Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) by Virginia Brown

can’t have the only one.”
    “I’m sure not. And you’re probably not the only one with a white Lexus who voted for Obama, either, but it’s too big a coincidence that a car that looks just like yours, with four bumper stickers just like yours, was in the parking lot of your shop at around the same time Harry Gordon was murdered. Sure you didn’t just drop by, maybe saw Harry already dead, then ran out of there?”
    “Positive.”
    “So you’re going to stick with that story.”
    “I’m sticking with the truth. Now go away, Harley. You’re giving me a headache.”
    Harley thought it might be the gin in the small water glass beside her bed that was giving Aunt Darcy a headache, but she didn’t say it. “Sure. On my way out now. Let me know when you come to your senses. I figure that’ll be right around the time you’re arrested for murder.”
    Darcy went even paler, though Harley hadn’t thought that possible. Still, she only pressed her lips more tightly together and reached for the water glass with a shaking hand.
    “All right, if you must know, I wasn’t at the Junior League meeting the entire time. I was . . . with a man.”
    “A man, as in not Uncle Paul?”
    Darcy nodded, looking so miserable that Harley believed her. Well. That was interesting.
    “You should tell that to the police, Aunt Darcy. They’ll keep it quiet if they can, and no one has to know, but it will help clear you if—“
    ”No!” Aunt Darcy sounded quite fierce about it, and color finally lit her face. “And don’t you dare say a word to anyone, do you hear me? I’ll deny it if you do.”
    “Fine, it’s your funeral. I hope that’s not a prediction.”
    When she got to the door, Harley turned to say, “By the way, that powder you had me get tested? It was French bath powder, just like Harry said. Are you sure he was smuggling?”
    “Yes. I know he was, even if I can’t prove it. Believe me or not, I don’t care.”
    This was really strange. Darcy usually had a strong survival instinct. Why hadn’t it kicked in?
    She was still puzzling over Darcy’s lack of survival instinct when she stopped by Memphis Tour Tyme to retrieve her paycheck from Mr. Grinder, the security guard. Office employees didn’t come in on the weekends or holidays; only the drivers worked, and days off rotated. Most tours were already scheduled, and any emergencies were handled by either Mr. Penney or Tootsie. Since Tootsie’s car was parked in front of the building, it was likely that one of the vehicles—or drivers—had broken down. She parked her Toyota next to Tootsie’s car. He had a four year old Acura that still looked new. He took excellent care of his cars. Mr. Grinder had an old Chrysler that had seen better days.
    Last week she and Cami had scared Mr. Grinder half to death when they’d snuck in to borrow a stun gun for their investigation of jewelry thieves. It’d given him the most excitement he’d had since World War II. Near ninety if he was a day, and looking remarkably similar to a dried apple doll, his hands still trembled and he had a nervous tic under his left eye. She hoped the gun he wore on his arthritic hip wasn’t loaded. It looked way too big for him to manage.
    He sat behind a small desk that held a console, a stack of magazines, and a thirteen-inch color TV. On the small screen, George Stephanopoulos smiled at one of his usual political guests, and the sound was turned off. The best way to listen to any politician.
    “How are you, Mr. Grinder?” she asked loudly since he sometimes forgot to turn up his hearing aid, and he nodded.
    “Yes, that’s right. It’s a nice day.” He unlocked the top desk drawer and held out her paycheck with fingers cruelly twisted by arthritis. “I’m sure you’ve come by for this.”
    “Thank you. You’re always prepared.”
    “Yes, my hair’s thinning a bit on top.” He took off his cap and smoothed a hand over the white wisps that clung tenaciously to his pink