Bite the Moon (14 page)

“
You don’t think he had a reason to kill Rodney?”

“
Happy doesn’t have a reason to do anything but beat his drums. But you know who I think did it?”

“
No. Who?”

“
That Bobby they arrested. I think he did him in.”

I wanted to come to Bobby’s defense, but knew this wasn’t the time or place. I stripped my voice of emotion and asked, “Why?”

“
Rodney was rude and insulting to anybody he thought was not as smart as him, and that included almost everybody. He’d be especially cruel to someone like Bobby. Rodney talked a lot about euthanasia for the hopelessly stupid. Rodney could’ve pushed the wrong button, and Pow! The kid went off. Not that I’d blame him.”

I hoped the prosecution would not put her on the stand. “Who are the three friends who were with you in Vegas?”

“
Oh, so we’re back to me again. Back off, honey. I’m not having you annoy them. It’s bad enough I had to sic the police on ’em. One of the girls isn’t talking to me for that. I’ve tried to help you, and this is what I get. Well, go bark up another tree, honey, and leave me alone.”

The slam of the receiver clapped in my ear. For now, Tess was still a suspect—not on the top of my list but still among the prospective candidates.

I got only a couple of steps from the phone before it rang. I grabbed and said, “Tess?”

“
No, ma’am. ’Fraid not. I’m Stan Crockett, and is this Molly Mullet?”

“
Yes, Mr. Crockett, so nice of you to return my call.” About damned time, to be precise.

“
I understand you’ve been trying to get hold of me, and I understand you’re working for the attorney of this guy who killed Faver.”

“
I have been trying to get in touch with you, and I am working for the defense in the Faver murder case, but Bobby Wiggins is innocent until proven guilty, Mr. Crockett.”

“
Stan. Just Stan. Hold on to the Mr. Crockett stuff till I’m too old to know any better, okay? And you’re right. Nobody’s proven that boy is guilty yet. I suppose you don’t think he is.”

“
No, I don’t. That’s why I want to talk to you.”

“
I’ll tell you what—why don’t we talk over lunch. If I spend too much time on the phone, I start getting itchy.”

“
Sounds good to me.”

“
Meet you in forty-five minutes at the Old Solms Mill?”

“
Sure. Want to meet out front?

“
You got it. I’m kind of tall and skinny . . .”

“
I know what you look like, Stan,” I assured him.

“
Good. See you then.”

*

The Old Solms Mill? A coincidence or a meaningful choice?
The restaurant was right next to Solms Halle. You’d think he wouldn’t want to go near the place.

I climbed out of my pajamas and into a pair of jeans and headed for the door. Just in time I remembered that I hadn’t brushed my hair yet that day and rushed into the bathroom. I wished I hadn’t. My face looked more angry and inflamed today than it did yesterday. I gingerly grazed the side of my face with my fingertips and winced. From eye to chin, the left side of my face was scraped raw.

Half an hour after Stan’s call, I pulled into a parking space in the lot across the street from the restaurant. Solms Halle hunkered on the side of the road as if it was getting ready to cross it. The Old Solms Mill, in contrast, was set back from the street, a long curvaceous path leading the way to its door. Full and half whiskey barrels of herbs and brightly colored annuals and perennials flanked the entrance. The fragrance of rosemary teased the air. I couldn’t resist running my fingers across the closest one and breathing in a more intense rush of the intoxicating scent from my skin.

The silvery-gray weathered wood of the old mill loomed high at the end of the path. I took a seat on a wooden bench in front surrounded by more flower-filled barrels to wait for Stan.

I recognized him as he approached the other entrance to the path. Even in the bright sunshine, he still looked two days dead. He loped up the walkway with a loose, disjointed stride.

I stood up, called his name and introduced myself.

We followed the hostess through the dark, cavernous inside dining room with its rustic bare-beam ceilings—like most folks on a sunny day, we chose to eat outside on the multileveled dining deck. All along the way, people stopped eating or talking and turned to stare. I didn’t know if they recognized that it was
the
Stan Crockett walking in their midst, or if they were just ogling one of the weirdest looking lanky bodies on the face of the earth. But it was a comfort to know they weren’t eyeballing me.

The waitress led us to the lower level where, because of the sudden drop of land, we were perched more than seventy-five feet over the rushing waters of the Guadalupe River. After placing our lunch orders, we sat in comfortable silence contemplating the water.

After the waitress set down a pair of lime-crowned Coronas, Stan said, “Okay now, what do you want to know from me?”

“
I’d like to know who you think had a reason to kill Rodney Faver.”

He leaned back and laughed. “Who didn’t is a better question. Faver seemed to enjoy aggravating people.”

“
I don’t think Bobby Wiggins had a reason.”

“
Maybe. Maybe not. I doubt if he knew Faver well enough to cultivate a genuine dislike for the man.”

“
What about you, Stan?”

“
Me?” A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, making him look almost alive.

“
Did you have a genuine dislike of Faver? Did you have a reason to kill him?”

He grinned and cast his gaze up to the sky. “Probably. I did dislike the bastard. Reason to kill him? Probably had three or four.” He leaned forward on his elbows and looked into my eyes. “But you know what? I also had a lot of reason for gratitude. Yeah, maybe we could have made it without Faver—but maybe not. There’s a lot of serendipity to any success in the music world. All these little pieces come together in a pattern of random magic and an unexpected synergy erupts and propels you to the top. Remove one little piece, take away one word said or one small action taken, and all you worked for could crumble at your feet.”

“
So, you’re saying a live Faver was more in your self-interest?”

He shrugged and dropped his eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not. But when things were going as well as they were for us, what reason do you have for taking unnecessary risks?”

The waitress approached and slid our lunch orders on the table. Stan two-handed his burger, took a big bite and wiped his mouth. “So, besides me, who else have you got in your sights?”

“
How about Tess?”

“
Tess? Hmmm.” He took a long swig of his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a large yo-yo in his scrawny neck. “It was all a little too messy for Tess. She talks like she’s hard-core, but she’s pretty prissy. She’d be worried she might break a fingernail or mess up her hair. But could she hire somebody to do it? All I can say is that there is no mess involved in a cash transaction.”

“
You think she did?”

“
Maybe. Maybe not.”

“
How about Happy Parker?”

“
You’re just twisted over him because he scampered off on you the other night. Happy avoids confrontation like a rabbit—stays away from all kinds at all times.”

“
Then all he had to do was refuse to answer the door when I knocked.”

“
True. True.”

“
Made me wonder if he was guilty.”

“
Happy? Naw. Happy’s pretty harmless. The only violence he’s capable of committing is the pounding he gives his drums.”

“
Well, then, maybe he knows something. Maybe that’s why he ran. Maybe he knows who did kill Faver.”

“
Happy? Happy’s not smart enough to figure that out.”

“
Maybe he’s smarter than you think.”

“
I doubt it. He might be worried that Wolfe did it and if he’s caught, all we’ve accomplished will turn into a mirage—just a shadowy glimpse of success but nothing more. And once you’ve seen a little piece, you want it all. Even a laid-back guy like Happy.”

“
Why would he suspect Wolfe?”

“
Wolfe was convinced Faver was ripping us off. He bitched about it all the time.”

“
But he’d been doing that for years. Why would Happy think that now it would turn to murder?”

“
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.

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.