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

by Brown, Virginia

  As the conversation continued, Harley began to fidget. Sunlight from the corner windows gleamed on Penney’s balding head, highlighting the fuzz that sprouted like random weeds. In contrast, his thick, busy eyebrows bore a striking resemblance to animated caterpillars, going up and down in a rhythm matching his terse responses. Overlarge ears bent slightly forward at the tops, really looking like dog ears. Elementary school must have been hell.

  Finally he hung up the phone, linked his fingers together atop his desk blotter, and gazed at her with a riveting stare that only increased her discomfort.

  “So,” he said finally, “quite a weekend for you.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Indeed. There are many things I could say.”

  This didn’t sound at all like a congratulatory interview. She nodded. “I’m sure you can.”

  Penney seemed determined. After an awkward pause, he said, “I trust your parents are doing well now.”

  An unsubtle reference to the fact her father had recently been a murder suspect.

  “They’re very resilient,” she replied.

  An understatement. She didn’t think her mother had batted an eye, but then, Diva had complete faith in her own psychic abilities even when others were skeptical, and she had predicted a good outcome, so perhaps that was understandable.

  “Perhaps next time, you’ll request authorization before you borrow company property,” Penney said then, and Harley felt some sort of explanation was necessary.

  “I should get the stun gun back this evening. It was part of the investigation, but not a vital part, so I’ll bring it back in tomorrow, as good as new.”

  “And, um, ahem—the stun guns are only for emergency use, Miss Davidson. I trust you are fully aware of that? And they’re not to be used on paying tourists unless the situation is dire.”

  “I’ve only had to use it once, and the circumstances were what I considered pretty dire. He was drunk and terrorizing the other passengers, and he nearly caused me to wreck. It was the only way I could control him.”

  Penney’s caterpillar brows lowered slightly. “Yes, though the insurance company was not especially impressed, it did seem necessary in that instance. And he did have a criminal record.”

  He clasped and unclasped his hands, and Harley had the distinct impression he wanted to say something else but didn’t know if he should. She waited. Sunlight slanted through windows to heat the room, backlit the fuzz atop his head, and made her squint. Finally he nodded again.

  “New rules are being implemented, and we are requiring all employees to take a short course in safety per our insurance company’s request. You’ll be notified of the dates and times, as will our other drivers.”

  Oh, that’d make her popular with the other drivers.

  All in all, it wasn’t exactly the kind of reception she’d expected. A little more excitement would have been nice. Appreciation, perhaps. Not that she was too surprised by his reaction. She had experienced something similar from Bobby Baroni, who hadn’t been quite impressed about her participation in the capture of jewelry thieves the police had been after for months. His reaction had been more along the lines of . . . irritation. But as a detective in the homicide division of the MPD, Bobby wasn’t easily impressed. He’d been that way when they were kids, too. It took a lot to impress him. Unless you were a stripper with a 36DD cup.

  Tootsie looked up when she went back into the reception area. “From the expression on your face, I’m guessing you didn’t get a bonus.”

  “Unless you want to look at a required safety course as one, no. Not that it matters. I still have the Crimestoppers cash as a bonus.” Harley slumped against the edge of Tootsie’s desk. “Being famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “So I see. Don’t worry. Fame never lasts.”

  The lobby of The Peabody Hotel on Union Avenue in downtown Memphis always teemed with tourists in shorts and tee shirts. They crowded around the elegant marble fountain in the center, taking pictures of the ducks that paddled around and around. It was also a meeting place for the business lunch crowd, and it took Harley a few minutes to find a seat that wasn’t so near the fountain that she’d get splashed or elbowed by a fanatical tourist with a Nikon. It seemed somehow fitting that the hotel’s custom of keeping plain mallard ducks in the fountain had begun with a drunken hunter. The Peabody had made the fowl their mascots and sold everything from duck-shaped mints to duck shoehorns in the gift shop. The one thing not served on any menu in their restaurants and delis, however, was duck. They limited duck to the ones treated royally in the marble fountain during the day, and in a palatial duck house at night. A marketing tool that was a huge success. The Peabody liked to advertise that it was the “Meeting Place of the South.” Probably true. At any given time you might see Hollywood actors or Saudi sheiks in the lobby.

  Subdued lighting, plush carpeting, lots of gold gilding, hanging crystal chandeliers, and marble-topped tables surrounded by comfortable chairs and cushioned couches made waiting in the lobby easy, if not timesaving. Aunt Darcy was late as usual.

  A perky waitress bounced over to take her order, and she asked for a Coke. Aunt Darcy arrived at the same time as the Coke, and she ordered a gin and tonic as she kissed the air beside Harley, then took a chair next to her. She wore an exquisite red silk suit that complemented her slender frame, fair features and short blond hair. Gold gleamed at her throat and wrists, equaled only by the flash of diamonds on her left hand. A drift of Chanel wafted above the round marble table, but it was quickly eradicated by a cloud of cigarette smoke as Darcy lit up.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she said, and before Harley could say yes, went on, “I’m just so nervous. It’s so trying. I had no idea you’d be of any use at all, but when I read the article this weekend, I knew at once that you were the answer. It has to be kept private, you see, and I didn’t want to risk dragging in outsiders. You know how people can be, I’m sure, always talking and saying things, because they’re jealous or envious or just spiteful. Well, on top of everything else, I surely don’t need that, Harley, and so decided that I’d just get you to fix it. You can find out if it’s true, and if it is, why then you can just get that friend of yours, the Italian boy, to make him stop and everything’ll be just fine after all. Don’t you think?”

  “Uh . . . ”

  “I knew you’d agree. Now, don’t you say a word to Mama about this, because she’d never understand, especially when she told me I shouldn’t have a partner at all, that I should keep it all in my own name and hands, but you know how it is nowadays, with the economy and all. I swear, I don’t know what the world is coming to with all those Republicans in Congress. It’s just a shame, is all, a dreadful shame. We’ve been Democrats all our lives, and even with that scandal—well, he was still better than a Republican, don’t you think? Though it was such a nasty business with that cigar and all, and so unnecessary. Maybe—oh well. Not that it matters. This isn’t about politics.”

  “Well,” Harley finally got in, exasperated that a woman who talked so slow could say so much so quickly, “what is it about, Aunt Darcy?”

  “Why, sugar, it’s about illegal smuggling. Didn’t I say? Someone is smuggling illegal goods into my shop, and I think my partner is behind it.”

  Two

  It had started out to be such a nice day. She’d felt so good when she woke up, being famous and richer by a few bucks. Solving a crime and snagging a hot guy just made things so much better she hadn’t even cared that she still had bruises and scratches from her ordeal. How quickly things could go to hell.

  “Aunt Darcy,” she said patiently, “you need a private investigator. Or a cop. I’m a tour guide. It’s not at all the same thing.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s in all the papers. Of course you investigate things, just like that woman on cable television—the book writer. What’s her name? Oh, it doesn’t matter. You were able to solve the jewelry thefts and caught the man who murdered t
hat elderly woman, and I’m sure if you can do that, you can do a simple thing like find out who’s smuggling things into my shop. I could lose everything, Harley, if the police found out about this. Just spy on Harry and tell me if he’s in on it. I think he knows who’s doing it and just won’t tell me.”

  “And Harry would be—?”

  “My partner. Harry Gordon.” Darcy took another puff of her cigarette, a long brown thing that smelled vaguely like cloves and reminded Harley of the pot her brother Eric smoked. “Harry’s supposed to be a silent partner,” her aunt continued, “but he’s been coming in to the shop a lot more the past year, and then—well, I just found it this past weekend.”

  “Found what? Drugs? Weapons?”

  Darcy blinked, her long lashes batting over eyes that seemed an unnatural turquoise. “No, nothing like that. Illegal imports. Endangered animal skins. Ivory. Things like ancient artifacts that I know can’t be legal. Statues. Vases. Some kind of powder. It isn’t drugs. It just isn’t legal. Powdered rhinoceros horn or something like that. The federal government banned these things, and I don’t know who is doing it or how they’re getting them through Customs. But if my clients found out I was involved in any kind of illegal business, I’d be bankrupt in a week.”

  The waitress brought Darcy’s gin and tonic, and she held up two fingers to indicate another one as she pulled the first one toward her.

  “So you see, don’t you,” Darcy continued, somehow managing to smoke and talk and drink in almost the same breath, “why it must be kept very, very quiet?”

  “Aunt Darcy—”

  “I’ll pay any expenses you may run into, of course. And I’ll buy your lunch. Order anything you like.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your confidence in me,” Harley began, “but—”

  “Listen here, Harley Jean Davidson, we’re family. Family always sticks together. If you can help find out who killed some strange old lady, you can certainly help me find out who’s trying to ruin my business!”

  It was the strangest thing about Aunt Darcy; just when you thought she was three bricks shy of a full load, and a wilting violet to boot, she turned into Raging Bull.

  Harley groaned. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do, but don’t expect miracles.”

  The frown that had briefly distorted Darcy’s face vanished, and her smile was serene and reassuring. “Now, sugar, I know you’ll find out who it is. Come to the shop tomorrow and I’ll tell you everything you need to know. You can do one of those stinger things, like the police.”

  “Sting. Stinger is a drink. And no, I don’t—” She paused. Aunt Darcy had stopped listening so there was no point in even trying. The waitress delivered her aunt’s second gin and tonic, and she scooped it up. How did the woman suck down so much gin and not fall out onto the floor? If she drank like that, she’d end up paddling in the fountain with the ducks.

  Aunt Darcy glanced at her watch. “Oh, I’ve got to run, Harley. I’m supposed to meet a client at their house in Harbor Town. A new job, very expensive. Remember now, not a word to anyone. If it got out, I’d be ruined.”

  Kissing the air beside Harley, she left in a flurry of clove cigarette smoke and lingering perfume. Harley got stuck with the check and no lunch. Sixteen dollars for a Coke and her aunt’s two gin and tonics? That was too pricey for her budget, but it wasn’t the waitress’s fault and she left a tip as well. Twenty bucks to listen to some ridiculous story that would prove to be just a mistake.

  It wouldn’t be the first time her aunt had thought someone was trying to ruin her business. Last year, she’d been convinced a rival design shop was stealing her clients by telling lies about her all over town, and she threatened to sue for libel. That had turned out to be a mistake. And the year before that, there’d been the disagreement with furniture manufacturers—well, no point in dredging all that up now. She’d go just to keep peace. And to recoup her twenty dollars.

  After stopping at Taco Bell to pick up brunch, she crossed Poplar to the office parking lot with only one near crash. There was a parking space in the shade and she grabbed it. Leaving her car’s windows down would be an open invitation to steal it, but parking in the sun meant the temperature inside might reach a hundred and fifty degrees in the summertime. Even though it was still relatively cool, no point in taking unnecessary chances. Toyotas, especially older ones like hers, were prime targets for chop shops, one of Memphis’s major business attractions for budding young entrepreneurs.

  Air conditioning inside gave her a spurt of energy. If she ran up the stairs to the second floor instead of taking the elevator, it might work off some of the junk food she’d eaten lately.

  By the time she reached the Tour Tyme offices, she was out of breath. Staggering into the reception area, she hung over Tootsie’s desk for a moment, gasping for air. He didn’t look up.

  “You’re still on call. I didn’t put you on the schedule since I didn’t know when you’d be back. There’s a Graceland run,” Tootsie said. He’d filed his fake nails into a perfect oval. “You can take that tour if you want. Tourists from Nevada. What do you think of this color?” He held out his nails for her to inspect. He’d changed colors already, a deeper shade of purple.

  She leaned forward as the black dots in front of her eyes faded. “Nice. Perfect Plum?”

  “Claret Craze. I went to Stein Mart on Sunday and found a gorgeous dress in a deep claret. Very Jennifer Aniston. Do you think my hair would look good cut like hers?”

  “This year’s cut or last year’s?”

  “Last year.” He tugged at the end of his pony tail, soft auburn strands curling around his palm. “I’ve been thinking of cutting it a little shorter, since every so often I like to go as Cher. She can be a refreshing change, but I have to wear wigs and they get hot.”

  “Keep it long,” Harley advised, “it’s more flexible.”

  “Right. It’s a mystery to me how you can know about nail polish colors and hair lengths when you so obviously don’t apply it to yourself.”

  Inspecting her nails—or where they’d be if she didn’t bite them—she said reflectively, “Cami has never given up hope I’ll turn into a girly-girl. She keeps me updated. If I had polished nails they’d have to be in bubble gum flavor. Or bean burrito.”

  Tootsie ignored the last. “So Charlsie’s van broke down. How about a one o’clock pickup at the Radisson? Only four women from up in Michigan, but they want to go to Victorian Village.”

  “Great. I like going to the Village.”

  She took the log book down the hall to catch it up since she hadn’t entered her mileage or time last week. There had been other things on her mind, like finding her parents after King, their neurotic dog, had been abducted and the neighbor responsible for the dognapping was murdered. Of course, the police had immediately suspected her father had killed the neighbor, so he and her mother had gone on the run. And then there was Harley’s narrow escape from jewel thieves and psychotic murderers when she tried to get evidence to clear her father. That still made her shiver when she thought about it. Why had she thought changing jobs would eliminate the stress in her life? It’d obviously followed her. But at least being a tour guide was less stressful than working in marketing for a corporate banking firm whose managers talked like drill sergeants to their employees. It’d do for now. She looked at it as a working vacation. And time to decide what she really wanted from life.

  Here she was, closer to thirty, unmarried, with no kids or mortgage or even a steady boyfriend, drifting through life as aimlessly as a dandelion thistle in the wind. Diva said she was a late bloomer, but her mother had no expectations for Harley other than that she be happy in whatever she chose to do. It was a simplistic view of life that often bumped up against the harsh corners of reality.

  But then, that was how Diva was, an idealistic dreamer with a proclaimed connection to the psychic world that was uncannily accurate at times. Enough to validate her beliefs in her own abilities, anyway. Harley wasn�
��t always so sure. There were the times Diva was right on the money with a prediction or warning, or even just a certainty about someone. Like last week, when she’d been so sure Bruno Jett was connected somehow to their dog’s disappearance. It’d turned out that he was, though indirectly. And Diva had been sure all would turn out well in the end, which it had, but not without a lot of stress. And panic. But both those predictions could be explained away as coincidence.

  Then there was her warning about the Chinese pug . . . that one was harder to explain away. Diva couldn’t have known that Harley would almost be hit in the head with a heavy ceramic pug. It was just that kind of obscure thing that made Harley wonder if her mother really did use a sixth sense at random moments. Practicality demanded Harley apply rational explanations to the unexplainable. There were times, however, it was impossible. Diva often defied logic.

  When the phone rang, Harley wasn’t surprised to hear her mother on the other end say, “When Darcy asks you to help her, consider it carefully. It will set you on a different path.”

  “Aunt Darcy already asked. I didn’t fully agree, but I didn’t refuse. And how’d you know about it?”

  Ignoring that, Diva said, “It’s your choice, Harley. Just be sure it’s what you want to do.”

  Diva’s low alto vibrated softly in her ear, and Harley toyed with the impulse to ask her advice. Then the moment passed, and she said only, “I’ll be sure.”

  It was a lie, of course. She’d been roped into it with cords of familial guilt, lassoed by a master. Jewish mothers had nothing on Southern women, and a Southern Jewish mother was a force to be reckoned with. She should be grateful, she supposed, that Aunt Darcy was Methodist. Otherwise, there was no telling what Harley might have agreed to do for her.