Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) (8 page)

That earned her a longer stare from the closest officer, an unfamiliar face.

“It’s true,” Harley defended Aunt Darcy, though God only knew why, since she had the sinking feeling there was a lot more to this than dear old auntie had confided in her. “They hate each other, so I wouldn’t be taking Miss Saucer’s word as gospel.”

“
Saucier
,” Cheríe snapped, emphasizing the last syllable as
say
, and Harley just smiled. If that was her real name, Aunt Darcy was a Republican.

Glaring at Harley, Cheríe ground out, “And every word is true. They had a huge fight and Darcy Fontaine threatened Harry. I was standing behind the door and I heard her.”

“Snooping? Besides, that’s hearsay, isn’t it, officer?”

“Look, Miss Davidson, if you’ve already given your statement, you need to go home now. We’ll call you when we need you,” the officer replied, and she saw on his little brass name tag that his name was Logan.

“Certainly, Officer Logan. Uh, have we met?”

He grinned. “Not officially. But I know who you are. And I’ll take that camera.”

“Oh.” No doubt half the police force could recognize her now. That could turn out to be a huge drawback. “I’ll just be running along then,” she said, and gave him the camera. With a last glance at Miss Saucier, who’d crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes, she went to find her car and try to get out of the now crowded parking lot. Vans and police cruisers littered the lot, looking ominous and final. A television crew pulled up beside the coroner’s van, and she recognized one of the Channel 3 reporters. She walked a little faster, and crushed seashells crunched under her feet. Her Toyota seemed miles away, but she got to it before the reporters saw her. She felt safer once she was inside with the doors locked. Cameramen turned on more lights to add to the surreal image of electric fireflies.

This looked really bad for Aunt Darcy. Should she call her? Try to warn her? What if the police were already there questioning her? Well, only one way to find out.

Her new cell phone lay on the car seat, still plugged into the charger. She punched in the number of Aunt Darcy’s cell phone and waited. Two, three, four rings, then the automatic system came on to invite her to leave a message. She hung up and dialed her house, but no answer.

For several moments, she just sat there. Aunt Darcy should answer her phones. She rarely let the system take messages. Unless she was avoiding someone.

Harley got a really bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

After going to the police station
the next morning to give her official statement, Harley felt a need for a distraction. Family usually provided that in spades. She hadn’t yet broached the subject of the luncheon at Grandmother Eaton’s tomorrow with Diva. It could go either way.

Cami—Camilla Watson, her best friend since junior high and partner in many youthful crimes—said it was because Diva had never forgiven Grandmother Eaton for disapproving of Yogi. Ancient history now, but the rift between them remained. It wasn’t that they never spoke, it was just that they spoke to one another like acquaintances instead of mother and daughter. Maybe one day they’d settle it, but for now, family reunions and holidays were the only times they saw one another.

Unlike Cami’s family, who got together once a month for “First Sunday,” an excuse for a decadent feast and gossip. Some of which centered on Cami’s friend Harley, who had coaxed her into quite a few pranks and adventures in their younger years. The next First Sunday ought to be a real pip after their last adventure. Cami’s mother had probably come close to fainting when she learned that Harley had involved her daughter in the chase of jewelry thieves. No doubt, it’d be a while before Harley was welcomed at First Sunday again, especially if Mrs. Watkins knew that Cami had ridden around town on the back of a motorcycle, been hit in the head, and locked in a trunk.

Harley smiled at the memory of Cami dressed up like Lucy Liu, wearing a black leather jumpsuit her pervert of an ex-husband had bought her, and a football helmet. It had reminded her of the fun they’d had as adolescents, riding around late at night, smoking cigarettes and rolling yards, all the innocent stuff kids did when trying rebellion on for size. Of course, last week had been less innocent and a helluva a lot more dangerous.

Now she’d found another body. There was no explaining this macabre change in her daily routine.

Maybe she was in mid-life crisis. Only four more months and she’d only be three years away from thirty, and here she was with just one serious relationship behind her—two if she wanted to count George Goldfish, now freed in the Audubon Park koi pond. Of course, her on and off relationship with Bobby Baroni through the years had been more friendship than anything serious, despite the fact they’d tried out the physical stuff a long time ago. She loved Bobby, but only as a friend. Besides, he was dating an exotic dancer at the moment, a really hot blonde who went by the name of Angel.

And she had Mike Morgan. A shiver dispelled some of the heat inside the car. Oh yes. He was definitely a distraction. A hold-on-to-your-panties-this-is-gonna-be-good kind of distraction. He made her want to swear off panties altogether.

Why did she have to go and get sidetracked by an undercover cop? She knew all about those guys, having heard from Bobby how unstable they were, prone to dangerous mood swings when they were working on a case. And as a homicide detective who often worked out of the West precinct, Bobby should know what he was talking about.

But that hadn’t mattered once she met Mike. From the first, he’d flipped her switch. She still wasn’t sure how long it would last, but it was a great ride for now.

She bought a Coke and headed for her parents’ house. Since everything that’d happened, she felt the need to check on them just to be sure they weren’t in any kind of trouble or causing any kind of trouble. Either was always possible.

The section of Memphis her parents lived in was an older part, houses built back when the University of Memphis was called Normal State. Like everything else in the city, the area had gone through some radical changes over the years. The neighborhood melded from single-family houses in the thirties through the fifties, to boarding houses and rented rooms in the sixties with hippies and beaded curtains and incense, and flowers painted over bright blue and yellow walls and porches. A few of the original residents had held out during the era of free love and
Jesus Christ Superstar
, among them her father’s parents. City buses still designated the area as Normal on the banner over the windshield, though it’d been anything but normal during the sixties. Now a few head shops and tattoo parlors, tucked in next to pizza parlors and Laundromats, served as reminders of days gone by, and still turned tidy profits, of course. Head shops and tattoo parlors were obviously timeless. She turned off Highland onto Douglass.

Vanna, her parents’ puke-green Volkswagen van that was decorated with Picasso-style body parts, sat in the driveway. Good. They were home. Wind chimes tinkled a welcome on the front porch, and the house was quiet, save for Elvis music coming from the direction of Yogi’s workshop. He loved Elvis and still mourned his death every year at the annual candlelight vigil held at the Graceland mansion. Yogi had also been known to grow long sideburns and don a wig and white jumpsuit in honor of the King. For that reason alone she tried to avoid her parents during the month of August. Childhood memories of abject humiliation still had the power to bring a surge of heat to her face.

But despite that, and an early childhood living in California communes with her parents, it always felt good to come back. It was home. Safe. Comforting. There were good memories inside the two-story bungalow where her bedroom was still much as she’d left it. Improvements had been made over the years to the house. Yogi had made stained glass panes to fit the transom over the front door, and the thick concrete pillars out front had been repainted a bright white a few times, but the neat yard of grass and orderly flowerbeds like other houses on the street had long given way to Diva’s style of gardening. Spring and summer brought pretty weeds mixed with daffodils, irises, and wild roses that ran rampant over the fence and around the huge oak tree shading the house. Soon they’d cover the walkway that went from the city sidewalk just beyond the jagged teeth of the unpainted pickets, all the way up to the generous front porch. Since an unfortunate incident that had involved her father’s dog, an order of cheese being delivered down the street, and the mailman, their mail was now left in a box attached to the outside of the picket gate. It was best that way.

To her surprise, her brother wasn’t asleep on the couch as usual, but then she remembered that Eric was probably in class at the university. He’d managed to get an art scholarship, and their grandparents subsidized any odd expenses out of a college fund set up when he’d been born. She had attended college for three years as well. Another mistake. She should have stuck it out, but at twenty it’d been hard to believe that. Still, she wasn’t doing too badly now for a college dropout. Not if one considered being a tour guide driver as fulfillment of a lifetime dream.

Really, she needed to get herself back on track just as soon as she figured out what track she wanted to be on. All roads, she’d discovered, do not necessarily lead to Rome.

Diva appeared in the kitchen doorway, smiling as sweetly as if she’d never disappeared with Yogi and the dog for three days and made Harley crazy with worry. Little bells attached to the hem of her multicolored skirt tinkled a light tune as she walked, and her tunic top was tie-dyed to match. With her white-blond hair pulled into ponytails on each side of her face, she looked in her late thirties instead of fifty-one. Harley did a mental comparison with Aunt Darcy, who was so sophisticated in tastes and appearance, but looked older and harder instead of younger. Maybe it was the stress in Darcy’s life, for Diva rarely let anything bother her for long.

A ceiling fan stirred wisps of hair to frame Diva’s face as she said, “You’re almost in time for lunch, Harley. I’ll have your father pick some more greens for you.”

Yuck
. “No thanks. I brought my lunch. I appreciate the offer, though. How’s Yogi doing?”

Moving gracefully back into the kitchen with Harley trailing behind, Diva waved her to a chair while she returned to the sink. Shiitake mushrooms, bean sprouts, and water chestnuts were washed and in a metal colander. A rack of spices scented the air as Diva worked.

“He’s fine. A little worried about King, but Dr. Hezel assured him the hair would grow back eventually.”

Harley propped her elbow on the counter and her chin in her palm. “I take it y’all took King to the vet already.”

“Oh, of course. You know how your father feels about that dog. King must have been someone important to him in a former life. They have such a connection, a bond that goes beyond just mutual affection.”

“Right.” Harley had her own opinion about King’s former life. She was certain he’d been a hit man for the mob, or perhaps even a drug kingpin. The dog had lamentable tendencies toward a life of crime. “So, have you thought any more about my suggestion that you put your money in a bank instead of a pickle jar?”

“Yes, Harley. We have.” Diva deftly chopped mushrooms into a bowl with the bean sprouts and water chestnuts. “Yogi feels it best to continue as we are for now. You’re so kind to worry about us, though. We simply cannot allow money to become the most important thing in our lives. You saw what happened when we got greedy.”

“You didn’t get greedy, Diva. Yogi accepted an offer of work. That’s hardly the same thing.” Harley plucked a water chestnut from the bowl. It was cool and crunchy. “Add some soy. Really, I worry that one day someone’s going to think you’ve got a lot of money stashed and rob you.”

“If someone needs money that bad, they have only to ask. We freely share the gifts we’ve been given. Will you please hand me the bamboo shoots?”

Harley found them in a small carton on the counter and passed them to her mother, trying again. “Last time, King was kidnapped. Next time, it could be you or Yogi or even Eric.”

A tiny little frown puckered Diva’s unlined brow. Hope rose. Perhaps mention of one of them being kidnapped would work after all.