Free Hound Dog Blues by Virginia Brown Page A

well,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him, “I’m thrilled you like it. Now, if you’ll just get out of my way and go on home, I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see.” That was a replay of his smart-ass comment when they’d been in front of Mrs. Trumble’s house earlier, and she was gratified to see he recognized it.
    The corners of his mouth tucked in slightly. If he smiled, his face would probably crack. That thin scar on his jaw might just be the beginning. “What an excellent memory you have,” he said.
    “Long memory, short fuse. Excuse me? I believe you’re still blocking my way.” She gave the bike a little gas, gunning the engine enough to indicate her willingness to run him over, but not enough to actually do it. He made her nervous. Very nervous. Criminals should be ugly, not look like Bruno Jett. It was that lean, muscled look that got to her every time. And the eyes. An old song said the devil had blue eyes. She believed it. How else could women be seduced into sin so easily? Every disastrous man in her life had had blue eyes.
    “Chick,” her brother said at her side, and she remembered that she was taking him to get her car.
    “Hop on back,” she said without taking her eyes from Jett, who seemed to know he had an effect on her libido because he leered so wickedly it left her breathless. And slightly queasy.
    “Running away so soon?”
    Ignoring him, she waited until Eric was securely behind her, then eased out the clutch on the bike and rolled forward. Jett stepped out of the path, a little more quickly than she was sure he had intended, and she felt him watching as she gave the bike a spurt of gas and zoomed from the driveway into the street. Eric grabbed at the seat strap to hold on, leaning back.
    There were still a few cars clustered on the street in front of Mrs. Trumble’s house, but the van with her body was gone. Yellow tape swagged between several trees; police milled about, mostly inside, though earlier, they’d prowled the yard for clues. It was nerve-wracking.
    What if Yogi had left something behind? Something that might be misconstrued as evidence against him? Whatever her father was, he was no killer, she knew that much. He couldn’t be. Oh yeah, he might bluster and threaten, but he was just too softhearted to actually act upon his threats.
    Stopping her bike behind the Toyota, she put her feet down for balance. Her brother eased off the bike, and she took her car keys off the key ring and handed them to him.
    “No speeding, no riding the clutch—”
    “Chick,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Call me as soon as you hear from Yogi.”
    Ah. A sign he cared. Some of her irritation with her brother eased.
    “Sure. You’ve got my cell number. Keep in touch.”
    “I thought your cell phone was broken again.”
    “Replaced it. No thanks to that snotty clerk spouting off about a limit on replacements.”
    Lugging a small backpack that probably held more weed than clean underwear, he loped the short distance to her car, and she headed back to the house. She’d left her backpack with all the necessary things like her driver’s license in the living room. When she pulled up in the drive, she noticed that Jett’s silver Jag was gone and his garage door down. Light gleamed in his kitchen window that looked out over the driveway and her parents’ house.
    What was up with that guy? She hated to think he was a criminal, but his rap sheet sure did say otherwise. And that pile of jewelry on his coffee table spoke volumes. It’d be too big a coincidence that a jewel thief had turned to a respectable career as a costume jewelry salesman. Oh yeah. But even if he was part of the ring of thieves now plaguing East Memphis, that didn’t mean he had anything to do with Mrs. Trumble’s death. Old assault charges still weren’t murder. As far as she knew, Jett had never even met Mrs. Trumble. Still . . . .
    There was something about him, something that didn’t fit.