Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Page 11

  “I imagine the T-shirt influenced his thinking a bit.”

  “T-shirt? What T-shirt?”

  “The one Happy found stuffed in his kick drum the morning after the gig at Solms Halle.”

  “And . . .”

  Stan leaned forward again, his eyes searching my face. “What happened to you, anyway?”

  “Me?”

  “Your face looks like a tank ran over it.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “Sorry. Guess that was a bit insensitive. But what the heck happened?”

  “I tripped over a dog. Now, about that T-shirt.”

  “Big dog?”

  “The T-shirt. We’re talking about the T-shirt, not my beauty mark.”

  “Okay. Around the neckline of the T-shirt, there was a lot of blood.”

  “Wolfe’s T-shirt?”

  “I thought so.”

  “What did Happy do with it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he turn it in to the police?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wasn’t about to point a finger at Wolfe.”

  “What about you? Would you point a finger at Wolfe?”

  He leaned back in his chair, rocking on two legs. “If I thought he did it?”

  “Yeah, if you thought he was guilty.”

  “Maybe.” He clunked back on all four legs. “Maybe not.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve thought about it a lot. Wolfe’s known Faver longer than any of us. He’s stuck with him for years now, even though he was certain Faver was skimming off the top.”

  “If he thought Faver was stealing, why did he stick with him?”

  “You know, I’ve asked Wolfe that question more than a few times. But I’ve never gotten a satisfactory answer.”

  “Do you think Wolfe is capable of killing Faver?”

  “I don’t like to think so. But then again, how well do any of us really know anybody?” He pushed up from the table. “Listen, I’ve got to run. You have any more questions, you just give me a call.”

  He strode across the decking, and he was gone. I looked at his plate. I hadn’t noticed him eating except for that first big bite, but not a crumb of his burger was left. His fries, however, were untouched. I plucked two off of his plate, bit into their saltiness and headed out to my car.

  It was visiting hours at the county jail. Time to see if Bobby had any information I could use. Not likely, but I had to try.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Monica Salazar was at the front desk again when I walked into the county jail. Her lips pursed, her brow furrowed. She said “Miss Mullet” in that same tone of voice my mother used when she said “Molly Anita, what are you up to now?”

  “Hi, Monica. How are you today?”

  “Miss Mullet, please. I do not want to report you.”

  “Monica, everything’s cool. I’m on Bobby’s visitation list. I’m here like an ordinary citizen who wants to visit someone behind bars. There is not a problem.”

  Her eyes formed tight slits. Her mouth pursed even tighter. She turned to her computer and tapped on her keyboard. As she scrolled down a smile replaced her frown. “Oh, Miss Mullet. I am so sorry. You are on the list. I am sorry for doubting you.”

  “It’s okay, Monica. I deserved it.”

  “I feel so bad, though. I thought you were gonna . . . well, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  She handed me a numbered pass. “Sorry.”

  “No problem, Monica. Honest.” I turned from the front desk.

  “Miss Mullet,” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “Lisa Garcia told me what you’re doing.”

  “You know Lisa?”

  She nodded. “I’m glad you are doing this. Let me know if I can help.” She cast her eyes around as if searching for eavesdropping ears. Seeing none, she said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Bobby’s not doing so good.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No. They’ve talked about ad seg because so many of the other guys are teasing him.”

  I slumped. Ad seg—administrative segregation—just a fancy word for solitary confinement. Poor Bobby.

  “But that’s not the worst. A couple of guards think he should be on suicide watch. He’s been crying for days and he won’t eat. See if you can get him to eat. At least a little.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Monica.” I knew jail would be hard on Bobby but I thought his laid-back attitude would see him through this, too.

  I went into the waiting room and sat down in a sea of ravaged hearts. Some of the visitors to the prison were so defeated by life, they looked barely alive. Others still had enough spirit to don a false front for the loved one they would see today, an artificial cheeriness that insisted, despite evidence to the contrary, that all was well.

  The backdrop for their suppressed misery enhanced the futility of it all. Dingy walls with a sad line of the small grimy handprints of children running the length of the one where we lined up to wait our turn. A collection of mismatched furniture rejected from former offices because of its shabbiness. Whatever side of the bars you were on, the county jail was a sad place to be.

  Despite my dreary surroundings, a smile stole across my face as my mind drifted back to more pleasant memories of Bobby. No matter what I wanted to do, no matter how nerdy my proposed adventures, Bobby was always willing to join me.

  We extracted water samples from the creek and, under the microscope, I thought we discovered new life forms. We drew pictures of them and named them hopajiggers and blobs. It turned out to be mosquito larvae and egg cases but, heck, for one brilliant summer afternoon, we thought we were scientific wonders.

  We mixed up gunpowder, saltpeter and charcoal and built rockets out of empty toilet paper and paper towels rolls. Our rockets maxed out at two or three feet but we were thrilled.

  Then there were the more quiet moments of discovery. The hours we sat still at the edge of the woods watching spotted fawns frolic. We held our breath with awe when they paused in play to nurse from their mothers.

  Bobby had been a big part of my childhood. I had forgotten how much our lives were intertwined. Now they wove together again even more in the face of crisis.

  A sergeant barked an order and we all lined up in numerical order, but not in strict sequence. The sergeant went down the line checking our slips of paper, grabbing upper arms and moving one person forward and another back. He sent one young woman home for a bare midriff, another for a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination.

  When I saw Bobby behind the glass, my heart fell. His head hung down, his back slouched over the counter—he looked as soft and as small as if he were folding inside of himself. I forced a smile to my face and grabbed the receiver. In slow motion and with great effort, Bobby raised one arm and picked up the one on his side of the glass. He held it loosely to the side of his head. Still, he did not look up.

  “Hey, Bobby! What’s shakin’?”

  Bobby shrugged.

  “Bobby, you know I’m your friend, right?”

  He shrugged and mumbled a puny, “Yes.”

  “Bobby, did I ever steer you wrong?”

  “No.”

  “You know I’m out here trying to find the evidence to get you out of jail, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bobby. I need your help.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Yes you can, Bobby. You’ve always been there for me. Whenever I asked. You’ve got to help me now.”

  Bobby made no response at all. His head still hung down, obscuring his face.

  “Bobby, I need you to be strong.”

  A big sigh echoed through the line. “Can’t.”

  “Yes you can, Bobby.”

  Another sigh whispered like a zephyr through the branches of a dead tree.

  “Bobby, look at me.”
/>
  Not a movement. Not a sound.

  “Bobby, I need you to listen carefully. Look at me.”

  He raised his head and red-rimmed, waterlogged eyes turned to mine. His face stretched long. His cheeks sank in like potholes on a neglected road.

  “Bobby, they tell me you’re not eating.”

  He dropped his head and mumbled.

  “Bobby, is that true?”

  He sighed out another, “Yes.”

  “Bobby, Bobby. Look at me.”

  He raised his head again.

  “Bobby, you’ve got to promise me you’ll eat something.”

  His shoulders quaked. Tears coursed down his face. Childlike sobs choked his breath. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and rock him to a more peaceful place.

  “I wanna go home, Molly,” Bobby wailed. “I wanna go home to Mama.”

  “I know, Bobby. I want you to come home, too. I’m doing all I can.”

  “They said I could go home if I tole the truth. I done tole the truth, Molly. They won’t let me go home.”

  “I know, Bobby.” The helplessness I felt churned my stomach and throbbed in my head.

  “I tole ’em I was sorry.”

  “Sorry for what, Bobby?”

  “Just sorry. Sorry for everything. But they won’t let me go home.”

  “Bobby, I promise you I will do everything I can to get you home. But you’ve got to take care of yourself until I do.”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes, Bobby. You have to—for me—for your mama. Please, promise me you’ll eat something for dinner tonight.”

  He swung his head back and forth.

  “Not fair, Bobby. I made you a promise. Now you’ve got to make one to me. Remember. That’s our deal. That’s always been our deal.”

  He pulled his head up and a tiny twinkle of life sparkled in his eyes as he remembered our childhood litany. “Like the two musketeers.”

  “Yes, Bobby. Like the two musketeers.”

  “S’posed to be three.”

  “Yep. I think we lost the other one.”

  “Aw, we don’t need him.”

  “Nah. The two of us will do just fine.”

  A smile struggled to find purchase in Bobby’s face.

  A guard leaned over my shoulder and said, “Time’s up.”

  “Promise me, Bobby. Promise me you’ll eat tonight.”

  “Promise,” he said, hung up his receiver and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I raised my thumb in response and placed my phone on the hook. A weight like a lead X-ray apron settled hard on my body. I cannot fail. Of all the things I had ever done, nothing was more important than this. Nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  What a long, long day. A hostile ex-wife, a bass player who left me with more questions than answers and a devastated, deteriorating friend behind bars. I knew I’d be too tired to boil water when I got home. I stopped by McBee’s and grabbed a sliced beef barbecue sandwich with pickle, onion and extra sauce.

  I kicked off my shoes as I walked in the door and headed to the kitchen. I poured a glass of wine and looked at my answering machine. Blinking. Damn. Three blinks. Double damn. I sighed and pressed the button.

  “Hi, Ms. Mullet, this is Monica. I just wanted to say I’m sorry again for giving you a hard time. Let me know if I can do anything, okay?”

  The second message was from Lisa Garcia. “Mija. You did not tell me. Did you find any fingerprints? Call me.”

  The third message was just some heavy breathing—not very appealing—followed by a click. Oh, give me a break.

  I plopped down with my sandwich, glass of wine and the remote. I zoned in on some mindless entertainment. At some point, I fell asleep in the chair. I woke around eleven and toddled back to bed.

  I was half past dead at 3:00 the next morning when I was rudely resurrected by the ringing of the phone. I grabbed for the receiver, knocked over a two-day-old glass of water, cursed my fate and growled, “Hello.” I really wanted to say, “Who the hell is this?” but I restrained myself—just another victim of Miss Manners’ indoctrination in my formative years.

  At the other end, I heard something resembling a human voice, but I wasn’t sure if it was speaking English, Spanish or any other language I ever heard. It was a series of gasps, sniffs and high-pitched yips that sounded like a wounded hyena—not that I’ve actually ever heard one.

  “I don’t know who this is but if you want me to understand you, you’ll need to take a couple of deep breaths and talk slowly.”

  One deep breath that sounded like a death rattle battered my eardrum. It was followed by a loud round of sobbing.

  “Okay. Set down the phone. Go get a glass of water. Take a couple of sips and try again.”

  The phone clattered and a wailing noise drifted away from the phone and back again. I heard a couple of noisy slurps followed by a whimper.

  “Are you back?”

  “Happy.”

  I knew she was not relating her current state of mind, so she must mean Happy Parker. “Is this Heather?”

  “Yes,” she said but the word was seven syllables long and was punctuated by a blubbering whine.

  “Heather, what’s wrong?”

  “Happy.”

  “Heather, what’s wrong with Happy?”

  “Dead. Dead. Dead.”

  “Heather, where are you?”

  “Happy.”

  “Happy’s place?”

  Again she responded with a seven-syllable version of “yes.”

  “Heather, lock your door. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I figured I had a better chance of making sense of this disjointed conversation in person.

  I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed my gun and flew out the door. I was making good time in the light traffic until I got within a few miles of Happy’s cabin. A vehicle larger than mine came up on me in the darkness and rode my bumper. Actually, the new Beetle doesn’t have a bumper, but that’s another story.

  I drove on the shoulder to let him pass. Instead, the driver backed off. I pulled back into the lane and he was tight on my tail again. This time high beams flooded my interior with light and made it difficult to see the road ahead. I slowed down and drove over on the shoulder. Once again, he lagged back a bit. Fine, I’ll just stay on the shoulder.

  And for a few hundred yards, I did. Then the vehicle behind me sped up and drove on the shoulder as close to my rear as he could be without making contact.

  Ahead I saw a bridge—and no shoulder. I turned the wheel to get back in the lane, but my tailgater was quicker. A dark SUV pulled up beside me, blocking my path—and the guardrail was straight ahead. I slammed on my brakes. The metal rail grew closer. Larger. My right leg quivered with the intensity of the pressure I applied to the brake. I braced for a collision. I felt a bump. Waited for more. Nothing. My car stopped with only a small nudge to the metal ahead. The SUV shot off into the night. Asshole.

  I threw my head back and drew a few ragged breaths, put my car in reverse, backed from the rail and turned onto the road. My arms shook as I held the steering wheel. Too close. Too close.

  Now I had to contend with another pair of high beams—these in the other lane coming in my direction. It came closer and the boxy shape of an SUV took form. Was it another vehicle? Or was it the same one doubling back? It was moving fast. Too fast. Calm down, I told myself. Don’t get paranoid, Molly. There are millions of SUVs on the road. Hang in there. The SUV flew past me without braking. Thank God.

  Another mile down the road and out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something approaching me from the rear. I looked full into the rearview mirror but saw no lights. I kept rolling, then I caught the movement again. Still no lights. But there was something behind me. And it was gaining on me.

  A dark shape loomed in my rear window. Suddenly the lights washed me in a blinding stream of white. The turn-off to Happy’s place was just ahead. But I couldn�
�t see. Where was it? Come on, girl. You can do it. I squinted as I peered ahead. There it was. I flipped on my turn signal and slowed for the turn. I felt a jolt as the bumper nudged into my car and caused me to lurch forward. I struggled to stay on the roadway.

  I turned sharp into the dirt lane and careened over the cattle guard. Teeth rattled. Eyeballs bounced. Bones banged against the metal in the seat. I raced up the hill. But the SUV was not following. It had stopped on the other side of the cattle guard. Whoever was in it tapped on the gas pedal over and over, revving the engine but not moving in my direction.

  I parked in front of the cabin and jerked out my gun. The sound of my ragged gasps filled my ears. The staccato pounding of my heart gave it a backbeat. I could hear nothing else.

  I spun out of my car and into a crouched stance—barrel pointed down the hill. Nothing. No lights. No noise. Then the barking began inside the cabin.

  I turned and scrambled up on the front porch. I banged on the door with my fist.

  “Who is it?” Heather asked.

  “Molly,” I hissed.

  “Who?”

  “Molly. Molly Mullet. Open the door, Heather.”

  “Pete, Labia, Crapper—shut up! I can’t hear a thing.”

  The door opened a crack. “Who?” she said again.

  “Me,” I said pushing my face in front of hers.

  “Oh, Molly, come on in.”

  I slid in before the door was all the way open. “Shut it. Lock it. Pull the drapes.”

  “We don’t have any drapes, Molly. What happened to you?”

  I put my hand up to the side of my face. No surprise she never noticed the damage the other day when she was riding my back. “You know, when I fell over your dogs and down your steps.”

  “Oh my, you are a mess,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. She was no prize either. Her eyes were as red as overripe strawberries and the tip of her nose looked like Rudolph’s on a drunken binge. But now, the tables were turned. She was calm and I was the hysterical one.

  “Why, Molly, you’ve got a gun.”

  I leaned my back against the front door. “Yeah, a gun. Molly’s got a gun. Now, please, get Molly some water. A nice cool glass of water.”