Demise in Denim (10 page)

Bella laughed . . . or was it Anna? “We are very resourceful, and it's a terrific idea that we've come up with, almost as good as how we got rid of our husbands.”

Anna/Bella pressed the button on the tape measure and it retracted back into the case. “You have a good evening
now, you hear,” she said, hooking arms with her sister, and together they strolled out the door.

“Got rid of Clive and Crenshaw?” KiKi said on a strangled gasp. “I got a bad feeling the sisters are cooking up something.”

“Yeah, and I wonder if it's Clive and Crenshaw?”

KiKi's lips pulled into a sour pucker. “You just had to go say that, didn't you, with me headed off to dinner with Angie and her husband.” KiKi swallowed a burp. “Putter and I are meeting up with the two of them at the Green Truck Pub out on Habersham. I am so not a pub grub kind of gal, but it's our good deed for the day. Those two are trying to save their marriage after Conway and the vitamin B encounters. I think her husband stabbed Conway like he did because he was so mad, and at least it proves he cares for Angie, or so she's telling everyone. Putter and I will probably be referees.”

“The good part is that the Truck has great burgers,” I added while pairing a tan skirt with a cream sweater. “And they have great beer on tap.”

“The bad part is that it's going to take more than a slab of meat on a bun and a brew to save the night.” KiKi hung up a pink blouse with ruffles down the front. “I never thought I'd say this, but I'm mighty glad Putter carries that golf club with him everywhere. We just might be needing it to keep those two from killing each other.”

Hoping to catch some late shoppers, I closed up the Fox at seven, put the cash in the rocky road container, and turned off the lights. BW and I backed the Chevy out of the garage and purred our way up Drayton and past Forsyth Park with dog walkers, joggers, and strollers. A live jazz band played in the
pavilion, and magnolias and azaleas scented the air as the fountain caught the last rays of sun sinking below the steeples of St. John's. Spring in Savannah was a bit of heaven on earth, and a convertible was the absolute best way to soak it all in.

By the time we got to Jen's & Friends, the after-work crowd had given way to the before-dinner crowd, and I snagged rock-star parking right across the street. One of the best things about J & F besides the yummy drinks was the outside seating. Little black wrought-iron tables cluttered the sidewalk and noisy traffic on Bull Street made the chances of overhearing conversations slim to none.

I spotted Anna and Bella at a table near the street, their heads together over celebration martinis that had sprinkles around the edge of the glass and were served with a sparkler. KiKi bought me one when I turned twenty-one. I was thirty-three now and twenty-one seemed like a million years ago.

Mamma sat at a back table sipping what looked like a strawberry shortcake martini complete with a big old strawberry. She had another one just like it waiting for me. Drink and dessert together; did I have a good mamma or what? She held up her glass in a salute. “Well, you're alive and breathing and not rotting behind bars for forgery, so that's a good start,” she said as I sat down. “What did you find out while visiting the office of our favorite lawyer?”

“That I have no idea what the
H
in Walker H. Boone stands for.” I pulled the will and a dog biscuit out of Old Yeller. I fed BW and slid the papers across to Mamma, who had a tinge of red on her cheeks. “Holy cow, you know what the
H
stands for, and it must be a doozie if it made you blush.”

“That's just the drink, dear. Besides, I'm sworn to secrecy.”

“Just a hint?”

“Judges don't do hints, honey.” Mamma winked, then flipped open the will. “Well, we already know who gets the inn, and this says the free clinic gets the cash?”

Mamma's jaw dropped and I added, “That was pretty much my reaction, too. Anything-for-a-buck Conway turns philanthropist? Now that's hard to believe. But the bottom line is that there's no motive for Tucker to knock off his dad; he got nothing out of him being dead and buried. Tucker and Daddy didn't get along, but that's it.”

“Or Conway figured Tucker didn't need anything because he had the money from when his mother died. All I know is that Steffy Lou is working on saving the Tybee Post Theater and throwing that big bash. I'm sure she funded the event with a lot of her own money. If Tucker's writing checks for charity he's not hurting financially.”

“Steffy Lou and I were in the bathroom chatting and she sang for me.”

“Well, there you go: Steffy Lou Adkins, the poster girl for
there's no business like show business
. She's worked really hard to make the dinner and talent show a success.”

I twisted my glass around on the tabletop, with a sense of dread settling in my gut. “I'm not getting anywhere on this, Mamma. All I do is eliminate suspects and motives, but somebody knocked off Conway. The killer had to know all along that Boone was Conway's son. That means the killer is somebody close to Conway.”

“You're worried, aren't you?”

“I'm running out of suspects and this never happens.
Usually there's a suspect list a mile long and I have to weed through them. I'm thinking about visiting Odilia; maybe she has a potion to help find the killer or at least clear my brain. I think it's fogged over; nothing's adding up.”

“While you're at it, light a few candles over at St. John's Church. The way I see it, you can never have too much help in these situations.” Mamma reached over and held my hand. “He's going to be okay, you know. He's a survivor.”

“He's got Big Joey and Pillsbury.”

“There is that.”

“Well, Lord be praised and pass the ammunition,” Chantilly huffed as she rushed up to the table. She gave Mamma a friendly kiss on the cheek, gulped my martini and chomped the strawberry, then added, “I spotted the Chevy and I need you right quick to do me a favor.”

Chantilly swallowed the rest of my drink and smacked her lips together in satisfaction. “The delivery truck went and broke down. What a night it's been for me, and here you are sipping drinks and enjoying yourself.”

“What drink?” I stared at the empty glass, and Chantilly pointed across the street to the van with “Cuisine by Rachelle” scripted across the side, and a knife-crossed-with-a-fork logo underneath.

“I have a delivery over at the Old Harbor Inn and the COPS are waiting on me as we speak. You got to help me out.”

“I hate to tell you, but the cops and I aren't exactly on the best of terms.”

“Collectors of Pewter and Silver COPS; I don't name them, honey, I just feed them, but we need to go now before the mac and cheese starts to separate and the pulled pork goes cold.
We can put it all in the Chevy's big trunk and maybe some on the backseat and run it right over to the inn. With them just doing breakfast, Rachelle and I have been working like dogs to do catering over there, and this is our big chance to do it right. Shake a leg, girl, time's a-wastin'.”

“But I have BW.” I held up the leash.

“I can take him for you,” Mamma offered, all Little Miss Helpful. “I'll drop him off at Cherry House for you. I know where the outside key is. You really should move it, dear.”

“I did,” I said with a feeling of accomplishment.

“The second flowerpot instead of the first?” Mamma petted BW.

And another accomplishment bites the dust. “Okay, look, here's the real problem: What if we spill something in Boone's car? He's going to kill me. You know that, we all know that.”

“We won't spill a drop.” Chantilly made a cross over her heart, then grabbed my hand. “We'll be real careful.”

She yanked the leash out of my hand, shoved it at Mamma, and then said to me, “Buck up, buttercup, we got to get our fannies in gear. There're hungry people waiting on us.”

“S
EE
,
I told you this was going to happen,” I wailed to Chantilly, with both of us standing over the spilled tray of pulled pork in the trunk of Boone's car, now parked at the Old Harbor Inn. “There's barbecue sauce and meat everywhere. It's a big sloppy mess. Boone really is going to kill me.” I cut my eyes to Chantilly. “And I'm not going down alone. You talked me into this.”

“Hey, it's all your fault,” Chantilly wailed back at me. “You took the turn too fast.”

“You said we were late and we had to hurry.”

“Not drive like a maniac.” Chantilly swiped back her hair and pulled in a deep breath. “Okay, we can fix this. I'm thinking Boone probably never opens the trunk, and to make sure we'll glue it shut and . . . and the car's going to smell
amazing and guys love barbecue, right, so that part works and right now we got bigger problems.”

“To tell you the truth I can't think of a one,” Lamar, our friendly valet, said from behind us. “Sure glad this isn't my ride; that stain's never going to come out.”

“You're not helping.” I swallowed a whimper and Chantilly said, “But I got an idea.” She plucked a bag from the backseat of the car, where the other catering goodies were nestled on the floor, and pulled out three huge plastic serving spoons. She handed one to Lamar and one to me. “Ready, set, scoop.”

I held the bag open. “We'll put it in here, and then we can throw it in the trash when we get home.”

Chantilly yanked the bag away and held out the serving bowl. “Scoop it right in here.”

“Uh, you mean like in someone's going to eat this stuff?” Lamar said, his eyes rounding. “There are leaves in the bottom of the trunk.” He looked closer. “And grass, and I see a few little twigs.”

“Extra greens free of charge.” Chantilly poked her spoon around in the goop. “It's not so bad, I've eaten worse.”

Lamar grabbed the spoon out of Chantilly's hand. “You're kidding.”

Chantilly snagged the spoon back and furrowed her brows, her lips now thin slits. “Does it look like I'm kidding, buddy boy? I've got thirty people waiting inside for mac and cheese and pulled pork. Now scoop!”

Lamar and I exchanged fearful looks, then did as ordered by Miss Crazy Chef standing next to us. Ten minutes later Chantilly and I laid out a lovely spread of mac and cheese, deviled eggs, and pulled pork with yummy-looking little
fresh buns. The COPS filed into the main sitting area flashing big smiles and uttering oohs and aahs as they took in the display.

They piled their plates high and sat on the blue-and-gray couches and matching club chairs as Harper Norton played the baby grand in the corner, filling the room with a fine rendition of “Georgia on My Mind.” Harper wasn't kidding when she said she played all over the city for every occasion imaginable. It was a lovely Southern night indeed, even if a bit of unanticipated foliage happened to accompany the pulled pork.

“We did it,” Chantilly said in a whisper. We backed out into the hall as one of the COPS members discreetly slid a twig from her sandwich. Bless her heart.

“We halfway did it.” I hitched Old Yeller up onto my shoulder, then followed Chantilly down the hall past a meeting room set up with a viewing screen and pictures and pamphlets of pewter.

“I still have the stain in the Chevy to deal with,” I added while passing the next room, which was dark and empty. The third room had the door half closed, no one inside but a poker game in progress.

“I hear that Goo Gone stuff works great,” Chantilly said. I stopped in the middle of the hallway and Chantilly turned back to me. “It really is good at getting stains out. It'll be okay, I swear.”

“Not that.” I backed up to the poker room and stood in the doorway, gazing inside. An array of bourbons and beers sat off to the side; a haze of smoke hung over the room, and the “No Smoking” sign had been tossed on the floor.

“Looks like boys' night out to me.” Chantilly peered over my shoulder. “And from the piles of chips I'd say they weren't playing for peanuts.”

She opened the door wider, walked over to the pinstripe suit jacket hung on the back of a chair, and pointed to the red carnation stuck in the lapel. “Dixon, the little rodent,” she said on a quick intake of breath. “I'd recognize that suit and flower anywhere.”

“Yeah, me too, that's why I stopped.” I held up a red Atlanta Braves hat sitting on the other side of the table. “This is Russell's; he had it on the other day down at the docks.” My gaze fused with Chantilly's. “Russell's applying for membership in the Plantation Club, so he and Dixon know each other, but . . . but this little setup is something personal, more than just a club membership get-together.”

“Some sort of initiation into the club?” Chantilly grabbed a handful of those orange fish crackers and tossed a few in her mouth.

“That would be at the club, not here at the inn.” I studied the piles of chips on the table. “This is gambling, pure and simple, and from the big and little piles I'd say we have our losers and we have our winners.”

Chantilly plucked a chip from Dixon's meager pile. “And here we have our loser.”

“I picked up a chip from the Atlanta Braves cap pile. “And here we have our winner.”

Chantilly gave me the
shh
finger-to-her-lips signal, then pointed to the hall and the sound of voices and footsteps headed our way. I nodded to a closet door and we slipped inside, wedging between housekeeping equipment. The
boys' club filed back into the room, chatting about totally boring stuff like drawing to an inside straight, Texas hold 'em, blackjack being the best game on the gambling boats, and how this was small-potatoes gaming and how bigger games and bigger money were coming soon. Okay, if this had been a group of women they'd be discussing the really important stuff of life like spring shoes, the best places for lunch, and that new Milan Day Spa that served wine with their mani-pedis.

The louvers in the door let in slits of light, and Chantilly and I watched the men as they reclaimed their chairs and Russell closed the door to the hallway. I exchanged
uh-oh
looks with Chantilly, tripped over the vacuum between us, and fell against the back shelf. A stack of big trays crashed down on our heads, knocking Chantilly and me to the floor and burying the two of us under a mound of aluminum.

The closet door flew open, and twelve eyes glared. “What the heck?” Russell yelled. “Who are you? What are you doing in there?”

“Taking inventory?” I offered. Chantilly held out her hand. “Care for a cracker?”

“You're the waitresses who brought me coffee over there at the docks yesterday,” Russell ground out. His eyes went cold, his jaw set. “Somehow I don't think you're waitresses at all. I think you two are nothing but nosy broads. What are you up to? What are you doing here?”

“I've seen them around the Plantation Club,” Dixon chimed in, coming our way. “In fact, the tall one asked about membership, then made a pass at me.” Dixon smoothed back his thinning hair with an air of importance. “She said there
was more where that came from if I got her into the club.” A lecherous smile tipped his lips. “She's kind of a cute little thing if you don't look too close.”

“I . . . I made a pass at you?” Chantilly screeched and scrambled to her feet. “What bunk.” With fire in her eyes she jabbed a finger at Dixon. “You were the one chasing me around that big old mahogany table. I lost my shoe trying to keep away from you.”

Russell snagged me up by my arm as the other men sat back in their chairs, enjoying the show. “I don't know what your game is,” he hissed in a low threatening voice that sent chills up my spine. “Butt out. This is your last warning. This is business, big business, and you're not screwing it up by getting in the way.”

“Trying to keep it quiet that you're buying the Old Harbor Inn and the Tybee Theater?”

Russell's fingers dug into my arm and I swung Old Yeller to make him let go. He caught the purse in midair and I kicked him in the shins hard, except I had on my favorite pink flip-flops with the little white daisies to celebrate spring. Russell's lip curled, and he had a cold sinister look in his eyes. His fingers tightened, making me wince in pain, and the men laughed as Russell added, “That's as good as you got, chickie?”

“What about this, chickie?” Chantilly blurted. This time she kicked Russell and it wasn't in the shin but several feet higher, and she was not wearing cute flip-flops but her work boots.

“Umph!” Russell yelped. He let go of my arm and doubled over. Chantilly pulled free of Dixon. The other men
jumped to their feet, but Chantilly and I were faster and rushed out the open door. “We could have taken them,” Chantilly protested as we ran full-tilt down the hall. “I could take three and you could take three and—”

“And then there'd be chaos, somebody would call the cops, and we'd be in a real mess trying to explain to Ross what the heck we were doing in that closet,” I wheezed as we bolted outside and sprinted for the Chevy. I cranked the engine, pulled in a deep breath, waved to Lamar, and then merged into the night traffic on Bay Street. “Nice job on opening that door; it made getting out of there a lot easier.”

Chantilly finger-combed her hair from her face. “I didn't open that door, you opened the door.”

“I didn't open the door.”

Chantilly and I exchanged wide-eyed looks. “Lamar,” Chantilly offered. “It had to be him. He was probably keeping an eye on us and heard the commotion?”

“Probably,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “The good thing is that somebody knew what was going on in that room and that we were in trouble and stepped in, thank you very much, whoever you are. Do you think it means anything that Russell and Dixon are friends?”

Chantilly heaved a weary sigh. “Two sleazebags together is double trouble. I don't know what it means, but I'm betting it means something and it's not good.”

I dropped Chantilly off at her van and waited with her till the AAA roadside assistance truck showed up. That the assistance guy was a total hottie kept me around for a little longer to appreciate the beauty of nature, and when Chantilly got the van up and running, I took off.

Savannah was one of those cities that did not roll up the sidewalks at midnight. Fact is, Savannah was more a two
A.M.
kind of place and maybe a little beyond if there was a private party going on that needed crashing.

I pulled the Chevy around to the back of Cherry House and killed the engine. The car was already starting to smell like roadkill on a hot day, and by tomorrow it would be downright disgusting. I had to at least try to clean up the mess in the trunk. I headed for the house for buckets, detergent, and a scrub brush.

I spotted BW's black nose pressed against the window in the back door and heard his little whines and sounds of welcome. I waved and smiled, and I could picture his tail wagging a mile a minute.

See, that's the thing with dogs, no matter how rotten the day, your best friend greets you with a whine and a wag. Of course it was also time for BW's daily hot dog, the one thing he loved more than life itself. But right now, after my crappy encounter with Russell and who knew how many hours of scrubbing I'd have to put in, I was going with the happy-to-see-Reagan scenario and enjoying the moment.

•   •   •

“Get yourself up, honey, and do it quick-like,” KiKi said, shaking me awake. “GracieAnn just called and said we need to be getting ourselves over to the Cakery Bakery right away for doughnuts.”

I pried one eye open; the clock on my dresser was flashing seven ten. “It's a trick. She wants to pelt me with more doughnuts for badmouthing Boone.”

“I don't think so. It sounded downright important. She was all kinds of breathy and excited.”

I sat up in bed, finding BW beside me. Guess the cool spot in the hallway wasn't so cool last night. “Why in all that's holy would GracieAnn call you?”

“Now that is a darn good question, and she said to be sure and bring you along. I was up anyway so I'm good to go, and it is doughnuts, so I didn't consider putting up a fuss. Putter has an eight o'clock tee time and last night I promised him blueberry pancakes if he didn't murder Angie and her husband and bury them in the rose garden.”

“That bad?”

“I'm sending them to Dr. Phil. Throw on some clothes and brush your teeth. Think glazed, sprinkles, custard filled. That'll get your body up and running for sure. I'll meet you downstairs in five.”

Not leaving a doughnut run to chance, BW abandoned me and followed KiKi downstairs. I stumbled out of bed, hunted clean clothes, and met up with KiKi on the front porch. Three and a half minutes later we were all standing in front of Cakery Bakery.

I put my foot on the first step, then stopped, with others hankering for just-out-of-the-oven doughnuts walking around me. “It's too early for a doughnut attack,” I whined. “And I bet GracieAnn made some extra-gooey ones for kicks just to aim at me. I got a bad feeling about this.”