Bite the Moon (19 page)

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.

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?”