Authors: Virginia Brown
He leaned a hand on the door, looking down at her. “And that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I was hoping.”
He was quiet for a moment. Maybe he was thinking about it.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, and she straightened with hopeful anticipation. He leaned close, his hand catching her chin between his thumb and finger. “Keep your mouth shut. Or else.”
Not exactly what she had in mind.
“How can a girl refuse an offer like that?” she cooed, batting her eyes at him and resisting the urge to bite. “But I’ve got a better deal. We can help each other. Think of it this way. We both have something to gain, so why not turn this little inconvenience to both our benefit? I want to keep Yogi out of jail, and you want to catch some bad guys. If it works out, we both get what we want. Deal?”
Silence. Well, heck, she’d tried. She hadn’t really thought he’d go for it, but it’d been worth a shot. And he hadn’t arrested her for anything yet, so maybe the day wasn’t a total loss.
“Fine,” he said shortly, startling her. “Deal.”
Shocked, since she really hadn’t expected agreement, she stared at him.
“We’ll talk over a beer,” he said, and flipped open the lock on the door. “After you.”
She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders and gave a nod. “Sounds good to me, sport. You buying?”
His gaze had dropped to her chest when she flung back her shoulders. Now he dragged his eyes up to her face and nodded. “Sure.”
While it wasn’t the most awkward time
she’d ever spent with a man, it hardly ranked with the Top Ten Best. Bruno Jett bristled each time she dragged the conversation back to who he was and why he’d moved next door to her parents. Not exactly the cooperation she’d hoped to find.
“Look,” she finally said in exasperation, “you’re not living up to our deal. If you want me to answer your questions, you have to answer some of mine.”
“Oh, is that the way it works?” He eyed her over the rim of his beer.
“Yes. In a perfect world, that’s the way it works.” She leaned closer. “So—who are you and why did you move next door to my parents?”
He seemed to consider his reply carefully, then said, “Mike Morgan. The house was available and inconspicuous. We had no idea your parents would be fugitives from justice.”
“They’re not.” She glared at him. “They’re victims, not fugitives.”
“Appearances to the contrary.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem, as you should know quite well. After all, who’d have thought you’d actually be on the right side of the law?”
“Point taken. And enough of that line of conversation. We’re not exactly in a secure place to be discussing business.”
“Then maybe we should go to one. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’d like to go to bed tonight and not worry that my parents are going to be arrested for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can help with that.”
“I’m sure I can.” He leered at her, and she gave him a disgusted look.
“Don’t get any bright ideas, big boy. You’re not my type.”
“No? What’s your type? Baroni?”
“Bobby? We’re old friends. He has a girlfriend named Angel. How could I have a serious relationship with a man who dates strippers named Angel?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Tell me about it. Now—where can we talk privately?”
“I know just the place.”
She should have figured he’d want to go to his house, and after squashing a few qualms about being alone with him, she followed him into his kitchen, watching idly as he punched a code into the blender. Or what looked like a blender. It was really, he explained when she asked, a sort of silent alarm triggered by intruders. It let him know if anyone came snooping around, and where they went.
“So that’s how you knew I was in the basement?”
“Handy little gadget, isn’t it.”
“Yeah. Very 007. So now that we’re alone, Bruno—or Mike—fill me in. What’s going on?”
“You have to know I can’t tell you much. You already know more than is healthy. And I was warned about you. Want some coffee?”
“Don’t try to back out now, Morgan. We had a deal—and who warned you? Oh. Bobby.”
“I can’t tell you everything you want to hear.” He held up a hand when she started to sputter angrily, and added, “But I’ll tell you what I can.”
That sounded fair enough, and she nodded warily. “Okay.”
It wasn’t much. By the time she’d finished a second cup of hot coffee strong enough to strip her stomach lining, she’d only learned that he was involved in the effort to apprehend the East Memphis jewelry thieves. She’d already figured out that much. Disgruntled, she sat back in the kitchen chair.
“So, you’re like a fence or something? You actually deal with the bad guys who’re doing the thefts?”
He shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Well, that’s not an answer. Or cooperation. Aren’t
you
supposed to know if you’re a fence or dealing with the jewel thieves? Do you even know who they are?”
“We have our suspicions. Tell me about your parents, Harley Jean. I know they’re flaky, but they seemed fairly harmless until lately.”
While she couldn’t deny the flaky part, she vigorously defended the suggestion they were dangerous. “They’re just different, that’s all. They—”
“Travel to the beat of a different drummer?” He shrugged. “Yeah, I gathered that much. Your mother offered to read my cards for me when I first moved in.”
“Diva’s very generous that way. She charges other folks for it. Look, I know they’re not the average kind of parents, but who is these days? And they’re a lot more normal than some I could name, even some of the Junior Leaguers that seem so prim and proper but hide gin bottles in their toilet tanks so no one will know they drink too much.”
That was very true. Her aunt Darcy, Diva’s younger sister, was everything Diva wasn’t: on all the Cotton Carnival lists, charity function lists, Junior League lists, and on a first name basis with influential politicians and business executives, but she hid gin bottles in the back of the toilet tank so her husband and children wouldn’t know she liked a few nips now and then. As if they didn’t know already. Only casual acquaintances would miss the obvious.
“Even normal people can get mixed up in bad situations,” Morgan said. “Maybe that’s what happened.”
“It’s possible, but not likely. Yogi makes metal yard art, and Diva makes crystal dream catchers they sell at flea markets. What could they be mixed up in?”
“Well, for starters, Yogi was seen coming out of Mrs. Trumble’s house about the time of her murder. That looks pretty bad. Mrs. Trumble had abducted Yogi’s dog and was holding him for some kind of obscure ransom. That looks even worse.”
“And you had a pile of stolen jewels big enough to choke a mule on your coffee table,” she said crankily, “but you’re not accused of murder.”
“Mrs. Trumble didn’t take my dog, either. Look, Harley, it’s great to defend your parents, but maybe you should listen to Baroni. Stay out of this. You’ll only complicate things and make them worse for your parents. If you know where they are, tell me or Baroni. We can help out if you’ll let us.”
She bent under the table to retrieve her backpack, then stood up. “It’s been a lovely evening. Thanks for the coffee.”
He caught her arm before she reached the back door. “Just think about it. There’s got to be a connection between the murder and your parents’ disappearance. What if they didn’t leave on their own? Have you thought of that?”
“Of course I’ve thought of that.” She jerked free of his grasp and he didn’t reach for her again. “I’ve tried to think of plausible reasons for them leaving, but the only thing I keep coming back to is that Mrs. Trumble is dead and somehow my parents are involved and in trouble.”
“And that doesn’t indicate a problem to you?”
“Has anyone ever pointed out your lack of sensitivity?”
“On numerous occasions, but that doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“The hell it doesn’t. I’m going home.”
He followed her outside and waited until she’d fired up her bike before saying, “Here’s my cell phone number. Call me if you need me.”
Stuffing the scrap of paper into her pocket, she revved the motor of her bike and said, “Don’t stay up too long waiting for my call.”
“Right. Anyone ever tell you that you look like Evel Knieval on estrogen? That thing’s an orgasm on two wheels.”
She strapped on her helmet and smiled. “Damn right it is. A six hundred and forty-five pound vibrator.”
He ignored that, and said only, “Better convince your parents it’s in their best interests to come back and deal with the issues. If they’re innocent, running isn’t helping their cause.”
“
If
they’re innocent? They are, and I intend to prove it.” She revved the engine again, and then coasted smoothly down the driveway and out into the street, leaving Bruno Jett/Mike Morgan staring after her. At the end of the street, she had the thought she needed to put action behind that last bit of bravado. Trouble was, she had no idea where to look for her parents.
Even though it was late and she had to get up early, she cruised several of the most likely places Yogi and Diva might be, finding nothing. In growing desperation, she rode out to East Memphis and Grandmother and Grandfather Eaton’s home. This was the house were Diva had grown up, a Colonial style most popular in the fifties, set on an acre lot studded with tall oaks and expensive landscaping. All the lights were on in the front, the house lit up like Christmas, but that was normal. Grandfather Eaton believed in security, and he didn’t mind paying the electric bill. The wide driveway ran up one side, ending in a four-car garage behind the house, but there was no sign of a puke green van. Not that she’d really expected it. Diva had left home at seventeen and never looked back. Her ideas of life were vastly different from her mother’s.
Harley sat for a few minutes, engine idling, and tried to think where else they might be. And as she sat there, a police cruiser came up behind her and flashed his lights and siren.
Oh, just great. Neighborhood Watch at work. She remained where she was while the officer ran her plates, then he approached with wary caution.
“Do you have a current tag, ma’am?”
She did, of course. A new one. It was safely locked in the garage where she kept the bike.
Nearly twenty minutes and a ticket later, she reflected on the bad karma in her life as she saw her grandfather strolling down the driveway in his robe. Drawn by the flashing blue lights, he recognized Harley at once.
“Are you in trouble, young lady?”
“No sir, not really. You’re up late. Have you seen Diva?”
Lawrence Eaton’s mouth thinned. “Deirdre has not visited us in a while.” Blue lights very similar to a K-Mart special flashed on and off on his face and silvery hair. His features were smooth and aristocratic, and it was hard for Harley to believe he was seventy-eight. “Have you come for a visit this late?”
“I planned to visit soon,” she said dutifully, “but at the moment I’m looking for Yogi and Diva. And their dog.”
“Perhaps,” he said stiffly, “they’ve run off to San Francisco with flowers in their hair.”
So okay, Grandfather Eaton might be a bit behind the times, but he definitely had a good memory.
“Well, they did that once. I don’t think they’re planning on it again.” She shifted on the seat of the bike, balancing on both feet, and the police officer returned with her ticket. Definitely bad karma. She must have been a Nazi in a former life. Sighing, she tucked it into her pocket and reached for the helmet she’d put on the back. “I really need to find them, Grandfather. I hate to run off without seeing Grandmother, but would you mind telling her that I’ll visit very soon?”