Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) (9 page)

“Your father’s been very despondent since the police were here. Perhaps you’d speak with your new friend and see if he can do anything about returning the plants?”

Harley blinked. “Diva, forget the pot plants. They’re illegal. Morgan was doing us a favor by not busting all of us for them, and so, I might add, was Bobby, who’s always known you grow pot in the backyard next to the tomatoes. I’m sure you have seeds somewhere. Plant more.”

There were times she wished her parents would grow up and enter the twenty-first century instead of holding onto a way of life that was long gone and had probably never existed like they thought it had anyway. It had occurred to her more than once that she understood Grandmother Eaton’s frustration with her oldest daughter.

Turning wide blue eyes on her, Diva gazed at her until Harley began to fidget. It was that look that always made her feel two years old again, pinned by the sudden realization that her mother knew everything she was thinking.

In a familiar husky alto that worked so well in séances and tarot card readings, Diva said, “Harley, we’re happy the way we are. We’ll never be what you or my mother wants us to be. It’s all right. Everything will be fine.”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Diva smiled. “You have an open, free spirit. It’s easy to see what you’re thinking. I could do it even without my gift.”

She didn’t doubt that. “Nevertheless, it’d make me feel better if you’d at least take some precautions.”

“Harley, I want you to be careful of the plots. They may hurt you.”

Plots?
The back door leading from the screened porch banged and Harley had just enough time to brace herself before a black, white, and pink dog launched himself at her with great glee. Large bare spots in his coat testified to his recent dognapping, but he was in good shape for a dog that had been held captive in a storage closet.

“Down, King,” she said, without a prayer he’d listen, and tried to pet him at the same time as she tried to fend off his exuberant greeting. Panting and slobbering, the dog leaped about, his toenails clacking against the tile floor and wood cabinets. Part Border Collie, part Mexican jumping bean, King had no sense of decorum whatsoever. When she finally got him to stay down by putting her hand atop his head and holding him between his ears, brown streaks of dirt from his paws stained her khaki jeans. One of the hazards of petting him.

“You really should get him some obedience classes,” she said when Yogi beckoned the dog closer. King promptly leaped up and licked her on the mouth before abandoning her for Yogi.

Spitting and scowling, Harley wiped her mouth with a dish towel. Yogi seemed oblivious to King’s bad habits. He smiled serenely and stroked the dog’s ears and blotchy fur.

“He’s perfect the way he is.”

“Not even in the Big House. Seriously. You should look into dog training. I talked to a nice lady at Border Collie Rescue, and she gave me some good advice for high-energy dogs like King. He needs a high fence to keep him contained, and lots of exercise, like throwing a Frisbee, or jogging, or—”

“King gets plenty of exercise.” Tilting his head to one side, her father smiled. He could be so endearing, with his generous paunch covered by a tee shirt saying
Ban War—Free Love
, and his knee-length ragged shorts that were frayed at the hem. If not for the gray streaking his brown hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail on the nape of his neck, he could almost be the poster child for the era of the Flower Child. “Are you staying for lunch, Harley? I can pick some more greens.”

She sighed. “No. Thanks. I brought my lunch.”

“Then I could pick some for you to take home for dinner tonight.”

“Uh, Mike’s bringing takeout later.”

“Mike—oh. You mean Bruno?”

“That was his undercover name. The sting operation’s over so he’s using his own name for the moment. Until another sting or undercover project, I guess.” She tried not to think about that. Maybe it was time to throw herself into the breach before she lost her nerve. “Hey, by the way, Diva, Grandmother is giving a luncheon tomorrow. She’d like you to come. It’s a girl thing.”

Diva paused in cutting up celery. She stared out the kitchen window for a moment, then turned with a faint smile. “I suppose Darcy and the girls will be there. Yes. Well, this weekend Yogi and I have the big flea market at the fairgrounds. You know, the first weekend of every month is the really big one. Yogi has several of those windmills to sell. You’ve seen the ones that look like the Eiffel Tower? And my trolls and rabbits . . . and I still have so many crystals left. Would you please see if the police will return our supplies? They shouldn’t need them now.”

“So, that’s a no, right?”

“Well . . . ” Diva gave one of her airy gestures that could mean almost anything and smiled vaguely. “We’re just so busy, you know.”

“Right. I’ll tell Grandmother.”

“Give them my best. And Harley? You’ll be just fine. Darcy needs some life lessons, and this is all karmic energy being recycled.”

“Uh hunh.” That was so Diva, no mention of the murder, just her observations on karma. “So what’d I do this time to get bad karma?”

“It’s not necessarily bad karma. There are lessons in good karma as well.” She smiled. “I know you don’t like talking about it. That’s all right. You’ll be fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” She only stayed a few more minutes, then made her excuses and left. An afternoon in the company of a tour group seemed preferable to the vague feelings of guilt that nagged her. On the way to her car, she waved at Mrs. Shipley across the street, who acted as the self-appointed neighborhood sentry.

“I see you’ve found another body, Harley Jean,” Mrs. Shipley called out with a cheerful wave. “So much excitement . . . you be careful now, you hear?”

“I will, Mrs. Shipley, I will.” Sadie Shipley resembled a bright tropical bird, dressed all in yellow and blue, looking like something out of a Disney cartoon with her hair frizzed out in a bad dye job and her makeup applied with a trowel. But she had a good heart, even if she was the neighborhood busybody. There were worse things to be.

Saturday luncheon at Grandmother Eaton’s yawned before Harley like a prison sentence. She was caught between a longing to be anywhere else and an urgent desire to talk to Aunt Darcy, who still hadn’t returned her calls. The desire to find out what was going on won out.

She dragged herself out of bed at nine Saturday morning, leaving Morgan asleep. She was glad it was her day off, but not glad she’d agreed to play nice with her cousins. It was a long-standing conflict that had started the summer she’d moved back to Memphis. The details were fuzzy in her mind now, but it had something to do with a boy. Hormones had gone berserk that year.

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall,” Morgan remarked while she was getting ready to go.

She looked at him in the bathroom mirror, a gob of hair gel in each palm slowly turning to stone. “So would I. Unfortunately, I have to show up as myself.”

“That has distinct advantages.” He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. His slow smile made her tingle down to her toes again, an event that seemed to happen far too often lately.

Feast or famine seemed to be the pattern of her love life these days. Feast was much more enjoyable.

Famine seemed preferable
to the cuisine Grandmother Eaton served, however—the kind of dishes popular in quaint little restaurants, with sprigs of greenery atop tiny mounds of shredded fish. Thank God for Taco Bell. A person could starve if they had to depend on her grandmother or Diva for decent food.

“It looks delicious, Grandmother,” Harley’s cousin Madelyn said primly, and gave Harley a look that obviously meant she was supposed to agree.

“Are those orchids?” Harley asked instead, inspecting the tall bouquet gracing the middle of the dining room table. It looked like a dozen orchids had been tucked into a tower, studded with silvery leaves. Silverware sparkled, crystal gave off delicately colored prisms of light, and long tapers had been lit. Curls of silk ribbon drifted across exquisite china plates. She had to hand it to Grandmother Eaton, she sure believed in setting an elegant table.

Grandmother Eaton looked very pleased. In her early seventies, she looked younger even though her hair was silver-white. She’d dressed in a linen suit for the occasion, and wore jewelry at her throat and wrists as if they were going out for a meal at Chez Philippe instead of eating in her own dining room.

“Thank you, girls. Yes, those are indeed orchids. Aren’t they lovely? Janet said the tower effect would be perfect. I’m glad you like them, Harley.”

Madelyn lifted her brow at Harley, then exchanged a glance with her sister Amanda that plainly conveyed her disapproval of their cousin. They reminded Harley of two blonde poodles, one starved-looking, and the other obviously well-fed.

She rolled her eyes and asked, “So where’s Aunt Darcy?”

It was the perfect opening for a discussion of what had to be on all their minds—Harry Gordon’s murder. She waited expectantly.

“Darcy called to say she’ll be a little late,” Grandmother Eaton said after a moment of awkward silence. “All that . . . trouble, you know.”

Trouble. A nice term for an ugly death.

“Yes,” Harley said, “I’m the one who found the
trouble
.”

Grandmother Eaton regarded her solemnly. “Yes, dear, so I understand. Dreadful thing. Just dreadful. Youth is so resilient. You look remarkably calm, despite what had to be an extreme shock. Perhaps that’s why you chose such an . . . interesting . . . ensemble to wear. Linen would have been so much cooler, but denim and cotton are acceptable under the circumstances, of course.”

Censure oozed from her grandmother, but Harley chose to ignore it. She’d known when she put on a tee shirt and jeans that not dressing up would cause comment. She’d dug through her closet but just hadn’t found a suitable skirt and blouse. Much as she hated it, a shopping trip to the mall loomed in her future. She’d take Tootsie with her. Then it’d be bearable. It was always fun watching sales ladies’ faces when Tootsie tried on silk blouses or evening gowns. Or high heels in the shoe department.

Madelyn and Amanda wore nice skirts and blouses, of course. Suck-ups. Madelyn was tall and skinny, Amanda shorter with curves that bordered on plump. Their clothes came from Macy’s, their personalities from Elvira, Queen of the Night.

“So,” she said to distract from her fashion
faux pas
and direct the conversation back to the murder, “is Aunt Darcy at the police station giving her statement?”

Amanda made a muffled sound, and Grandmother Eaton nodded. “Yes, I believe she is downtown. She’ll need our support when she arrives, and perhaps it’s best that we not mention the unpleasantness.”

Unpleasantness
was another obvious synonym for grisly murder. Harley nodded agreement.

“I imagine Aunt Darcy will be stressed enough. What with having her partner murdered, then being grilled by the cops and all.”

“Grilled?” Madelyn looked startled. Her eyes widened, and she blinked long lashes that reminded Harley of a Daddy-longlegs. False lashes must be in fashion again. “Why would Mama be
grilled?”

She pronounced Mama in the French way, with the accent on the last
ma
, and Harley rolled her eyes again. That college graduation trip to Paris must have left a lasting impression after all.

“Because Harry Gordon was her partner, and besides the murderer, Aunt Darcy was the last person to see him alive,” she pointed out.

Madelyn’s eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. “Really. You don’t have to be nasty, Harley. Besides—we don’t know at all who the last person to see Harry alive was. And neither do the police.”

“True. But they will. Trust me on that. The MPD is very efficient.”

Madelyn looked rattled, and her mouth went so flat it nearly disappeared. Harley lifted a brow. Maybe Cousin Maddie knew something she wasn’t telling. Could it be . . . ? No, no, Aunt Darcy wasn’t a murderer. Bitchy, uppity, snobbish, yes, but not murderous. Still, the police might very well have another point of view on that subject, so maybe it’d be best not to rule Darcy out completely just in case they found out she’d been investigating Harry for smuggling.