Free Hound Dog Blues by Virginia Brown

the least bit? God, Yogi’s practically accused of murder, or he has some murderer after him, he and Diva have taken off for God only knows where, and all you can think about is something to eat?”
    Turning in the doorway, he blinked in mild surprise. “If I don’t eat, will all that go away?”
    “Never mind.” She didn’t have an argument for his line of logic, not that it mattered. “My car is over by Mrs. Trumble’s house. Get your stuff together, and we’ll go get it. You can borrow it for a day or two, but you have to put gas in it and not gun it or ride the clutch, or—”
    “I hear ya, chick.” His muffled voice came from the kitchen, sounding like his head was stuck inside the open refrigerator. “What are you gonna use for transport?”
    “My bike. No smoking in my car, either. I put potpourri in the ash tray.”
    “Chiiick,” he said, dragging it out to show his disapproval.
    “I mean it. Last time I let you borrow it, you set the ash tray on fire. Be ready to go in ten minutes or I leave you here.”
    Without waiting for a reply, she went out the front door and across the porch. It was quiet and peaceful here, when only a few streets over Mrs. Trumble’s house was churning with police activity and curiosity seekers. Mrs. Shipley’s lights were on across the street; she was probably at her window with binoculars. It’d be just like her. She had to know everything that went on, and then had to tell it. If she lived near Mrs. Trumble, she’d have been able to tell the police everyone that had visited within the past month. Just as well she didn’t. Yogi would be arrested by now.
    A single car garage sat to the side and behind the house. At the rear was Yogi’s workshop, and since the van was too tall to fit inside the 1930’s era garage, it had become a repository for all kind of odds and ends. Fitting a key into the lock hung on the old-fashioned double garage doors, she flung one open to slip inside. It was dark, and she fumbled for the light switch and clicked on a single bulb overhead. Stacked chairs, ladders, cans of paint that were probably older than she was, metal cabinets, PVC pipe, and various and sundry other of Yogi’s collections cluttered the concrete floor, but in the center, draped in a soft cover, stood her pride and joy. It represented years of working at a high-stress job before she finally ended up at Memphis Tour Tyme, but she didn’t regret one single day of headaches and grinding teeth she’d suffered to make payments. She pulled off the cover.
    A tricked-out Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce with over/under dual exhaust, paid for, by God, and all hers now after two years of payments that would stagger Donald Trump. Gleaming chrome and gold and black in the dim light, the machine waited in shiny splendor.
    She took the helmet off the back, strapped it on her head, and straddled the bike, firing it up with a flick of her thumb. She coasted out of the garage, Twin 88 cam clicking so perfectly it was only a humming throb.
    When she looked up, Bruno Jett stood directly in front of her. Her stomach dropped, and the breath locked in her lungs. The motion light gleamed brightly on his dark hair, illuminating his face and bemused expression.
    “A hog?” he finally said. “This yours?”
    She flipped up the visor of her helmet. “Why not? Think I can’t ride it? And it’s not a hog. It’s a Softail Deuce. About three hundred pounds lighter than a hog.”
    “A biker chick. That explains your name.”
    “My parents were into motorcycles when I was born. With the last name of Davidson, it was a given. May I help you with something? Why are you over here?”
    “I’m not pretending I lost a dog, I just got distracted by the bike.”
    His car was still in the driveway, a silver Jag that looked far too expensive and new for a man living in this neighborhood. Just one more detail to add to the growing list of Reasons to Suspect Bruno Jett of Nefarious Activities.
    “Yeah,