Hound Dog Blues (3 page)

“All right. Let me see the letter.” When Diva held it out, Harley took the sheet of typing paper and flipped it open, expecting a notice from the city animal shelter. Crude letters cut out of magazines and newsprint met her startled gaze:

BrINg WHaT YOU KnOw We WaNT Or ThE DoG diEs

Do iT Or YoU GEt YoUR DOg BAcK A LItTLE At a TimE

A huge clump of black and white dog hair clung to some of the pasted letters. “Oh, this is stupid,” Harley said irritably. “It must be some kind of kid’s prank. What do you have that anyone could possibly want?”

“Nothing.” Distress mixed with anger in Yogi’s voice, and he flapped his arms in the air in frustration. “There’s no reason for anyone to take my dog.”

While she could think of a dozen different reasons, Harley stuck to diplomacy. “Did you see who left this letter? Where’d you find it?”

“It was in the mailbox on the front gate,” Diva said, “but I don’t think the mailman left it.”

“Well, he’d certainly have a strong motivation to see King gone since he gets chased every time he delivers the mail,” Harley pointed out.

“It’s the cheese,” Yogi said indignantly. “He’s always delivering some kind of Cheese of the Month Club to old man Burbage down the street, and King can smell it in his bag.”

“Still, he’s had to Mace King twice just to deliver your mail. Why do you think the post office no longer delivers to the front porch like they used to? Never mind—that’s not the issue here. This may be a prank, or someone’s trying to make a point. Did you talk to the neighbors? You know Mrs. Shipley sees, knows, and tells everything that happens within a two mile radius.”

“Not this time,” Diva said with a shake of her head that set the tiny bells tinkling. “But our new next-door neighbor is involved somehow. It’s not his fault. Destiny brought him here. Still, it’s really too bad Mrs. Sherman had to sell her house and go into the nursing home.”

Harley stared at her mother. There were times that Diva’s belief in karma and her psychic abilities was more irritating than enlightening. In fact, most of the time. It didn’t help that she was right often enough to validate those beliefs.

“Bruno Jett has King,” Yogi said with a dark glance out the front windows as if their new neighbor skulked on the front porch. “He has to. He’s made some threats before.”

That wasn’t good—she’d met the new neighbor. Bruno Jett was tall, dark, and dangerous in a good-looking, rough sort of way. “Threats? To you?”

“No,” Yogi said, “but he did threaten King.”

“Oh, well, that’s understandable.”

“And he had a gun.”

“That’s not. Damn, Yogi, why didn’t you tell me about this before now? No one should be allowed to go around waving a gun at people.”

“He wasn’t exactly waving it, Harley, but I saw it. And he did say my dog was a menace and I needed to keep him up before there was trouble.”

“Oh.”

“You’re supposed to go talk to him, Harley,” Diva said softly.

Eying her mother, Harley bit her tongue to keep from asking why. She was sure she didn’t want to know. Not that it did her any good. Diva reached out to take her hands, holding them snugly between her palms. Heat radiated from her long graceful fingers. Her eyelashes fluttered, a precursor to one of her psychic conversations that were usually obscure and always irritating.

“My spirit guides tell me that there’s a strong connection with him and King’s abduction. I believe it’s ordained that you speak with Mr. Jett.”

“No, I don’t think so.” She pulled gently free of Diva’s grasp, but managed a smile. “Tell your spirit guides to stop meddling.”

“Rama and Ovid don’t meddle, they advise.” Diva smiled back to show there were no hard feelings. This was a familiar argument. “Speak to Mr. Jett. I think it’s vital.”

“If you’re looking for a confession,” Harley said, “I doubt you’ll get one. If anybody took King, it’s probably Mrs. Trumble. Why is she still so mad after you paid for her car’s repairs? Are you
sure
you haven’t been back down there?”

“Maybe just a little,” Yogi said after a moment, and his face crumpled. The Elvis CD changed to New Age pan pipes and bells. “King was gone all night. I thought maybe he’d gotten locked in her garage again somehow.”

“Oh, Yogi.” Harley shook her head. “She’s probably calling the cops on you right now.”

“Call Bobby. He’ll help us out,” Diva said, then turned to Yogi and took his hands in hers much as she had Harley’s only a moment before. A look passed between them that made Harley feel invisible. There were times still that they were more like the runaway teenage lovers they’d once been, rather than middle-aged and holding on to the comfort of a world that had long since passed from the scene and become questions for Trivial Pursuit games.

“I don’t think Bobby will get involved,” Harley said, “He’s a homicide detective. I can’t ask him to look for a dog. But I can ask him if Mrs. Trumble has filed charges again.”

Really, there were times her parents asked too much of her. Calling Bobby was one thing. They’d been friends since they were both kids, and he was familiar with her parents’ eccentricities. Bruno Jett was an unknown entity, however. He hadn’t been especially friendly since he’d moved in last month, barely acknowledging Diva’s neighborly overtures. Not that she blamed him there. Diva’s idea of being neighborly involved principles of feng shui and an offer of a tarot reading. It could be daunting to the uninitiated. To be fair, Jett looked like he could use some good advice, or at least a shove in the right direction.

“So, you’ll go talk to Mr. Jett, won’t you?” Diva said. “Just to set Yogi’s mind at ease.”

“I don’t think he’s home,” she lied, hoping for the best. She needed a distraction, anything to get her out of this, but before she could invent one, the front door swung open and her younger brother arrived home from his morning classes at the university.
Reprieve.
She actually smiled at him.

Slouching into the living room, tall and lanky and almost too thin to cast a shadow, Eric blinked in surprise at her obvious pleasure in seeing him.

“Hey chick.”

“Hey dude.”

Their standard greetings over, she eyed his hair with interest. It was bright blue, almost matching his sleepy eyes. An improvement over last week, when he’d dyed it purple.

“You’ll be bald before you’re thirty if you keep abusing your hair,” she said next, and he shrugged.

“I’m thinking of shaving my head anyway.”

“Great. Another interesting look. What’s that?”

He lifted his hand, stared down at the chain with neon green plastic strips woven into the metal links, then said as if just remembering, “Oh yeah. I found this on the curb in front of scary dude’s house.”

Yogi’s hand shook slightly as he reached for it, and Harley recognized the shape of the required rabies tag on its
S
hook dangling from the end of the chain. Uh oh. This could not be good.

“It’s King’s,” Yogi choked out, fingers closing on the chain. “So Jett
does
have my dog.”

All eyes turned to Harley.

“Maybe King just lost his collar,” she suggested, but not even she believed that. “It could be true. It could. Really.”

It was obvious they thought otherwise. Yogi turned toward the kitchen, and Harley heard him mutter something about finding a tire iron. Alarm bells rang in her head.

“Uh, Yogi, I hope you remember you’re a pacifist,” she called after him, but the slamming of the door leading to the screened porch was his only reply.
Oh holy shit
, she thought, and gave her mother a pleading glance.

“Perhaps you’d better talk to him,” Diva said softly, and Harley wasn’t sure if she meant Yogi or Bruno Jett, but decided not to take any chances. Yogi first, then Jett only if she had to. Her brother was right. The man really was kinda scary.

Harley glanced toward her brother for help, but he was already on his way to the kitchen. Private moments eluded him, as he dwelled in a world of art classes at the university and his own diverse entertainments, which usually included a baggie of weed at some point. His real name was Eric but his friends called him Toke, for obvious reasons. He’d be no help, that was plain.

She found Yogi in his workshop sorting through piles of discarded wire and coffee cans full of the crystals Diva used to make her dream catchers, beaded jewelry, and sun catchers for the windows. They took the stuff to the local flea markets every week or so and made a tidy sum that Yogi then hid somewhere. His trust in banks was on par with his trust in the Federal government—at a very low level. If not for the fact he’d inherited this house from his parents, they’d probably still be living in communes out in California.

Communal life was a memory she’d tried hard to forget, but occasionally it reared its ugly head at unexpected times. Tarantulas stood out vividly in her mind, as did foraging rats as big as raccoons, and a near-fall from a high cliff while looking for the outhouse in the dark. The move to Memphis had been one of convenience for her parents, and an Act of a Merciful God for her. She thrived on things like clean sheets and indoor plumbing, even though Diva had never seemed to mind having the stars for night-lights. But Yogi had been as glad as Harley to move into a real house, she thought, and seemed happiest making his metal sculptures and jewelry out here in his workshop behind the garage.

“Hey,” she said, and Yogi glanced briefly up without pausing in his search through wire, crystals, and half-finished pieces of jewelry, “what are you looking for?”

Empty McDonald’s hamburger wrappers fell onto the floor from the big plastic trash can, and he picked them up quickly and stuffed them back into the bin. So much for sticking to Diva’s vegetarian regime. No wonder he liked hiding out here so much, with King always at his feet hoping for crumbs, no doubt. A couple of closet cow carnivores.

“A weapon,” Yogi muttered. He stopped when he found an iron bar as thick as his thumb. Anger flickered in his eyes. “Someone took my dog. If it wasn’t the new guy next door, then who’d do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, but I’d say Mrs. Trumble’s a pretty safe bet.” She let Yogi absorb that for a moment, then added gently, “If you’ll stay here, I’ll go talk to Jett first. Okay?”

After a tense moment, he nodded. “Okay.”

“Good. Give me the tire iron.”

“It’s part of a hydraulic jack,” he said, but handed it over and she tucked it under her arm with a relieved smile. Most of the time Yogi adhered to his pacifist leanings, but as there had been a few notable exceptions that were still sharp in her memory, there was no point in taking any chances. Especially when it came to his dog, a maddening creature with absolutely no redeeming qualities that Harley could see—save for inspiring such intense devotion from her father.

That knowledge sent her tromping through the front yard a few moments later. This small section of real estate comprised Diva’s ecological statement. Crabgrass, dandelions, chickweeds, and nutsedge grew right along with four o’clocks, asters, purple coneflowers, and cannabis. The latter was cultivated in the backyard, lovingly tended right next to the tomato plants. Salsa with a real buzz, another holdover from the sixties counterculture.

While the Davidson house on Douglass was comfortable, a bungalow style built in the thirties, with a wide front porch, thick stone columns painted white, and a stained glass transom over the front door, Mrs. Sherman’s former house was smaller, a two bedroom deal with wrought-iron bars on the front windows, and a small front porch.