Hound Dog Blues (11 page)

“I’m not a big fan of
nice
.” He loomed over her. “I don’t like you being here, and I don’t like my privacy violated. Usually, I tend to get nasty about things like this.”

Uh oh. Not at all a promising conversation. He’d moved so close she could almost count his eyelashes. He didn’t look friendly. At all. She shrank back against the wall with the futile hope she’d just be absorbed and disappear through the concrete. Since that didn’t seem to be an option, she formed another plan.

When he took one more step closer, she exploded into some kind of pseudo-judo move, a foot flashing toward his crotch. He caught her ankle before she could connect, fingers closing firmly and jerking her leg sideways so that she fell backward. Suspended in midair, her arms pinwheeled. His grip kept her from smacking her head onto the concrete floor, but she felt herself flopping wildly like a fish on a hook before he suddenly let her go. With a grunt, she landed on the concrete in a graceless sprawl.

Immediately, he straddled her, knees on each side of her, his hands grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the floor. She wriggled, hips arching helplessly up, banging into him in a move that could be considered erotic if she didn’t intend to knock his balls into his throat. He rode her like a bull at the rodeo until she ran out of energy, panting for breath and glaring up at him.

“Get . . . off . . . me,” she said slowly and distinctly, but he didn’t seem so inclined. It didn’t help that her voice came out all wrong, kinda breathless and uncertain instead of a firm demand.

Sitting back, he looked down at her with obvious satisfaction, irritatingly smug. She ignored him, looking past him to a spot on the far wall, studying a shelf that held detergent and fabric softener, thinking how satisfying it’d be to coat him in April Fresh scent then roll him in Color-Fast Powder with Bleach Crystals.

“If I let you up,” he said, drawing her attention back to him though the fantasy still danced provocatively in her head, “will you be still and listen to me?”

Only a fool would refuse. She promptly nodded, though she had no intention of complying with anything that involved active participation on her part.

“Good. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to leave once I let you up, and if you ever so much as even look this way again, you and I are going to talk locked barrel and the sound it makes going into the river. Understand?”

Well, how anticlimactic. She’d expected questions, not a firmly stated demand that she vacate the premises. It was deflating, but acceptable.

”No problem, Bud.”

“Bruno.” He looked a little skeptical, but released her wrists and stood up, holding out his hand as if to help her up.

She looked up at him suspiciously. It was going to be this easy? Oh no, she wasn’t going to fall for that. He had something else in mind, she was sure, so she just waited for his next move.

“Lie there too long, sugar,” he drawled at the speed of molasses, “and I’ll get to thinking you want me to join you. No problem, if that’s what you want.”

When he started to bend over her, instinct set in and she caught him right between the legs with a hard jab of her foot that brought him down like a sack of wet cement. Collapsing, he clutched his crotch and made interesting retching sounds. If he hadn’t threatened her, she’d feel pretty bad. Well, maybe she did feel a little bad about it anyway, but no time to show weakness.

She rolled to her feet and said through gritted teeth, “That’s what you get for threatening to put me in a barrel.”

He only groaned, rolling on the floor and holding himself. So maybe she’d overreacted. A twinge of guilt struck her, but self-preservation was stronger. She headed for the basement door before Jett could come around enough to stop her, skimming the stairs like a scared cat, and shoving at the door. Her momentum nearly knocked her back down the stairs when the door stayed resolutely shut. Again. Dammit. Catching her balance, she turned to look back at Jett still curled on the basement floor and making those retching sounds.

After a few moments, he looked up. His eyes focused, and when he found her at the top of the stairs, he glared at her and held up his hand and a key dangled from his finger. “Is this what you need?”

Uh oh.

This was trouble.
Big
trouble. Apprehension made her knees quiver and her mouth dry, but from somewhere she dredged up bravado that bordered on hysteria.

“So, Bruno,” she said with an insincere smile that felt wobbly, “here we are. Hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.”

“I may never be able to father children, but I’ll be just fine.” He sat up slowly, a look on his face that didn’t bode well for pleasant conversation.

“Children are overrated,” she said perkily. “Just as well you won’t add to the population.”

His dark glance in her direction made her stomach flip. “Yeah, the population is out of control,” he said flatly, “so maybe one less person would be doing the world a favor.”

Not a promising response. Would anyone hear her if she screamed? Surely, Mrs. Shipley would hear her; she heard everything. Unless she’d taken her nightly medication of Benadryl and a couple of shots of vodka. What time was it, anyway?

Harley edged closer to the door when he heaved himself up, looking grumpy and pretty uncomfortable. He slowly managed the steps, his gaze riveted on her the closer he got, and she gauged the distance to the basement floor and wondered if she could jump from the top of the stairs and land without twisting her ankle. Or breaking her neck.

“If you move over,” he growled, “I can unlock the door.”

“Oh. Yes.” She hesitated, eyes darting between him and the floor, and he put out a hand to block her leap. She flattened herself back against the door, breathing in shallow little gasps as she balanced on the edge of the steps.
Don’t panic, don’t panic
 . . . .

“Not that far over,” he said. “I don’t feel like holding the door while you limp back up the stairs. Just an inch or two will do.”

She edged aside and he stuck the key into the lock and turned it, swinging open the door with her clinging to it like a baby spider monkey.

Immediately she made a dash for freedom, but he caught her by the back of her tee shirt and suspended flight to growl a final warning. “Go home and don’t come back, Miss Davidson. Next time, I can’t guarantee you’ll get out in such good shape.”

She looked him up and down, and offered the opinion, “I don’t seem to be the one who’s limping like a three-legged goat,” then escaped before he could respond. She heard the back door bang against the wall, muffling his scathing reply. It was just as well.

She decided to go home
rather than look for Yogi and Diva. It was after nine, and she was tired. The day had been too much. She wasn’t used to losing and finding a dog in one day, dealing with a murder and maybe even a murderer, as well as the mysterious and suspicious disappearance of her parents, all in a ten hour span. It was exhausting. She needed a hot meal and a cold drink.

On the way home, down Poplar Avenue past the Brooks Art Museum and the entrance to the zoo, she pondered Mrs. Trumble’s motives for dognapping. Granted, she could be a vicious old biddy, but why would she go to such extreme measures just to get back at Diva and Yogi? After all, they’d paid to have her car repaired, and while it might not have been in the same pristine shape as it was when it rolled off the assembly line in 1959, it had looked nearly as good. As good as a car that old could look.

But Trumble seemed to have gone to a lot of trouble to cause Yogi and Diva grief. It just seemed like a bit much to get revenge for King’s depredations. Maybe Mrs. Trumble hadn’t felt the same. All her days probably ran together. It’d no doubt been a grand diversion for her, if not for Yogi. Still, abducting the dog had been a bit of a stretch, even for Mrs. Trumble.

She rolled into the parking area behind her apartment building and slid into an empty spot under an oak. Peering up at the tree, she wondered if oaks had sap. She didn’t think so. Not the drippy kind, anyway. The garage slots were full, the Sprague’s neat little red BMW gleaming in their space, and on either side of it, Mr. Diaz’s blue Honda CRX, and a dark green Pontiac sedan that belonged to the reclusive Sarah Simon, the human groundhog. If there was a Simon sighting, six more weeks of winter were sure to follow.

The huge red brick house was flanked by massive oaks and a magnolia tree that had to have been a sapling during the Byzantine era. Creamy white blossoms that smelled lemony and sweet were just beginning to open, spicing the soft night air.

Divided into apartments, the gracious house had a stately air of dignity that appealed to her, and when she’d seen the ad offering to lease to suitably qualified tenants, she’d known it was perfect. Only five tenants occupied the house, none with children, pets, or substance abuse problems. That were obvious, anyway. It was quiet and serene and answered her need for peace and an orderly existence that Diva said was sterile and depressing.

Her apartment was on the second floor, with a small terrace that overlooked Overton Park Zoo. At night she laid in bed, listening to lions roar and pretending she was in the African delta. At first she’d thought they must be feeding the lions live meals, for the most piercing cries could be heard. When her landlord, Mr. Lancaster, had told her it was only the peacocks strutting their stuff, she’d felt much better. A vivid imagination could be so disruptive at times.

High ceilings and glossy wood floors gave her apartment a spacious feel. French doors opened onto a terrace that could also be reached by the hallway doors. White concrete planters divided her side of the terrace from her neighbor’s, and verbena and ivy spilled over the sides. On her side of the terrace she’d put a comfortable chair and a small table just large enough to hold a cute little metal frog and a glass of wine or iced tea.

The silence and serenity did a lot toward relaxing her. No incense cloyed the air, no crystal beads and dream catchers dangled from ceilings or in front of windows. The only coverings on her windows were white, sheer draperies that let in welcome breezes when it was cool enough to leave the doors and windows open. When it wasn’t, she had a 220 air conditioner that simulated the Arctic tundra in January. Feast or famine. So far, it hadn’t been hot enough to use it. When it did get hot—as it certainly would, for after all, this was Memphis, Home of Heat and Humidity as well as the Blues and Barbecue—she’d get out her flannel nighties and thick socks and crawl under a blanket to sleep comfortably. The grim alternative was boiling in her own sweat.

But for now, the ceiling fans and tabletop fans kept it pretty comfortable. She flipped on an oscillating fan to circulate cool air in the living area, and then crossed to the kitchen to see if there was anything appealing for supper.

She put pasta on to boil and made pesto sauce, then slathered a slice of French bread with lots of butter. While waiting for the pasta, she poured a small glass of Chablis. A light meal might just make up for the Burrito Supreme she’d had for lunch. Working close to Taco Bell could be deadly to a diet plan.

After finishing off the pasta and pesto, she took the glass of wine out to the terrace, flopped into a wicker chair and propped her feet up on the wide balustrade. A nice breeze blew and the mosquitoes weren’t a problem yet. Street lights gleamed like a string of pinkish diamonds down Poplar Avenue, visible through the tree leaves in the park.

She thought of the jewelry on Bruno Jett’s coffee table. There wasn’t really a plausible reason for it to be there unless it was stolen goods. What other reason made sense? He had to be involved in some kind of jewelry theft, especially with his rap sheet. So why did she keep thinking differently? It was possible he was a jewelry salesman, but not probable. That was just a cover. Just something he’d let her think to keep her from asking more questions. There were only a few reasons for a man to do that, and she didn’t think the reason he’d given her was the right one.

And then there was Yogi and Diva’s unexpected disappearance. If they were innocent, why’d they run? And if they weren’t innocent—but that was unlikely. They may be a lot of things, but they weren’t murderers. Either of them. Yogi had made a career out of avoiding violence except for the occasional dispute with authority figures over environmental issues or animal rights or human rights—and once, a zoning ordinance gone badly. But that was mostly it. It was really odd they’d take off like they had without a good reason, but she couldn’t think of one. Not a logical one, anyway.

She poured a second glass of wine. Music seeped from next door, violins and piano. It must be another romantic night for the Spragues, a newly married couple that were so cute she wanted to puke. Their balcony joined hers, and she heard them far more than she wanted through open doors—throaty moans that made her want to take a cold shower. In between bouts of hot sex—or during—they listened to a lot of New Age stuff, with panpipes and dulcimers and bells. That usually reminded her of her parents, and often left her feeling caught between affection and irritation. There were times she enjoyed the reminders, and times she wished they’d play rap or heavy metal instead, anything but New Age. It wasn’t very reassuring that she was still so conflicted about her parents, but her love and concern for them was never in doubt. Her telephone rang and she grabbed the cordless, hoping it was Yogi and Diva. Tootsie said, “Hi baby,” then launched into a recitation of information he’d ferreted out about Bruno Jett. Grabbing for a pen, she scribbled what she could, stopping short when he finished with, “and is currently in Federal custody in Virginia.”