Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Read online

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Why?” he asked again.

  “I’m an investigator on a murder case down in New Braunfels and Jesse knew the victim.”

  “So?” the worm said.

  “Ease up, Gordon,” said the blond ponytailed occupant at the table. “Yeah. We know Jesse,” he said to me as he stroked a straggly goatee. “Are you a cop?”

  “Nope. Investigator for the defense.”

  Blondie pushed a chair out with his foot. “Have a seat. Are we talking about the murder at Solms Halle?”

  “Yes. You know something about it?”

  “Just rumors, man, nothing more. But, hey, I haven’t seen Jesse for days. Usually see him here two, three times a week. Expected to see him here today. What the hell did you do to your face?”

  The question took me by surprise. I’d been avoiding my reflection to put the injury out of my mind. My hand flew to my face and an itching sensation crept across my skin. Beneath my fingertips, I felt long streaks and scabs. It was all I could do not to yield to the urge to scratch the wounds bloody. “Oh, that,” I said. “I tripped over a dog.”

  “And he attacked your face?”

  “No. I landed on my face.”

  “Ouch. You know, my sister was real clumsy, too. My mom sent her to special classes to teach her how to fall without hurting herself so much.”

  Clumsy? I am not clumsy. Well, maybe a little. I smiled a puny smile and changed the subject. “Do you know where Jesse lives?”

  “Don’t know that he exactly has a regular place.”

  The silent member of the trio spoke up. He was spared the wormy whiteness of his friend by the random fate of being born Hispanic—but he was the palest Latino I’ve ever seen. “He crashed at my place all last month. But I don’t know who’s putting him up now.”

  Ponytail darted his eyes around the room, leaned forward and whispered, “You know, Jesse wrote that song ‘Bite the Moon,’ Wolfe’s big hit. Trenton Wolfe stole it from him.”

  “I heard Jesse claimed that,” I said.

  “Well, it’s true,” Ponytail insisted as the other two provided a back-up chorus of affirmation.

  “How do you know?”

  “We heard the CD,” Gordon the worm spat out as if daring me to call him a liar.

  “You did? Interesting. Do you have a copy of it?”

  The three looked at each other then turned to me and shook their heads and sighed. Rats.

  “But he was supposed to see the dead guy up in Solms that day before the show. Did you know that?” Ponytail asked.

  “Did he meet with him?”

  “Don’t know. But he said he was going to work out a deal with the dead guy. He was going to get paid and he was going to get attribution. And trust me, it’s easier to get cash than to get songwriting credit when somebody steals your work.”

  “Have you seen him since that day?”

  “Yeah. But he didn’t want to talk about it,” the pale Latino said. “When I brought it up, he acted pretty weird. Like he had bugs crawling under his skin or something.”

  “Really? Do you think he could have killed Faver?”

  They looked at me with disgust and horror. Their distaste could not have been more intense if they caught me desecrating the statue of Stevie Ray Vaughan down at Town Lake. One by one, they popped to their feet, stuck their hands in their pockets and filed out the door.

  Jeez. Two for two. My tact needed some serious work.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I headed over to Lamar to check out another daytime haunt of local musicians, South Austin Music Store. The neon guitar perched atop the long, flat-roofed building made it impossible to miss. The sign on their lot said “Musicians Parking Only.” I chose to ignore it and pulled into an available slot. If questioned, I’d sing. It wouldn’t be pretty, but then again, nobody around here was expecting a diva.

  It was a bit difficult to walk around inside South Austin Music. The place was packed tight with gear. Guitars hung from endless racks on the walls. Basses stood in a cluster as if seeking warmth. Folk instruments gathered together in a corner without ethnic distinction. And, of course, there were amps, accessories, spare parts and a repair shop, too.

  I asked around and did find a couple of people who knew Jesse—sort of. But none could remember when they last saw him or knew where he might be now. After running into two stone walls today, I was feeling a bit on the stubborn side and stuck around for a couple of hours talking to everyone who came in and feigning interest in musical paraphernalia when the need arose.

  Stars had replaced the sun by the time I headed toward downtown. I grabbed a Thunder sub on the way and ate it in my car. I traveled past the downtown area into the adjacent campus of the University of Texas. There, I went to the Texas Union building, home of the Cactus Café.

  For more than twenty-five years, this venue has built an acoustic music tradition and gained national recognition in the process. Many singer-songwriters like Lyle Lovett, Lucinda Williams and Robert Earl Keen kicked off their careers on the Cactus Café stage. Their success was a magnet for those who wanted to follow in their footsteps.

  I hung out, listened to some good music and chatted up as many people as I could. The guy behind the bar and all the waitstaff knew who Jesse was—but that was all they knew.

  When weariness set in, I called it a night. Earlier in the day, I’d planned to make a detour into San Marcos on my way back home. I wanted to pay a visit to the Cheetham Street Warehouse. If anyone knew Jesse, owner Kent Finley would. But I was just too beat. As I drove past the city on the interstate, I made a mental note to find out which night was open mike and drive back up here then.

  All in all, a wasted day. I was whipped, mentally and physically. When I pulled into my driveway, I sat in my car for a few minutes until I found the energy to move.

  I trudged up to the door and froze. Light from the street lamp glinted off of something on my doorknob. I whipped out my keys. For the first time in three months I was grateful for the little key chain light my brother-in-law picked up for me at a soybean convention. I shone its little beam on the knob. A loop of guitar string winked back at me.

  I pulled my gun and took a step back. A rush of adrenaline washed away my fatigue in a flash. I was on high alert. Gun on the ready. Ears fine-tuned. I edged my way to the back of the house.

  I shone my little light on the back doorknob. Nothing there. I eased the key into the lock and shoved the door open. It banged hard into the wall.

  With bent knees and extended arms, I worked my way through the house room by room. A wave of nausea swept over me each time I threw open a closet door, a shower curtain, a large cabinet. I found no one.

  I went back through the house again, looking for any indication that someone had been inside in my absence. I searched for anything moved, disturbed or missing. I checked all the windows, making sure they were locked. I pulled all the drapes. I examined every opening to my house for signs of forced entry. Nothing was damaged. Nothing was out of place. I exhaled my relief.

  I made a cup of chamomile tea and sipped it in the silence of my living room. Listening. Thinking. Rubbing on my arm. Wondering what I was missing. Where was the key to open the door to Bobby’s jail cell? And why couldn’t I find it?

  Who killed Rodney Faver? Trenton Wolfe, who made an art of avoidance? Jesse Kriewaldt or Fingers Waller, whose absences made the heart grow full of suspicion?

  What about Rodney’s ex-wife in a murder-for-hire scheme? Stan Crockett? Mike Elliot? The only person I could scratch off my list was Happy Parker—and I sure couldn’t credit my outstanding investigative skills for that.

  And what about Heather? Unlikely, but not impossible. But why? Killing Happy was an easy fit. Relationships hide fatal bedfellows in ways that no one can imagine from the outside looking in. But what earthly reason would she have to kill Rodney Faver?

  And then there was me. I wasn’t on my own list of suspects. But
I topped Hawkins’ list. Oh, man, I had to shut off my mind.

  I wanted to take a shower to wash off my body’s adrenaline-induced stench, but I was too edgy to confine myself behind a shower curtain with water thundering in my ears. I stood in front of the sink and used a washcloth to clean myself up as best as I could.

  I didn’t know if I could sleep. But I would try. I pulled back the bedspread. My eyes were tricking me. I closed them tight. I shook my head. I opened them. It was still there. Another coil of guitar string rested right on top of my pillow.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  He hunkered down across the street, concealed from view. He enjoyed seeing the rigidity that snapped into Molly’s body as she approached her front door.

  He savored her anxiety as her gun flashed in the glow of the streetlight. He watched her edge carefully around the house. He had a childish urge to sneak up behind her and shout, “Boo!”

  She disappeared from sight. Then he saw lights going on in the house one by one. He saw glimpses of her stiff body as she passed by the front windows.

  He shifted his weight, uncomfortable and impatient, as she sat still as a sleeping cat sipping from a cup in the chair in front of the window.

  She left the room and his sight for an interminable period of time. His thighs cramped. He stood, stretched and shook them out, taking care to remain hidden.

  Her bedroom was at the front of the house, but her blinds were drawn. Nonetheless, he could see the shadow of her passing. He knew she was going to bed. All the rest of the house was now dark.

  He knew she was about to find the memento he left for her. He wished she would scream when she did. But he knew she would not.

  He consoled his disappointment with the knowledge of her fear. He knew it rippled through her body like a striking snake. Ripping at her gut. Pounding in her heart. Stealing her breath.

  He knew she was afraid. And her fear made him smile.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I didn’t get to sleep until daylight. I slept until my telephone rang midday. I pick up the receiver without thinking.

  “Is this Molly Mullet?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Bart Seidell. I am an attorney representing Trenton Wolfe. I am calling to warn you that your harassing phone calls to my client will no longer be tolerated. And you must stop stalking him immediately. One more incident and we will file charges.”

  “I have not made harassing telephone calls.”

  “Twenty-two calls in a week is harassment in my book, Miss Mullet.”

  He did have a point. “But I am not stalking him.”

  “The note you left when trespassing on his property indicates otherwise, Ms. Mullet.”

  “Trespassing?”

  “Yes, Ms. Mullet. I advise you to cease and desist at once.”

  “Just what is your client hiding, Mr. Seidell? Is he trying to cover up the role he played in the death of Rodney Faver?”

  “I will not dignify that with a response. You have been warned. Stay away from my client. I am filing a restraining order request this afternoon.”

  “A restraining order?”

  “Goodbye, Miss Mullet.”

  Clunk.

  He insulted me, threatened me and hung up on me. I felt my anger rising, but stomped it down. I was exhausted, and fuming is not conducive to sleep. I drifted off with visions of Trenton Wolfe in handcuffs dancing in my head.

  A couple of hours later, my doorbell rang. I peered out my bedroom window but could not see enough of the person on the porch to do me any good. Then I looked out on the street—a florist truck.

  I sprinted to the front door and took delivery of a beautiful bouquet—swollen yellow rosebuds pregnant with promise, cheery white daisies with egg yolk centers and a whole bunch of other beautiful flowers whose names eluded me.

  I pulled out the little white envelope and opened the card. “Since you would not let me feed your body, allow me to feed your soul. Stan.”

  My, my, my, Mr. Crockett. One lunch, a couple of phone calls and already you’re sending flowers. I could get used to this. I picked up the phone to express my gratitude. When he answered, I did so—profusely.

  “So what is my super-sleuth up to now?”

  My super-sleuth. He said “my” and in that voice of his. I tried to keep the melting of my heart out of the tone of my voice. “I’ve been trying to find Fingers Waller.”

  “Fingers? Should call him ‘Fists’ the way he knocked around his girlfriend. Aside from his keyboard playing, I have no use for the man. And I told him so on more than one occasion. I wanted Trent to dump him. He wasn’t so great that we couldn’t find a replacement, maybe one with more talent. But Trent thought it could jinx us—throw us off track.

  “And I think Trent believed Fingers when he said his girlfriend was a lying druggie. But I’d seen her black eyes and the fingertip bruises on her arms. So what if she was into drugs? That didn’t make her Fingers’ personal punching bag.”

  “Do you know where I could find him?”

  “Did you go to his girlfriend’s place? Last I heard he was living with her.”

  “Yes and no. He hasn’t been there for a couple of weeks.”

  “Really? Well, I haven’t seen him since our gig at Solms Halle.”

  “So, you’re saying he’s a violent man?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. He was violent with the women in his life. But I can’t say I ever saw him raise a hand or pick a fight with anyone else.”

  “But you would think he was capable of it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you forget about Fingers and just relax at home and enjoy the flowers? Or better yet, let me take you to dinner tonight.”

  “When all this is over, Stan, I’ll be glad to take you up on that offer. Right now, I need to keep focused on this job.”

  “You know what they say Molly, all work, no play . . .”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Stan.” Mercy, that man was a serious temptation. Who knew where this might lead?

  I went outside and pulled the mail out of my mailbox. An electric bill, a gas bill and a letter. I ripped open the flap of the letter with my thumb as I walked back in the house.

  I read the first few words, “Trenton Wolfe is responsible for the death of his sister,” and stopped dead in my tracks. The letter continued, “You ought to look into this amazing coincidence. His sister, Megan, was asphyxiated when Trenton was just seven years old in their fancy old house in the Park Cities of Dallas. He was the only other person in the house at the time. He was institutionalized for a while. And the police turned a blind eye.

  “Rodney Faver’s murder sounds like a natural progression to me.”

  The letter was unsigned and undated. There was no return address. The letter was typed. The envelope typed. Or printed. And now my fingerprints were all over it. Crap.

  I called the office of Bart Seidell. “Mr. Seidell, please.”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “This is Molly Mullet.”

  “I am terribly sorry, Ms. Mullet, but your calls are not welcome in this office. Mr. Seidell specifically told me not to forward any call from you. Good day.”

  She hung up. Good freakin’ grief. Another Ms. Arbuthnot. Did lawyers clone these women in a secret factory somewhere?

  I redialed. “Don’t hang up on me this time, ma’am. Just tell Bart Seidell that Molly Mullet received a letter today and she now knows at least one of the secrets his client is hiding.”

  “I will not, Ms. Mullet. Mr. Seidell is not interested in any communication from you.”

  “Fine. I’ll give him until tomorrow at noon to change his mind. Then, I’m contacting every media source I can find.”

  This time, I hung up. Man, that felt good for a change.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  My doorbell rang early the next morning. Unlike the previous morning, I’d already been fortified with two cups of coffee and was ready to greet the day
. I peered through the curtain on my door. Out on my porch was an absolutely gorgeous specimen of a man. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, mustache—you’d think I ordered him from my fantasy catalogue. When he realized I was staring at him through the window in the door, he flashed his badge. Damn. Another cop.

  I opened the door. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

  “Sergeant Barrientos, ma’am, with the Austin Police Department. Could I please come in and speak with you for a moment?”

  How could I say no? I led him to the sofa and offered him coffee, tea, but stopped short of me. How could I even think that? I am one sick woman.

  “Ms. Mullet, I understand you were up in Austin earlier this week looking for Jesse Kriewaldt.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Have you been up to Austin since?”

  “No. Have you found Jesse?”

  “Yes. Well, no. Actually, Leslie found him.”

  “Leslie?”

  “You know, Leslie.”

  “No. Can’t say that I do.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You don’t live in Austin. If you did, you would. Can’t miss her—him—a regular feature of downtown life.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you mean Leslie, everybody’s favorite transvestite?”

  He grinned. “The one and only.”

  “How did Leslie find Jesse? And what the heck is Jesse doing?”

  “Jesse’s not doing much. You see, Leslie was out looking for a friend of his—hers—and saw a piece of cardboard with a couple of feet sticking out down the alley. He—she—thought the shoes looked familiar and lifted up the cardboard. Instead of his friend, he found Jesse—or the remains of Jesse. By the time Leslie got to the police station, she was a mess. He came hobbling in—a heel broke off on the way over—and her wig was askew.”

  “I don’t think I have ever seen Leslie less than impeccable.”

  “Neither had we. It took a while to figure out what had Leslie in such a state of acute distress. Then we went out and recovered Jesse’s body. So I have to ask again: have you been up to Austin at any time in the last forty-eight hours?”