Bite the Moon (7 page)

Next on my list was Stan Crockett. Of all the people on the stage, he had the most influence over Wolfe. Was that a source of conflict with Faver? But he’s so skinny, so pale, so low-key, he looks half dead himself. It stretched my imagination to believe he possessed enough passion to wrap a guitar string around anyone’s neck with sufficient force to kill.

That thought brought up the image of the pools of blood in Solms Halle the night of Rodney Faver’s murder. In a flash, the vision morphed into the ocean of red surrounding my Charlie. The memory was so vivid I could still smell the distinct odor of fast food mingling with the scent of spilled blood. A dull ache shot out from my heart to the tip of every limb and swathed my mind like cotton batting.

Oh, Charlie. If only we had met somewhere else. If only we had not met at all. I squeezed my eyes tight and forced the image to fade. I drained my coffee cup and turned my attention back to my list.

Happy Parker—the guy on the drums. A name like that would make me homicidal. Was it his real name? I could only hope it wasn’t, but the tags some women hang on their children made me believe childbirth was the leading cause of temporary insanity.

The keyboard guy was next. What was his name? You never heard a thing about him. That in itself could be a reason for him to be hostile toward Rodney Faver.

Who else could’ve clashed with the band manager? Mike Elliot, the manager of Solms Halle was a good prospect. I couldn’t imagine Mike doing something that violent, but then, that’s what all the neighbors say when the police haul away the serial killer living next door. Mike was a more probable suspect than Bobby. He had access to the keys. He was smarter than Bobby—smart enough to do the deed unseen and slip the bloodstained key into Bobby’s pocket. But would he let Bobby take the rap?

Who else? That question took me back to thinking about the spouses and girlfriends again and brought to mind Faver’s other clients, the road crew and the inevitable groupies. Who in that herd of humanity could be angry or desperate enough to kill? I needed to get lists of names and look at each one.

I couldn’t think of anyone else right now. But I was sure more names would crop up as soon as I started digging. But no one had authorized me to dig yet. Time to get dressed and down to Houston.

I pulled open my closet door. The contents were depressing. I’d been wearing uniforms to work for too long. The only new clothes I’d bought in years were jeans. My teaching wardrobe still hung on the rod, but it was all so dated and schoolmarmish. I settled on a black and tan jacket dress that looked like it might have a life outside the classroom. I checked to make sure the short sleeves were long enough to conceal the botched indiscretion on my arm. I pulled out a pair of black pumps from the bowels of the closet. I hadn’t worn them for such a long time, I had to wipe off the dust. I thought about polishing them, but then decided the humid Houston air would strip the shine off in two seconds flat.

I hopped into my red Beetle and hit the road. I drove down Route 46 past scenic vistas, trashy trailer parks and rickety emu pens. Then I whipped onto the most boring stretch of pavement ever created by man, Interstate Highway 10—more than 200 of the ugliest miles on the planet stretching down to Houston. I popped in a Susan Tedeschi CD to mute the pain.

At long last, I arrived in the thriving metropolis itself. I didn’t know if it was real or just an illusion, but the lanes of the highways in Houston felt narrower than those on any other major thoroughfare in the country. I clenched my teeth as I navigated through the tight terrain.

I arrived downtown and pulled into the parking garage for the high-rise office tower that Foster, Travis and Crum called home. The cost of getting my car out of that inner sanctum sounded more like a ransom than a parking fee.

Inside the office tower, I stepped into the elevator and pressed twenty-seven. There was a twenty-eighth floor, but access to it required the insertion of a membership card. There was no indication of what kind of membership card, but I guess if you had one, you knew it.

The doors opened into the lobby of the esteemed legal giants. Straight ahead, across a football field of deep gold carpet, were the glass walls of a conference room. Looking through it, you got a megalomaniac’s view of the cityscape beyond. To my right was a cluster of three seating areas. The chairs and love seats in each grouping were upholstered in rich burgundies and golds.

To my left was an extravagant curve of walnut topped with a custom cut slab of glass with rounded edges—the desk of Ms. Arbuthnot, according to the bronze nameplate on its surface. I now had a name for the snotty-voiced woman. The fact that she did not disclose her first name on that plate confirmed all my worst suspicions about her.

“
May I help you?” she asked in a tone that rattled my teeth. Her gray suit was buttoned up top to bottom. Her black hair pulled back so tight it stretched the skin on her face and revealed a pair of crafted ears adorned with small gold hoops. Her lips did not curve in welcome but slashed two fine parallel lines of radish red across her face. She had an elegant but razor-sharp nose designed to look down and disapprove. At the moment, it was pointed at me.

A woman like this summoned up two polar opposite sensations in me. One was the urge to flee. The other was the perverse desire to stick out my tongue or give rude gestures with my hands. I controlled both reactions and plastered a pleasant smile on my face as I approached. “Good morning,” I chirped. She arched one plucked eyebrow in response. “I’d like to see Mr. Dale Travis, please?”

“
Do you have an appointment?” she asked but I didn’t know how. I’d swear her lips did not move.

“
No ma’am, I don’t. But I drove up from New Braunfels regarding the Bobby Wiggins case.” Up went that eyebrow again.

“
I’m terribly sorry you drove all that way, Miz—Miz?”

“
Mullet.”

“
Miz Mullet. Yes, I am sorry you drove all that way, but Mr. Travis is far too busy today to accommodate you.”

“
That’s fine, Ms. Arbuthnot. I’ll just have a seat and be ready when a small window of opportunity opens in his schedule.”

Her mouth opened and closed.

“
I’m in no hurry,” I added.

“
As you wish,” she said and swiveled away to rustle a stack of papers.

I passed a ponderous afternoon in the august presence of the ice queen. Entertainment was very limited. A few clouds scudded by, breaking the monotony of the pale blue sky. Men and women in suits darted past on their way from the offices on the left to the offices on the right and back again. Few spared the time to give me even a cursory glance. Ms. Snotty Arbuthnot turned her back to me whenever she talked on the phone to ensure that I could not eavesdrop. Drats.

A few hours into my vigil, I yearned for a trip to the restroom but dared not ask my hostess for the location of the facilities. I rose to walk off the urge. My movement provoked a frosty glare that drove me back to my seat. I tried not to squirm.

As if a hidden mechanism ejaculated her from her seat, Ms. Arbuthnot popped up like a jack-in-the-box behind her desk. She stared at me until she was certain she had my full attention. “The offices are closed now.”

“
Is there any possibility . . .?” I began.

“
You must vacate the premises immediately,” she insisted.

I concentrated on my posture as I walked with measured steps to the elevator door and pressed the button. On the way down, I decided I had to give it one more day. I’d hole up in Houston for the night. After ransoming my car, I stopped and picked up a toothbrush and other necessities, a handful of paperback books and a leather portfolio from the distressed merchandise rack. It had a stain of indeterminate origin on one side but if I held it right, no one else would know.

The next morning, I flashed a fresh smile at the refrigerated visage of Ms. Arbuthnot. She looked much like she did the day before but unlike me, she had a change of clothes. She wore a navy blue suit, its cut as severe as its predecessor, but the look was buffered a bit by the gleam of blue topaz on each earlobe.

Her eyes narrowed. She recognized me, but she was not about to acknowledge it. “May I help you?”

“
Certainly, Ms. Arbuthnot,” I smiled. “I need a moment of Mr. Travis’ time.”

“
Do you have an appointment?”

“
Alas, no,” I said.
Rein it in, Molly
. “But I am certain Mr. Travis would like to hear what I have to say.”

The eyebrow cocked up again. “I am sorry but Mr. Travis’ calendar is far too full today to accommodate you.” She flipped the pages of a day planner. “He does, however, have a small opening available two weeks from Thursday at eleven a.m. Would you care to make an appointment for that time?”

“
No, I would not. But thank you just the same. I’ll just wait here until he has a free moment.”

“
As you wish,” she said, slamming the planner shut.

I took a seat as far from the officious woman as I could. I laid my portfolio on the coffee table, damaged side down and slid out a paperback,
Jolie Blon’s Bounce,
by James Lee Burke. I suppose I should have selected a book with a more dignified title, but I knew I could depend on Burke to make the wait seem much shorter.

I was three-quarters of the way into the novel when I realized Ms. Frosty was standing in front of me. “Yes?” I asked.

She stared down at me with a look of distaste distorting her mouth. Her eyes were focused on my upper arm where the bottom of my cow-pie beaker winked below the sleeve. I tugged the arm on the jacket down and smiled.

She switched her gaze to my face. “I am going to lunch now. I would prefer that you would go, too. In fact, it would be best if you did not come back. You are wasting your time here and disrupting our office.”

“
Lunch sounds great. Where should we go?” I asked, beaming a high-intensity ray of artificial innocence in her direction.

Her eyes flared wide. She pivoted on the ball of one foot and returned to the fortress of her desk where she stared straight ahead, her peripheral vision keeping me in view.

I surrendered and went to find something to eat.
But never fear, Ms. Arbuthnot, I shall return.

I returned from lunch before the dragon at the gate. I was tempted to slip past her fortress in her absence and sniff out the lair of the elusive Mr. Travis. Before I could act on that impulse, Ms. Arbuthnot returned to her desk. She glared in my direction. I pulled out my book and began to read. Before I reached the bottom of the page, she was looming over me again.

“
I asked that you not return, Miz Mullet.”

I inserted my bookmark, closed the book and lifted my eyes to hers. But I did not utter a word.

“
Miz Mullet, I said that you are no longer welcome at Foster, Travis and Crum.”

“
That’s a shame, Ms. Arbuthnot. But if I can’t have your hospitality, I’ll just have to accept your hostility. I cannot leave until I have seen Mr. Travis.”

Her nostrils flared so wide I expected to see flames issue forth and singe my eyebrows. “As I have told you before, that is not possible without an appointment. You will have to leave now.”

I held her gaze for a moment and then leaned back and reopened my book.

Ms. Arbuthnot did not respond well to being ignored. “Fine. You leave me no other recourse. I will have to call the police.” She spun around and just missed collision with the figure that materialized behind her.

“
That will not be necessary, Ms. Arbuthnot. I will handle the matter from here.”

Without another word, the ice queen glided to her desk and the interloper turned toward me and stuck out his hand. “Ms. Mullet? Dale Travis.”

I lurched to my feet, and
Jolie Blon
bounced from my lap to the floor. I took his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Travis.”

Pleasure? It was a mouth-drying, palm-sweating moment of panic. There he stood. Each dark brown hair on his head rested in tailored repose; even the wisps of gray at his temples were aligned in perfect symmetry on either side of his face, as if he controlled which ones could change color and when. His eyebrows, thick as wooly caterpillars, hung like a cliff over deep-set, anthracite eyes. His expensive suit appeared to be carved on the broad shoulders of his six-foot, three-inch frame. In my tired, two-day outfit, I felt like a vagrant lost in the piney woods.

“
Follow me, Ms. Mullet,” he said as he turned and headed for the hall.

Under the frosty gaze of Ms. Arbuthnot, I gathered up my fallen book and portfolio with all the dignity of a demented squirrel stashing nuts. When I stepped through the doorway of Travis’ corner office, my jaw dropped. The view from the lobby was magnificent but this was enough to make an eagle drool. Two walls of glass met at right angles in the corner revealing 180 degrees of sweeping cityscape. At Travis’ request, I slipped into a leather armchair in front of his paperless desk.

He leaned back in his chair and rested his right ankle on his left knee, revealing the luxury of an ostrich quill boot—hand-tooled, hand-fitted and hand-sewn, no doubt. He steepled his fingers before his face. “Bobby Wiggins?” he asked.

“
Yes, sir.”