Demise in Denim (13 page)

“Reagan!” KiKi screamed, jarring me awake. KiKi grabbed for the dashboard and I grabbed the steering wheel tight as we careened off the edge of the road, going airborne and then splashing down hard into the marsh.

I jolted forward, smacking my head on the steering wheel and shaking the fog from my brain. “Undo your seatbelt,” I yelled to KiKi, as the murky water poured in over the doors and trunk and then over the windshield. “Swim!”

“Honey, we can stand. It's not that deep and where in blazes is my purse?”

“Forget the blasted purse!”

“It's Gucci. I danced my feet off for that purse.” Before I could stop her, KiKi took a deep breath and doggie-paddled back down into the water! Dear God in heaven! Doing the only sensible thing, I went in after her. I had to; I was the one who got her and Gucci into this mess. I felt around, connecting with the Chevy's backseat. I snagged Old Yeller but couldn't find KiKi anywhere. Popping back to the surface, I gulped in a lungful of air. “KiKi!”

“Reagan?”

“KiKi!”

“Reagan?”

It was the swamp version of Marco Polo. I turned around and saw KiKi splashing her way toward me, and she wasn't the only one headed in my direction. I pointed beyond her to little white dots appearing just above the water line.

“Holy cow, we got company,” I said, as more white dots appeared on the scene like little stars in the sky, except these were not stars and this was not the night sky. This was a creepy swamp of marsh oats and cattails and bugs, and everyone knew that gators slept by day and hunted at night. Right now KiKi and I were a midnight snack.

“It's that blasted barbecue.” KiKi pulled up beside me, both of us waist-deep in dark water, the oozy mud below pulling us down. We slogged backward toward the shore. “I'd say we're just like Cakery Bakery to these guys. You know, the lure of things delicious and sublime.”

The little dots of white got larger, brighter, and a lot more menacing as they approached. The moonlit surface barely moved as the giant tails swished back and forth, silently
propelling the sleek massive bodies our way at an unbelievably fast clip.

“Lord save us, they're coming!” I smacked the lead gator with Old Yeller. He stopped and that was good. Then he hissed just like a snake and opened his big mouth in protest, exposing a whole lot of teeth. I screamed and some white things flew through the air and landed between his jaws.

I looked back to KiKi, who had the Seaside candy bag in her hand. “Okay, who's glad I got the taffy now, huh? A few of those teeth have got to be sweet ones.”

“You're kidding!”

“Got a better idea?”

I grabbed a handful of candy and threw the pieces out into the water, then grabbed a fistful of cattail to keep from falling. I pulled myself up onto the muddy bank, snagged KiKi's purse handle, and dragged the all-star pitcher of the taffy world up beside me, the movement in the grass behind us indicating we were not alone.

“They're gaining!” KiKi threw more taffy and we scrambled the rest of the way up the embankment, as car wheels zoomed by right in front of us.

Panting, we belly-flopped onto the berm. “They won't follow up here,” KiKi huffed. “The noise and vibrations will keep them away.”

“Survival class at the senior center?”

“Three seasons of
Crocodile Hunter
.” She pulled in a deep breath and we wobbled to our feet, me stumbling hard against KiKi. “Well, so much for Odilia's protection plan.” KiKi wrapped her arm around me, holding me upright as more cars roared by. “It was a waste of good rum, if you ask me.”

“Hey, we're alive.”

“For the moment. Just wait till Boone finds out about his car.”

A dark SUV slowed, then pulled off the road and stopped, the window powering down. Was it Jack the Ripper, the Savannah Strangler, Superman coming to get the car out of the drink?

“There you are,” the voice inside said. “I wondered where you went.”

“Ross?” I staggered to the car and stuck my head in the window as the aroma of hot pizza washed over me. If the woman didn't get a guy in her life soon, she'd look like a beached whale and she'd get kicked off the force. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on you, and right now you don't look so good. Where's the Chevy and why are you all sopping wet and, honey, you smell like wet dog and . . .” Ross's eyes widened as she focused on the wide-open water beyond us. “Oh my dear Lord,” she said on a long exhale of breath. “Boone is so going to kill you dead,” Ross added as KiKi and I got into the backseat and got the floor mats to sit on.

“What are you doing out here this time of night?” KiKi asked. “Not that we're not grateful. Making a pizza run out to Huca Poos?”

“That, too.” Ross pulled onto the road and headed toward Savannah. I settled back against the seat, closing my eyes as she went on. “You don't have a clue what you're doing, Reagan Summerside, but you stir up enough trouble that the way I see it the real killer is bound to come after you sooner or later. Some of us down at the station are taking turns
keeping an eye on you. Deckard thinks you'll lead him to Walker.”

I pried one eye open. “You're all following me around?”

“
Surveillance
sounds more professional, and like you said, a run out to Tybee for Huca Poos pizza is always a good idea. How'd you come to drive off the road?”

“I think I fell asleep. I was driving along and the next thing I knew KiKi yelled and I woke up.”

“Girl, you should know that drinking and driving is serious business.”

“Drinking as in a cherry snow cone? I'm just so darn tired.”

The next thing I knew Ross was pulling to the curb in front of my house and KiKi was shaking my shoulder. Ross turned back to face me. “Look, I know Boone's innocent, but you should keep in mind that Deckard is a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later kind of guy, and he's watching you more than any of us. He drives a rusted tan pickup with the right front light busted out, and maybe you're sick, you were snoring like a freight train.”

“I don't snore and I think I'm the one who busted out Deckard's light.”

“Terrific, another reason for the guy to love you. I'd watch my back, Reagan, and give up snow cones.” Ross motored off, and KiKi and I watched the SUV disappear around the corner. “You really don't look good at all; your eyes aren't even focusing.” She nodded to Rose Gate. “The light's on in the kitchen; I'm going to get your uncle to give you a quick once-over.”

I grabbed KiKi's arm. “I'm fine, I just hit my head and
I'm tired, so darn tired I can hardly stand up, and I am so sorry for . . .” My voice cracked. “I could have killed you. We could have driven into oncoming traffic or hit a pole or tree or . . .”

KiKi took my hand. “But we didn't and you didn't and I think Ross is right, you got a bug or something. Go home, go to bed.”

“What are you going to tell Uncle Putter? Right now you sort of look like the Queen of Muck.”

“I'm going to tell him the truth, of course.”

“That your stupid niece fell asleep at the wheel?” Just saying the words made me sicker still.

“I was thinking more like I dropped my purse in the swamp and went in after it. Putter has his golf clubs and Lord knows the man would dive into a full-blown volcano to save them. I have my purses. It's like Cher says, it's a different stage for every song.”

She scrunched up her face. “I don't quite know how that fits into this particular situation.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Take in your spare key, honey. From what Ross said, there's too much trouble out there with your name on it to be tempting fate.”

KiKi hobbled off and I stumbled my way inside; BW was waiting and wagging for me in the front hall. He got a good whiff of swamp, then backed off and barked. As he followed me at a distance, we paraded into the kitchen. I got him his daily hot dog from the fridge and pulled out food for me—ham, cheese, and bread—but I just didn't feel like eating.

I filled BW's bowl with expensive kibble that he'd eat later when convinced there was nothing delicious coming
his way. “You're not going to believe this,” I said to BW as he ate. “Our sexmobile is at the bottom of a swamp. No more wolf whistles, no more hot-babe looks, no more cute poodles shaking their pompom tail. It's back to the bus.”

BW stopped midway through his hot dog, gave me a pathetic look, and then lay down on the floor. Yeah, that was pretty much how I felt, too.

I ran the shower to hot and took Old Yeller with me to scrub out the swamp smell. The convenience of owning a pleather purse was truly underrated, and it occurred to me that I was now involved in money laundering. I draped the bills over the shower curtain rod, then scrubbed every inch of my poor abused body, hoping to get rid of eau de swamp. I ran the water cold to wake up. I felt as if I'd been walking in a dream since I left Tybee, and the thought of nearly killing KiKi sat like a rock in my gut. How could I do such a thing? I slid into my fluffy terry robe and moped into my dark bedroom to find Walker Boone sitting on my bed. I'd recognize that silhouette anywhere.

Under normal circumstances I'd think this was a good thing, even great. Women would kill to have Walker Boone in their bedroom. Except those women hadn't just nearly killed their favorite auntie and driven Boone's beloved red Chevy into a
swamp.

“W
HAT
'
S
going on?” Boone asked as I sat down beside him. Okay, this could be really romantic with Boone, the bed, and the moonlight streaming in through the window. Fact is, it was something I sort of dreamed about on occasion, except in that dream Boone wasn't eating a sandwich like he was now.

“I smell ham and cheese.” Not that the sandwich was a deterrent to me, but the way he was going at it, my guess was he'd choose eating over me in a New York minute. “And you'll have to narrow the
going on
part down a little.”

“The barbecue? The mess in my car?” He chomped a few more bites.

“How did you find out about the barbecue? Chantilly?”

“Chantilly would never rat you out.” Boone swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have my ways. You got
the message about taking the Chevy over to Jimmy at Car Spa? And you got rid of the note, right? I don't want Jimmy to have any ties to me or get involved with the cops.”

I waved my hand in the air in a dismissive fashion. “If there's one thing I can promise you, it's that no one is ever going to find the note. It's gone where no note has ever gone before.”
Or where any note will ever go again, God willing.

“As far as the Chevy goes,” I added, “I took care of the barbecue-in-the-trunk problem on my own. No more worries. Fact is, when you look at the Chevy you'll forget there ever was a barbecue problem at all.”

He stopped chewing. “Really?”

“Pinky swear.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I have my ways.” I winked. Actually it was a nervous tic from telling such a whopper of a lie. “So, why are you here?” I added, in a hurry to get away from the Chevy topic of conversation.

“I was hungry.” Boone finished off the sandwich, with BW right beside him begging bits and pieces. “So, what do you have?”

“There might be some Fig Newtons left, and there's an apple or two and the vegetables are mostly all there and—”

“I mean information.” Boone smiled, his teeth white against the dark. He was relaxed now, more Boone than worry.

“For openers, you should know that Ross and some cop named Deckard are watching me, hoping to land their hooks into you. That Russell guy you warned me about is after the Old Harbor Inn as well as the theater, and he and Mason
Dixon are poker-playing friendly, though Russell is the better player. I think Tucker's tied up in this some way.”

“He hates my guts, and truth be told he's got a right. Seems Conway told him I was the successful bastard son and proceeded to throw it in Tucker's face for the next four years. Conway saw Tucker as the spoiled mamma's-boy offspring who would never amount to much, and Conway liked rubbing it in his face.”

Walker yawned, then stretched as only a guy can, and I nearly melted into a blob on the floor. He fluffed a pillow against the headboard and settled back against it, shoes off, denim-clad legs stretched out in front.

“Best I can tell,” Boone went on, “is that all roads lead to Conway. Tucker's his kid, I'm his kid, Grayden Russell wanted to buy his inn, and Mason Dixon wanted his job.”

“And Dixon was blackmailing Conway because he knew about you.” I started to pace. “I need to get into Conway's house. There's got to be records of Conway paying Dixon. There might even be a proposal from Russell to buy the inn and Conway refusing the offer. Those are good motives for murder, and maybe we can figure out how you tie into it. I still have the signed agreement between Conway and me about consigning his furniture. I'll sneak into his house and look around, and if I get caught I can say I need to get measurements. I'll bring along my business cards, a tape measure, and a notebook to look official. I'll bring doughnuts in case I get caught. This is a great plan, right? Boone?”

I turned back to the bed. Boone's head drooped to one side, his breathing deep and even, his eyes closed. BW was
in pretty much the same condition and sprawled across Boone's chest. Some dogs had all the luck.

“Right,” I said in a whisper, in answer to my own question. “And I nearly killed KiKi,” I added, needing to confess to someone. “How could I do such a thing?” A tear slid down my cheek, and then more and more. I swiped them away but still felt sick to my soul. I pulled on my Hello Kitty nightshirt because it was out and I didn't have to open drawers and risk waking Boone and dog.

Every time I saw Boone he looked a little worse for wear, a little more unkempt, a little more street guy than successful-lawyer guy. His face was leaner and thinner than even a few days ago. Worry did that to a person, and I hated that it was happening to Boone.

I slid in beside him. I closed my eyes, the heat of Boone's body warming mine, BW's snoring a comfort. Not exactly the sort of night in bed with Boone that I dreamed of, but he was here and fed and safe. I closed my eyes, and a second later I opened them to someone pounding on my front door.

Okay, it was more than a second because now sunlight blasted through my window. BW had reclaimed his spot in the hallway, Boone was gone, and I had a note taped to my forehead that read,
Cute jammies, you snore like a buzz saw
.

“That's not me,” I said aloud, pushing myself up and shoving tangled hair off my face. “It's the dog.” I glared at BW. “You need to fess up about these things. You're ruining my love life. Right, I have no love life.”

BW cocked a brow and snickered. More pounding echoed through the house; the clock read seven ten. Did no one in this city sleep? I pulled on jeans and hobbled down the steps,
my poor body sore and achy from a night of fun and games with gators.

I yanked open the door. “Sweet mother above, what have you gone and done with that there hidden key of yours?” Mercedes wanted to know as she bustled inside. “I looked my eyeballs out for the thing. It's under the flowerpot. Everyone knows it's under the flowerpot, until today. It's stuff like this that upsets the balance of nature.”

“I brought it in. Seemed like a good idea with my enemy list getting longer than my friend list.” Mercedes had on black-and-white maid attire, and her hair and makeup were perfect as always. She took my hand and dropped the Chevy keys in my palm. They were dirty and encrusted in sea grass.

“How did you . . . where did you . . . ?”

“Ross made a late-night run to Cakery Bakery and I was in need of a glazed fix myself. She told me about gators and the Chevy and falling asleep.” Mercedes gave me a long look. “That's not like you. You'd never put KiKi in jeopardy like that and you look terrible, like you've been on a bender.”

“It's the look of guilt and shame. Nobody else was driving that car, it was me, all me. I think I'm taking to walking for a while.”

“I don't think you have a choice on that one. But accidents happen, that's why they call them accidents. Don't beat yourself up over this and besides, Ross and I both agreed that if anyone can fix the Chevy, its Jimmy over at the Car Spa. A few weeks ago a garbage truck sideswiped my pink Caddy, and Jimmy made things good as new. Mr. Boone's going to have an aneurysm if he hears about this, so we need to fix it right quick; the man's got enough to deal with. How is he holding up?”

“I haven't seen him.”

“Worst liar ever.”

“Dopey look on my face?”

“Yellow Post-it stuck to your shirt.” Mercedes peeled off the note and tsked. “You snore? Honey, how on earth do you expect to catch that fine man if you snore?”

“It's the dog.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Waitaminute. If I brought in my spare key, how did Boone get in last night?”

“It's Boone, he has his ways.”

“So he keeps telling me. I got a favor to ask. Ever since you found Conway dead as Lincoln in that tub of his, everything's gone haywire. What about going with me to his house? You were his maid; you know his secrets. And somehow all the mess with Boone started with Conway's murder. We need to find something concrete to save Boone's butt.”

“And such a mighty fine butt it is, too. On behalf of ogling women citywide, count me in, but it'll have to be before the five o'clock viewing. Yvonne Ledbetter's layout is tonight and I have to keep watch. The woman had a big family, and that means lots of tears and kisses good-bye. I need to be making sure Yvonne doesn't streak. Meet you at Conway's at three?”

“And if we get caught I got an excuse why we're there. I can say I'm measuring the furniture Conway's consigning to me here at the Fox.”

“Considering that there's yellow crime scene tape across the front door, your explanation might be a hard sell.”

“Better than nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mercedes hustled out the door, and I left it open in case an early shopper was in need of some retail therapy at a good price. The Fox was one of those season-based businesses. Business was best when the seasons changed. Christmas was beyond slow, with everyone out at the mall. Summer was the same, with it being just too darn hot to think about trying on clothes. Holidays were bursts of splurge, with women needing a party dress or new going-to-church attire. With that in mind and knowing slow days were ahead, I had to make money now. Today should be busy again like the last few weeks, but it wasn't at eleven, and by three things were still dead.

“Where is everyone?” Elsie Abbott wanted to know when she and AnnieFritz strolled into the shop, gazing around at the emptiness. “Sister and I were all primed up for a day of shopping madness.” Elsie held up a straw basket covered with a yellow napkin and placed it on the counter. “We made lemon scones to keep everyone shopping happy and to celebrate our good news.”

Elsie hooked her arm through her sister's and beamed. “Sleepy Pines retirement home is offering us as an incentive to spending their autumn years at their facility.”

“You're going to be a welcoming committee? Play bingo? Shuffleboard? Help plan bus trips to Vegas and Mall of America?”

“We're more like a good-bye committee,” Elsie said. “You see, anyone staying at the center who kicks the bucket
while in residence gets a four-by-six spray of white roses for their casket, and they get us to mourn at their funeral for two hours solid.”

Elsie fluffed her silver hair, done up in big curls. “We get paid by the body.”

“Don't think I ever heard of Sleepy Pines.”

“That's just the point. They needed enticement for people to come stay, and everyone's always looking for a good deal. You know how Savannah loves a big funeral with lots of splash.”

Elsie handed me a brochure, and sure enough there on the back was a picture of the sisters in their mourning best standing in front of a casket draped in roses.

“Kind of morbid.”

“Depends on how you look at it. If there's one thing old folks save for here in Savannah, it's their final big bash. None of this
family only
wake and funeral stuff around here, you know that. It's the bigger the funeral the better, and now with sound effects, that being Sister and yours truly here to do things up right and sorrowful. We even made up a demo CD of our greatest hits send-off for the dearly departed.”

It seemed a little off the wall, but why not? Who was I to criticize advertising practices when my business was so in the toilet? I gazed at my still-vacant shop. “I cannot believe I've sold a few sweaters and skirts and that's it. I wonder where everyone is? What is going on?” I asked the sisters.

“Now, now, don't you be fretting none,” Elsie said, putting a scone in my hand, knowing that baked goods were the South's answer to a bad day. “My guess is folks are just
catching up on errands. Tomorrow will be better and the good Lord knows it has to be with Boone's nice car in need of serious repairs and you being responsible and all. That's bound to cost you a pretty penny.”

“You know about Boone's car?”

“The Chevy in the swamp was beetweet all last night; that means
hot tweet
in Twitter talk. For old broads, Elsie and I are pretty with it.”

“Everyone knows about the Chevy?”

“Unless they live on Mars.”

My only hope was that Boone's phone had died and he was so far underground he didn't have a clue what was going on aboveground.

“Where are you headed off to?” AnnieFritz asked, taking up roost behind the desk.

“Checking out Conway Adkins's furniture to consign here. He promised it to me before his . . .”

“Unfortunate tub experience?” Elsie volunteered.

“That's one way of putting it. I'll try to hurry.”

Elsie waved her hand over the shop. “No need to be doing that.”

With the sexmobile in the repair shop I was back to walking to get where I needed to go, and truth be told that was okay. It would take a while for me to get behind the wheel of a car again, or maybe I never would. I hitched up BW and together we headed for Abercorn. I spotted Old Gray the bus for us, growling its way in a cloud of exhaust and hydrocarbons.