“Maybe it’s all more byzantine than I thought, Trent. Maybe I just haven’t given you enough credit—enough respect. Maybe you orchestrated this whole encounter. Maybe you sent the note to me, to bring me here, to manipulate my sympathy and make me look elsewhere.”
The anger streaked through Wolfe’s face like a bolt of lightning. He sprang to his feet, turned his face to the window and barked, “Get that bitch out of here.”
“I presume you know your way out,” Seidell said.
I’d asked the important question. As a result, I now had more questions than answers. And doubts—big honkin’ doubts—about Trent Wolfe. And about myself.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
On the way back from Austin, I thought I’d detour over to Wimberley and pick Heather’s brain about the guys in the band and see if she knew anything about a bloody T-shirt. Then I thought about little Crapper and almost changed my mind.
I stopped at a grocery store in Buda to prepare for my visit. For Pete and Labia, I bought a two-pack of large bone-shaped treats that promised hours of chewing pleasure. I doubted it would take the two Pyrenees more than five minutes to finish them off. For Crapper, I got a bag of small tempting tidbits.
I pulled up to the cabin. Pete and Labia treated me like an old friend. They took their bones and moseyed off with wagging tails to demolish them. Crapper greeted me with all the enthusiasm and warmth of a hungry shark. I ripped open the bag of treats and Crapper’s body language altered into alert subservience with the first whiff. I popped a treat in his direction and he snatched it out of the air. I palmed another treat and he followed me, whimpering with every step. I tossed him two or three treats on the way to the front door. He didn’t miss a catch.
Heather pulled open the door and spotted the slavish dog at my feet. “Aw, you and Crapper have made friends.”
Who said money can’t buy you love? The buck-ninety-nine I’d forked over for that bag of yummies was the best investment I ever made. “Heather, I need your help.”
“Anything, Molly. I won’t feel right till we find out who killed Happy.” She burst into a wail. I suppressed my negative reaction and gave her a hug. She apologized for losing it, and we sat sideways and cross-legged on opposite ends of the sofa. Crapper sat between us, beaming a constant look of adoration in my direction.
I related my visit to Seidell’s office. Wolfe’s childhood trauma was news to Heather. “It does explain a lot about him, though,” she said. “He always held something of himself back. No one I know of ever felt they really knew him.”
I was now convinced that Wolfe’s anger was more the reaction of an innocent man than a guilty one. The real mystery remained. “So who could have sent me that note, Heather? Who hates Wolfe that much?”
She shook her head slowly. “Got me. I didn’t know anybody who actually hated Trent. They got annoyed with him. Called him a diva behind his back. But hated him? Well, there was some bad blood between him and the keyboard player—what’s his name?”
I drew a blank, too.
“Whatever,” Heather continued. “There was no love lost between the two of them. Lots of times, Trent introduced Happy and Stan to the audience—sometimes even the one-night stand back-up musicians and vocalists. But never once do I remember him introducing that keyboard guy. Don’t know what was up that. Did you talk to him?”
“Can’t find him,” I said. “Nobody seems to have seen him since the Solms Halle gig.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“I thought so, too, at first. But then there was Happy. Then there was Jesse. I really think whoever killed Faver killed them all. If Fingers did it—yeah, that’s his name, Fingers. Fingers Waller. Anyway, if Fingers did it, he had to hang around for days to do the other two murders and somebody would have seen him.”
“I told you that right away. I told you whoever killed Rodney killed Happy, too.” Her voice cracked and flew into another wail.
My impatience rose to the surface and with it came a flash of insight about myself. I was uncomfortable with her tears because her anguish dredged up the shadows of my first few days without Charlie. With that revelation, my empathy overrode my irritation and I rocked her in my arms until she ran out of tears.
“Heather, are you okay now?”
She nodded her head and sniffled.
“Can I ask you about something else?”
She nodded her head again, blew her nose and said, “Anything.”
“Did Happy ever say anything to you about finding a bloody T-shirt in his kick drum?”
Heather’s lower lip quivered, “A bloody shirt? In his kick drum? No. I don’t think so. I would remember that if he told me.”
“Stan told me he found one. If Stan’s right, what could Happy have done with it?”
“Let’s check the laundry room,” she suggested.
We searched through the mound of dirty clothes, closely examining each T-shirt in the pile. A choking noise scratched Heather’s voice every time she picked up a piece of Happy’s clothing, but she stuffed down her emotions and focused on the job at hand.
We moved to the bedroom and went through Happy’s dresser drawers, pulling out, unfolding and looking closely at each T-shirt. Then we folded them back up and stacked them on the bed.
We shone a flashlight under the bed but only found two dog toys and a convention of dust bunnies. In the walk-in closet we slid hangers one-by-one, looking for the suspect garment with no luck. We pulled over a step stool and cleaned everything off the top shelf. We sat on the floor and went through every item we found up there. No T-shirt with even a trace of blood.
We finished and just sat there lost in thought. In the far corner of the closet I spotted a pair of red-and-blue boots covered with an elaborate design that included a big white lone star of Texas on the front of each one. “The boots?” I asked.
“Happy’s,” she said, and a rueful smile lazed across her face. “Happy loved those boots, but every time he wore them, he complained that they made his feet sweat. Didn’t stop him from wearing the boots, though.”
I crawled over to the corner and looked inside. One boot was empty. The other was not. I unbent a wire hanger and used it to fish out a wadded-up, light-gray T-shirt. There along the neckline was the telltale dark rusty stain of dried blood.
Heather gasped. “That’s Trent’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look at the front of it. I’m positive it’s Trent’s.”
The design on the front was a wolf, his neck craned back in a howl. Above him shone a full moon, as golden as sunlight lying low on the horizon. “Get me a bag,” I said. “A paper bag.”
I stood with my arm elevated, holding the T-shirt in midair on the bent hanger. I was empathizing with Moses by the time Heather returned with a small lunch sack. “Is that the best you can do?”
“Sorry.”
“No paper grocery bags?”
“All plastic.”
“Okay. Open it up, place it on the floor and hold it steady.”
I guided the shirt to the small opening and slid it off the hanger. Part of the shirt slouched over the top. I shook it down, taking care not to touch anything but bag. I folded down the top, taped it, dated it and initialed it. I’d never seen real evidence collection firsthand but, heck, I’d watched plenty of episodes of CSI. Oh, jeez, I must be the most pathetic investigator on the planet.
But I did have evidence—real, hard forensic evidence. And it pointed to Trenton Wolfe. This afternoon’s visit to Seidell’s office ran in fast-forward speed through my mind. I felt naïve. And manipulated. And more than a little ticked off.
Chapter Forty
Paranoia sat beside me and laughed as I drove back to New Braunfels. Before I left Happy’s place, Heather dug around the cabin, looking for something that would contain an unadulterated sample of Happy’s DNA for comparison with what was found on the T-shirt. As a result, I was driving down the road with a joint, hand-rolled and sealed with the spit o
f Happy Parker. I took great care to abide by the speed limit.
I also left with a commitment from Heather to visit Trenton Wolfe and return with a sample of his DNA. I thought it was a good idea when we talked about it, but now I was having second thoughts.
There was no denying that Heather’s chances for success were high. The role of grieving girlfriend was natural and required no artifice. But what if Wolfe saw the motive that lurked beneath the surface? Would Heather be the next to die?
When I pulled into the driveway, memories of the night I found the guitar string on the doorknob rampaged over me like flood waters. I was afraid to get out of my car in front of my house and walk to my door. Quite frankly, that pissed me off. I should not have to fear coming home.
I flung open my car door, balanced my evidence bags in my left arm, and with my right hand held my gun down by my thigh. I realized there was a flaw in my organization when I reached the front door. I needed a free hand for the keys. I set the bags down on the porch and manipulated the key into the lock with my left hand. It was a clumsy effort made even worse by my anxiety about being out on my porch after dark.
I placed the bags on the kitchen counter and searched through the house. I was thorough, but nothing was amiss. I was still too edgy for a shower—just thinking about it conjured up images of Norman Bates armed with a guitar string—and drew a bath instead. I waited outside of the bathroom to listen for any suspicious sounds until the tub was full. I luxuriated in a long soak. My gun rested within reach on the top of the toilet seat.
Even after that, falling asleep wasn’t easy. When I did, my dreams were haunted by Keystone Kops busting me for possession of pot while canned laughter roared in my ears.
*
The next morning after sufficient caffeine fortification, I considered my options for DNA testing. Probably the most sensible thing would be to drive my evidence down to Houston and turn it over to Dale Travis. What would Travis do with it? He could turn it over to the cops. Nope. Not without a court order. He could send it out for testing. Not that either. He could sway the jury more with innuendo than with a T-shirt obtained in a dubious chain of custody. He could accept it, smile at me, say, “Thank you,” stick it in a drawer and forget about it. Bingo.
Scratch Dale Travis. I sure couldn’t take it to the cops. Hawkins would find a way to use it against Bobby. Only one option left. I had to find a lab and take it there myself. And pay for it myself. I wasn’t wild about that part. I called Lisa.
“New Braunfels Police Department. Garcia speaking.”
“Lisa, this is Molly . . .”
“Mija! How are you? Where are you? What are you up to? Have you found the killer yet?”
“Fine. At home. Been pretty busy. Not yet. I think that covers them all.”
Lisa laughed at me and at herself. “What can I do for you?”
“If you wanted to get some DNA profiles run, where would you take them?”
“To the police department, of course. And they’d send them up to the state lab in Austin for testing. What are you up to, Molly?”
“Okay. So, what if I didn’t want to take it to the police?”
“Mija, if you have evidence, you must turn it over to the police.”
“Evidence? Who said I had evidence?”
“Molly?” she said in a motherly tone of disapproval.
“What would I be doing with evidence?”
“I am not joking. Obstruction of justice is a serious charge.”
“Aw, c’mon, Lisa.”
“You can bring it in here, Molly. Hawkins has been chewed on by everybody in the department with teeth. He wouldn’t dare mess with it or step out of line in any way.”
“Is Hawkins still on the force?”
“Well, yes. But the rest are good cops here.”
“I know that, Lisa. I worked there. Most of them are great cops. But I don’t exactly trust my instinct anymore to judge which is which. Besides, I work for the defense. Dale Travis probably frowns on his investigators volunteering evidence to the other side.”
“Aha! You do have evidence.”
“There are all kinds of evidence in this world, Lisa. It’s not all criminal. There’s evidence for a paternity case. Evidence for a malpractice suit. Evidence of a bug inside my drive-in window hamburger bun. Evidence. It’s everywhere. Help me, Lisa. Please.”
With a sigh big enough for a person ten times her size, Lisa gave me the name, address and phone number of a lab in San Antonio. I just had to wait for Heather to return from her mission.
I spent the day running down the list of people who ever knew Trenton Wolfe. I got more hang-ups than anything else but I did talk to a few people. All the information I got from them, though, was vague, old or irrelevant. I probably would have had a better luck with a list of strangers who bought his CDs.
Several times that afternoon, I considered calling his mother, Jillian. Each time, I changed my mind before I finished dialing the number.
At last, Heather rescued me from phone duty. She arrived with pink cheeks, twinkling eyes and a purse as big as Houston. She pulled out the first paper bag. “Beer bottle,” she said.
I looked inside. “There’s still beer in it.”
“Well, if I let him finish it first, he might have thrown it away before I could grab it. He went for a leak. I made my move.”
“Didn’t he wonder what happened to his beer when he came back?”
“Yeah. Sure. But I played dumb. He wandered around for a while looking for it. Then he gave up and got a fresh one out of the fridge.”
With fingertips barely touching the next bag, she elevated it from her purse, swiveled and dropped it on the counter, her face squeezed tight with distaste. “And this. This is disgusting.”
A crumpled up tissue lay in the bottom of the bag. Disgusting? A wadded tissue? Oh, man, I sure hoped it wasn’t what I was thinking. “Uh, Lisa, besides being disgusting, what is it?” I held my breath praying I was wrong.
“Spit. He has allergies. Sinus drainage. He spat in it.” Her whole body shuddered with revulsion.
What a relief! “Could be worse, Lisa.”
“Ha. If it weren’t for Happy, I wouldn’t have had it next to me in the car for that hour-long ride.”
“Anything else?” I asked trying not to laugh at her.
“Yes,” she beamed as she tilted the next bag in my direction. “A joint.”
“You ripped off his pot?”
“Oh, Molly, of course not. I just asked him for one for the road. He rolled it. He licked it shut. I held out the bag and he dropped it in.”
“Didn’t he think it was odd that you had him put it in a bag?”
“Listen, he already thought I was odd. I cried the whole time I was in his house. He would have gone along with most anything just to get me out and on my way.”
I shook my head. My stash of illegal substances doubled instantly. Heather just faced off the man who she thought killed her boyfriend without batting an eye. Amazing.
“Heather, did you notice anyone else around the house while you were there?”
“No. I didn’t think there was anyone but Trent.”
“No signs that somebody else might be crashing there?”
“Like who?”
“Fingers Waller.”
“The keyboard player? Why would he be there?”
“His girlfriend mentioned the possibility. I was trying to tie up loose ends.”
“Okay, I’ll go back up there tomorrow and search the house.”
“Heather, you can’t just knock on someone’s door and search his house.”
“Of course not.” She plucked up a strand of her hair. “This blond stuff. It’s not real. My real color is mousy brown. So, guess what? I do have a brain. Ta-da.”
For a second she had me. I thought I’d offended her. But no, she was making fun of me. It was good to see her upbeat about something—even if it was at my expense.
“And you know what? I can ad
d. Without a calculator! Isn’t that incredible?”
“Okay, Heather.” I laughed. “You made your point. So what’s your plan?”
“I ask for a tour of his house.”
“You’ll ask for a tour? Oh, that is so girl, he’ll never fall for it.”
“Wanna bet? If he doesn’t, I’ll start crying again. He’ll do anything to get me to stop.”
I laughed. Oh yeah, I’d known men like that. And women who knew how to use them. I always acted offended when a woman resorted to that trick but, secretly, I was envious of their easy on/off faucets and willingness to do anything to get what they wanted.
“So, do you want me to go back to Austin tomorrow?” Heather asked.
“You did good today, Heather. Let’s see where this DNA leads before you take any more risks.”
“If you change your mind, you’ve got my number. See you around, Molly. And thanks—really—for letting me help.” A tear threatened the corner of her eye. She brushed it away and she was gone.
I putzed around the house the rest of the evening. Read the newspaper. Watched the news. Played solitaire on the computer. Wrapped it all up with an episode of Forensic Files on Court TV.
I was heading for bed when the phone rang. I almost picked up the receiver but pulled back just in time to let the answering machine take it.
A distorted singsong voice filled the room: “This little piggie went to Solms Halle. This little piggie took a big fall. And this little piggie had no home. Now here’s piggie number four. Is she afraid to walk out her front door?”
A childlike laugh rang out, followed by the sound of ragged breathing and a slurp of melting Milk Duds. The answering machine clicked off. I stood rooted in place. Was there something else in my mailbox? Another present on my doorknob? A booby trap outside my front door? Or was there nothing—nothing at all? Nothing but the fear of something hidden—the unknown lurking in the darkness?
Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Page 17
