seen Yogi. He took off with the dog and said he’d be back, and that was well over an hour ago.”
She blinked. “He did?” Turning, she looked down the street, but there was no sign of the big lime-green van. She hadn’t even noticed they’d left. “Well, I guess they’re waiting for you at home, then. I’ll go check on them. He was pretty stressed when he was here.”
“I’m headed there myself.”
“Good. Give me a ride. My car’s blocked in and I don’t really feel like walking.”
Bobby shook out a cigarette and lit it, squinting at her over the curl of rising smoke. “If he doesn’t cooperate, it’s going to look pretty bad, Harley.”
“Don’t borrow trouble. He didn’t do it. She was dead when—I found her.”
Damn, what an idiot she was. She’d almost betrayed Yogi, and that wouldn’t be good at all. It was up to Yogi to tell Bobby everything.
Narrowing his eyes at her, Bobby studied her face so hard she was grateful for the fuzzy street lights. The bad thing about knowing someone so long and so well was that they could pick up on stuff you’d rather they didn’t. It was a double-edged sword.
“Right,” he said, and she knew he suspected her of holding out on him.
When they pulled up in front of the house on Douglass, light gleamed through the stained glass transom over the door and in one upstairs window. It looked quiet and serene, with only the faint tinkle of Diva’s wind chimes on the front porch making any sound. As she fumbled for the car’s door handle, Bobby said, “You’re gonna have to tell me where they went.”
“Who?”
His head jerked toward the house. “Yogi and Diva. They’re gone.”
“No, they’re here—aren’t they?”
But he was right. No lime-green van stood in the driveway in front of the garage, and no dog barked out the front door. King always barked at visitors. Or passing cars. The house looked empty. The heavy night air still held a trace of the day’s heat, but a cold chill seeped through her. Oh no.
Four
“So where did they go?” Harley jostled her brother’s arm again, impatiently and much more energetically, so that he rolled over on the couch, blinking sleepily at her.
“Who? Go where?”
“Yogi and Diva—have you slept through everything? Useless, that’s what you are,” she said when he nodded blearily. She looked over at Bobby. “What now?”
“It doesn’t look good when a key—witness—isn’t available for questioning.”
“You were going to say suspect, weren’t you.” Her throat tightened with fear and worry. This was terrible. The police suspected Yogi of murder, she just knew it.
“I didn’t say that. I said witness.” Bobby sounded irritable. He raked a hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes at her. “Where could they have gone? If you know, or even think you know, where they might be, it’d be better for them if you go ahead and tell me now. I’ll do what I can to make things easier for them, Harley, you know that.”
Flopping down into an overstuffed chair with huge pink peonies rioting over the ivory slipcover, she blew out a heavy breath of frustration. Crystals and half-finished dream catchers made of wire, feathers, and yarn were scattered on the coffee table. Magazines were piled in a wicker basket, and her mother’s hair ribbons with the tiny bells lay curled atop a Southern Living magazine from 1998. It was Diva’s favorite issue, with plans for verandas surrounded by flowers. It was abnormally quiet in the house, no New Age music coming from the CD player, no Elvis music, no Yogi grumbling about politics or the government, no goofy dog barking at passing cars, joggers, other dogs, or falling leaves. It was more than just quiet—it was depressing.
She looked up at Bobby, who’d propped one leg on the arm of the couch and sat staring at her. “I have no idea where they’d go,” she said truthfully. “They could be anywhere.”
“Did Yogi ever threaten Mrs.
She blinked. “He did?” Turning, she looked down the street, but there was no sign of the big lime-green van. She hadn’t even noticed they’d left. “Well, I guess they’re waiting for you at home, then. I’ll go check on them. He was pretty stressed when he was here.”
“I’m headed there myself.”
“Good. Give me a ride. My car’s blocked in and I don’t really feel like walking.”
Bobby shook out a cigarette and lit it, squinting at her over the curl of rising smoke. “If he doesn’t cooperate, it’s going to look pretty bad, Harley.”
“Don’t borrow trouble. He didn’t do it. She was dead when—I found her.”
Damn, what an idiot she was. She’d almost betrayed Yogi, and that wouldn’t be good at all. It was up to Yogi to tell Bobby everything.
Narrowing his eyes at her, Bobby studied her face so hard she was grateful for the fuzzy street lights. The bad thing about knowing someone so long and so well was that they could pick up on stuff you’d rather they didn’t. It was a double-edged sword.
“Right,” he said, and she knew he suspected her of holding out on him.
When they pulled up in front of the house on Douglass, light gleamed through the stained glass transom over the door and in one upstairs window. It looked quiet and serene, with only the faint tinkle of Diva’s wind chimes on the front porch making any sound. As she fumbled for the car’s door handle, Bobby said, “You’re gonna have to tell me where they went.”
“Who?”
His head jerked toward the house. “Yogi and Diva. They’re gone.”
“No, they’re here—aren’t they?”
But he was right. No lime-green van stood in the driveway in front of the garage, and no dog barked out the front door. King always barked at visitors. Or passing cars. The house looked empty. The heavy night air still held a trace of the day’s heat, but a cold chill seeped through her. Oh no.
Four
“So where did they go?” Harley jostled her brother’s arm again, impatiently and much more energetically, so that he rolled over on the couch, blinking sleepily at her.
“Who? Go where?”
“Yogi and Diva—have you slept through everything? Useless, that’s what you are,” she said when he nodded blearily. She looked over at Bobby. “What now?”
“It doesn’t look good when a key—witness—isn’t available for questioning.”
“You were going to say suspect, weren’t you.” Her throat tightened with fear and worry. This was terrible. The police suspected Yogi of murder, she just knew it.
“I didn’t say that. I said witness.” Bobby sounded irritable. He raked a hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes at her. “Where could they have gone? If you know, or even think you know, where they might be, it’d be better for them if you go ahead and tell me now. I’ll do what I can to make things easier for them, Harley, you know that.”
Flopping down into an overstuffed chair with huge pink peonies rioting over the ivory slipcover, she blew out a heavy breath of frustration. Crystals and half-finished dream catchers made of wire, feathers, and yarn were scattered on the coffee table. Magazines were piled in a wicker basket, and her mother’s hair ribbons with the tiny bells lay curled atop a Southern Living magazine from 1998. It was Diva’s favorite issue, with plans for verandas surrounded by flowers. It was abnormally quiet in the house, no New Age music coming from the CD player, no Elvis music, no Yogi grumbling about politics or the government, no goofy dog barking at passing cars, joggers, other dogs, or falling leaves. It was more than just quiet—it was depressing.
She looked up at Bobby, who’d propped one leg on the arm of the couch and sat staring at her. “I have no idea where they’d go,” she said truthfully. “They could be anywhere.”
“Did Yogi ever threaten Mrs.
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