Hound Dog Blues Read online

  Table of Contents

  She was trapped in the basement of a very sexy possible murderer...

  The Novels Of Virginia Brown

  Hound Dog Blues

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Harley’s Next Adventure

  About Virginia Brown

  She was trapped in the basement of a very sexy possible murderer...

  The basement door opened. Looking up, she saw Jett through the cracks in the wooden stairs.

  For a moment he just stood on the top step, the door propped open with his foot, then he let it close softly behind him but remained still and silent. He knew someone was here. The lights . . . she’d left the lights on. She barely breathed, just shallow breaths to keep from passing out, afraid he’d hear her. Bruno Magli shoes descended to the second riser. She briefly closed her eyes, thoughts of O.J. and his infamous shoes reverberating ominously in her brain. Surely, it was coincidence.

  The shoes descended another step, then another, and she held her breath until her ears rang and her lungs ached.

  The shoes stopped on the second from the bottom stair. She saw denim though the gaps, dark socks, long legs—she looked up and her gaze locked with dark blue eyes peering at her through the risers. Oh damn.

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. “Well,” he said, “I seem to have an uninvited visitor.”

  “I . . . uh, was just looking for you.”

  “And now you’ve found me.” He reached the floor and turned to look at her where she’d edged out from beneath the stairs to feel for an escape route in the concrete block walls.

  “Why yes,” she said, aware she spoke too brightly, “here you are. Now that you’re home, I’ll just be going.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” He moved a few steps closer, near enough she could see the cold, dangerous gleam in his eyes. Uh oh.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, “really. I think I hear my mother calling me.”’

  “They’re not home.”

  She stared at him suspiciously. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because that obscene, puke green van is gone from the driveway.”

  “Oh.” That sounded logical. After all, it had been Bobby’s first clue. So maybe Jett hadn’t done anything to them or was responsible for them leaving. Maybe.

  He loomed over her. “I don’t like you being here, and I don’t like my privacy violated. Usually, I tend to get nasty about things like this.”

  Uh oh. Not at all a promising conversation.

  The Novels Of Virginia Brown

  The Blue Suede Memphis Series

  Hound Dog Blues

  Harley Rushes In

  Suspicious Mimes

  The Dixie Divas Series

  Dixie Divas

  Drop Dead Divas

  Dixie Diva Blues

  Divas and Dead Rebels (2012)

  General Fiction

  Dark River Road

  Hound Dog Blues

  Blue Suede Memphis Series

  Book One

  by

  Virginia Brown

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-113-5

  ISBN: 978-1-61194-097-8

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2004 by Virginia Brown

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Originally published as King’s Ransom, by ImaJinn Books, a division of ImaJinn.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Front cover art and design by Don Thurakichprempri

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  :Mdhb:01:

  Dedication

  To Lisa Higdon, who still hasn’t given up on me.

  Thanks for the umbrella pokes, Jiminy!

  One

  “King’s been kidnapped.”

  Harley Jean Davidson shifted her cell phone to her other ear and sighed. “Diva, what do you mean, kidnapped. Wouldn’t that be dognapped?”

  Sitting in the drive-thru lane of the Taco Bell across the street from the buff brick building where she worked, Harley ignored the cashier leaning out the stainless steel window and kept sorting through a pile of change with her free hand.

  “Harley,” her mother said, “this is serious. He didn’t come home yesterday. Your father’s beside himself.”

  That seemed true. In the background, Yogi was yelling something about calling PETA to report the local medical school for abducting dogs for their research.

  “Tell Yogi not to call PETA again,” she said quickly, “they’re getting tired of hearing from him. I’ll come by later.”

  Leaning out of the car window, she deposited the exact change for her burrito supreme with extra salsa and cheese into the cashier’s outstretched hand. Fingers closed over the money, and the arm and cashier disappeared.

  “You need to find King,” Diva said, and there was the slightest tremor in her tone that indicated her own distress. “He’s in danger. I sense great trouble if we don’t find him soon.”

  Harley swallowed an exasperated sigh and said instead, “I have to stop by the office first, and then I’ll be right there. Okay?”

  “Hurry,” Diva said plaintively. “We just got a ransom letter.”

  “A ransom letter—for King?” Her voice went up on the last word, high-pitched and incredulous. “Who’d want that goofy dog?”

  “Yogi.”

  Oh yeah. That was true. Her father adored that maniacal mutt. Harley blew out a sigh and mumbled that she’d get there as soon as she could. It boggled her mind that anyone would willingly take a dog that gleefully dug holes in flowerbeds, dumped garbage cans, and—despite being neutered—went on regular romantic sprees through the neighborhood. Of course, taking the dog could be a form of protest against his depredations. That, she’d understand. After all, it wasn’t like her parents had money. Just the opposite. They lived in a small house her father had inherited from his parents when Harley was only fourteen, and eked out a meager living by selling junk and homemade kitsch at the weekly flea markets in the area. No, taking King had to be a protest of some sort. It was more likely the ransom letter was a list of demands, with keeping King inside a fence at the very top.

  A car horn honked behind her, and Harley took the white sack being held out to her, and then shifted the Toyota into first gear. Jeez, she’d planned on taking the afternoon off. Now she’d have to deal with the damn dog. What a waste of sunshine on a dog that was probably in the holding pen at the Memphis Animal Shelter. Still, it wasn’t even noon yet and if she found him quickly, she could still manage several hours of sun and relaxation. Stress busters.

  Cutting across eight lanes of traffic on Poplar Avenue took the nerve of a Na
vy Seal and the skill of a NASCAR driver, but she managed it, pulling into the parking lot of Memphis Tour Tyme offices without causing any wrecks or being seriously injured. She nosed the silver ’91 Toyota into the comparative shade of a hedgerow that ran along one side of the lot, and then sat back for a moment to think about her options.

  She had to show up to look for the dog or guilt would overwhelm her, so it was a good thing she didn’t have a tour group this afternoon. As a charter tour bus driver and general flunkey, it was sometimes feast, sometimes famine. So she’d decided she’d bask in the sun to recover from the week before and rest up for the week ahead. Memphis in May was always a hectic time of year. This year she’d be ferrying people to or from the airport, to Beale Street and the annual world-famous barbecue, out to Graceland, and down to Jerry Lee Lewis’s home in Nesbit, Mississippi, and even down to Tupelo, Elvis’s birthplace. It wasn’t a bad gig, all in all, though on occasion—such as when she’d taken an entire Australian soccer team on tour—it’d get a little crazy. In mid-August, when thousands of Elvis fans descended upon Memphis and Graceland for the anniversary of Elvis’s death, tour groups ran three shifts and it’d be insane. The candlelight vigil on the anniversary eve would be the busiest night. A new job might be called for by then. Or maybe a convenient coma.

  “Hey baby,” Tootsie greeted her when Harley stepped into the receptionist area offices on the second floor, “you’ve got some messages.”

  Harley leaned her arm on the ledge a foot above Tootsie’s desk. “I’m just stopping by to go ahead and clock out for the day. Diva called. King’s missing again.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Tootsie grinned. “It must be garbage day in their neighborhood. You know he likes to supplement Diva’s vegetarian cuisine with his own version of takeout.”

  “Yeah.” Harley picked up the pink squares of handwritten messages and shuffled through them. “She claims she got a ransom letter for him this time. He’s probably being held hostage by Neighborhood Watch until they promise to keep him fenced.”

  “Or he’s locked in Mrs. Trumble’s garage again.”

  “Please. Even the thought of that crabby old lady makes my hair stand up.”

  “Not today.”

  She looked up and caught Tootsie staring at her hair. Annoyed, she raked a hand through the short blond strands, disgusted when it fell softly over her fingers. “Yeah, I know, I got up late and didn’t have time to gel it into submission.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. You usually look like Rod Stewart in drag.”

  Harley made a face at him. “Look who’s talking—the original drag queen. Wasn’t it just last weekend I saw you dressed as Julia Roberts?”

  “And I was lovely.”

  “Yeah, I have to admit, you really were. It’s humiliating that you’re more beautiful than most women. Not to mention that your boobs are bigger than mine.”

  “It’s magic. I could show you a trick or two, if you like.”

  She grinned back at him. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I seem to remember you once telling me that it all has to do with duct tape, and I don’t think that sounds very comfortable. Or appealing.”

  He wasn’t at all abashed. “Duct tape’s not too bad,” he said. Slender, with long auburn hair that he usually wore pulled back into a ponytail at work, he dressed in slacks and silk shirts during the day, but nights and weekends often found him in sequined gowns and full makeup, a stunning female impersonator who’d once opened for the rock band KISS at a local concert. While Thomas “Tootsie” Rowell was five seven, one hundred and fifty pounds to her five six, one hundred and twenty, he’d been known to borrow her clothes at times. Not often, however. Harley preferred jeans and tee shirts to silk and sequins.

  “I’ll still pass,” she said in reference to the duct tape.

  “At least you don’t have hair on your chest, baby.” Tootsie pulled the wire mouthpiece of his headset forward, and then punched at buttons on the phones. “That can be a real bitch. Good morning, Memphis Tour Tyme, how may I direct your call?”

  Harley went down the short hallway to her office. It’d been a storage closet in a previous incarnation, but was now used by the drivers. There was just enough room for a desk with an old computer, a chair, and a bookcase. On the wall next to the door hung a metal box containing the security system brain. Below it was a small keypad similar to one out in the receptionist area. She’d hung a large mirror on the wall next to the box, more for the illusion of space than for any sense of vanity.

  She hung the van keys back in their allotted spot, signed out her daily log, and considered taking home the schedule for the coming month before deciding against it. Her New Rules for A Peaceful Life specified that she not worry about tomorrow. Today was usually enough to give her stomach cramps. It was a personal rule she hadn’t made lightly. Leaving corporate banking for a job free of stress had been a matter of survival. So here she was, in her late twenties and burned out, but finally in a job she didn’t have to take home with her at night. It was a good trade-off—most of the time. At least, when she didn’t have to deal with her family it was.

  Right now, she’d find that damn dog to appease her parents, then go home and relax.

  In the short time she’d been inside, heat had built up inside her Toyota. It smelled like a Mexican restaurant when she opened the door, waves of bean burrito and salsa rushing out in a gush of air. Her stomach growled audibly. She slid into the driver’s seat, started the car and let it idle a moment while she rifled in the sack. Nachos and chips in a little plastic container sat at the bottom, and she pulled it out to sit it on the empty passenger seat, flicking up the top. Gobs of unnaturally yellow cheese oozed over the sides. She scooped it up with a salty triangle of chip and popped it into her mouth. Then she put the car in reverse, backed from the slot and nosed out into the traffic streaming down Poplar Avenue, a main city thoroughfare that angled east from the bluffs of the Mississippi River all the way into the next county.

  Turning at the next intersection, she scooted down Highland toward the neighborhood and house where she’d spent her teen years, an older area of town on the fringes of the University of Memphis. She had her own place now, an apartment near Overton Park Zoo that was her refuge, but this area was a lot more familiar. It was a tidy little pocket of houses just across the railroad tracks from the sprawling university, with neat green lawns and big trees shading slabs of concrete sidewalk. During the years, the area had gone through several metamorphoses, from families to hippies to retirees. At the moment it consisted of head shops, tattoo parlors, a Catholic school and church, a music store and a McDonald’s, along with the hard-core older residents, an influx of college students, and young professionals buying their starter homes.

  Harley knew many of the residents, though the inevitable changes drew the pocket tighter and tighter. It’d been home since she was fourteen. Nearly fifteen years was a lifetime. Long enough, she figured, to know where to find a renegade dog.

  Most of the emptied garbage cans had already been removed from the curbs, but a few still stood with tops thrown back. A trail of broken eggshells, limp paper towels, coffee grinds, and other flotsam left behind by sanitation workers littered the curbs, but there was no sign of a black and white dog gorging on forbidden delicacies. Uneasy suspicion knifed through her, ignited by Tootsie’s reminder of her parents’ cranky neighbor: Mrs. Trumble.

  Whatever it was that drew King to the old widow’s house might still hold true so she had to check, though if Mrs. Trumble had seen him first, King may well be on his way to the pound at this very moment. A quick turn down Spottswood took her to the two-story white clapboard house at the corner of Patterson, the scene of King’s worst crime to date. It looked quiet, with no sign of the dog or Mrs. Trumble. That could be good or bad. It was a toss-up.

  Slowing down, Harley debated stopping and knocking on the door. Mrs. Trumble had taken out a restraining order on Yogi the month before, but it was restricted only
to him and Diva and not to her. All because of that damned demented dog and a ’59 Chevy. Who’d have thought a dog could do so much damage in such a short time? Those old cars were built like tanks, even the seats, but King had been accidentally locked inside Mrs. Trumble’s garage with no way out and had made himself a nest in the Chevy’s back seat, tearing up most of the upholstery. Afterward, Mrs. Trumble had met Yogi on the sidewalk with a rake, and the problem escalated from there. Now there was a restraining order and ill will that made the two blocks between the houses seem much closer.

  Still . . . what would it hurt to ask the old lady if she’d seen King?

  “What the hell do you want?” Mrs. Trumble greeted her through the screened door, and Harley dredged up a smile that she hoped was placating.

  “Uh, I just thought I’d ask if you’ve seen my father’s dog, as he’s—”

  “No.” Mrs. Trumble glared at her over the top of her rimless glasses. “And you tell your father that I’m calling the cops on him.”

  Harley took a step back. “Why would you do that? I’m just looking for King, and—”

  Shaking with fury, Mrs. Trumble fumbled with the door latch, hand quivering and gnarled fingers plucking at the metal hook. The door popped open and Harley leaped back as stiff yellow broom straws poked at her. The old lady’s white hair frizzed wildly around her head, and her eyes were narrowed and bright blue behind her bifocals.

  “All that money,” she screeched, “I’m gonna sue!”

  “All right, all right,” Harley said hastily, and retreated across the yard and toward her car parked at the curb. “Jeez, it’s not like Yogi didn’t pay you for the damages.”

  When it looked like Mrs. Trumble intended to follow her with the broom, she got into her car and slammed the door, hitting the electric locks. Amazing how much agility and energy little old ladies could have. Age hadn’t slowed Mrs. Trumble down any—she looked like exercise guru Richard Simmons if he dressed in a blue flowered house dress and clunky, sensible shoes.