Demise in Denim (16 page)

“And Conway wouldn't sell the inn because he left it to you in his will. Least he held true to that. But how does any of this figure into killing Conway and framing you for it?” I looked up at the clock on my dresser. “I hate for you to eat
and run, but Deckard's all over me trying to find you. He could break in here any minute, and he doesn't seem the sort of cop to give a flying fig about search warrants.”

“I'm going to grab a fast shower.”

I took a bite of sandwich. “You could get caught in your birthday suit.”

That brought a devil smile. “You wish.”

I did wish, but saying so would lead to someplace we didn't have time for. “If Deckard storms the citadel, I'll keep him busy.”

Boone kissed me on the forehead and levered himself off the floor. He grabbed a towel from my hall closet as if he lived here, then headed for the bathroom.

“Boone?”

“What?”

“I drove your Chevy into the swamp.”

“I know.”

I listened to the water running as BW and I ate my sandwich. Least the bathroom was decent; I redid it myself four years ago when Hollis and I first moved into Cherry House. I took it from broken tiles and rust to cream and willow green with a totally cute claw-foot tub. I could wash Boone's clothes for him, but that would take about an hour and a half and Boone didn't have that long. Deckard was too close, too often, and—

“Let me guess,” Deckard's voice said from behind me, as every hair on my body stood straight up. “Parkers meat loaf sandwich.”

“With extra provolone,” I added in a steady voice that surprised the heck out of me, since my heart was in my
throat and I had no idea how to get Deckard away from the bathroom door. I swiped my hand across my mouth, my brain spinning. I turned to face Deckard as he ripped open the bathroom door to . . . nothing? “Where is he?”

“Who?”

In two steps Deckard was beside me, yanking me to my feet as my sandwich flew out of my hand. He jabbed his hot, ugly face to mine, his onion breath making me gag. “Boone, that's who. What did you do with him?”

I didn't say a word, and Deckard dropped me back on the floor like a rag doll. A voice came from below my bedroom window. “He's not down here, Sarge.”

“I'm going to find him,” Deckard hissed, his big grossness looming over me. “And I'm going to shoot him dead. You tell him that when you see him again.”

Then he kicked BW, making him yelp, and stomped out into the hallway and down the steps. I raced over to BW and held him in my lap. I heard a car drive off and figured it was the police cruiser. I didn't have a phone to call the vet. I didn't have a car. I didn't have a grenade to blow up Deckard.

“My poor baby.” BW licked my face, then went over to my sandwich and finished it off. Maybe BW was okay, but nothing else was, and where the heck was Boone? Where did he go, and how in the world did he get out of that bathroom? Houdini lives. There was a window in the bathroom and a downspout, so that had to be it, except the downspout looked like it would collapse if a grasshopper landed on it.

I hoisted BW up onto my bed and put my pillow under his big head. “You just rest.”

BW jumped off the bed and went back into the hallway
and lay there. I did what any good doggie mommy would do. I got my blanket and pillow off my bed and curled up beside my pup to make sure he was okay. I kissed his snout, he licked my face, I pulled up our blanket, and we went to sleep.

•   •   •

“You really think BW is okay?” I asked Auntie KiKi the next morning as we stood in her kitchen watching the coffeepot do its thing.

“He's eaten two bowls of Cheerios, a biscuit, and two hot dogs, and Putter checked him over teeth to tail. I think he's good to go. What happened to get you to worrying like this?”

“A shoe got in his way. Can you just watch him for me for an hour to make sure?”

“Where are you off to at eight in the morning that we can't go with you?”

“I need to see a man about my flip-flops.”

“Well I'll be, someone found them?”

“Yeah, that's exactly what happened. Someone found them.”

I turned to leave, and KiKi grabbed my hand. “I know you're not telling me everything. Be careful, honey.”

I gave KiKi a kiss on the cheek and headed for the bus stop till AnnieFritz pulled up to the curb in her old white Caddy, with pink plastic tulips taped to the antenna and “WWJD” on the bumper. “Hi there, sugar. Now where you headed to this fine morning?”

“Orleans Square?”

“Well, climb on in. Sister and I are headed over to Sleepy Pines, but we don't mind making a little detour. We need to be acquainting ourselves with the establishment so we can talk it up and get them some business.”

I opened the back door and got in. “Did you have any late-night visitors?” I asked as we headed up Whittaker.

“Now that you mention it,” AnnieFritz said. “That there nice Officer Deckard came calling. Said he was looking for a fugitive in the neighborhood. Can you imagine such a thing, right here in the Victorian district, of all places? Mercy me, what's this world coming to?”

“What did you tell him? Did you see anyone walking around, hiding in your bushes?”

The sisters exchanged looks and Elsie said, “Quiet as a graveyard. Why? Did you hear something going on?”

“Me? Nope, nothing at all, just like you said, quiet as a graveyard.” I thanked Elsie and AnnieFritz for the lift, then crossed the street to the Plantation Club. Dixon and Russell were bringing in a gambling boat and wanted the Old Harbor Inn and the theater to make it happen. Somehow this played into killing Conway and framing Boone, but I had no idea how. If I pushed them they might let something slip. And there was the fact that the knife-through-the-shoe thing totally pissed me off.

I headed for the front door of the club, then changed direction, figuring the back door where I'd run into Dixon was a better bet. I wouldn't have to try to get past the guard dog at the front desk, and I'd look like another employee going to work. One of the maids came out, hauling trash to the Dumpster, and I caught the door before it closed and
slipped inside. Dixon might be in his office, but it was breakfast time, and that translated into free food for Mr. VP. I headed for the restaurant and there was Dixon, eating bacon and eggs and sipping coffee.

I plopped into a chair at his table and slapped the knife on the white tablecloth. “Hi there, sweet pea.”

“W
E
need to talk,” I said to Dixon as he grabbed the knife off the table.

“What do you think you're doing?” he hissed under his breath.

“The firefighters from last night send their regards.”

Dixon cut his eyes back and forth and lowered his voice. “I didn't set that fire,” he said, his thin lips barely moving. “Neither did Russell. We were going to do it and someone beat us to it; it's the truth. Think about it. There wasn't enough time from when we left you to get a blaze like that going that fast. Somebody else wanted that that place to burn besides us.”

“You left me in the water.”

“Quit your complaining; you made it out, that's more than I can do.”

“Meaning?”

Dixon heaved a weary sigh, his shoulders sagging. “Russell's got me by the short hairs. I'm supposed to help him get some property because I know the people here and how to play them.”

“Gambling debts? As long as you could blackmail Conway, you were ahead of the game. Then when he quit paying you off, you knocked him off. Plus everyone knows you've had your eye on being president around here. What was Conway going to do, blab that you were blackmailing him all this time? You'd never get to be president if that got out, would you? Pretty good motive for getting rid of someone, if you ask me.”

One of the waitresses started to come over to fill Dixon's coffee cup, and he waved her away. “Look, I might be under Russell's thumb and have to play his game, but I didn't do anything to Conway. We didn't get along, but I didn't kill him; I'm not a murderer.”

“Somebody beat you to that, too? You got a lot of people doing your dirty work. So you're paying off Russell by helping him set up the hotels and gambling boats?”

Dixon's eyes shot wide open. Bingo! Boone and I were right on with that one. I got up and started to walk away, then turned back. “Have you seen Clive and Crenshaw lately here at the club? Two older men, friends, they're married to Anna and Bella the—

“Sisters. C and C, as we call them here, always came in for lunch, but I haven't seen them in days, maybe a week now. Their wives come in for lunch now, but not C and C.”

I headed down the hall and out of the building. The
Clive-and-Crenshaw disappearing act was strange and getting stranger, but right now Russell and Dixon had my full attention. I knew as soon as I left, Dixon would call Russell. He'd tell him I knew about the gambling boats, and Russell would make himself scarce or send one of his goons to shut me up.

The thing was, I just happened to have my very own bodyguard, and my guess was that after last night that particular bodyguard would be extra attentive. Deckard was a lot of things . . . big, ugly, mean, corrupt, and a jerk of the first order . . . but he wasn't stupid. He knew Boone was in that bathroom, though where he'd disappeared to I have no idea. As much as I hated being on Deckard's radar and that he might connect with Boone again, Deckard offered me a certain amount of protection. Keeping me alive was his best hope of finding Boone, or at least I hoped that was Deckard's plan because I intended to use Deckard just like he was using me.

Since Russell knew I was headed his way, I started for home. Russell would stonewall me, make excuses, and lie, and the conversation would go nowhere. I could take the bus back to the Victorian district, but spring in Savannah was for walking as much as it was for convertibles. The colors, the smells, the perfect temperature, the food . . . always the food . . . made Savannah a little piece of paradise.

Forsyth Fountain played in the morning sunlight, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Why would anyone live someplace else? I turned onto Gwinnett and spotted Mamma's black Caddy parked at the curb, and Mamma and a mannequin sitting on the front porch.

“You're dating?”

I got the
give me strength
Mamma eye roll. “This is Gwendolyn. She was a part of the crime lab for ten years and even made appearances in court from time to time to illustrate evidence and crime scenes. Poor thing got kicked to the curb for Sebastian, a newer model with a computer chip that determines the exact direction of the shooter, but Gwen's not the main reason I'm here.”

Mamma whipped Conway's will out of her purse. “There's something you need to see.”

“BW's over at KiKi's and I should go get him before she feeds him all the pound cake and he has intestinal distress for a week.”

“Well, she better have saved some of that cake for me.”

Mamma and I trooped across the grass to KiKi's, the land of good coffee and cake and probably fruit to keep Uncle Putter happy.

“I brought company,” I sang out to KiKi as Mamma and I came in the back door, with BW doing his wagging-tail howdy routine.

KiKi looked at Mamma and made the sign of the cross. “Sweet Jesus, somebody died? Why else would you be here at this hour?”

Mamma set Conway's will in the middle of the round oak table that had been in the Vanderpool family since cotton was king. “I was reading this over and there's an interesting wrinkle.”

“Interesting good or interesting bad?” KiKi wanted to know as she set the table. I got the coffee, cream, and sugar, and Mamma headed for the pie safe taking out the delish
pound cake inside. The Summerside girls were a study in perfection when it came to arranging food.

We sat down and spread our napkins, and KiKi cut the cake. “We all know that Conway left the Old Harbor Inn to Walker,” Mamma said while pouring the coffee. “But there was a codicil that said if the clinic could not manage the money and if Walker could not manage the inn for whatever reason, they passed on to the next heir.”

KiKi stopped cutting and stared at Mamma. “Tucker? Why would Conway do such a thing? They didn't get along, and that's putting it mildly.”

Mamma sipped her coffee. “It's a legal item. Clinics come and go like everything else. They aren't forever and there's a chance Conway could have outlived the free clinic. He could have been in a coma when it closed or whatever, and then what happens to the money? Provisions had to be made for such an occurrence; that's what wills do, and the inn was included in that provision.”

KiKi took a bite of cake. “But the clinic is around and Walker is alive and kicking, so what difference does this codicil make to anything?”

“The clinic is up and operating, that's true enough, but what about Boone? What if he were out of the picture? What if he were dead—”

“Or in jail,” I said on a quick intake of breath, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place. “Holy cow, this makes a huge difference. Think about it, Tucker kills Conway and the inn passes to Boone. Tucker frames Boone for the murder, Boone goes to prison, and the inn passes to Tucker. If Tucker is indeed in a hurt for money, he sells the
inn to Russell or whoever and all is well. It's like a freaking ballet, all perfectly orchestrated.”

KiKi drummed her fingers on the table. “I have to say, a son killing off his own father is still a stretch for me.”

I wagged my fork at KiKi. “Conway was giving Tucker money, and he stopped about a year ago and Conway wrote him out of the will probably about the same time. Father and son probably never got along, and things got a lot worse after the mother died. After that happened, Conway didn't have to behave himself or risk a divorce and wind up with nothing.”

“Or,” Mamma chimed in, “what if it's Russell who engineered the whole thing? He kills Conway and frames Walker, knowing Tucker will sell him the inn. Tucker doesn't have to do anything, he just sits back and gets rich.”

“But how would Russell know about the will and the rest of it?” KiKi asked, pouring another cup of coffee.

“Tucker could have told him. They travel in the same circles, like at the Plantation Club,” I said. “Tucker knew the contents of the will; a copy was in Conway's house along with pictures of Conway and baby Boone and his mother. Everyone knew Boone had a gun in his office, and getting in his office isn't that hard. Dinky's his only secretary and she can't be everywhere. There are spare keys.”

Mamma cut a second piece of cake. “Either Tucker as the killer or Russell as the killer, it all hinges on Tucker needing money and selling the inn. We have no proof that Tucker needs money. In fact, rumor is just the opposite, that he inherited money when his mother died, and by all accounts the man's rich. He lives in a historic house, drives
nice cars, has a love affair with boats, and owns that expensive marina out on Whitemarsh.”

Mamma checked her watch. “I have to be in court.” She looked at me. “If Tucker or Russell is our killer, they will kill again. Let me talk to Ross. You can't get involved in this, Reagan. It's just too dangerous. Promise me you'll stay away from these men. No telling me
Yes, I'll be good, Mamma
, and crossing your fingers behind your back. I want the truth.” And she didn't move or blink or back down one inch.

“I promise.”

“Good girl. Now I have to go. I'll talk to Ross this afternoon and see what she can do.” Mamma walked out the door, and KiKi turned to me.

“So what are we going to do?”

“I just promised. Daughters rot in hell for breaking promises to their mothers, everyone knows that.”

KiKi grinned. “But I didn't promise, and you only promised to not confront Tucker and Russell. We'll just do what we do best. We'll sneak.”

“I'm not sure about the heavenly legalities of saying one thing to Mamma and going off and doing another, but the Tucker/Russell explanation opens a really big door.”

“And it all hinges on Tucker being desperate for money. That's it.” KiKi slapped the table and grinned. “We don't need to be facing that Russell person or Dixon, we need to find out what's going on with Tucker. We need financial information. That marina cost a bundle, and so do those boats he sails around in. If Tucker's on the ropes, he's not going to keep his problems at his house where Steffy Lou
might find out. If things were bad financially, she'd divorce his sorry butt. She likes being the woman about town and the focus of attention, and that means money.” KiKi held up her hands in surrender. “See, we're not confronting Russell or Dixon, we're going after Tucker.”

“Mamma always said to follow the money, and so does Boone.”

“Well, there you go; we're doing exactly what she told us to do, and we have Walker's blessing.”

“She may not see it that way.”

“Then let's not worry her with these little old details; your mamma has enough on her mind. I hear the sunset at Whitemarsh is lovely this time of year. I'll have the Batmobile ready to fly at eight after the sun goes down. Snooping always goes better when the sun goes down.”

BW and I trudged back to the Fox—trudging mostly because whereas I wasn't breaking my exact verbal promise to Mamma, I sure as heck was breaking that promise in spirit. She'd have a canary if she knew KiKi and I were headed to the marina, and I couldn't very well keep KiKi out of it since it was her idea.

•   •   •

I opened the Fox at ten sharp, the Fox being a seven-days-a-week kind of business. I was now ready for a great rebound day of many customers, and spring shopping, but by noon I hadn't had one, not one customer till Harper came charging into the shop all out of breath. “Do you happen to have that pair of wedding shoes I brought in with my wedding dress to sell? I think I left them here.”

I fished around under the counter, then held up the satin heels minus Boone's business card. “Did you want to open an account and sell them? They're really nice shoes.”

“Perfect.” Harper beamed, studying the shoes. “You held on to them. I just know they can sell these; they're selling everything and I need the money. It's crazy over there.”

Little spasms of alarm crossed my shoulders and I swallowed hard. “Them? Over where?”

“Anna and Bella's Boutique. It's a new consignment shop that those girls I was talking to here the other day opened up.” She glanced at my shop. “The boutique is a really nice upscale consignment shop. They have all designer items for dirt-cheap prices. They connected with this group of got-rocks women over there in Atlanta. Seems they like to turn over their wardrobe every season, and they consign their barely worn items, sometimes even their unworn items, with Anna and Bella. It's amazing how they lucked into this, how we lucked into having the boutique in Savannah. What a deal.”

Harper held up a Louis Vuitton wristlet. “I got this little gem for thirty bucks; it's on the Louis website for eight hundred.”

She grabbed the shoes. “You should go take a look at the boutique, and Anna and Bella promised more to come. They said they're getting in shipments every week. Don't say anything to Anna and Bella, but you know, I was thinking of contacting the Atlanta ladies myself and see if they had some gowns. I have a wedding I'm playing for and a few anniversaries, and I need fancy clothes. Anna and Bella are cheap, but buying direct from the source would be even
cheaper and I am so strapped for money these days. Maybe I'll undercut Anna and Bella and open a place of my own, wouldn't that be something? Beat them at their own game.”