Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Read online

  When I lost my husband, I tried to reach out to her. We had something in common after my Charlie’s death, but my efforts were wasted; it never brought us any closer.

  I parked in front of my old house out of habit and walked cater-corner across the street to the Wigginses’ home. I thought I was being paranoid when I felt eyes crawling on my skin as I traversed the sidewalk and climbed the three steps to the porch. But the second I raised my hand to rap on the wooden screen, the inside door flew open and there stood Thelma Wiggins.

  Anxiety dug into her face like a putty knife gouging deep furrows of sorrow and worry. Her watery blue eyes looked vacant as we stared at each other through the mesh screen. I waited for an invitation to come inside. When one didn’t come, I swallowed hard and spoke. “Mrs. Wiggins? You remember me, right? From across the street?”

  Her mouth compressed tighter than a new rosebud and a spark of anger resurrected the life in her eyes. “What do you want now?”

  “Mrs. Wiggins, I came by to see if I could be of any help.”

  “Haven’t you people done enough? I’ve told you everything I know. I told you Bobby did not, could not, would not do this. What more do you want from me?”

  I realized too late that it was a mistake to come here on my way to work. In my uniform, I’d been transformed into the enemy. “Mrs. Wiggins, I am not here in an official capacity. I’m here as a family friend. I don’t believe Bobby did this. I want to help.”

  Her shoulders sagged and the anger fled her eyes. “Molly, you’re one of them. You can’t be of any help to me. I can’t trust you, and my lawyer says I can’t talk to anybody connected to law enforcement or the district attorney’s office. Why, he even told me to do my grocery shopping at odd hours to avoid running into any of you all. I can’t talk to you anymore, Molly.” She pushed on the door as she said my name.

  Before she could close it all the way, I blurted out, “Wait, Mrs. Wiggins.”

  She peered around the edge of the door, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Molly.”

  “Lawyer? Did you say you’ve got a lawyer?”

  “Yes. Dale Travis.”

  I couldn’t have heard her right. “Dale Travis of Foster, Travis and Crum over in Houston?”

  “Yes, Molly. Goodbye.” The door clicked shut.

  Dale Travis? One of the most high-powered—and high-priced—criminal attorneys in Texas. How did Thelma Wiggins pull that off? How could she even dream of raising the retainer? Nothing about this case was making any sense.

  I went down the steps and sidewalk and swung open the gate. I turned back to look at the house. A curtain was pulled back in the window to the left of the door. As soon as I zeroed in on it, it twitched, then fell closed.

  Chapter Five

  Thelma hated turning away from Molly—she was one of the rare real friends Bobby’d ever had. By the time Molly was eight years old, she had become a regular visitor at the Wigginses’ house. By then, Bobby was eighteen by the calendar, but by any measure of maturity, Molly was racing past him at high speed.

  Before Molly came along, there were other kids who came by to play, but they all had a hidden agenda—they wanted to get a laugh at Bobby’s expense. Sometimes, Bobby just didn’t get it and guffawed along with the rest of them. That reaction was too unsettling for them to handle—they scurried off to peddle their meanness elsewhere. Other times, their cruelty was clear and Bobby cried. His distress only egged on his tormentors who pointed fingers and laughed harder until Thelma came out and drove them away.

  Molly was no paragon of virtue—she was a kid, after all. Sometimes she would succumb to peer pressure and ridicule Bobby with the rest of them. Most of the time, though, Molly shared her vision of the world with Bobby with a sensitivity and generosity of spirit that brought tears to Thelma’s eyes.

  Her lips formed into the shadow of a smile when she thought back a couple of decades ago to Bobby and Molly. One of the first times she noticed that Molly was different from the rest was on a breezy summer afternoon. She looked out the kitchen window and saw the unlikely pair hunkered under the bright orange and red blooms of the fire bush.

  The sides of their heads were so close together that the strands of Bobby’s blond hair entwined with the deep chestnut brown of Molly’s. Their eyes gazed upward, their faces transfixed with awe—they were so still Thelma wondered if they were holding their breaths. What in heaven’s name could have captivated them so?

  Thelma found out a few minutes later when Bobby burst into the kitchen, trembling with excitement. He was so full of the story he wanted to tell, he struggled to form the words. “The tiny, the tiny. Black legs. Dangle. Oh. M-m-m-m-molly-uh-uh . . .”

  She so wanted to help him—but she knew he had to do this for himself. She waited with patience—love and sorrow steeping an intense brew of emotions in her chest.

  Slowly, Bobby found his words. “Molly showed me the hummingbirds. She showed me their legs as they sipped on the flowers. Tiny black legs. Little bitty bodies. Molly said they is dangle—dangle—dangling legs. There, I said it. Dangling. Molly helped me. Tiny black legs dangling from little bitty bodies. That’s what Molly say. Molly has good words. And the hummingbirds, they talk to us. Talk, talk, talk. They talk a lot, Mama.” For days, Bobby tried to imitate the hummingbird sounds as he roamed through the house and the yard. The more he chirped, the deeper grew Thelma’s gratitude.

  But it was the day of the dead mouse that endeared Molly to Thelma forever. Bobby caught Thelma red-handed on her way to the trash can with the limp rodent hanging from the trap.

  “You killed him. You killed him,” Bobby wailed, tears raining down his face and puddling in the corners of his mouth. Bobby reached out and stroked the gray, bloodied fur. “Poor mousy. Poor mousy.”

  “Bobby, that thing is filthy. Don’t touch it.”

  “How could you, Mama? How could you?”

  “Bobby, it’s just an old, nasty field mouse.”

  “That’s what you think. What if it’s a special mouse? What if it’s Mighty Mouse?”

  “Honey, Mighty Mouse is too strong to get caught in a trap.”

  “Not if he was ordinary. Not if the trap caught him so fast he didn’t have time to put on his cape and stuff. What if you killed Mighty Mouse? Who’s gonna save the day?” Bobby broke into blubbering sobs.

  Thelma was lost in her own pain. Her twenty-year-old son with the heart and mind of a four-year-old. She felt his sorrow and she felt her own. She hung her head and wanted to die. She ached to turn back in time. To change the past. The present—the future—it was all more than she could bear.

  “Bobby, it’s okay,” Molly said as she crossed the yard. Thelma lifted her bowed head and looked into a face filled with the empathy of a saint. Her deep, dark brown eyes were framed by a short brown cap of pixie cut hair and a smile so beguiling it could make a mad dog sit up and beg.

  Molly approached Bobby and patted his arm. “I just saw Mighty Mouse, Bobby. On my TV. Let’s go see if he’s on your TV.”

  Bobby wiped his wet eyes and runny nose on his shirtsleeve and took Molly’s offered hand. She spent the whole day with him driving every trace of the morning’s sorrow from his mind.

  And, now, that little girl was a thirty-two-year-old grown woman, but the sweetness never left her face. Her chestnut brown hair was longer now, sweeping across her shoulders when she moved. Her brown eyes were so dark, it was difficult to tell where the pupils began and her irises ended. In their depths, Thelma saw deep wells of honesty and empathy. And yet I slammed the door in her face, Thelma thought. She shuffled away from the front door and into the kitchen and looked out the window to the shed—the shed where her husband Stuart took his own life nearly thirty years ago.

  There were days when Thelma thought the shed looked like a good place to die. Today was one of those days. Thelma drew her arms tight around her body as she embraced the idea of death. Good thing Dale Travis got rid of Stuart’s revolver, Thelma mused. Good thing I nev
er bought one of my own.

  She poured another cup of black coffee and slumped in the kitchen chair. She sipped. The bitterness of her life scalded her tongue.

  Chapter Six

  Weary before my day had begun, I climbed into my car and drove into work. I saw Detective Hawkins pacing by the back door as I pulled into the parking lot. I hoped he wasn’t waiting for me. My hopes were dashed as soon as I opened my car door and I heard him shout, “Mullet. There you are.”

  “Hi, Detective. I’ve gotta get in to roll call.”

  “You’ve got a few minutes, Mullet. Come on. I’ve got to show you something.”

  “I don’t have much time.”

  “Don’t need much time, girlfriend. C’mon. C’mon.”

  Hawkins walked off faster than I thought he was capable of moving. I trudged behind him with the same enthusiasm I exhibited on my way to a root canal. When we reached his cubicle, he flourished a piece of paper. “Look,” he said. “Look at this. You know what this is, Mullet? Vindication, that’s what. Vindication, Mullet.”

  “Hawkins, if you’d stop wiggling it around, I’d look at it.”

  He laid the paper on his desk and although it didn’t need it, he smoothed it flat with both his hands. I scanned the document. It was a laboratory report. Item tested: a key. Results: positive for blood. Blood Type: A positive. The item was sent to the state forensics lab in Austin for DNA testing.

  I looked at Hawkins and shrugged. Whatever it meant, I’d bet it did not bode well for Bobby. The detective was grinning from ear to ear.

  “See. See,” he said pointing to the blood type.

  “See what?” I asked.

  “The blood is A positive. Rodney Faver’s blood is A positive.”

  “Yeah. Well, the man bled a lot, Hawkins, you should find his blood at the scene.”

  “Bobby Wiggins’ blood is O positive.”

  “Yes. And?” I made little circles with my hands hoping to encourage him to get to the point.

  The smile slid off of his face. His eyes turned as cold and hard as a polished chunk of onyx. “The key is the closet key.”

  He paused. I held my breath.

  “I found the key in Bobby Wiggins’ pocket.”

  For a moment, I was stunned into silence. My left hand jumped to my right arm and rubbed with frantic strokes. Faver’s blood on a key in Bobby’s pocket? There’s something wrong with this picture. The report is wrong or information is missing. Something. “No,” I spat out at last.

  “No? Whadya mean ‘no’?” He grabbed the sheet of paper off his desk and waggled it in my face again. “No, Mullet? I don’t think so. It’s right here in black and white. Ten years ago, it was all we’d need to walk in court. And win. Now, we’ll wait and get the DNA test results. When they come back, it’ll be a slam dunk for the DA. Slam dunk, Mullet. Slam dunk.”

  I tried to bite my tongue but I started talking before I could bear down. “I don’t think Dale Travis will think it’s a slam dunk, Detective.”

  His eyes squinted up like those of a suspicious child. “Dale Travis? What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “Dale Travis is representing Bobby Wiggins.”

  His face paled. His lips moved without making a sound. Then he slapped his desktop and burst into a belly laugh. “Good one, Mullet. Where’d you pick up that idle gossip? From the old-timers browsing down at Henne Hardware or from the farmers’ wives down at the feed store?”

  Damn his arrogance. “From Thelma Wiggins, sir.”

  “When did you see Thelma?”

  “This morning. I dropped by to offer my help with Bobby’s case.” I spun around and walked away. No sense telling him she shut the door in my face.

  “You did what? What are you—what did she—what do you think—you’re a disgrace, Mullet. A freakin’ disgrace.”

  His words still rang in my ears when I reported to roll call. They would not leave my head. They were stuck there because I suspected he was right. I shouldn’t be wearing a badge. I shouldn’t be in uniform. One unremarkable morning nearly six years ago, a horrid event unfolded before my eyes. It was that dark day that sent me careening down this path. For all the right reasons, I had made a very wrong decision.

  Chapter Seven

  I can’t believe how silly I felt that morning. Married three years and I still got excited over a respectable rendezvous with my husband. But the night before was such a lonely night. The nights were always lonely when Charlie worked the overnight shift. I didn’t think there was enough time in our lives for me to get used to sleeping without him.

  So there I was, pulling into a parking space at McDonald’s, feeling like a teenager on her first date. “All you’re doing, Molly, old girl, is meeting your husband for breakfast,” I chastised myself. After the romance in our own fast food heaven, I’d head to work and Charlie would slide into our lonely bed seeking traces of the warmth I’d left behind. While he dreamed, I’d spend a day at the high school trying to teach chemistry to a few kids who gulped down the knowledge like a drunk on a binge and a whole lot more kids who viewed any science class as the high school equivalent of doing hard time.

  Behind the counter was one of the latter group from my fifth-period class. Joey’s cap was askew and his eyes were glazed from the too early hours of the preschool breakfast shift. “Good mornin’, Ms. Mullet. Whaddaya want this morning?”

  “Two Egg McMuffins and a pair of coffees, Joey, thank you.”

  “Comin’ right up, Ms. Mullet.”

  Damn, how do any of us survive our teenage years? Awkward limbs, protruding ears, acne arcades setting up shop on our foreheads. Even if you didn’t have any of these problems, you thought you did or you knew you surely would by the next sunrise.

  I trundled to a table for two that had a clear view of the door so I could signal to Charlie when he came in. The yeasty, eggy aroma wafting out of the bag tested my self-control. Patiently, I just sipped my coffee and tugged on my sleeve to make sure my tat was undercover. All the while, I searched my mind for any untended worries or neglected chores while I waited for my favorite guy.

  A whimper drew my eyes toward the restaurant counter. Before I identified the source of that pathetic sound, the air was torn with a voice screaming, “Now!”

  Time froze as my eyes focused in on the unfolding tableau. On my side of the counter, a male in a gray sweatshirt with its hood pulled tight around his face, pointed a shotgun at Joey. Joey’s eyes caught mine and pounded waves of terror across the room.

  I rose to my feet, my synapses firing in rapid time seeking a solution, a strategy, an answer. Before I could formulate anything more than fear, the blast blew through my eardrums and red blossomed in full bloom on Joey’s shirt.

  Instinctively, I moved towards him and as I did the shotgun swung towards me. Sensual acuity rocked me. The smoky scent of gunpowder, the stink of sweat, and the stench of fresh blood overwhelmed the everyday smells of grilling burgers, frying potatoes and sizzling sausage. I felt a sticky spot beneath my foot where the mop had missed. The air was crisper, edges sharper and colors brighter. And everywhere I looked I saw the brilliant red of Joey’s blood pulsing to a salsa beat.

  The barrel shook as he pointed it at me. One of my students? I couldn’t tell. The sweatshirt hood concealed everything but two glazed eyes peering above the drawstring.

  A tiny click drew my eyes to the door to the outside. It was opening. Oh my God, no. I saw a uniformed sleeve pulling the door open. The armed man saw it, too. He swung his weapon towards the sound. I screamed, “Noooo!” just as Charlie stepped through the door.

  Too little. Too late. Charlie turned in the direction of my voice and the gun fired. I ran for Charlie. The shooter ran for the opposite door. The blast struck Charlie between his chin and his chest. A geyser of blood shot into the air. I pushed down on the wound, trying to stop its flow. It squirted through my fingers, spattered in my face. I had to stop the bleeding. With the shooter gone, other patrons crawled out fr
om cover and handed me stacks of napkins. They soaked through as fast as I could apply them.

  For a brief, jubilant moment, I thought it was working. But my efforts had not slowed his rapid loss of blood, Charlie was losing blood pressure. He was bleeding out.

  “Charlie, don’t you do this to me. You promised, Charlie. You promised we would grow old together. Damn it, Charles Mullet, stop bleeding. Stop it!”

  I knew it was hopeless. I knew he was gone, but still I raged on. My anger built as his life faded, as if the fires of my ire could raise him like a phoenix from the ashes left in its wake. “Breathe, Charlie. Damn it, breathe!”

  When the police arrived, I sat, arms hanging limp, eyes reflecting no light, all of me covered in blood and surrounded by mountains of bloody napkins embossed with the McDonald’s arch. Gentle hands slid under my arms and lifted my limp body off the floor. Someone else slipped their fingers beneath my legs and laid me on a stretcher.

  As they carried me away, I saw Charlie lying there waiting for the ID techs before he left for the morgue. I, on the other hand, was bound for the hospital—probably the psycho ward. “Charlie, Charlie, take me with you, please.”

  Charlie did not answer. He didn’t even utter a mumble or grunt the way he did when he wasn’t really paying attention. Charlie was gone.

  I was numb. I heard words, I saw lips move, but all I heard was gibberish. The world did not look right. It all blurred and tilted like a mean nightmare ride at a maniacal carnival. And all I could smell was the desperate scent of fresh-spilled blood even after I was miles away.

  Chapter Eight