Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery

by Fanning, Diane

  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.

  Chapter Sixteen

  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.

  I looked around on the ground till I found a short, broken piece of branch from the tree above. I slid its tip inside the loop of wire and eased it out. I stopped myself before I touched the mailbox latch again.

  Balancing the guitar string on one stick, I searched for another. When I found it, I poked shut the hinged lid of the box. At that moment, I remembered my gun. It was still by my bed on the nightstand, cozied up to a box of ammo. I wanted to make a mad dash to the house. Instead, I took measured steps balancing my newly found treasure with all the grace my shaky hands could muster.

  I nudged open the door like a surgeon going into an operating room and pushed it shut with my foot. I wanted to stop, lock it, slide to the floor and cry. But I couldn’t—not yet.

  I pulled a paper lunch sack out of the cupboard and with the flick of a wrist popped it open. I stuck the tip of the stick inside and watched the loop of string slide down and plop on the bottom of the bag. I folded the top down with three creased folds and went searching for tape to seal it. Before I could find the tape the phone rang. My stomach lurched. I picked up the receiver without a word.

  “See what I told you about guitar strings?” Milk Duds mouth said. “They show up everywhere.”

  He paused, waiting for my response. I did not oblige.

  “You know,” he continued. “Next time a guitar string could sneak up on you from behind. Next time, it could slip over your head and cut into your neck. All in the split second you spent breathing out one solitary, final breath.”

  He paused again. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes. My lower lip quivered. I wanted to scream in outrage. Sob in fear. But I gave him nothing but silence.

  “Think about that, Molly Mullet. Think about it next time you go to open your door. Think about it real hard. And back off, Molly Mullet. Let it go.”

  The phone clicked again. I pried my
petrified fingers off the receiver and cradled it on the wall. I stood rooted in place until my negligence hit me like a punch in the gut. The front door. I stumbled toward it. I slid the dead bolt home. I spun around and threw my back against the wooden surface. I slid inch by inch down to the floor. And I rubbed my right arm and sobbed until no more tears could form.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At 7:28 the next morning, I pushed the doorbell at Thelma Wiggins’ house. She opened the door and held open the screen. “C’mon in, Molly. You’re right on time.”

  As if I dared be late.

  “I thought we’d eat in the kitchen,” Thelma said leading me through the house.

  I hadn’t been inside for years, but everything looked pretty much the same. The colors were a bit more faded with the passage of time. The sofa slumped a bit lower to the floor. The sheen on the hardwood floor was dulled by years of footsteps. But everything was as clean and free of dust as ever. In a fifty-year-old house that was a feat that required eternal vigilance.

  Thelma was as faded as her home. Her dull gray hair was pulled pack tight to her neck where it was fastened with a red rubber band. Her brow looked like harrowed rows in a barren field. The blue of her eyes reflected nothing but the sorrow on the other side.

  Beneath her red-and-white-check apron, her simple shirtwaist dress was a soft blur of color. Once it held a vibrant small flowered print on its surface. Now the definition of its design had disappeared after years of laundering.

  I slid on to an old Windsor chair, its finish darkened nearly black with age, and rested my elbows on the kitchen table—in places its thick coat of white paint was chipped, revealing a peek at the green paint beneath. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, sizzling bacon and fresh-baked biscuits swirled around my head making my stomach growl. I hoped she hadn’t heard.

  “Won’t be long now, Molly.” She did hear it.

  “ Coffee?” Thelma asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She slid a thick white mug in front of me and plopped down a small glass pitcher. “That’s real cream. I still go out to Schultz’s farm and pick some up every week—just like your mama used to do. The eggs are from out at Schultz’s, too.”

  I poured the white liquid, thick as honey, and watched it swirl downward through the black in my cup. I sipped. Strong coffee. Real cream. Heaven by the cup.

  “There you go, Molly. Eat up,” Thelma said as she slid a plate in front of me—a little mountain of tender crisp bacon on the left, two perfect white ovals surrounding farm fresh orange yolks and flanked by two steaming biscuits on the right. Right in the middle was a generous red and green mound of pico de gallo pungent with the scent of fresh-cut cilantro.

  “I made that pico hot, just like you like it, Molly.”

  I was surprised she remembered. We ate in silence for a few minutes until Thelma dropped her fork and stared down at her plate.

  “I don’t know what to do. Oh, I know to trust Dale. If anybody can get us out of this mess, he can. But I want to do something. Not just sit here counting the minutes away.” She looked up at me, her eyes searching my face. “Can you understand that? I just want to do something. Anything. But Dale just says to rest up for the trial. How can I rest when my Bobby’s in jail? He looks okay when I visit him, but you hear all sorts of stories about what goes on in jail. I’m so scared for him.” Her head fell into her hands.

  “Mrs. Wiggins, I know some folks at the jail. I’ll talk to them. I’ll see what I can do. And I’ll visit Bobby as soon as I can.”

  She looked up again and said, “Yesterday when I saw him, I told him to put you on his visitors’ list. He said he would. I’ll check and make sure he did when I go visit tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins,” I said. We fell into a painful silence. I took another bite of biscuit and chewed slowly.

  “Molly, you know Bobby. You’ve known him for a long time. Do you think he could do this? Do you think he could kill someone? Do you think he could ever hurt anybody?”

  “I doubt Bobby could hurt anyone,” I told her. “I suppose it’s possible. But this murder? No way. This is a brutal crime, and I do not for one minute think that Bobby is capable of that level of violence.”

  “Then, why, oh why, did he confess?” Thelma asked.

  “He wanted to see you. He thought if he told them what they wanted to hear, he could go home.”

  “Damn it. How could he be so stupid?” As soon as those words formed sound waves, Thelma’s hand flew at the speed of light to cover her mouth. Above her fingers, her eyes grew large and seemed to pale even more as I watched. She gulped for air and trembled so intensely, the table shook. “How could I say that? How could I think that?” A keening wail rose in her throat.

  A wet, suffocating blanket of misery fell down upon us both. Instinct brought me to my feet, ready to hug, to hold, to comfort. But I stopped myself. Thelma was not a toucher, and she shrank from those who were. I sat down—uncomfortable, uneasy, helpless.

  I stretched my hands out across the table—close to her but not touching her. “I understand. It’s okay.”

  “No it’s not. You don’t understand. Oh, Dear God, forgive me. I didn’t mean it. Oh yes, I did. For that moment, I really, I truly meant it. But oh, dear God, I love him. Please don’t take him from me. Please bring him home.”

  No pain has ever been more vivid, more visceral, unless it was my own. I felt her agony shred through my skin and cut down to the bone. Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over. “Oh, please, it’s okay. You’re only human.”

  She shook her head in violent swings. “No. What I said—what I thought—is unforgivable. It is an unpardonable sin.”

  “No. No. No,” I begged.

  “Yes. It is. I will never forgive myself. I’m sorry, Molly. I’m sorry. Please let yourself out? Please. I need to be alone.”

  I stumbled through the house, out the door, down the steps.

  In my car, I dropped my forehead down on the steering wheel. Pull yourself together, Molly. You’ve got work to do. You’ve got to dust your mailbox for prints. It’s time to catch the bastard who created this whole mess.

  So what do I do now? I can’t stop at Henne Hardware and pick up fingerprint powder. If I make a career of this, I’ll have to talk to them about that. I’m sure there’s room to squeeze it in between the ten-penny nails and the wrought-iron drawer pulls.

  I bet Arnie could get what I need. But I don’t have the time to run down to Houston to pick it up. I need to dust that mailbox before the mailman handles the box again. Lieutenant Hawkins would have what I need—can’t exactly see him being cooperative. Lisa. Lisa Garcia. She’s in and out of every office at the Police Department. She could get what I need. But would she do it?

  I whipped out my cell and called her direct line while I drove in the direction of the police department.

  “Good morning. New Braunfels Police Department. Garcia speaking.”

  “Hi, Lisa. This is Molly Mullet. How are you . . .”

  A sharp intake of breath was followed by a rapid expulsion of words. “How could you? How could you just walk away? You didn’t even tell me. You didn’t say ‘goodbye.’ What am I supposed to think of that? I had to dig and dig to find out what happened. You should have stuck it out. I would have helped you. You should have spat in their eyes. Spat on their shoes. I went to that squealer Lieutenant Hawkins and just looked at him. I did not need to say a word. He knew I was not pleased. He knew that the next time he needed a favor, the next time he needed a report typed I would not be there to save his sorry butt. And you, Molly? What am I to do with you? What am I to think of you?”

  “Well, I was kind of hoping you might be able to help me, Lisa,” I interrupted, and winced as I awaited another torrent of words.

  “What?” she snapped with more petulance packed in that one word than most people could stuff into a five-minute soliloquy. “You want me to help you? You turn your back on me, and now you come looking
for my help?”

  “Lisa. I need your help. Please.”

  All I got in response was a snort that led to silence.

  “I’m sorry. Really, Lisa. I am sorry. I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

  “You should have come to me first,” she insisted.

  “Yes, Lisa. You’re right. Will you help me? Please.”

  “I shouldn’t,” Lisa said, “but what do you need, Mija?”

  Mija? Oooh. Nice. Whenever she called me that, she would do anything I asked. I explained what I needed and she promised to call back. I pulled into the parking lot of the police station and slipped my car into an unobtrusive slot. In a few minutes, my cell rang.

  “I’ll meet you here. Park in front of the station,” Lisa said. “Don’t get out of your car. I’ll find you.” She hung up before I could let her know I was already there.

  After my secret mission was accomplished, I returned home with my pilfered and smuggled goods—or borrowed supplies, as Lisa insisted on calling them. And my cohort in crime had not missed a thing. Fingerprint powder, application brush, lifting tape, mounting cards, even a couple of pairs of disposable gloves.

  Beside my mailbox, I opened the folding wooden table Dad had built and set out my equipment. I hoped none of my neighbors were peering out their windows. First I dusted the front of the flap door. I couldn’t find a print, not even where I was sure I had touched it myself when I removed the guitar string. Odd. I dropped the flap and dusted the inside. Nothing. The box had been wiped clean? No. It couldn’t have been. I ran the brush across the outside surface, up and down the little red flag, even on the back on the box. Not one print.

  He wiped the box clean. When? While I was at Thelma’s or the police station? No. Not in broad daylight. He put the string in there under the cover of darkness. He would do the same when he wiped it down.

  He had to have done it after I took the guitar string into the house. Probably after he called. Probably while I leaned against the front door and sobbed. Did he hear me? Did he sneak up the steps and listen to me cry? Did he smile?