Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery

by Fanning, Diane

  “Your client is not under arrest and therefore she is not entitled to an attorney at this time,” Hawkins countered.

  “Then charge her or let her go,” Dale insisted.

  “She’s a person of interest and I have not finished questioning her.”

  “Hawkins!” Ted Kneipper’s voice rang out from the doorway.

  I peered out the crack of the door to make sure it really was Kneipper. It was. Something very odd was going on if he came all the way up here to tug on Hawkins’ leash.

  “The attorney is within his rights,” Kneipper said. “Release his client.”

  The look Hawkins shot at Kneipper was lethal. I was sure glad he was not looking at me. With clenched fists, Hawkins turned and stomped out of the room.

  Travis put his arm around my shoulders, plucked my purse from the property desk and escorted me outside. The media frenzy instigated by Hawkins’ telephone calls was in full tilt in the parking lot. Microphones poked in our faces. Flashes burned circles on our retinas. Video cameras followed our every move. Each shouted question was answered by a “no comment” from Dale.

  I huddled deep under his arm, my head hung low. I now understand why so many people made the futile gesture to cover their faces as they struggled through hordes of hungry reporters.

  Dale deposited me in the passenger seat of his car, walked around and climbed behind the wheel. The pack moved in and surrounded us. Dale popped his car into reverse and eased backwards, scattering reporters and cameramen in his wake.

  “How many points do I get if I hit one? Do I get double if they’re carrying heavy equipment?” Dale laughed.

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d been tormented and harassed and he was grinning ear to ear. “Dale, what about my car?”

  “Don’t worry. Oops, almost clipped that one. My paralegal is driving your car back to New Braunfels.”

  “But does she know how to work a stick?”

  For a moment, his grin faded. “I don’t know. I never thought to ask.”

  Oh, my poor car.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I was under strict instructions from Dale Travis to lie low today while my name and face were splattered across the news. “The furor will die down if you become invisible. Screen all your calls through the answering machine. Do not even set a foot outside of your house.”

  I was only joking when I asked if I could go out and get my mail. But Dale was not joking when he said, “Absolutely not. Stay behind closed, locked doors and pulled drapes every minute of the day.”

  I hated the thought of leaving my mail out in the box all day for anyone to rifle through it while I wasn’t looking. I suppose that was a bit paranoid, probably a bit egocentric to even think anyone would be interested in rifling through my mail. But it still bothered me.

  Who could I trust to retrieve my mail? Lisa? Yes, Lisa. I hadn’t returned her last call. I could call her now and invite her over for lunch. I dialed her number at work.

  “New Braunfels Police Department. Lisa Garcia speaking.”

  “Lisa, this is Molly.”

  “Molly. Molly. Molly. Pobrecita. What is going on? Where are you? When can we get together? I tell you, Molly, I gave that Lieutenant Hawkins a piece of my mind—not that he would know what to do with it. What was he thinking? That man is loco. How are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Lisa. I’m just lying low today.”

  “Hah! I bet that Hawkins wishes he could lie low.”

  “Were you that hard on him?”

  “Yes. But he deserved it. And I wasn’t the only one. The Hays County Sheriff called up here throwing a fit. Seems like Hawkins played his little game up there without notifying anyone in major crimes. And the Texas Rangers are beside themselves, too. Called Hawkins a hot dog.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Mija. He has been called on the carpet so many times today, he’s worn a hole in it. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Would you come over and have lunch with me?”

  “Of course. I would love to.”

  “And could you grab the mail out of my box on your way in?”

  “Oh, are you afraid of your mailbox after what happened the other day? Poor Molly. Pobrecita.”

  I tried not to let her hear even the slightest taint of irritation in my voice—but jeez, I’m not a ninny. “No, Lisa. I am not afraid of my mailbox. I just . . .”

  “That’s okay, Molly. I understand. It will be our little secret.”

  I suppressed my growl.

  “Do you want me to pick up lunch on my way?” Lisa asked.

  “Oh, no, Lisa. I’ll fix lunch for us. No problem.”

  “See you at noon.”

  *

  I stood in front of the refrigerator with “no problem” ringing in my ears. It seemed as if I’d spoken too soon. I had the supplies I needed to make grilled cheese sandwiches, but that was about it. In the pantry, I found a lonely can of Campbell’s tomato soup—the bright red and white can, refuge of the desperate. Okay. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Simple. Homey. Could be a lot worse.

  The sandwiches sat on the counter waiting to grill. The soup simmered on the stove. I looked out the front window and saw a blond woman in high heels and sunglasses walking down the street. She stopped at my mailbox, opened it and extracted my mail.

  I was ready to launch myself out the front door when the blonde turned and started up my sidewalk. There was something about her walk that looked familiar. That little strut in her step. I’ve seen that before. Lisa? I cracked open the door and whispered, “Lisa?”

  “Shush. Shh. Shh. Shh. Shush.” She mounted the steps and squeezed through my front door.

  “Lisa?”

  “This wig itches,” she said, pulling it off of her head. She tossed her real hair and prinked it with her fingers.

  “Lisa?” My mental turntable was stuck in a groove.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. What? What? What? You’ve never seen a wig before?”

  “Yes. But where did you get a blond wig?”

  “I’ve had it for ages. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  “You’ve used it before?”

  “Many times,” she said, twirling it on her finger. “Many, many times. It is very useful for spying on boyfriends.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  She nodded and gave me an enigmatic smile. “And it is a good thing I wore it today. I parked a couple of blocks away to case your house. There is a man sitting in the car two houses up staring in this direction.”

  “What?”

  “Look,” she said pulling back the edge of the drape with one index finger and pointing with the other.

  “Is it a cop?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. He put a newspaper in front of his face when I got near. But cop, reporter or killer, Molly, whoever he is, he’s bad news.”

  Great. I grilled the sandwiches, ladled the soup and served our lunch.

  “Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” she gushed. “My favorite. How did you know? You should not have gone to so much trouble.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had no choice. I updated her on everything that had happened since I picked up the fingerprint powder from her in the parking lot.

  “I’ll go to work and get back in Lieutenant Hawkins’ face.”

  “It seems like he’s got his hands full already, Lisa.”

  “I won’t be happy until he turns in his badge.”

  “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

  “After what he’s done to you, how can you even ask that? Madre de Dios, Molly, you are too softhearted. You need someone watching over you twenty-four/seven. Unfortunately, I have to work for a living.”

  Lisa wiggled the wig back over her hair. “Call me,” she said as she walked out the door.

  *

  The phone rang all afternoon. It was a mixture of hang-up calls and messages from the media begging me to return their calls. I almost did call Gina Galaviz but knew Dale would
seek the death penalty if I did. At 5:30, the answering machine picked up on a different kind of call.

  “Hey, Molly. This is Stan Crockett calling to see how you’re holding up today.”

  I snatched the receiver, pressed the stop button on the recorder and said, “Stan, I’m here.”

  “Good. Glad I got you. Seems like you’ve been having a rough day. Thought maybe somebody ought to take you out to dinner.”

  “Sorry, Stan, I’m on strict orders not the leave the house.”

  “You’re under house arrest?”

  “Not exactly. My attorney has ordered me confined to quarters.”

  “Maybe you ought to get another attorney.”

  “What makes you say that, Stan?”

  “Seems to me like he has a serious conflict of interest.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not, Molly. I’m just thinking of you. If these murders are pinned on you, his first, primary client walks out of jail and Dale Travis is a hero. And you are left holding the bag. I only say this, Molly, because I care about what happens to you.”

  Talk about conflicting emotions. His suggested suspicion of Dale’s motive churned my stomach. But Stan’s concern for me brought a flush to my cheeks and sent tingles up and down my arms. Stan Crockett may be odd-looking, but, I swear, he has the most seductive voice in the world.

  In a near whisper, he said, “So c’mon, Miss Molly. Come dance with me by the light of the moon.”

  I felt the edges of my resolve eroding like the sand on a stormy beach.

  “Dale Travis will never know.”

  That remark snapped me back to the reality of my situation. “Maybe not, Stan, but someone will. There’s a car two doors down with someone inside of it. It’s been sitting there all day.”

  “So we wait until it’s dark and you slip out the back door.”

  “If one snatch of video is shot, if one photo is snapped, Dale Travis will have my head.”

  “So, we go down to San Antonio to some raucous, jumping place and get lost in the crowd. Or better yet, we’ll go some place secluded and intimate where it’ll feel like we’re the only two people in the world.”

  My knees and my will both weakened. The beep of call waiting straightened my spine. “Sorry, Stan. I’ve got to stay in tonight. I’ve got another call. I’ll talk to you later.” I pressed the button to the other line before he could tempt me again. “Hello.”

  “I thought I told you to screen all of your calls.”

  “I have been, Dale. I was on another line and forgot.”

  “Don’t forget again. You’ve been inside all day?”

  “Yes.” Good grief. He’s worse than my father.

  “Good. You’re being watched.”

  “I know. I spotted the car up the street. Who is it?”

  “I’m not sure. There are a lot of rumors going around, so you probably have more than one watcher.”

  “Is one of them paid by you?” I felt like an ungrateful wretch the second those words were out of my mouth.

  “I’ll ignore that comment, Molly. You’ve been through a lot the last couple of days. I doubt that your spies will last through the night. But if you want to go anywhere tomorrow, first take a walk around the block and make sure no one is demonstrating any interest in you.”

  “Will do.”

  “Get some rest tonight. And, Molly?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Be careful.”

  Those last two words were not a comfort.

  I checked the locks on every window and door at least five times. I checked the chamber in my gun at least twice as many times as that. When I lay down in bed, I thought about getting a dog again. I’d feel safer. And I wouldn’t be all alone.

  But thoughts of a dog always turned to thoughts of Charlie. I fell to sleep with tearstains on my face and dampness on my pillow.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  There was a side of me that longed to indulge in a couple of days of feigned agoraphobia, but the restlessness that inhabited the other side vetoed that notion without hesitation. Today I would try to wrap up some loose ends in Austin. Thank heaven for Austin—where jeans and Tshirts are acceptable apparel almost anywhere and at any time. I slid into my most comfortable pair, topped it with a Leon Russell T-shirt and was on my way.

  First of all, I needed to talk to Trenton Wolfe. Since he wouldn’t return any of my calls, I would drop in on him at home. Then there was that keyboard player—what was his name? I flipped through my notes. Oh yeah, Fingers—Fingers Waller aka Francis Xavier Waller. I had an address for him in South Austin. Finally, there was Jesse Kriewaldt. I had no clue where to find him, but I knew a few places to look.

  After an hour on Interstate 35, I headed out Ben White to Capital of Texas Highway and into the rolling hills of far west Austin. Expensive homes sprouted on this hill with the same prolific abandon demonstrated by the dandelions in my backyard.

  I drove down roads designed with artful curves and lined with manicured lawns. I rang Trenton Wolfe’s doorbell and waited. I pressed the buzzer again and turned to survey the view. It was breathtaking. One rolling hill followed another as the land fell down into a valley where the skyline of downtown Austin beckoned with the magic promises of Oz. I rang one more time and gave up. I jotted a note on the back of a business card and stuck it in the doorframe.

  Time for South Austin, a funky enclave of hipsters and polished rednecks. A deeper contrast to far west Austin couldn’t be found. It was the only place in the city where pick-up trucks outnumbered SUVs, the area with the lowest percentage of houses with air conditioning and largest percentage of people who used human-powered push mowers instead of the polluting kind. It was the birthplace of slogans like “Keep South Austin Weird,” “South Austin—too cool to bulldoze,” and—my personal favorite—“South Austin—we’re all here because we’re not all there.”

  I tooled down the main drag, South Congress Avenue, past two fabled landmarks, the Continental Club and Allen’s Boots, to a little side street that looked seedy even by South Austin standards. Here was the last known address of Fingers Waller.

  I rang the bell, heard nothing and knocked on the door. I heard a woman’s voice yelling, “I’m coming. I’m coming.” I could only hope she was talking to me and not expressing her ecstasy under the ardent ministrations of Fingers Waller.

  The door swung open. “Yeah?” the woman said.

  The first thing I noticed about her was her eyes. They were dark and flat with no light reflected in their depths. Then I noticed her hair—long and blond, stringy and matted, as if two weeks had passed since its last encounter with a bottle of shampoo.

  “Hi, I’m Molly Mullet,” I said handing her a card. “I’m investigating the murder of Rodney Faver and I’d like to talk to Fingers Waller.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Is he here?”

  “Get real. Do I look like a woman living in domestic bliss with the man of my dreams?”

  “Do you know where I could find him?”

  “For all I know, he’s tinkling the ivories at some Holiday Inn off the interstate in Nebraska.”

  “Nebraska?”

  She rolled her eyes and audibly exhaled while shaking her head. “A figure of speech. Okay?”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “ ’Bout a week before Faver bit it. Good ole Francis Xavier tucked his keyboard under his arm, called me a few choice names, shoved me to the floor and walked out the door.”

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  “Nah. He did call a couple of times that first week, but I was still pissed off so I hung up on him.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “Probably bunking with Wolfe. He always goes whining to him when he has a problem.” She sneered.

  “I thought all the guys went to Stan Crockett?”

  “Crockett? Shit. He’s not the saint everybody makes him out to be.”<
br />
  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen, I only know what Fingers told me and Fingers is not here. I don’t know where he is and I don’t care anymore. Just go away and leave me alone.”

  The door slammed in my face.

  I headed next for a daytime hangout in South Austin for musicians and the wannabes who wanted to see them: Ruta Maya Coffee. Behind many businesses in Austin beat the heart of an idealist. Ruta Maya was no exception. The company was founded on the principle of returning a fair portion of the profits for the producer of the coffee. Their goal: to empower the Mayan farmer as a viable economic force in his community. As a result, they offered only shade-grown coffee beans from a cooperative of organic producers in the highlands of Chiapas, Mexico. At Ruta Maya, even black coffee was served with a heaping teaspoonful of righteousness.

  It was more spacious than the chain coffee shops. Its industrial ceiling with exposed pipes and ductwork loomed over partial walls painted in bright colors and covered with an ever-changing exhibition of artwork. At night, Ruta Maya transformed into an eclectic venue for music and poetry readings. It was so Austin, it was surreal.

  When I walked in, I spotted Ray Wylie Hubbard tucked in a corner with a couple of friends. Once the wild child of progressive country music, best known for writing “Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother” and his rowdy stage shows, Ray and his music have matured. Blues overtones colored his latest releases, making him one of the most esteemed songwriters and performers in American roots music. His warm, weathered voice and shaggy, unassuming demeanor was a recognizable presence throughout Texas and beyond.

  To Ray, Jesse Kriewaldt was, in all likelihood, just another drop in the ocean of unsung songwriters that dogged his steps daily, handing off CDs and looking for a big break. Those were the people I wanted to meet.

  I scanned the room, looking for faces filled with more desperation and hunger than Ray had known for years. I spotted a trio of prospects at a table in the middle of the room. I grabbed a cup of coffee and approached them.

  “Hey, guys. Do any of you know Jesse Kriewaldt?”

  “Why?” said a pencil-thin young man with pitch-black hair and skin as white as a subterranean worm.