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

by Brown, Virginia

  “I hope so. Where’s Granddad?”

  “Playing golf, of course. Any excuse will do, but a luncheon with ‘gabbing females’ as he puts it, gave him the perfect out. I’ll let him enjoy his day, and won’t burden him with this new development until he gets home. He worries so, you know.”

  Janet came to the sitting room door and said, “It’s Miss Madelyn on the phone, Mrs. Eaton, asking for you. Her mother is having some kind of difficulty.”

  Probably out of gin, Harley thought unkindly, then felt slightly ashamed. After all, “she was family.” That phrase was used to excuse everything from insanity to criminal activity. It was an acceptance of the quirks of one’s blood kin, the final apology and explanation to strangers.

  “Talk to Aunt Darcy, Grandmother,” she said. “I need to leave anyway.”

  After saying good-bye to Grandmother, she left by the back door. It felt more comfortable than the austere front entrance. The Eaton house was one of those older homes in East Memphis, a stately Colonial with a triple garage and wide driveway on a wooded lot that was at least a half acre. It was a quiet neighborhood where many families had reared children and sent them off to college, and where grown grandchildren now visited. It didn’t seem conducive to the kind of lifestyle Diva preferred, even now. Aunt Darcy may have thrived here, but Diva would have felt stifled.

  There was certainly nothing stifled about her mother now. The years had freed her to be herself. Just as Harley was free to indulge in extracurricular activities.

  Luckily for her, Morgan was still at her apartment. Just what she needed, a few uncomplicated hours with a man guaranteed to give her cold shivers and hot flashes.

  Bright and early Sunday morning, Harley showed up at the Fontaine household with a box of Krispy Kremes and a hopeful smile. Fortunately, Amanda met her at the door. She was much easier to cajole than Madelyn.

  “Hi, Mandy,” Harley said, and breezed past her into the entrance hall. Last time she’d been here, the house had an Oriental theme. This time, it was English Victorian. Lace. Cabbage roses. Prints and chintz. Good lord. Aunt Darcy took furniture from the shop, left the price tags on, and in a pinch, sold it if a customer wanted it badly enough. Apparently, current trends leaned toward frou-frou. The room was crowded with ornate accessories, tablecloths, fringe, and lots of Tiffany lamps. It was Diva with reasonably good taste. A nightmare, in Harley’s opinion.

  Amanda said, “What are you doing here? And don’t call me Mandy. Harley Jean.”

  “Point taken. I brought doughnuts for Aunt Darcy. They’re Krispy Kremes. Two dozen.”

  Amanda looked intrigued. And hungry. Harley pried up the box lid so the sugary scent of warm doughnuts wafted toward her. She knew she had her when her cousin’s eyes glazed like one of the crullers and a tiny bead of drool escaped one corner of her mouth.

  “I’ll take them to her,” she offered, and Harley smiled. What an innocent.

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind. I’ll take her up a few and leave the rest down here for you and whoever else would like one.”

  Two minutes later, Harley was on her way up the wide staircase to the second floor. If she played it right, she’d have some time alone to find out just what the devil was going on. She didn’t buy for one minute that fainting act her aunt had done in Grandmother Eaton’s sunroom. It had to have been a cop-out, a distraction. Now it was time for some truth.

  “Hello, Aunt Darcy,” she said when she edged into the darkened room that smelled like clove cigarettes, and heard her aunt mutter something that sounded like “shit!” under her breath.

  “Who let you in?” Darcy demanded irritably. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Amanda. I brought you some doughnuts. Krispy Kremes. I know you like them.”

  That wasn’t quite true. The doughnuts had really been a distraction for Amanda and/or Madelyn, as well as an excuse to get up the stairs. She had no idea if Aunt Darcy liked them.

  “I never eat pastries this early.”

  “Just as well.” Harley set the plate on a table crowded with pictures of strangers in frames with curlicues and bows. One price tag read $125 for a small framed sepia tone reproduction of a man in a bowler hat. It couldn’t be a relative. He looked too respectable. “I didn’t come here to feed you anyway. What were you doing at the store when Harry Gordon was murdered? Did you have anything to do with it? And if not, did you see anyone else there?”

  Darcy drew the coverlet up over her head. “Go away,” came the muffled reply, but Harley ignored that and reached over to jerk down the covers.

  “Look, you can lie to the cops if you want, you might even get away with it for a little while, but they don’t give a damn about you or me or even Harry. They just want the truth, and you can believe me when I say they generally get what they want. If you’re hiding anything, they’ll know it. Now I can help you if you’ll let me. You just have to be honest.”

  Bleary eyes glared at her. Somehow Darcy’s hair was neat even though she was lying down and had pulled the covers over her head. Hardly a hair out of place. Amazing, and probably due to industrial strength hair spray. Proper hygiene was the first sign of recovery, so she must be on her way to putting the ordeal with the cops behind her.

  “Harley, you’re fired. There’s no need for you to concern yourself with me or Harry any longer. He’s dead and my problem is over. I’ll still write you a check, just go away!”

  Unperturbed, Harley shook her head. “Hunh uh. Your problems are just beginning. And I have no intentions of going away, though I will take your check. One hundred ought to cover it for my time and expenses.” She paused for a brief moment of regret, the fading vision of five thousand dollars creating an actual cramp, then she said, “It seems to have escaped your notice, but you’re a suspect in a murder case. Think about it. You’re probably the last one besides the murderer to see Harry alive. You were at the shop when you said you weren’t. You have no alibi, and—”

  Darcy shook her head. “Wrong. I do have an alibi. I was at the Junior League meeting, just like I said.”

  “Aunt Darcy, the police check these things. They’ll talk to the Junior League. You have to know that.”

  “Let them.” Darcy’s chin stuck out in mulish stubbornness. “I was there. You must have seen a car that looked like mine. It wasn’t my car, and it wasn’t me. I’m not the one who’s got it wrong, you are.”

  Harley frowned. Maybe she was wrong. But it had certainly looked like Aunt Darcy’s car, right down to the Obama-Biden stickers plastered across the back bumper.

  “You’ve still got that white Lexus, right?”

  Darcy hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. There are probably thousands in the city of Memphis. I can’t have the only one.”

  “I’m sure not. And you’re probably not the only one with a white Lexus who voted for Obama, either, but it’s too big a coincidence that a car that looks just like yours, with four bumper stickers just like yours, was in the parking lot of your shop at around the same time Harry Gordon was murdered. Sure you didn’t just drop by, maybe saw Harry already dead, then ran out of there?”

  “Positive.”

  “So you’re going to stick with that story.”

  “I’m sticking with the truth. Now go away, Harley. You’re giving me a headache.”

  Harley thought it might be the gin in the small water glass beside her bed that was giving Aunt Darcy a headache, but she didn’t say it. “Sure. On my way out now. Let me know when you come to your senses. I figure that’ll be right around the time you’re arrested for murder.”

  Darcy went even paler, though Harley hadn’t thought that possible. Still, she only pressed her lips more tightly together and reached for the water glass with a shaking hand.

  “All right, if you must know, I wasn’t at the Junior League meeting the entire time. I was . . . with a man.”

  “A man, as in not Uncle Paul?”

  Darcy nodded, looking so miserable that Harley belie
ved her. Well. That was interesting.

  “You should tell that to the police, Aunt Darcy. They’ll keep it quiet if they can, and no one has to know, but it will help clear you if—“

  ”No!” Aunt Darcy sounded quite fierce about it, and color finally lit her face. “And don’t you dare say a word to anyone, do you hear me? I’ll deny it if you do.”

  “Fine, it’s your funeral. I hope that’s not a prediction.”

  When she got to the door, Harley turned to say, “By the way, that powder you had me get tested? It was French bath powder, just like Harry said. Are you sure he was smuggling?”

  “Yes. I know he was, even if I can’t prove it. Believe me or not, I don’t care.”

  This was really strange. Darcy usually had a strong survival instinct. Why hadn’t it kicked in?

  She was still puzzling over Darcy’s lack of survival instinct when she stopped by Memphis Tour Tyme to retrieve her paycheck from Mr. Grinder, the security guard. Office employees didn’t come in on the weekends or holidays; only the drivers worked, and days off rotated. Most tours were already scheduled, and any emergencies were handled by either Mr. Penney or Tootsie. Since Tootsie’s car was parked in front of the building, it was likely that one of the vehicles—or drivers—had broken down. She parked her Toyota next to Tootsie’s car. He had a four year old Acura that still looked new. He took excellent care of his cars. Mr. Grinder had an old Chrysler that had seen better days.

  Last week she and Cami had scared Mr. Grinder half to death when they’d snuck in to borrow a stun gun for their investigation of jewelry thieves. It’d given him the most excitement he’d had since World War II. Near ninety if he was a day, and looking remarkably similar to a dried apple doll, his hands still trembled and he had a nervous tic under his left eye. She hoped the gun he wore on his arthritic hip wasn’t loaded. It looked way too big for him to manage.

  He sat behind a small desk that held a console, a stack of magazines, and a thirteen-inch color TV. On the small screen, George Stephanopoulos smiled at one of his usual political guests, and the sound was turned off. The best way to listen to any politician.

  “How are you, Mr. Grinder?” she asked loudly since he sometimes forgot to turn up his hearing aid, and he nodded.

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s a nice day.” He unlocked the top desk drawer and held out her paycheck with fingers cruelly twisted by arthritis. “I’m sure you’ve come by for this.”

  “Thank you. You’re always prepared.”

  “Yes, my hair’s thinning a bit on top.” He took off his cap and smoothed a hand over the white wisps that clung tenaciously to his pink scalp. “Still got a way with the ladies, though.”

  “You’re a rascal, Mr. Grinder,” she said, and apparently he heard that and seemed pleased by it.

  “I sure am.” He clacked his false teeth together in what may have been an invitation, so Harley took the elevator up to the second floor to find out what Tootsie was doing.

  Tootsie looked up at her with a lifted brow. “What’s up, baby?”

  “Name it. You still have on makeup. You look like a raccoon. Good show last night?”

  “Great show. I vamped it up, did my Cher routine and sang Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. I rocked. You should have come.”

  Harley sat down in Tootsie’s office chair to watch him connect wires to the older model computer on the desk. “I was a little busy. Life’s been crazy since Thursday night.”

  “Honey, life’s always crazy for you.”

  “Now, I don’t know why you’d say something like that.”

  “A murder in a design shop, guy hanging off moose antlers, what d’ya think?”

  “Elk horns. He was hanging off elk horns.” Harley stared glumly at Tootsie. “What are you doing here? I thought you were usually off on Sundays.”

  “Hooking up the DSL. The ogre thought it was time we stepped into the twenty-first century. Not that this dinosaur of a computer will help that much. Not enough RAM or gigs.”

  “Uh huh.” Her interest in computers rated pretty low. RAM and gigs meant goats and pitchforks as far as she was concerned. She barely listened as Tootsie rambled on about memory and software for a few minutes. Then he looked up at her.

  “So what are you doing here? I already gave your runs to Charlsie. She’s doing Graceland and Tupelo today. A fan club from England.”

  “I came by to get my paycheck. I was a little distracted Friday and forgot to pick it up.” She leaned forward in the chair. “Darcy’s mixed up in the murder. She was there.”

  Tootsie plugged in a wire then ran a hand through his hair to shove the long strands out of his face. “Think she did it?”

  “I don’t know. She says she has an alibi, but I saw her car leaving the parking lot right before I found Harry. She told the police that she was at her Junior League meeting.” Darcy’s affair would remain a secret for now. She had to have some standards.

  “Maybe she was.”

  “Maybe, but how many cars like hers in Memphis still have a Kerry-Edwards bumper sticker? Most people don’t continue to advertise that they voted for the losers.”

  “So, maybe someone else was driving her car.”

  Harley looked at him. “Damn. Of course. That makes sense—you’re a genius, Tootsie.”

  “Only pointing out the obvious, baby.” He smiled a little when she made a rude comment. “You’re too close to it. Darcy’s your family. My advice, let the police handle it.”

  “Now you sound like Bobby and Mike.”

  “Both reasonable men.”

  “Both cops.”

  “Not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “You only say that because the imaginary Steve is a cop.”

  Tootsie grinned. “That doesn’t make it less true, baby.”

  “You know, you’re at your most annoying when you’re smug.”

  “Not at all. I can be far more annoying. Now move out of my way so I can see if I’ve got this hooked up right.”

  Harley rolled close to the file cabinets while Tootsie played with the computer. It made sense. If Aunt Darcy hadn’t been in her car, someone else had to have been. But who? It’d have to be someone she trusted, because she’d never loan anyone else her car. That left only a very few possibilities. Starting with Mandy and Maddie, the gruesome twosome. Her bet was on Madelyn. But then . . . she hadn’t even considered that her uncle might figure into this. Maybe because he seemed like a timid mouse most of the time, one of those mild-mannered men who seemed to fade into the background except when he was expected to ante up some money. Darcy almost couldn’t be blamed for having an affair, but Harley had always thought Paul a really nice guy. Not that she had any qualms about investigating him. And that made her wonder—could Harry have been Darcy’s lover? Was that what she was hiding?

  “Got it,” Tootsie said, and she looked over as the monitor popped up a home page.

  “So do I,” Harley said, and stood up. “Keep my schedule flexible this week, okay? Just in case.”

  “Sure. Crimestoppers must pay more than advertised. Unless you’ve come into money and don’t need our paltry paychecks.”

  Harley made a face. “Unkind of you to remind me, but if I clear Aunt Darcy, I’ll take her entire check so fast she won’t have time to reconsider.”

  “So what happened to the five thousand for investigating Harry?”

  “Harry being dead and all, I can’t take the entire thing for just a few days’ work. I charged her a hundred instead. But if I can keep her out of jail, it’s worth at least five thousand, don’t you think?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I love you, Harley, you have scruples.”

  She shuddered. “Don’t say that. You’ll ruin my reputation as a bitch. Life is much easier when people hesitate to cross you.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “If I didn’t know better, Tootsie, I’d swear we were separated at birth.”

  He made a wry face. “Except that I have much better t
aste than you.”

  “I happen to like shabby chic, thank you very much. You’re into elegance. I’m into the right price. In fact, I think I’ll hit my favorite secondhand clothing store after I talk to a few lucky people I like to refer to as suspects.”

  “You frighten me, baby.”

  “That’s what Morgan says.”

  “He should know.”

  “Yeah, but he keeps hanging around anyway. He’s just a sucker for punishment, I guess.”

  It always gave her a warm feeling to think about Mike Morgan. She could blame it on the summer heat, but denying it didn’t change it. The man tickled her libido in the best possible way. It probably wouldn’t last. She knew she wasn’t that good at relationships. There was no reasonable explanation for that. Except maybe it had something to do with her early life, when they’d moved around a lot and she’d learned that most people were only temporary. Either they had moved on, or Harley had moved on with her parents, traveling around California from commune to commune, or someplace on a whim, the freedom of the seventies giving way at last to their more stable life in Memphis. While she’d spent nearly half her life here, the mark of the first fourteen years had left more of an impression, it seemed. Maybe there really was something to that theory that the first five years of a child’s life molded the rest of it. She hoped not. Living out of a van and eating dried seaweed really wasn’t that appealing.

  Heat struck like a closed fist when she stepped out onto the parking lot where her trusty Toyota waited in the shade of a tree. June was one of those months that could be hot as a furnace or quite pleasant. Sometimes it turned out to be both. In the same hour.

  Crossing Poplar Avenue on a Sunday was a lot easier than during the week, and she made it into the Taco Bell parking lot across from the office building with only a few annoyed honks from other drivers. Memphis drivers were notoriously impatient, ignoring Southern hospitality in favor of a two-second head start at stop lights. Southern hospitality obviously did not extend to the perils of Poplar Avenue.