No explosion. No strike. Just a circular coil of guitar string. I reached in and pulled back. I shouldn’t touch it. Crap. I shouldn’t have touched the mailbox either. I could have obliterated good prints. I won’t get any prints off of the string. But maybe some DNA from the sweat of Milk Duds man. Anything’s possible.