Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Page 20

  “I thought you could come on over to my place tonight and I would fix dinner.”

  “Sounds delightful, Miss Molly. Can I bring a bottle of wine?”

  “Why not? I’m partial to white merlot.”

  “White merlot it is then. See you this evening.”

  One step down. A minefield ahead. Now I had to plan dinner, run to the grocery store and get busy. I was scratching down my list for the store when the phone rang. Please don’t let it be Stan calling to cancel.

  “Hi, Molly. It’s Lisa.”

  “I’m so glad it’s you,” I said without thinking.

  “Thank you, Molly. That’s so sweet.”

  Not really. But why ruin her day with honesty. “Well, you know me. What’s up?”

  “Monica and I were thinking that we needed to save you from yourself tonight. We both know you’re a nervous wreck with everything kicking off in the courtroom tomorrow. So, we are going to come over, pick you up, take you to dinner then find someplace fun for a few mind-numbing drinks. And we won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Gee, Lisa. That’s really sweet. But you all are going to have to take ‘no’ for an answer, because I already have a dinner date.”

  Dead silence on the other end of the line for five, then ten, seconds. “Date, Molly? Did you say date? You are not just saying this so we’ll leave you at home to fidget in peace?”

  “No, Lisa, really. I have a date. Honest.”

  “This is the first one since Charlie . . . uh . . . since Charlie’s been gone, isn’t it?”

  “Well, sort of. But to be honest, it’s kind of work, too.”

  “Mija, what are you up to now?”

  “I need a DNA sample. The easiest way to get one is to invite the subject of my curiosity to dinner.”

  “A DNA sample? Molly, is Wolfe coming to your house for dinner? Oh my! I know he might be a killer, but he’s a star. He’s hot. And a star. And he’ll be in your house?”

  “Lisa. Pull yourself together. I didn’t say it was Wolfe. I didn’t say who it was, and I want to leave it that way.”

  “Oh. Did you find Waller?”

  “Lisa, I’m not naming names.”

  “Okay. Fine. Don’t tell me. But obviously you think that whoever you are inviting to dinner is a murderer. Right?”

  “Well, yeah, possibly.”

  “Mija, that could be very dangerous. Let me connect you to Lieutenant Padgett. You need back-up.”

  “No, Lisa. Absolutely not. I do not want the police involved. I shouldn’t have even told you. Please don’t screw this up for me.”

  “But, Mija . . .”

  “No, Lisa, no.”

  “Okay. Okay. No SWAT team. But how about some quiet, unassuming, undercover back-up?”

  “Lisa, if one police officer shows up at my door, or even in my neighborhood, in uniform, in plain clothes or in no clothes at all, I swear I will never—never—speak to you again.”

  “But, Mija . . .”

  “I’m serious, Lisa. I’m a big girl. I have a big gun. And—I know this sounds corny—but I know how to use it.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. I shouldn’t. But I promise.”

  *

  I ran to the grocery, returned with food and supplies and got busy in the kitchen. I marinated the steaks, scrubbed the potatoes and rubbed them with olive oil, fixed a big Caesar salad. In the cabinet underneath the sink, I stood up open paper bags, ready to receive glasses, utensils or any other harborer of DNA I could pick up before, after or during dinner. Then I waited like a spider for the tug on my web.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Stan could not keep his eyes off the clock. He checked the time far too often. He was doubling his anxiety level with this neurotic vigilance, but he could not help himself. The minutes oozed by slower than a slug. The anticipation was so intense, it was painful.

  He took a long shower. With the showerhead turned to pulse, he stood under it as the water beat his tension way. By the time he dried off, though, it had returned. He felt its tightness in his shoulders and neck. He struggled to ignore the throbbing in his groin.

  He willed his hand not to reach down and rub. He won that battle, but found himself, without thought, pressing against the arm of the sofa, the back of a chair, anything to ease the insistent hammering beat from below.

  He dressed with slow deliberation, attempting to chew up as much time as he could with that mindless activity. He stood before the bathroom mirror and combed his hair. He stopped and leaned forward to check his teeth and make sure no foreign objects were stuck between them.

  He knew he was a peculiar-looking man, but he also knew that when he spoke, women would forget about his appearance. He cultivated the timber and tone of his voice with the same devotion he used to cultivate his career. Both were worth the effort. He could charm the pants off the shyest virgin and he was now a star. He wasn’t a pretty boy like Trenton Wolfe, but he did okay. He longed to get back on the road again. But first, he had to clean up his mess and replenish the band.

  He was amazed that Mullet was making this so easy for him. He did not have to plot and plan their encounter. He did not have to sneak into her house. She invited him there. She’d open the door and welcome him with open arms.

  Life is good, Stan Crockett, he said to himself, but death can be even better. He laughed out loud at his play on words.

  In the bedroom, he slid a coil of guitar string into each of the back pockets of his jeans. He opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a small revolver. He checked to make sure it was loaded and pushed it down into the specially crafted holster on the inside of his boot. He wondered if he needed to bring a knife, but then decided if he wanted one tonight, Mullet’s kitchen would be open for business. And he smiled.

  Timing was the all-important factor here. When should he make his move? If she was a lousy cook, he’d jump after the first bite, he thought. Again, he laughed out loud at his cleverness.

  He hoped she was an incredible cook. It would be exquisite to savor the taste of well-prepared food and the intense anticipation at the same time. To look across the table and watch her chew and sip, knowing all the while that she was enjoying the final pleasure of her life.

  He shuddered, rubbed himself and headed for the door. It was time.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The baked potatoes were five minutes from done and the coals burned red hot in the grill on the back porch, when the doorbell rang. I slid the gun into the back waistband of my jeans and made sure my oversized T-shirt concealed it from view. I considered wearing more feminine attire, but none of my dresses had a good place to conceal a weapon.

  Satisfied that I was as ready as I’d ever be, I opened the front door and invited Stan into my home. I felt kind of creepy doing that. I hoped I could erase his presence from my memory when all this was behind us.

  I poured two glasses of wine, handed one to Stan and said, “Have a seat. I’ll go put the steaks on the grill.” As I dropped the meat on the hot metal grate, I thought I saw something moving a few yards away. I blinked away the smoke and rising steam and looked again. Nothing. Probably my jumpy nerves imagining things, or a just a neighbor’s cat streaking through the yard.

  I joined Stan in the living room, where he entertained me with stories of his life on the road. He slipped in a lot of tales brimming with sly sexual innuendo. It was embarrassing but I had to admit, a couple of weeks ago, I would have been flattered by his obvious attempt at seduction.

  Now I was immune to his voice. I listened to his big-star bull crap and saw right through it. But I smiled just the same, acted amazed and begged for more. Each minute was more irritating than the last.

  As we ate, he complimented the food often, which was nice even coming from a possible cold-blooded killer. I felt some discomfort, though, at the way he stared at me when I chewed and concentrated on my lips when I took a sip of wine. It was as if he was hungry, his p
late was empty and the only pleasure he could get from food came from watching me consume it.

  After dinner, I stashed his wine glass and fork into bags under the sink. Once again, I caught something outside the window from the corner of my eye. I looked but saw nothing. Relax, Molly old girl. The danger is not in the backyard, it’s seated on your sofa. I walked back into the living room with two big mugs of coffee.

  “All we’ve been doing tonight, Molly, is talk about me,” Stan said. “I don’t know a thing about you.”

  Thank God for that, I thought with genuine gratitude. “Oh, I’ve had a boring little life, Stan. Just a small-town girl. Never done much. Never seen much. Never been much of anywhere. I’ll probably die in the same state at some ripe old age—unlike poor Jesse Kriewaldt.”

  His eyes turned to dark slits. “Who?”

  Jeez, what was I doing? I needed to put on the brakes or change direction. I knew I shouldn’t continue with this, but I couldn’t help myself. I was careening downhill and out of control. It was as if, since I no longer had any interest in flirting with Stan, I felt compelled to flirt with danger. I rubbed my back against the chair to feel the comforting lump of my handgun in the small of my back. “Oh, you know Jesse. He’s the guy that wrote ‘Bite the Moon.’ ”

  “That punk. Sorry wannabe songwriting loser. You can’t believe everything you hear, Molly.”

  “Really, Stan. Have you heard this?”

  I crossed the room and turned on the CD player. The thready voice of Jesse Kriewaldt filled the room. Before I could turn back around, I felt Stan’s hot breath on the back of my neck and a line of sharp pain across my throat. Damn you, Molly Mullet. How stupid. Why did you ever turn your back on that man?

  I reached back for my gun. His hand was there first. He batted my hand away, pulled out the gun and tossed it. It bounced on the sofa, hit the floor and skittered across the floor.

  I gasped, but could not breathe. I clawed at my throat. Oh, dear God, don’t let me die. I felt pain cut deeper into my skin. I struggled to maintain consciousness. My head was light. My knees wobbled. I threw my hands up and back. I tried to dig into his eyes, but I couldn’t find them. I’d lost all sense of where my body ended and his began. Oh, Charlie, this is it. Open the door. I’m coming home.

  I thought I heard shattering glass. And then I fell forward. The sound of a gunshot pulled me out of the black abyss. My face was pressed to the floor. I had no idea of how I got there or how long I’d been there. I turned my head in time to see something large hit the floor in front of me. It was Stan. Did I do that?

  No. Lisa was on his back. He reared up on his arms and tried to throw her off. She hung on like she was super-glued in the saddle. All the while, she held a huge coffee table book in her two hands and rained down blows on his head again and again.

  Monica sat on Stan’s legs as calmly as if she was on her front porch in a rocking chair. She was talking on her cell phone as a thread of blood twisted and turned on its way down her arm.

  If it weren’t for the searing pain around my neck, I would have sworn I was dreaming. I blacked out again, but it couldn’t have been for long because Monica was still on the phone when I woke up. I brought my fingers to my throat and felt a sickening slickness. I held out my hand to look at my fingers, but I couldn’t focus, and everything was in black and white. Where did the color go? It must be a dream. I brought my fingers to my lips and licked their tips. The rusty tang of blood raced through my taste buds. I never remembered taste in any other dream I’d had. This was real. I needed to get up and help Lisa and Monica. Before I could make a move, I was gone again.

  The next thing I knew, I was in a bright room that hurt my eyes. I was lying flat on my back instead of on my face. A guy in a white jacket loomed over me. It was hard to focus on his outline because everything was so white. I was either in a hospital or in heaven. I’d be pleased with either option.

  The guy leaned closer to me. Man, he was cute. Or maybe not. I either almost died or actually died and was probably delusional either way.

  Then he spoke. “Hi. It’s time for you to say, ‘Where am I?’ and then I’ll say, ‘You’re in the hospital.’ ”

  “Oh.” I was alive. Good. I’d kinda gotten used to living my life that way. I reached up and felt the bandage on my neck.

  “You’ll be okay. We had some repair work to do, and you’ll probably have a scar. But I suppose in your line of work, a scar will add character, credibility and a bit of gravitas to your persona. And it will offset the absurdity of your cow-pie tattoo. So I wouldn’t worry a bit about it.”

  Oh, man. That freakin’ tattoo might as well be on my face. I changed the subject fast. “Shouldn’t you be saying, ‘Young lady, you’re lucky to be alive’?” My voice was so raspy I didn’t recognize it.

  “You really shouldn’t talk unless necessary. But no, you’re lucky you have friends like those two girls who kept it from being a closer call.”

  “Where the heck did they come from?”

  He laughed. “Got me. You’ll have to ask them about that.”

  “Well, where did they go?”

  “The bossy one gave the officers and deputies a hard time because she wanted to stay with you. She was clutching some oversized book that she claimed was for your protection.”

  I smiled despite the pain it caused. “Must be Lisa.”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if I got their names straight. But anyway, they hustled her off to the police station, or maybe the sheriff’s office, to take her statement.”

  “Monica?” I asked.

  “The quiet one is still here. She fought us for a while. She wanted to stay by your side. Finally, we convinced her to let us treat her bullet wound.”

  I lurched up to a sitting position. “Bullet wound?”

  “Nothing vital was hit. The bullet side-scraped a bone and exited out her back. She’ll have a sore arm and shoulder for a couple of weeks. Otherwise, she’ll be fine.”

  “What about . . .”

  “The guy who attacked you?”

  I nodded and a pain seared from one side of my neck to another.

  “He survived, unfortunately. But he is under arrest.”

  “For murder?”

  “No, attempted murder.” He laughed. “You really didn’t die. Honest.”

  “I need to get out of here,” I said. I tried to move my legs to throw them over the side of the bed, but they wouldn’t budge. A soft touch from the white-coated guy was all it took to put me flat again.

  “Not hardly,” he said. “You need some rest. You lost a lot of blood.”

  I started to object, but then I was gone again.

  Chapter Fifty

  I knew there was a lot of activity in and out of my room throughout the night and into the early morning. I couldn’t say who or why those people came into my room. All I knew was that when I was aware of someone’s presence, I tried to wake up and speak, but my eyelids fluttered and slammed shut each time.

  No one was in the room when my eyes snapped to attention, and a sense of panic shot adrenaline through my bloodstream. At first, I didn’t understand the reason for my alarm. Then I remembered. I was due in court this morning. What time was it? I looked around. No clock in sight.

  I threw my legs over the side of the bed and steadied myself as a wave of nausea struck. I put a hand over my mouth and breathed deeply. When the sickness passed, I slid off the edge of the bed and onto my feet. I grabbed the nightstand as my head spun and my knees turned to weak pudding. I opened the top drawer of the little table and spotted my watch. Flecks of blood dotted the crystal. The time was 9:15. Crap.

  I eased over to the closet, tossing aside my hospital gown as I walked. I pulled out my day-old panties and slipped them on. Then I grabbed my jeans. The waistband was dark and crusty with dried blood. The stain extended down to midway on the pockets. I swallowed my revulsion and slipped them on. It was my own blood, after all. With any luck, my T-shirt would cover up the
worst of it.

  Then I looked for my bra and T-shirt, but they weren’t there. A shadow of a memory crossed behind my eyes. Someone in white cut off both articles of clothing while I drifted in and out of consciousness. Crap. Crap. Crap. I slid my hospital gown back on and went in search of a shirt.

  I went down the hall, sticking my head in one room after another. I was greeted by puzzled looks from the bed-bound residents. I smiled and said hello. Finally, I looked into one room and instead of meeting another pair of eyes, I saw a lump under the blanket. Even the head was covered and the back was turned toward the doorway.

  I crept into the room and eased open the closet door. Crap. It was a man. Oh well. I pulled off my hospital gown, took the plaid shirt off the hanger and slid my arms inside. Yikes. It was a very large man. The shirt went down to my knees. I looked like a derelict. On the bright side, the shirt covered the bloodstain and my misbegotten tattoo, plus it was baggy enough that no one would notice that I was braless. I whispered “Thank you” to my sleeping donor and tiptoed out the door.

  I tried to look nonchalant as I scurried up the hall, down the hall and out of the building. A lot of people noticed, though. I returned each odd look with a smile.

  On the sidewalk, it dawned on me. I didn’t have a car. I didn’t have a cell phone. Damn. A taxi pulled up the circular drive by the front door and disgorged a passenger. I hobbled up to the driver and asked if he could give me a ride to the courthouse. Through suspicious eyes, he scanned me head to toe. He sighed, shook his head and said, “Get in.”

  Three blocks away from the hospital, I remembered I did not have my purse. I dug in all my pockets but, as I suspected, I didn’t even find a spare penny. I asked the driver to take me to the law offices of Edward Beacham instead.

  After explaining to the driver that I’d be back with the seven-dollar, fifty-cent fare and a healthy tip, I burst through the front door of Eddie’s office. “Sara, loan me twenty bucks.”