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 wor
ry 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.
“Your father’s been very despondent since the police were here. Perhaps you’d speak with your new friend and see if he can do anything about returning the plants?”
Harley blinked. “Diva, forget the pot plants. They’re illegal. Morgan was doing us a favor by not busting all of us for them, and so, I might add, was Bobby, who’s always known you grow pot in the backyard next to the tomatoes. I’m sure you have seeds somewhere. Plant more.”
There were times she wished her parents would grow up and enter the twenty-first century instead of holding onto a way of life that was long gone and had probably never existed like they thought it had anyway. It had occurred to her more than once that she understood Grandmother Eaton’s frustration with her oldest daughter.
Turning wide blue eyes on her, Diva gazed at her until Harley began to fidget. It was that look that always made her feel two years old again, pinned by the sudden realization that her mother knew everything she was thinking.
In a familiar husky alto that worked so well in séances and tarot card readings, Diva said, “Harley, we’re happy the way we are. We’ll never be what you or my mother wants us to be. It’s all right. Everything will be fine.”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Diva smiled. “You have an open, free spirit. It’s easy to see what you’re thinking. I could do it even without my gift.”
She didn’t doubt that. “Nevertheless, it’d make me feel better if you’d at least take some precautions.”
“Harley, I want you to be careful of the plots. They may hurt you.”
Plots? The back door leading from the screened porch banged and Harley had just enough time to brace herself before a black, white, and pink dog launched himself at her with great glee. Large bare spots in his coat testified to his recent dognapping, but he was in good shape for a dog that had been held captive in a storage closet.
“Down, King,” she said, without a prayer he’d listen, and tried to pet him at the same time as she tried to fend off his exuberant greeting. Panting and slobbering, the dog leaped about, his toenails clacking against the tile floor and wood cabinets. Part Border Collie, part Mexican jumping bean, King had no sense of decorum whatsoever. When she finally got him to stay down by putting her hand atop his head and holding him between his ears, brown streaks of dirt from his paws stained her khaki jeans. One of the hazards of petting him.
“You really should get him some obedience classes,” she said when Yogi beckoned the dog closer. King promptly leaped up and licked her on the mouth before abandoning her for Yogi.
Spitting and scowling, Harley wiped her mouth with a dish towel. Yogi seemed oblivious to King’s bad habits. He smiled serenely and stroked the dog’s ears and blotchy fur.
“He’s perfect the way he is.”
“Not even in the Big House. Seriously. You should look into dog training. I talked to a nice lady at Border Collie Rescue, and she gave me some good advice for high-energy dogs like King. He needs a high fence to keep him contained, and lots of exercise, like throwing a Frisbee, or jogging, or—”
“King gets plenty of exercise.” Tilting his head to one side, her father smiled. He could be so endearing, with his generous paunch covered by a tee shirt saying Ban War—Free Love, and his knee-length ragged shorts that were frayed at the hem. If not for the gray streaking his brown hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail on the nape of his neck, he could almost be the poster child for the era of the Flower Child. “Are you staying for lunch, Harley? I can pick some more greens.”
She sighed. “No. Thanks. I brought my lunch.”
“Then I could pick some for you to take home for dinner tonight.”
“Uh, Mike’s bringing takeout later.”
“Mike—oh. You mean Bruno?”
“That was his undercover name. The sting operation’s over so he’s using his own name for the moment. Until another sting or undercover project, I guess.” She tried not to think about that. Maybe it was time to throw herself into the breach before she lost her nerve. “Hey, by the way, Diva, Grandmother is giving a luncheon tomorrow. She’d like you to come. It’s a girl thing.”
Diva paused in cutting up celery. She stared out the kitchen window for a moment, then turned with a faint smile. “I suppose Darcy and the girls will be there. Yes. Well, this weekend Yogi and I have the big flea market at the fairgrounds. You know, the first weekend of every month is the really big one. Yogi has several of those windmills to sell. You’ve seen the ones that look like the Eiffel Tower? And my trolls and rabbits . . . and I still have so many crystals left. Would you please see if the police will return our supplies? They shouldn’t need them now.”
“So, that’s a no, right?”
“Well . . . ” Diva gave one of her airy gestures that could mean almost anything and smiled vaguely. “We’re just so busy, you know.”
“Right. I’ll tell Grandmother.”
“Give them my best. And Harley? You’ll be just fine. Darcy needs some life lessons, and this is all karmic energy being recycled.”
“Uh hunh.” That was so Diva, no mention of the murder, just her observations on karma. “So what’d I do this time to get bad karma?”
“It’s not necessarily bad karma. There are lessons in good karma as well.” She smiled. “I know you don’t like talking about it. That’s all right. You’ll be fine.”
“Glad to hear it.” She only stayed a few more minutes, then made her excuses and left. An afternoon in the company of a tour group seemed preferable to the vague feelings of guilt that nagged her. On the way to her car, she waved at Mrs. Shipley across the street, who acted as the self-appointed neighborhood sentry.
“I see you’ve found another body, Harley Jean,” Mrs. Shipley called out with a cheerful wave. “So much excitement . . . you be careful now, you hear?”
“I will, Mrs. Shipley, I will.” Sadie Shipley resembled a bright tropical bird, dressed all in yellow and blue, looking like something out of a Disney cartoon with her hair frizzed out in a bad dye job and her makeup applied with a trowel. But she had a good heart, even if she was the neighborhood busybody. There were worse things to be.
Saturday luncheon at Grandmother Eaton’s yawned before Harley like a prison sentence. She was caught between a longing to be anywhere else and an urgent desire to talk to Aunt Darcy, who still hadn’t returned her calls. The desire to find out what was going on won out.
She dragged herself out of bed at nine Saturday morning, leaving Morgan asleep. She was glad it was her day off, but not glad she’d agreed to play nice with her cousins. It was a long-standing conflict that had started the summer she’d moved back to Memphis. The details were fuzzy in her mind now, but it had something to do with a boy. Hormones had gone berserk that year.
“I’d like to be a fly on the wall,” Morgan remarked while she was getting ready to go.
She looked at him in the bathroom mirror, a gob of hair gel in each palm slowly turning to stone. “So would I. Unfortunately, I have to show up as myself.”
“That has distinct advantages.” He leaned against the doorframe, his arms
crossed over his chest. His slow smile made her tingle down to her toes again, an event that seemed to happen far too often lately.
Feast or famine seemed to be the pattern of her love life these days. Feast was much more enjoyable.
Famine seemed preferable to the cuisine Grandmother Eaton served, however—the kind of dishes popular in quaint little restaurants, with sprigs of greenery atop tiny mounds of shredded fish. Thank God for Taco Bell. A person could starve if they had to depend on her grandmother or Diva for decent food.
“It looks delicious, Grandmother,” Harley’s cousin Madelyn said primly, and gave Harley a look that obviously meant she was supposed to agree.
“Are those orchids?” Harley asked instead, inspecting the tall bouquet gracing the middle of the dining room table. It looked like a dozen orchids had been tucked into a tower, studded with silvery leaves. Silverware sparkled, crystal gave off delicately colored prisms of light, and long tapers had been lit. Curls of silk ribbon drifted across exquisite china plates. She had to hand it to Grandmother Eaton, she sure believed in setting an elegant table.
Grandmother Eaton looked very pleased. In her early seventies, she looked younger even though her hair was silver-white. She’d dressed in a linen suit for the occasion, and wore jewelry at her throat and wrists as if they were going out for a meal at Chez Philippe instead of eating in her own dining room.
“Thank you, girls. Yes, those are indeed orchids. Aren’t they lovely? Janet said the tower effect would be perfect. I’m glad you like them, Harley.”
Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) Page 6
