Demise in Denim (14 page)

BW and I were too far from the bus stop, and there was the possibility that if the driver spotted BW he or she would
just drive on by. Taking my chances, I jumped out into the street and waved my arms over my head as if landing a 747. The bus stopped right in front of us, Earlene glaring down from her perch on high.

“Girl,” she said to me as BW and I climbed aboard. “The only reason I'm letting you on here is that I figured you've done lost your ever-lovin' mind standing in front of a bus that way, and I couldn't see myself running over a poor defenseless pup.”

“I'm desperate. I need a ride to Chippewa Square.”

Earlene folded her arms across her ample chest, the buttons of her navy-and-gold uniform straining under the expansion underneath. “You said some mighty bad things about Walker Boone that I didn't much care for.”

“Look,” I said standing closer. “I said all that to try to lure the real killer. If he or she knew I was on Boone's side they'd run from me. If I act the part of not being a Boone fan, then I can find others who have it in for him and maybe find the killer.”

“I get what's going on here.” Earlene looked down her nose at me. “That big fancy Chevy you've been strutting your stuff around in is now keeping company with swamp gators, and you're back to slumming with the likes of us here on public transportation.”

Earlene's lower lip formed a pout, and she ignored the honking cars trying to get somewhere and the evil looks from the passengers on board. My guess was that the driver of the bus was like the captain of the ship; she ruled all, no questions asked.

“I do believe you're just too all high and mighty, Miss
Summerside, to be sitting yourself on a bus like this,” Earlene added.

“There is no high and mighty. The Chevy isn't my car, you know it's Boone's, and I'll be lucky if he doesn't throw me in that swamp after what I did to it and . . . and besides I did fix you up with Big Joey so you sort of owe me.”

Mentioning fix-ups was always a little chancy. If the two lovebirds were still dating, all was well; if they'd broken up I'd be kicked off the bus in a heartbeat. I held my breath and Earlene grinned. Thank the Lord.

“There is that,” Earlene said, the grin widening. “Big Joey is some kind of man.” She glared at BW. “And just what am I supposed to do with the likes of him? No dogs allowed unless they're service dogs.”

“He just helped me stop the bus; that's pretty good service, right?”

“Good thing I'm still dating Big Joey.” Earlene closed the double doors behind me, and Old Gray motored off to a round of applause from the other passengers. I took the front seat across from Earlene, with BW right next to me.

“What's so important over on Chippewa?” Earlene wanted to know.

Murder, mayhem.
“Furniture for my shop. Does Big Joey say anything about Boone?” I lowered my voice. “Any suspects in mind?”

Earlene's bit her bottom lip as she pulled up to a bus stop to collect another passenger. “He's worried, I can tell you that,” Earlene said as we took off again. “There's this new guy in town that Big Joey met when he was with Walker. Seems the guy has his eye on the Old Harbor Inn, and he
wants to buy the Tybee Theater. Both places involve Boone, and now Boone's on the run. Too much of a coincidence in Big Joey's book.”

“Does he say anything about Tucker?”

Earlene guided Old Gray to the curb to let someone off, and after we started up again she said, “Walker's brother is some piece of work, and Big Joey doesn't think he's worth the powder to blow the man up.” Earlene stopped in front of Chippewa Square, and BW and I made for the door. “Good luck with that there furniture.” Earlene's eyes twinkled. “Big Joey seems to think that you and Walker need to be keeping the name Joseph Jefferson in mind.”

“Why?”

“I think that's something you should be asking Walker when this is all over.”

I had no idea what was with Joseph Jefferson, I didn't even know the guy, but obviously Big Joey thought I did. I thanked Earlene for the ride, BW added a bark, and then we got off Old Gray and cut across the square. We dodged a group of tourists gathered at the base of the big James Edward Oglethorpe statue, our illustrious leader and founder of the great city of Savannah. The fact that there was an Oglethorpe Square a few blocks down and that James Edward was not standing tall and pompous in that particular square named after him was just one of those little mysteries of Savannah.

We crossed Hull Street to Conway Adkins's house, the yellow tape across the front doorway proclaiming this a crime scene. “Breaking and entering in broad daylight with tourists looking on isn't a great idea,” I explained to BW as we headed for the rear entrance. Except the rear entrance
wasn't nearly as secluded as I'd hoped. Conway's fine Colonial Revival had a garden to the back with hidden nooks and crannies and no alley to sneak around in. The back door, which was also crisscrossed with yellow tape, stood out like a neon sign.

“Now what should we do?” I asked BW, as if expecting him to answer. I stared at the door for a minute till a
pssst
came from a pink azalea bush across the yard. A hand reached up through the flowers, two fingers pinching a key. Well dang, this was so much better than the last time Mercedes and I did a B&E, when we had nearly got eaten alive by the guard dog.

I gave the place a quick once-over to see if anyone was watching. Hugging the bushes, BW and I made our way toward the house, cutting behind a stand of magnolias and then on to the back door. Mercedes pulled up beside us. “You're late,” she said.

“I had to sweet-talk the bus driver to get here or we would have been really late. How'd you come up with a key?”

“I cleaned house for Conway for three years. He gave me a key. I'm a very trustworthy person.” She studied the crime scene tape in front of us. “Well, usually I'm a trustworthy person.” She shoved the key in the lock, gave it a turn, and the door opened.

“Piece of cak—” Mercedes started to say, till a big hand landed on her left shoulder and another one on my right shoulder, followed by, “What do you two think you're
doing?”

M
ERCEDES,
BW, and I turned around to face a man, a really super hunky Italian man in jeans and a white shirt rolled up to the elbows, with a superb tan and raven-black hair. I felt a little dizzy just looking at him. “Raimondo Baldassaro?”

“Reagan Summerside and dog. The dog I can handle,” Raimondo said, giving BW a good pat-down. “The Summerside part I hoped I'd never run into again. You accused me of murder, broke into my house, went through my mail, and hid in my tanning bed.”

Raimondo was the gardener everybody wanted. Not only did he possess his own brand of patented rosebushes that were to die for, but having the Italian stallion digging around in your petunia patch was worth any price the man wanted to charge.

“We're here on a mission of mercy,” Mercedes chimed in. “It just so happens that we're trying to find out who went and did in Conway. I was his housekeeper and we're looking for something to get Walker Boone off the hook for murdering the guy. He didn't do it, that much we know for sure, but someone's setting him up for the fall.”

“You're right about Walker,” Raimondo said. “He gave me some really good advice on getting a patent for my roses, and he's helped some other friends of mine. I seriously doubt if he plugged Conway, but there's a list of people who would.” Raimondo let out a long sigh and rubbed his neck. He cut his eyes my way. “The fact that Walker's innocence is resting in your hands should scare the heck out of the guy.”

“That list you mentioned, do you happen to know any of the names on it?”

“For starters, Conway's son is a mooch. I've done the gardens here for a while now and heard father and son arguing more than once, and it was usually about money. The daughter-in-law tried to make peace between them, but it was a lost cause. I felt sorry for her; she was caught in the middle of a battle royale on more than one occasion. This guy with a bow tie and thinning hair showed up a few times and there was more yelling. Conway actually tossed him out of the house. Two hot-looking babes came around and were crabbing at Conway about their husbands, and Conway told them to get lost. That man was no saint, but he didn't deserve to get plugged in his own tub.”

Raimondo headed for the rose garden in the back and Mercedes and I slipped inside Conway's house, our footsteps being the only sound. “The place feels different somehow,”
Mercedes said in a hushed voice. “It's like when the person dies, so does the house till someone fills it full of life again.”

“Raimondo said someone with a bow tie was here, and my first guess is Mason Dixon from over at the Plantation Club. And I'm willing to bet the two hot babes were Anna and Bella.”

“Talking about hot babes, old Raimondo sure fits the bill. Did you really accuse him of murder?”

“It seemed like the right idea at the time.” We entered what was obviously Conway's office, with a blue Oriental rug across the polished hardwood floors. A mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, with a yellow-and-blue lamp parked on the corner that sort of reminded me of the lamp in Boone's office. My guess was that maybe on some level Boone knew or at least suspected that Conway was his dad. Bookcases lined three walls; a fireplace graced the fourth, with a gilded mirror above.

The three of us made a beeline for the desk; Mercedes pulled open the bottom drawer, I took the top one, and BW stretched out on the carpet and went to sleep. Mercedes hauled out a ledger. “Conway was old school, he wrote checks.” She flipped some pages. “Checks for the utilities, water, phone, me, American Express.” She flipped a few more pages. “Wow, I bet he chalked up some serious SkyMiles on that credit card of his.”

I dropped three photos beside the ledger. “This is Conway, mamma, and baby Boone.”

“How do you know?” Mercedes gasped, picking up one of the photos to get a closer look.

“These are just like the ones I found over at Boone's
house and in Mason Dixon's office. Dixon could have stolen the pictures when he came here to see Conway, or maybe he lifted them right out of Conway's office at the Plantation Club. Dixon blackmailed Conway, knowing that if Conway's wife found out about Walker she'd divorce Conway without a dime. After she died, Conway obviously didn't care who found out.”

“And this Dixon guy then lost his meal ticket? I see where he might be ticked off enough to kill Conway, especially if Conway threatened to expose him as a big fat blackmailer, but why frame Walker for the deed?”

Mercedes flipped through the checkbook. “Here's a check to Tucker but it's over a year ago, nothing more recent. That explains the fights Raimondo overheard.”

“Why hit up his dad? Tucker has money, lots of it.”

“Wanna bet?” Mercedes put the ledger back in the drawer. “I'd say Tucker's up against it and Daddy wouldn't bail him out. Why else would Conway be writing checks to Tucker, then suddenly quit?”

I shuffled through more papers. “Here's Conway's will. It's his old will where he actually crossed out Tucker's name and wrote in Walker's name to inherit the Old Harbor Inn. The free clinic got his monetary assets and the proceeds from the sale of this house.”

“Okay,” Mercedes said as I dropped the pictures and will back in the drawer. “So Tucker knew Walker was his brother, that he was inheriting some mighty fine real estate, and that he got nothing. That had to rattle Tucker's cage big-time, especially in light of his financial situation. That makes
Tucker furious at Conway
and
Walker. I'd say Tucker's our prime—”

Mercedes didn't finish her sentence. Instead she pointed to the kitchen and the sound of the door opening and footsteps. It was Deckard. I could feel his presence seeping into my bones. I grabbed a fancy pen set off Conway's desk, crept to the doorway, and threw it down the hall, where it bounced off the front door with a loud thud, the sound echoing like a gunshot though the quiet house.

Deckard ran past the office doorway, his footsteps thundering down the hall. Mercedes, BW, and I hurried into the kitchen and out the back door. We dropped down behind the azaleas, with Raimondo watching from his rose garden. Deckard came to the door and signaled to Raimondo. “Hey you, see anyone come out here?”

“Nothing but me and the neighbor's dog.” Raimondo clapped his hands and I unleashed BW, letting him take off to help convince Deckard all was well.

“See,” Raimondo called back to Deckard, with BW drawing up beside him. “Nothing but a dog.”

Deckard slammed the door shut, rattling the panes of glass, and headed for the street. Mercedes and I waited a beat, then joined Raimondo and BW in the rose garden.

“Thanks,” I said to Raimondo. “You saved us. Uh,
why
did you save us?”

“Deckard gave me a ticket for double-parking my truck the other day when I was dropping off some plants. I wasn't parking for all afternoon, mind you, just to make a delivery. How'd he know you two were in the house?”

I slapped my palm to my forehead. “I told the gals at the Fox where I was going. Deckard thinks Walker killed Conway and that by following me around he'll find him. And it doesn't look like he's giving up.”

“I got to get going,” Mercedes said to me as we headed off. “Yvonne Ledbetter is probably in the pastoral room right now with her family gathered around.” She took my hand. “Watch out for Deckard. My guess is if he can bring in Conway's killer it's a real feather in his cap, and the man won't care two figs if you happen to be in the way.”

Mercedes headed for the Slumber and I headed for the Car Spa, located in a back alley off Jefferson Street. I needed to see the damage and check out payments with Jimmy. Business was good at the Fox, or at least it was good until today. I could pay for the car repairs, though it would eat my reserve for the rest of the slow summer months ahead.

Well, that was just too bad for me. I was the one who fell asleep. I could have killed KiKi, and all I had to do was fork over money to make this all right; it was a small price to pay. Besides, I was done with cars, so I didn't have to sock money away to buy one of my own. And I had my new pink scooter . . . somewhere.

I turned onto Lincoln past Gifts To Go, Flowers by Wanda, and a new shop that had “Anna and Bella's Boutique” scripted in cream and gold across the display window. Anna and Bella were opening a boutique? With curtains over the windows, I couldn't see inside, but the sisters had excellent taste, so I knew the shop would be nice and I'd eventually get their clothes in my shop.

I turned down an alley, where the Car Spa was on the
right. It was a blue clapboard building with the office in the front, the working area to the back, and minimal parking to the side. “Is Jimmy available?” I asked the woman standing behind the counter. “I'm here about the red Chevy you fished out of the swamp.”

“I'm Jimmy.” She twitched her hips and batted her eyes. “I got my mamma's red hair and my daddy's deep voice and Grandma's skinny behind, so I look good in these here jeans. And you're Reagan Summerside. Honey, I gotta say, you're lucky to be alive, girl. Do you know how many gators we had to fight off to get that car out of the drink?”

“How's the Chevy? Can you save it?” I heaved a sigh. “You see, what happened is that I fell asleep behind the wheel and drove the car right off the road and landed in the swamp and it's all my fault and I nearly murdered my own auntie and if Boone kills me he has every right.” I bit my lip to keep from crying.

Jimmy came around the counter. “Look, you're alive, so quit being so hard on yourself. We can put this here car back together good as new, and you need to know that you didn't just fall asleep. It doesn't work like that. When you fall asleep, you relax and your foot slides off the accelerator. You flop over into a ditch somewhere or just run off the road. Best I can tell, you were going at a good clip to get that car propelled so far out in the swamp like it was. You didn't fall asleep all by yourself; you had some help in that particular direction. What were you drinking?”

“Cherry snow cone.”

“And?”

“Taffy.” I stared at Jimmy. “I don't get it, you lost me.”

“Girl, you were drugged sure as I'm standing here. Somebody gave you something to send you off into la-la land a lot faster than just slowly dozing off like normal. Your body crashed and then your car crashed. Make any enemies lately?”

“Oh, boy.”

Jimmy took my hand. “Like I said, you're lucky to be alive.”

BW and I left Jimmy with a check, then caught a bus back to the Fox; BW got his very own seat on the bus thanks to a Zunzi's Conquistador extra-sauce sandwich bribe.

“Well, did you get Conway's furniture measured?” Elsie Abbott asked as BW and I came into the shop. “I sure hope you had some success because we didn't do much here today, I can tell you that.” Elsie waved her hand in the air. “I can't imagine what's going on to keep people from shopping the Fox. It's like there's a new thing coming along that we don't know about.”

“Did a policeman come in looking for me?” I unleashed BW, and he headed for AnnieFritz to beg a scone.

AnnieFritz broke off a chunk of pastry for the resident mooch. “He was as nice as can be. We told him where you were off to. Did he catch up with you?”

“Almost.”

By six, business still sucked and I'd changed into a sundress and cute flip-flops. I even managed to put on makeup and eyeliner and curl my hair, which made me look more Shirley Temple than Beyoncé.

“I do declare,” Auntie KiKi said to me as I parked myself in the passenger side of the Beemer. “If you aren't pretty
as a Georgia peach, a curly Georgia peach but a peach all the same.”

•   •   •

The sun hovered where ocean met sky as KiKi parked the Beemer. “Well, we're in the overflow lot, so that's got to be a good sign,” she said as we headed for the theater surrounded by big white tents of food and drink. The round tables were filled to capacity, with theater patrons milling about and torchlight casting a soft romantic glow over the lawn. Harper Norton was at the piano on the large makeshift stage, and strains of “Sweet Georgia Brown” wafted over the crowd.

“Sure wish Walker could see how well the event turned out,” I said as we paid for our tickets. “He donated a lot of time and probably money to make this a success.”

“Never figured Boone for a theater buff,” KiKi said as we headed for our latecomers' table in back.

“Boone has a house out here. I think it was more of a keep-the-developers-off-the-island situation than ‘I can't wait to see
Oklahoma
for the tenth time.' We need to keep an eye out for Russell. You know he's out here somewhere. This event being a success is the last thing he wants.”

“That means we need to fit in, and that means we need to wander around with a plate of food and a glass of wine. Sweet Lord in heaven, I can smell fried chicken and okra and biscuits. Let's get a move on before it's all gone.”