Authors: Virginia Brown
It took a supreme effort not to roll her eyes. Harley settled for saying, “So tell him to get his scruffy ass home.”
“He’s being held against his will.”
“Right.” She’d given up a sunny afternoon for this. There should be some kind of reward other than a pounding headache.
“You’ll rescue him,” Diva said after a moment. “I know you will.”
Maternal confidence. Or a major guilt trip. Harley sighed.
“I’ll try.” It was the best she could do under the circumstances.
When she left, she drove past Mrs. Trumble’s house again on the off-chance that the dog would be in the yard. The black car she’d seen earlier was gone, and the back porch light was on even though it wasn’t near dark yet. Afternoon shadows clung to the side of the garage, and limp towels still hung on the clothesline that stretched between two metal poles. It looked quiet and still. Too quiet for King to be there, that was certain.
She walked up to the back of the house, hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk with the weeds growing through, and opened the screened door. Several sharp raps on the door’s peeling paint managed to give her a splinter, but failed to summon the old lady. Probably inside calling the cops. Determined, she knocked again, harder.
“Enough is enough, Mrs. Trumble. Answer the door. I know you’re here. You’ve still got clothes on the line.”
When there was still no answer she rattled the door knob in frustration, and to her surprise, it swung open. She paused, considering. What was one more restraining order?
Two steps into the kitchen, she yelled for her again. “Mrs. Trumble. It’s Harley Davidson, and I’ve come to talk to you for a few minutes. Hey, Mrs. Trumble? You okay?”
No answer, just an odd sound like someone coughing. She inched further into the kitchen. It looked a mess. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and on the stove. The smell of turnip greens hung in the air, a peculiarly strong stench that she’d never gotten used to. It had to be something you grew up with to truly appreciate. A pot sat on the stove with the greens still in it. A black iron skillet of golden corn bread had been upended on a plate, with one pie-shaped wedge missing. A plastic prescription bottle sat beside it. She picked it up, frowning when she saw the label.
Give one twice daily for sedation
, it read. Now this was very interesting—and suspicious.
“Mrs. Trumble?” It was eerily quiet. The strange coughing sounded again, and she thought the old lady might be having some kind of fit. She eased through the kitchen to a dim hallway and called for her again, not wanting to sneak up on her and scare her into a heart attack. This time, when the strange coughing sounded, she realized it was more like a bark. A bark?
Her head jerked up. Pills for sedation—he
was
here. She called King’s name and this time the sound was distinct. A definite bark. She made her way down the hall opening doors, calling his name, and when she came to a locked door with frantic barking on the other side, she pulled out her trusty little metal pick. Those formative years helping Yogi in his work shop came in so handy at times, she thought, as she got it unlocked and open in a matter of seconds.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. The second was a black, white, and pink thing lunging at her, smelling like dog shit and deliriously happy to see her. Excited barks and whines filled the air. Staggering backward under the assault of canine joy and excrement, she managed to keep King from knocking her down. Barely.
“Down, you wretched mutt.”
He barked at her, turning in circles. He didn’t look so good. He looked like he’d been attacked by a bevy of boll weevils. A Border Collie mix, he had long shaggy hair. Usually. Now, huge patches of fur were missing, and pink bald spots as big as her palm splotched his body like crop circles. Other than that, he looked fine except for dried poop clinging to his back legs. Apparently his ordeal hadn’t curbed his exuberance. Relieved, she found herself grinning like an idiot. Stupid dog. She shouldn’t be so glad to see him relatively unharmed.
“Well, won’t Mrs. Trumble be surprised when she gets home to find her hostage missing,” she said to King, and he barked an excited agreement. “Yep, serves her right, the scary old bitch.”
She peeked into a room off the hall, but there was no sign of Mrs. Trumble. King raced down the hallway, barking dementedly. If she was here she was as deaf as a post, that was for sure.
“King,” she said severely when he disappeared into another room, “stop that. Come here. Come here, you goofy dog.” She followed him, grabbing at him when he skidded across the floor and up under a dining table. He barked again, spinning in a circle like a wind-up toy possessed by demons—Chucky’s dog. She resorted to cooing sounds to coax him closer, but he avoided her. She grabbed at him again, barely missing him as he raced past, barking crazily. She landed on her knees, swore loudly, and glared at the deranged dog still racing in circles. This wasn’t going well.
She looked around. The room was messy, with newspapers and magazines strewn on the table, and scissors lying on pages that looked like rats had chewed them. Drawers were open and stuff thrown on the floor like Mrs. Trumble had been in a hurry or looking for something. Big dark furniture squatted against the walls and in the middle of the floor. Musty light penetrated windows closed off by heavy drapes. It smelled old. Rusty.
King darted past again, barking his fool head off. This was getting ridiculous. She should have left him in the closet. Why on earth did Yogi love this insane creature so much? He was the most annoying animal she’d ever encountered.
“Come on, little shit,” she cooed, snapping her fingers, and when he came close, she made another grab for him but got only a fistful of hair. As if he had some to spare. “Okay, this is war,” she said when he darted past again. She got to her feet and waited, looking everywhere but at the dog, and when he made another circle through the dining room, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and his eyes gleaming with joy, she lunged again, but tripped over a pile of old clothes on the floor near the wall. Falling flat this time, she banged her knees and elbows.
“Shit!” she yelped, glaring at the manic dog as he zipped past her again in another mad circle. Shoving her hands against the floor to rise, she kicked at the pile of clothes. It didn’t budge or yield. She turned to see why. Among towels and a blanket, was something familiar.
Oh shit
. Her heart tripped into overdrive. She recognized that blue and white flowered dress. Last time she’d seen it, it had happened to be on Mrs. Trumble. It still was—on a very dead Mrs. Trumble.
Harley couldn’t stop shivering with reaction. Bobby Baroni wasn’t being very nice. In fact, he seemed very irritated. He had his eyes thinned at her in a way she considered hostile.
“Hey,” she said finally, “I didn’t
kill
the old lady. I just happened to find her body.”
“Just happened to come into her house, I suppose, when she invited you?”
“Well. No. I guess not. But you see, I was right. She had King locked in a closet.”
The former abductee had been tied with a length of clothesline to a table leg to keep him from jumping all over the clean blue uniforms worn by police, but he’d managed to drag the table across a door and block access to the hallway. One of the officers was busily cussing and untangling the dog, the table leg, and his own leg, trying to avoid touching a stinky King in the process. Other officers watched and laughed, and even Bobby grinned when the dog leaped up to lick the cop entangled in a web of clothesline and caught him with his mouth open.
Spitting and gagging, the officer tried to leap back, but his foot was held fast by a snarl of rope and he went down, King gleefully atop him. It took two other cops to rescue him.
“I should arrest you for breaking and entering,” Bobby said, turning back to Harley and the point he was trying to make. “You’ve already caused enough trouble.”
“
Me
? How?”
“Let’s just say that there’s been a complaint made against you for trespassing.”
“Maybe it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead, but she was
guilty.
And besides, I didn’t file a complaint against her for chasing me with a broom and assaulting my car, so—”
“Harley. The complaint wasn’t made by Mrs. Trumble.”
“Not Mrs. Trumble?” She blinked at him. “Then who—
no.
That rat. Why would Jett file a charge against me when all I did was ask him about the dog?”
“He didn’t file charges. It’s just been mentioned to me that you’re snooping in places you have no business being. This only makes my point.”
She started to defend herself, and then had the thought that it certainly was a coincidence that Bobby would already know about a complaint. There was something really strange going on here.
“
How
does it make your point?” she asked. “Mrs. Trumble having a heart attack shouldn’t have anything at all to do with Bruno Jett. Should it?”
Bobby didn’t say anything for a moment, then pinned her with a narrow look that warned her he wasn’t playing around and said, “She didn’t die of a heart attack. It was more like lead poisoning.”
“Lead poisoning? And how would you know that without some kind of autopsy?”
Shaking his head, Bobby said, “A bullet, you twit. Mrs. Trumble was shot to death.”
Harley reeled. All the blood that had rushed indignantly to her head dropped to the region of her stomach and sat like a stone.
Shot
. . . .
“Then . . . then it’s murder,” she got out in a strangled whisper.
“Ever the master of the obvious. Did you see a weapon by the body?”
“No. I already told you exactly what happened. After seeing . . . her . . . I didn’t hang around to look for anything else. I ran to the kitchen to call nine-one-one. Wait. Are you sure she was shot? I didn’t see any blood.”
“There’s blood.” Bobby wrote something down on a pad, flipped it closed and said, “I need you to give a complete statement to one of the officers. And go outside.”
“No problem. I can do that.” She felt a little lightheaded, and her ears rang. She’d never seen a dead body before. Not lying on a dining room floor with a bullet wound, anyway. Murder bore no resemblance to the sanitized version she’d seen on TV, even with all the fake gore.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” Bobby said, and snagged a passing officer. “Get her outside for a statement before she pukes on evidence.”
It wasn’t the time to protest. An officer hustled her out the back door and into the fresh, cool air and deepening shadows. Lights flashed from several cruisers, a blue blur that lit up the sky. Her stomach rolled. Nausea rose and fell, fading finally after a few deep breaths.
“Are you gonna hurl, lady?” The officer at her side sounded impatient, and she looked up with a scowl.
“Maybe. Worried about your shoes?”
He took two hasty steps back. “Yeah. You okay?”
“Fine. Except that I’ve been known to suffer from projectile vomiting.”
Two more steps took him out of range, but he still looked worried. “Look, I can take your statement later.”
Harley thought about that. This officer was young, baby-faced, and obviously rattled. It’d be to her advantage to get this over with now, and with a cop who might not ask too many of the wrong questions. Like, had her father violated the restraining order against him.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “So—where do I start?”
“With your name and why you came to visit the victim.” He flipped open a pad. “Then I need to hear what transpired from the time you arrived until you found her. And anything she might have said.”
“That last one will be easy enough. Dead people aren’t very talkative.”
“Yeah. So, what’s your name?”
“Harley Davidson.” When he looked up at her with a skeptical smirk, she said slowly and distinctly, “Harley Jean Davidson.”
“You’re not kidding?”
“Do I look like I’m in a festive mood? I just want to get this over with, okay?” It had occurred to her that while she wasn’t too worried about being a suspect, eventually Yogi’s feud with Mrs. Trumble would be investigated. Bobby would remember that Yogi leaned toward a pacifist inclination, but he might also remember there had been a few times her father had been less than peaceful. While she didn’t think for a minute that Yogi would shoot Mrs. Trumble, she couldn’t say with complete certainty that he wouldn’t threaten violence. He frequently let his mouth overload his ass. It was just rhetoric most of the time.
Yet she couldn’t help recalling that he’d violated the restraining order and come down to talk to Mrs. Trumble about King, and that later, he hadn’t wanted Harley to come back. That was odd. Had he seen Mrs. Trumble’s body? Had he seen—the murderer?
Oh God
. What if he was an eyewitness?
Looking up when the officer asked her again why she’d come down to Mrs. Trumble’s, she said, “I was looking for my dog. I thought maybe she’d seen him.”